Julie's Ride Home

Prologue: King Hill

Main Street had clearly seen better days, but were nowadays really so bad?

Ronnie McBayne thought this to himself strode casually down the street. On his left, a handful of mostly modest homes, mere cottages you would say, stood surrounded by well-manicured lawns. People made and effort to keep up appearances and maintain some sense of civic pride, despite the fact that time seemed to have passed this place by. On the right, across a vacant lot, stood a warehouse advertising itself as the "King Hill Irrigation District" with the name of the town painted in huge 15 foot letters on the corrugated tin roof. There was little else of interest to the casual visitor- no espresso shops, no restaurants or bars, and not even a casual knickknack antique shop to beckon a stray tourist. You would have to stray pretty far from the beaten tourist path to come here, Ronnie thought.

Southern Elmore County had a few towns like this- Hammett, Indian Cove, Bruneau, Glenn's Ferry, Bliss; all strung out along the Snake River plain. Most of these places were similarly fading; dusty hardscrabble places, much like King Hill- that lacked the amenities to bring in new commerce and keep most of their residents from seeking a better life elsewhere. Glenn's Ferry clung to life as a ranching and agricultural town, with the interstate running right past it, while Indian Cove, along with a few other such locales, had long since dwindled away to virtually nothing. Only Mountain Home, to the west, had managed to thrive, largely due to the nearby military base that kept a constant flux of incoming residents and propped up the local economy.

Turning right onto Idaho Street, he surveyed what was left of the business district. A large two story brick building had once housed three separate businesses: a bar called the Kounting House, a store, and at least one other business, which may have been the post office/town hall. This structure took up most of the block on the west side of the street. This must have been the center of social life here in town, but now the building was empty, and the windows were mostly boarded up. Sheets of plywood covered the upstairs windows. One block up was another impressive brick structure, which appeared to have once been a bank, but now was converted into the headquarters for the aforementioned Irrigation District. As far as Ronnie could tell, this was the only remaining business left in town.

Still, Ronnie could picture a row of 50's or 60's vintage model cars parked diagonally in front of this building, almost hear the ghosts of voices from the bar, and could almost picture people sitting on the benches in front, whiling away the summer evenings. Before the interstate had been built and the railroad shut down, essentially cutting off the town's lifeblood of commerce and condemning it to a slow death and it's inevitable fate as a near ghost town.

And now, almost nobody was around. Nobody wandered the dusty streets or sat in the boarded up bar, and the only people he had seen had eyed him warily from their front yards as he passed by. Giving him the ol' stinkeye, like what are you doing in these parts mister? He almost wished, as he sometimes did when he visited places like this, that there was at least one social club, bar, or restaurant, somewhere where he could converse with the locals and old-timers, and get a feel of what life in these forgotten towns was like. That is, on such occasions where the locals were actually friendly. Sometimes they were not. Or sometimes, they would harangue him with uncomfortable political diatribes, railing him against the evils of "Socialist Lib'rals" and "Dang (insert name of ethnic group here) ruining our country" and Ronnie would be sorry he even bothered trying to talk to them.

But yet, right now, being here in this place just gave him a sense of peace that was indescribable. It was a warm late spring afternoon. He imagined kids playing on the lawns, running to the corner store to get treats, riding their bikes and playing ball on the streets in the long evenings. Kids going to school here- the building itself was long torn down of course- then running home after school, or ditching out to go fishing in the river that ran right alongside old highway that bordered the town. The kids growing up, moving out, moving on.

But nobody moving in. The town now just a shell of itself. The air was warm and fragrant, the shade trees growing along the frontage road seemed welcoming, and the hills, rising steeply behind the edge of town to the north, provided a scenic backdrop. Ronnie thought to himself that if he could make it work, he could almost live here. It was just so peaceful. For some inexplicable reason, he just felt drawn to this old town. Earlier in the day, Ronnie had driven down to Gooding, an hour further on down the highway, to hike in the Little City of Rocks area and take some photos; one of his main pastimes (apart from golf and fishing) was hiking and photography. And he had already taken dozens of images of King Hill; and he didn't care if nobody else but he himself would find any interest in them.

So many happy memories were here; you could almost feel them drifting through the trees on the light breeze, and echoing through the vacant boarded up buildings. Good feelings. Mostly. Because not all memories were good, and somehow Ronnie could almost feel those, too.

