An Evening in Flagstaff

With a full tank, I roll into Flagstaff at twilight. There is a lot of snow on the ground, but the roads are clear. I have fond memories of Flagstaff, a trip with students where we spent a morning here in coffee shops and art galleries. But that must have been at least seven years ago. My memories of places are pretty good. I believe it was that same trip when we were coming out of the Grand Canyon, and someone mentioned she was hungry. “No problem, ” I said, “there’s a great little pancake house in Williams just down the road here.” Sometimes it’s not good to share your memories with people who are seeing things for the first time.

Monique calls just as I roll in, and she describes what she sees from the El in Chicago, while I describe Flagstaff to her, such as it is. The place is dead, almost no cars on the road, no lights, and no one walking around It is, after all, Christmas day, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I drive up and down Flagstaff’s one-way streets looking for a B&B or a cool hotel, but I remember from my summer journey that it is difficult for one to stay in a small downtown because all the lodging has moved out to the interstate. I give up and pull into the Highland Country Inn for the night. The room is $59, and I smile because it is so cheap. I toss my things in the room then head out into the cold Arizona night to see what’s up. I could use a beer and some food. I hadn’t eaten all day, and I was ready for something, but I knew it was likely to be slim pickings on Christmas night in Flagstaff. I turn the corner and smell food. Just up on the right is a bar called Granny’s. Who names a bar Granny’s? The last three letters are out on the sign, but I see people coming and going and decide my search is over. I’m going to have Christmas dinner in Flagstaff at a bar called Granny’s.

As soon as I walk in, I can tell what kind of people I’m going to meet here. It will be locals, which is good because among the locals are the local characters that make up the local scene, the one that tourists don’t get or want to see. There are families and couples seated at the tables, and there is a wait for a table. “Okay if I sit at the bar?” I ask the hostess. She seems relieved and gives me a menu. I find an open seat, settle in, and order a Sam Adams Boston Lager. For a moment I contemplate the cultural and logistical machinery that must be in place for me to order a Sam Adams Boston Lager in Flagstaff, Arizona on Christmas day, but I decide that it will be too depressing to explore and open up the iPhone instead. No Edge or wireless network, but I can call. Just as I do this, the phone rings. It is Scout calling from Virginia. She is happy and has new boots. Frye’s or something like that. She tries to convince me they’re feminine, but I’m imagining stompers. When she describes the D-ring, I know I’m right. I smile as I imagine her stomping around in her kick-ass boots. She sounds strong and content.

I nurse my Sam Adams and look around. There are two guys down at the end of the bar feeding food to each other. They pretend that the food is wonderful, but everyone knows it’s a metaphor for the sex they are having. They ooh and ahh over every bite, and people glance at each other with knowing and pleasant smiles. To my immediate right is The Guy #1. You know this guy. He’s lived here for years, works a mediocre job in town that he hates, and has several exes that he sees in passing around town. He’s desperate to show people he is smart and wise, but it is the desperation that comes through in his voice, not intelligence or wisdom. He orders a Bud Light with Tabasco sauce and gets on the phone. The one-sided conversation goes something like this:

“So here you are alone on Christmas day.”

“I’m having a beer at Granny’s.”

“Well, it’s better than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself.”

“You always do this to yourself, then you expect me to pick up the pieces.”

“Yes, I did say that, but that’s because you make me say it. You won’t say it for yourself.”

“You should take responsibility for yourself.”

“I tried to help you, but you wouldn’t let me, so now we’re both alone on Christmas day.”

“All you need to do is ask me to come over, but you can’t bring yourself to do that, so I’m going to have another beer.”

Which he did after he hung up.

To my immediate left is The Guy #2. You know this guy as well. This is the local slacker. He’s good-natured enough but just can’t pull it together, and he gave up trying several years ago. He dresses like he did in high school, though he’s now in his late thirties, and he looks out on the world from eyelids dull with pain and boredom. He punctuates the atmosphere of the bar–literally–with loud burps every ten minutes or so. He glances to see if anyone notices. We do, but we don’t look at him, which is what he wants. He needs to register some sort of existence in the world, and he’s run out of ideas, so he burps. As we ignore him, he sinks into a deeper depression, which he masks by saying to anyone who comes up to the bar “Happy Fucking New Year.” They smile, look down, and get away as soon as they get their beer. Meanwhile he sinks a little lower into the corner. When he’s had enough, he says to the college-aged waitress:

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Yes?” she says, dreading what’s coming.

“Can you break a hundred?”

“Uh, sure,” she says, relieved that is was not something worse.

Sitting at the sad little bar in Flagstaff, I decide I will text some friends to see if they are available. I text Anna, Burningsteady, Kali, and St. Mary of Virginia. I don’t really expect an answer because it’s Christmas evening, and surely people have other things to do. Apparently not. Immediately, I am texted back by everyone. Anna is having dinner with her family in DC, Burningsteady is hanging out with her friend, St. Mary is playing with her new iPod Touch, and Kail, a Cool University student, is picking up boys in the Caribbean. The Caribbean? What? As I respond to these texts, other texts come in, and I have trouble keeping up. I am now laughing out loud at the bar as I tap out messages on the iPhone, and I realize that I have become The Guy #3. This guy is a tech nerd who lives in his own world, which is not the immediate world around him. He laughs to himself at things in this world that other people don’t share. Why he is in a bar on Christmas night in Flagstaff, Arizona is a mystery, but why he is alone isn’t. At least I don’t burp.

The texting continues after I return to my room, and Anna has had enough. She calls me. “Hey, you’re in Flagstaff?” “Yes,” I say. “What don’t you go see Ray?” Anna asks innocently. “Because Ray is in Albuquerque; I’m in Flagstaff,” I say. “Aren’t they right next to each other?” my east coast friend asks. I explain that Albuquerque is actually over three hundred miles away from Flagstaff and in another state, but Anna still doesn’t understand why I won’t drive over and see our mutual friend Ray. I should explain that Anna and Ray were students in my last class at Prestigious University, a class that was magical in many ways, and we just couldn’t stop hanging out together. Apparently, we still can’t. “Well, let’s call him then. Can’t your iPhone do three-way calling?” I say that I guess it can, so she gives me the number. The message says the number is unable to receive calls. Sounds like Ray didn’t pay his phone bill. “Whatever,” Anna says, “let’s call that crazy guy.” Somehow, I don’t have to ask who she means. She means Jack. Jack is a sweet guy, an English major at Prestigious University who hated the pretentiousness of PU. He liked my class, he says, because I didn’t play the part of the prestigious professor at PU. Anna still has his number, so I do a three-way call to Boston. The poor guy is having a huge party at his house, and it takes him five minutes to understand who I am. Then Anna gets on the call and messes with him terribly. But he’s good-natured, as he always was, and seems genuinely happy to talk to us for a while. I learn that he was stoned most every class period, which explains a lot of his comments now. During one class period we were talking about death, and I really got into it, filling the board with ideas about the meaningfulness of death and how knowing that you are dying makes you a true philosopher (Socrates). John confesses that this totally freaked him out. He was enjoying his buzz, but the death stuff really messed with him. He went home and went to bed and tried to calm down. Now he tells us that he has to get back to his guests, and we all say goodnight. Anna is quite pleased with herself, laughs, and the announces that she is going to bed.

This, then, is life, as Whitman says. The bizarre and the beautiful, the sad and the silly, the loneliness and the laughter, and it all comes together in a bar called Granny’s on a cold and dark Arizona evening.