Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part IV

by

Jaye B.



Aura Place




4.

Spending a night in a deluxe RV with a short, fat and bearded Mormon wasn't really on my
bucket list. The open arm amiability was most welcome however considering that I had been
ejected from my cabin by Evita who I finally ran into at the restaurant across the street from
her resort after the third day.

"You can't stay here." She bomb dropped me at the table, her dragonfly brouche surrounded
by dribble stains she made a futile attempt to brush away, when she noticed me checking
them out.

"I'll put you up in the bookstore. You can sleep on the floor. Go chat with customers,
socialize." She delivered her finishing punch.

Trying to process what she just said, I waited and remained silent.

"Go to Pocotello for the day-go watch a movie." She then suggested as an alternative.
Sitting with my makeshift friend in the 'living room' in a comfortable swivel chair, I did my best
to relax. After telling him what had happened, he leaned forward and conveyed to me some
rather revealing news:

"He was walking down some stairs carrying a tea cup when his camera strap snagged on
something. Couldn't get his hands in front of him to break the fall. Hit his head and died."

It then dawned on me that he was referring to Evita Butte's husband. Apparently the fateful
plunge took place only a few weeks prior.

We watched some Polanski movie about a ghost writer on his high def flat screen t.v.
mounted above the driver and passenger seats. I managed to sleep on the fold out bed fairly
well, thinking that Moroni was going to hand deliver me some angelic communiques indelibly
etched into Tupperware bowls as I fell asleep. 

During the evening visit, my RV emcee suggested I go to Temple Square in Salt Lake City and check out the Mormon Tabernacle Choir who then chorused in my head, unbeknownst to him, a sublimely polyphonic red flag about the invite.

The next morning, at the same restaurant and in the very same booth, I confronted Evita.

"When did you change your mind about me coming here?"

"Oh...about the second day of your driving. I didn't think you had a phone so I didn't try
calling."

And here I was, all primed to write the book about her resort from a 'Secret of the Golden
Flower' perspective. Taoist alchemy. When I was soaking in the splendid springs wondering
where she was, I conjured up all sorts of oriental niceties about aquatic hexagrams one could
contemplate in the ripples of the springs amongst other tidbits of rarefied spiritual bullshit that
even Lao Tzu himself would fall for.

Perhaps my proprietarian bumpkin host was still offended by what I said to one of her
employees about the eviction stunt she pulled on me. I cannot remember what it was, but it
harshly flew out of my mouth and with impressive force.

She was going to let me stay at her house and help her get the place and many others ready
to put on the market. When I reminded her of this while leaving the restaurant, she responded
rather shrilly, "I could never have you live upstairs."

But I tactfully refrained from telling her that what I was seeing at the moment, walking directlly
behind her, that that would never be possible, even in one of my most steatopygously
mashochistic moments.

She then launched into a peculiar bit of damage control to cover her fuck up. Shifting into
crone wisdom phase, she told me that I needed to face reality, suggested I get my hair cut
and work at McDonalds. She handed me a meagre hundred dollars to cover my gas costs
and suggested I go to St. George Utah to start a new life. I made her put me up in one of her
motel rooms and left the next day, braving it through ice and snow until I hit the desert burg
that evening.

Camping in Snow Canyon, carved out eons ago by Birkland currents, helped me unwind a bit
from my host's dysfunctional little circus in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. A doe eyed park ranger
showed me some Anasazi petroglyphs behind my site and I found a piece of pottery shard
and could sense the utter oneness in which the potter had with the pot while making it. She
seemed to be receptive to my experience and watched me hide the find under some sand.
Hiking in the canyons beyond the resort town was the bit of ambulatory therapy I needed,
considering.

In my tent and in desperation, I punched on another number, ran my eviction story by a
woman I knew who had crossed paths with my hot springs hostess 14 yrs. prior when she
invited us all to give talks there. After I was given the nod, I broke down camp and packed up
the next morning and headed even further west.

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Part V:

http://roadruin.blogspot.com/2012/02/road-to-ruin-by-jaye-beldo-part-v-we.html


(C)2012-Jaye B.

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