He hopped in his pickup, an ageing Toyota, and motored back down the old highway 30 to the interstate. On his left he passed a field strewn with round boulders and a sign; "Petrified Watermelons -- take one to your mother in law!" At the junction of old highway 30 and the interstate, Ronnie wistfully gave one look back and then accelerated onto the highway 84 on-ramp, merging, then passing a couple long haul trucks en route to some big distribution warehouse, somewhere. From here, the long, boring flat expanse of bleak interstate would lead him back to the modern world and his home, some 50 miles distant.

I) Karcher Mall.

Ronnie McBayne shuffled up to the register, a pair of jeans in his arms. His business was slow that week, and he thought he may as well get some shopping done on his day off, having nothing else to do and no real plans. Length 32, waist 36- at least that never changed. Even if his life recently had, and he feared, was about to change again. Just this past week, he had broken up with his long term girlfriend, or rather, she had broken up with him, claiming that her new man, who worked as a manager at a local tech firm, was simply more of a "provider" than he, a mere installer of irrigation pumps, could ever be. Which was bullshit, Ronnie thought angrily. He made good money, probably as much, if not more than some "suit monkey" as he thought of her new chosen mate. All he could tell about this guy was that he was more slick, more clean cut, and more yuppified, than a country boy like him. In fact, this guy grew up in Portland, she had told him. Urrgh- some pasty white fancy coffee drinking bearded hipster, he thought to himself, although to be honest, he hadn't even met the guy yet. But still, after six years, suddenly he wasn't good enough for her anymore?

He had gotten a job right out of high school with his boyhood friend's dad, who ran a business installing pivot pumps for farmers in the "2C" area, which was the local term for the county he lived in. For 20 years he had worked there, first as your basic "grunt" but eventually he got to the point where he basically managed the jobs and didn't even go out into the field as much. But by now, his buddy had left the family business and moved out to California seeking his own way. Meanwhile his boss was long past retirement age, and he had started talking about selling the business. Which meant that even after 20 years of hard work, Ronnie's job future was by no means guaranteed if the business got sold.

Ronnie paid for his jeans, walked out of the store, and shuffled down the central aisle of the mall. He popped into the arcade, but didn't see anything he particularly wanted to plunk a quarter into- mostly just cheesy fighting action games- and so he continued on. The Karcher Mall seemed to be in decline, he noticed, as he passed a few empty storefronts, and noted the distinctly light amount of foot traffic. Here was a Hispanic family, with a gaggle of young kids in tow, and there was some derelict with a grey mullet shuffling along, whose thousand mile stare looked right through him. Over by the water fountain was a couple kids in faux gang attire, always wishing they were from East Los Angeles, and always bemoaning their fate at having been from East Nampa instead. A teenage grommit-looking kid in baggy pants and a black t-shirt that said "Municipal Waste" in a jagged heavy metal font logo loped on by without even glancing at him. And here were a couple of scantily dressed teenybopper girls wearing midriff shirts and short, tiny leather skirts, the kind of outfit that was always popular with underage jailbait. As he passed, one of the latter called to him:

"Hey!"

"Huh?"

"Ohmagod are you like, related to Jack Black? Because you look sooo much like him." ("I don't look anything like that guy, what are you talking about?") Ronnie thought, annoyed.

"Uh no, why, you serious? I don't look THAT much like him." He replied.

"We were just wondering."

"Uh, no. No I'm not. I do like Tenacious D though," he replied, starting to walk on.

"Cool, Wonderboy!" she said. "Maybe you could be MY wonderboy. Hey...so like, do you like...desert, wonderboy?" She asked now, leaning suggestively towards him.

"What the...? No!"

"You totally look like a hard rocker, huh. Hard, stiff...maybe you can like, get together and rock with us sometime, right?" she asked, leering suggestively at him. Her friend giggled; "You know what, you have a really nice butt, he hee!" Ronnie was growing increasingly annoyed and honestly, wanted nothing further to do with these pesty kids, so he replied, "Well, yeah, I guess you girls rock, allright...."

"Oh my GOD EEEWWW!!!" She exclaimed, as she and her friend ran away, shrieking and giggling. Later on, after she and her friend got picked up from the mall and driven home, she would tell her parents "Oh my God this creepy older guy at the mall was hitting on me!"

