Hobble Creek Review
| Jeff Streeby |
The Irma Hotel
Some cold, clear morning in spring, I want to be out west again. I
want to be up early when day is coming rose and gold over the edge of
the world. I want to watch the sun light up Rattlesnake Mountain. I
want to notice as scraps of snow in the lees of things grow gradually
bright. I want to see my breath. I want to catch the strong scent of
wood smoke that rises from chimneys all over town. I want to know
my lever action hangs in the rack behind me when I park the pickup.
In the afternoon, I want to be standing on the porch of the Irma Hotel
when the auctioneer calls the numbers on the big bay 2-year-old
everybody wants. I want to be where I can watch the bidders wave. I
want to be there when the spotters shout and point. I want to hear
the price go higher and higher and higher and then hear the gavel
fall. I want to watch an outfitter from Jackson or Dubois or Victor or
Star Valley lead the wide-eyed colt away. I want to go inside the
saloon then and take a place at the long cherrywood bar that was
commissioned over a hundred years ago by order of the Queen. I want
to admire again its bulk and heft and artistry, its beveled mirrors, its
columns and arches and grillwork and finials. I want to sit under the
solemn gaze of its carved bull and drink rye whiskey. I want to feel
the weight of the thick-walled shot glass in my hand and I want my
throat to burn the way rough liquor can make it burn. I want to see if
Tom Frye’s portrait of Cody made in sheet steel with evenly spaced
bullet holes still hangs in front of the dining room’s cash register. I
want to walk the broad hallway under the glass-eyed stares of all
those sheep mounts. I want to hear the jingle of my rowels and spur
chains echo off the tin ceiling. I want to hear the floor creak under
my bootheels. I don’t want to be surprised.
Once upon a time, cowboys and Indians auditioned in a field out back
for a spot in the show. Once upon a time, Bill Cody lived upstairs in a
suite of bright rooms. Once upon a time, Irma sat at a favorite table
with a view of the street. In the whole town, every door swings into
that century. I want to be accustomed to those faint drafts from the
fairytale days.
Once there was a Burlington siding just down the street. There was
coal smoke, a huff of steam, a deep mechanical growl, a whistle, a
bell. There was a hiss of pistons that moved heavy levers and gears.
There was a distinct crash of a first lurch forward then the unyielding
car couplings shuddering down the line, a glissando hard as a fall of
rocks. There was a long freight starting off with shrill friction of
drive wheels to rails, iron squealing against iron, and for a while
everything quivered in time with that slowly opening throttle. There
was all that rolling stock, carriage after carriage, battering out of rail
joints flexing over their sleepers that pattern of slowly accelerating
repetitions. There was light from the locomotive’s headlamp falling
through a six-pane sash to make odd geometry move on the opposite
wall. There was rumbling enough to excite an answering rattle from
one window glass. Once, in early morning darkness, there was
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders headed east
for the last time.
Once upon a time we cheered in a New Year at his old hotel. There
was a slow drive from Greybull, a blizzard, drifts over the fences.
There were some few sentimental trinkets we exchanged. There was
the $2 bill, holed by the trick shootist’s wadcutter, that I misplaced
years later. There was boisterous camaraderie among strangers, all
those extravagant toasts, all those impractical resolutions, the Auld
Lang Syne, the departing crowd, and at last, the room at the top of
the stairs. In the morning there was sun on snow, the Teamster’s
Breakfast, the quiet ride home, the expectation that we would live
happily ever after. There was no way to judge then how much we
stood to lose.
We never know what comes next, so I will go through the ordinary
motions again today. I will trust in custom, in established routines. I
will shower, shave, make coffee, zone out in the back seat of my
carpool for the hour’s commute, keep my essential appointments, call
it quits. I will smile at everyone all the way home. I will be
imperturbably cheerful. I will keep the lid on my wishful thinking
the whole time as if nothing is wrong. For now, I will stick to the
script though I know I will find here only what there is to find— the
same old story— avoidable error, this exile, the pain of hindsight, my
irresistible impulse to keep looking back.
Some cold, clear morning in spring, I want to be out west again. I
want to be up early when day is coming rose and gold over the edge of
the world. I want to watch the sun light up Rattlesnake Mountain. I
want to notice as scraps of snow in the lees of things grow gradually
bright. I want to see my breath. I want to catch the strong scent of
wood smoke that rises from chimneys all over town. I want to know
my lever action hangs in the rack behind me when I park the pickup.
