My First Trip Across I-90 — Part 2
“But in Montana, back in those days, it seemed as if no one had ever heard of George Dickle so I found myself the only one in the bar who was drinking Jack Daniels. Not that folks in Montana didn’t drink whiskey, they just weren’t drinking cheap Southern brands.”
Another story from the daze of my youth.
In Part 1, I crossed the Rocky Mountains only to end up in a tiny truck stop near Mineral County, Montana. You can read it here.
There isn’t much of anything in Mineral County but if memory serves me correctly the truck stop was somewhere near the ghost town of Taft. But I could be wrong. Just a short walk across the parking lot there was a bar filled with folks who were stuck spending the night in their cars and trucks as the tiny motel there was full. Of course I found my way to the bar where I ordered a glass of my favorite whisky, George Dickle.
But in Montana, back in those days, it seemed as if no one had ever heard of George Dickle so I found myself the only one in the bar who was drinking Jack Daniels. Not that folks in Montana didn’t drink whiskey, they just weren’t drinking cheap Southern brands.
I can never remember if it is whisky or whiskey, but so few people in those parts drank Jack Daniels in those days, the barmaid had to dust off the bottle before pouring me a drink.
I immediately took a liking to the barmaid and being that Southern accents weren’t commonly heard in Montana back in those days, she seemed to be interested in me if for no other reason than the fact that she thought I talked funny. Or maybe it was because I tipped well with every drink served. I’ve never been one to run a tab, that way I don’t outdrink my wallet. I set my sights on going home with her that night and never left my spot at the crowded bar.
Truck drivers from the Southland were rare in Montana in those days as state and Federal regulations had long discouraged Southern companies from operating nationwide just as all companies were discouraged from operating nationwide. Not that it couldn’t be done, it was just that prior to Federal deregulation of the trucking industry it simply wasn’t profitable. Most long haul trailer load freight was hauled by owner-operators and manufacturers running their own fleets.
Prior to Deregulation trucking was dominated by unionized trucking companies whose drivers were well trained and knew well the areas and conditions where they worked. I was a part of the first wave of deregulated drivers and deregulated trucking companies crazy enough to operate nationwide. Neither myself nor Goldston Trucking had any clue as to what we were getting into.
As the night went on I noticed a card game going on in a room in the back. It wasn’t as if they were trying to hide it but it was somewhat separated from where the drinkers and dancers were having a good time. I just ordered more drinks and flirted with the barmaid as the little head was doing the thinking for the big head.
I can’t recollect how much I drank that night but it was more than I should have drank. As a matter of fact, when this giant of a lumberjack looking fellow kicked the card table over and started pounding on the men he had been playing poker with I thought nothing of it, ordered another drink, and decided to watch the fight.
Suddenly everyone in the bar was fighting or running towards the door. Except me. I was still drinking and watching the biggest bar brawl I have ever seen in my entire life. It was then I realized that the giant lumberjack had whipped pretty much everyone in the room except me. He was coming my way.
Now drunk I was but I wasn’t stupid. Well not completely stupid. Then again, maybe I was stupid. As he came towards me I picked up a broken table leg and swung it with all my might, landing what I thought was a mighty blow to the side of his head! Honestly, had his head been a baseball I would have hit a home run. Blood went everywhere but he didn’t fall! Yep, I was stupid.
As he straightened his head he growled at me.
What else could I do? I ran! That’s what I did. I ran right out the door across the parking lot, falling down in the snow, getting up and continuing my run all the way back to my rig where I grabbed my revolver, and hid in the sleeper berth.
Did he follow me? I don’t know, I never looked back. But I can tell you this much, not much will scare you more than hitting a man with everything you’ve got only to hear him growl at you as if you’d poked an angry bear. The fear I had felt driving down that snow covered mountain didn’t begin to compare.