When the Towne Square Mall had opened up in the 80's, it had taken a huge chunk of business away from the Karcher Mall, and then, more recently, Meridian Village opened, it drew even more customers away, lured by bigger, more chic stores and upscale brands. He could relate. Heck, he felt like that too lately- passed over by more chic and upscale. Whatever. Even he hardly stopped in here anymore. Passing a couple bland woman's clothing shops, Ronnie wandered down to the art and frame shop and stopped in to browse. Sometimes, this was of the more interesting places still left in the mall, although truthfully most of the art was just rather bland looking western style paintings- alpine scenery, men in cowboy hats leading horses, and so on- people loved that stuff out here. The shop's sole proprietor, some heavyset looking dude with dyed black hair, thin-rimmed glasses and sideburns, never once glanced up from his phone the whole time Ronnie was there. At last, Ronnie had had enough of this slice of suburbia, and headed out to the parking lot, bag with the jeans in hand, to look for his truck. It wasn't hard to remember where he had parked; after all the mall parking lot was very rarely more than half full.

There were two girls standing out front. Older than the pair he had just seen, but still, much younger than him nonetheless. They both looked to be around 20 or so, roughly half his age. One of them, tall, thin, long reddish blonde hair, freckles and jeans, the other one slightly shorter, also blonde, and also in jeans and a white blouse. As Ronnie passed them, he smiled at them. But then one of them, the shorter blonde one, stepped in front of him and asked,

"Excuse me. But um...can you help us?"

"Uh, okay, what do you need?"

"Well, uh, It's kinda, we're both looking for rides. Can you give us a lift?"

"Sure, I guess...How far?" Ronnie asked.

"Well, that's the thing, see....it's kinda far. I live out in Hammett. And she's, wait, where are you from again?"

"Marsing." The taller, reddish blonde haired one replied.

Ronnie thought to himself that something seemed odd about this, and he would later realize that if they lived in clearly opposite directions that far apart, it was unlikely they would have been paired up like this. But suddenly an idea came to him, why not use this excuse to take a road trip down south? He knew the area, and it would be an interesting diversion, a way to spend an afternoon he would otherwise simply sit at home playing video games, drinking beer with the neighbors down the street, or some otherwise useless pastime. Besides, maybe this girl was nice. Although she was so young- barely 20 if that, so it couldn't possibly lead to anything serious, but heck, why not help her out, and go on an impromptu road trip.

"Well, I guess; I can give you a ride to Hammett I guess, although that's 60 miles, but your friend, I mean, she lives in totally the opposite direction..."

"Oh thanks! That would be great! Don't worry, Karen will find a ride with someone else. Is that okay?" she said then, turning to her friend, concerned.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. It will be all right. Give me a call when you get home. Bye!" Karen replied.

"Bye! Oh, I'm Julie, by the way," she said, tuning back toward him.

"Ronnie."

"Nice to meet you. And totally, thanks for the lift. That is awesome. I hope it isn't too far out of the way. You're doing me a huge favor."

"No problem. I've got nothing better to do, I go down that way sometimes anyway, and hey, it's a great day for a drive. Hope you don't mind a crusty old guy like me" Ronnie said, then suddenly felt self-conscious about that last remark.

"Oh no worries. Totally awesome of you to do this."

"Here, my truck's parked right over here." The walked over, and he unlocked the truck and cleared some invoices for irrigation pump meters off the passenger seat. He stashed them, along with his plastic bag full of newly purchased jeans, in the back behind the seats.

"Here you go," Ronnie said, holding the door for her. She hopped in and shut the door.

2) Elmore County

Soon, they were on the interstate, speeding southwest on the open road, towards Mountain Home and Hammett beyond. "I hope your friend's all right. Are you sure she'll be fine? I mean, we could go back and call her a cab or something..." Ronnie asked.

"Who?"

"Your friend Karen. We could go back, call her a cab..."

"Who are you talking about?" she asked.

"You know, your friend; that you were with..."

"I wasn't with anyone, it was just me!"

"That girl wasn't with you? I mean, I thought..." Ronnie said, suddenly flustered, and wondering exactly what game she was playing.

"No...There was no other girl. Just me."