In the afternoon, I want to be standing on the porch of the Irma Hotel
when the auctioneer calls the numbers on the big bay 2-year-old
everybody wants. I want to be where I can watch the bidders wave. I
want to be there when the spotters shout and point. I want to hear
the price go higher and higher and higher and then hear the gavel
fall. I want to watch an outfitter from Jackson or Dubois or Victor or
Star Valley lead the wide-eyed colt away. I want to go inside the
saloon then and take a place at the long cherrywood bar that was
commissioned over a hundred years ago by order of the Queen. I want
to admire again its bulk and heft and artistry, its beveled mirrors, its
columns and arches and grillwork and finials. I want to sit under the
solemn gaze of its carved bull and drink rye whiskey. I want to feel
the weight of the thick-walled shot glass in my hand and I want my
throat to burn the way rough liquor can make it burn. I want to see if
Tom Frye’s portrait of Cody made in sheet steel with evenly spaced
bullet holes still hangs in front of the dining room’s cash register. I
want to walk the broad hallway under the glass-eyed stares of all
those sheep mounts. I want to hear the jingle of my rowels and spur
chains echo off the tin ceiling. I want to hear the floor creak under
my bootheels. I don’t want to be surprised.
Once upon a time, cowboys and Indians auditioned in a field out back
for a spot in the show. Once upon a time, Bill Cody lived upstairs in a
suite of bright rooms. Once upon a time, Irma sat at a favorite table
with a view of the street. In the whole town, every door swings into
that century. I want to be accustomed to those faint drafts from the
fairytale days.
Once there was a Burlington siding just down the street. There was
coal smoke, a huff of steam, a deep mechanical growl, a whistle, a
bell. There was a hiss of pistons that moved heavy levers and gears.
There was a distinct crash of a first lurch forward then the unyielding
car couplings shuddering down the line, a glissando hard as a fall of
rocks. There was a long freight starting off with shrill friction of
drive wheels to rails, iron squealing against iron, and for a while
everything quivered in time with that slowly opening throttle. There
was all that rolling stock, carriage after carriage, battering out of rail
joints flexing over their sleepers that pattern of slowly accelerating
repetitions. There was light from the locomotive’s headlamp falling
through a six-pane sash to make odd geometry move on the opposite
wall. There was rumbling enough to excite an answering rattle from
one window glass. Once, in early morning darkness, there was
Buffalo Bill’s Wild West and Congress of Rough Riders headed east
for the last time.
Once upon a time we cheered in a New Year at his old hotel. There
was a slow drive from Greybull, a blizzard, drifts over the fences.
There were some few sentimental trinkets we exchanged. There was
the $2 bill, holed by the trick shootist’s wadcutter, that I misplaced
years later. There was boisterous camaraderie among strangers, all
those extravagant toasts, all those impractical resolutions, the Auld
Lang Syne, the departing crowd, and at last, the room at the top of
the stairs. In the morning there was sun on snow, the Teamster’s
Breakfast, the quiet ride home, the expectation that we would live
happily ever after. There was no way to judge then how much we
stood to lose.
We never know what comes next, so I will go through the ordinary
motions again today. I will trust in custom, in established routines. I
will shower, shave, make coffee, zone out in the back seat of my
carpool for the hour’s commute, keep my essential appointments, call
it quits. I will smile at everyone all the way home. I will be
imperturbably cheerful. I will keep the lid on my wishful thinking
the whole time as if nothing is wrong. For now, I will stick to the
script though I know I will find here only what there is to find— the
same old story— avoidable error, this exile, the pain of hindsight, my
irresistible impulse to keep looking back.
Jeff Streeby grew up in Sioux City, Iowa, where he attended Morningside
College. He holds a MFA in Poetry from New England College in Henniker,
New Hampshire. He is a horseman, cowboy poet, and performer whose
recent work has appeared in or been accepted for Alehouse; Flashquake;
Rattle; Simply Haiku, Glass, Naugatuck River Review, Oak Bend Review
and others. In 2005 and 2006, he was a presenter at the Gerard Manley
Hopkins Summer Institute in Monasterevin, Ireland. He currently teaches
high school English in Perris, California.
College. He holds a MFA in Poetry from New England College in Henniker,
New Hampshire. He is a horseman, cowboy poet, and performer whose
recent work has appeared in or been accepted for Alehouse; Flashquake;
Rattle; Simply Haiku, Glass, Naugatuck River Review, Oak Bend Review
and others. In 2005 and 2006, he was a presenter at the Gerard Manley
Hopkins Summer Institute in Monasterevin, Ireland. He currently teaches
high school English in Perris, California.
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