Ronnie let it drop. He was certainly puzzled as to her odd behavior, however, but thought he would reassure himself by engaging her in a normal conversation.

"So, you live down in Hammett?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's where I grew up. We have a farm there."

"It's a nice place, pretty small town. I mean, what do you guys do for fun down there?"

"There's plenty to do. I like it! We just fish, hunt, ride four wheelers out in the desert, you know..."

"I like it too" Ronnie replied ("and I'm starting to like YOU" he thought.) "I've been down that way a bunch of times, to fish over at CJ Strike and stuff."

As they rolled on down the empty stretch of I-84, the ride was as uneventful as the scenery. It was a warm, sunny spring day, much like the last time he had been down this way, just a couple weeks earlier. Out the window, they cruised through endless stretches of flat sagebrush broken only by distant Danskin and Owyhee mountain ranges, and the ugly camel humps of Simco Butte off to the south. But with the 80 miles per hour speed limit, the miles flew by- and Ronnie had someone to talk to. He regaled her with amusing tales of being surprised by pheasants in sugar beet fields when installing pumps, of hunting in the mountains north of Weiser, and on a somber note, of buddies lost to alcoholism and drugs, or else lost to families, kids, and the trappings of adulthood that took them out of his social life, and of course, of Jennie, whom he still loved, and still missed dearly.

She told him stories of being chased by badgers, of the simple joys of fishing by the Snake River, of ditching school to swim on warm spring days, of horseback rides in the nearby hills, of girlfriends lost to marriage to jerky guys who were heavily into alcohol and drugs, and her old high school flame, lost to combat in some unspecified overseas conflict. Ronnie did not press her on this; it seemed to make her sad. She spoke of family pets, and more recently, of having to put her dog down, whom she still loved, and still missed dearly.

Eventually they reached the freeway exit for Hammett. Ronnie signaled to exit and pulled into the off-ramp lane, but to his surprise his passenger suddenly exclaimed "WAIT no...its further down!" Startled, Ronnie weaved back onto the freeway. A large Suburban that had been behind him was forced to check up, it's driver exclaiming (loudly and in front of his wife and small children) "Fucking 2-C driver!" and giving Ronnie the one finger salute.

"Whoa! Sorry about that!" Ronnie said, both to Julie and almost symbolically, as if he could hear, to the driver of the Suburban- some typical LDS family from Meridian, he surmised- which had quickly sped past him.

"So then, where do you want to be let off?" He asked.

"Next exit, okay? Just down the road further."

It was four miles further to the Bennett Road exit, which was a desolate, remote stretch of gravel heading northwest into the hills. Ronnie swung off the road.

She directed him to turn left and they followed the road as it toured the edge of the foothill country bordering the Bennett Mountain area. She rattled off the names of the farmers who lived out here, as she seemed to be familiar with the residents, sparsely populated as the area was. I guess everyone out here probably knows everyone else, he thought to himself. But still, as they chatted, he realized he really did like this girl. She was a simple, but genuinely nice country girl. She seemed strong and independent but at the same time, seemed to have a really laid back attitude. Heck, if only he himself had been a few years younger...

But suddenly she said, "Okay wait...I'm sorry... stop the truck, we need to turn around."

"Wait, what? Why what's wrong."

"Oh nothing; I just wanted to check something, that's why I wanted to come out here. It's okay. There's nothing wrong."

"Well I thought you lived out here. I mean, I thought you wanted me to drop you off. What did you want to see out this way?" Ronnie asked.

"Just like...my uncle's farm. I needed to check on it. I'm supposed to, like, keep an eye on things for him while he's out in California."

Ronnie thought this was a weird excuse, but he was game, only he wondered why she really wanted to come out this way in the first place. They really were in the middle of nowhere out here.

"Um, would it be okay if, like... I don't have to be home right away. Do you mind if we just, drive for a while? Maybe I can show you where I grew up and stuff. If you like."

"Uh, okay, I guess. I'm cool with that. This is a pretty neat area."

"You aren't in a hurry are you? I figure we got some time to kill before I got to be home." She replied.

"Oh no, sounds fine with me." Ronnie said. "Hey, have you ever been up to King Hill? The old farm ghost town?" We could take a drive out there and walk around, check it out. It's not far...