A ghostly friend

Nov. 20 – Casper, WY

As cities go, it's right up there with Miami and St. Louis, Cleveland and Pittsburgh. It's on par with Nashville, San Diego, San Antonio, and New Orleans. In fact, the city of Casper, Wyoming actually outranks San Francisco, Cincinnati and Dallas. New York City beats it, of course, but then so do Fargo, North Dakota and Burlington, Vermont. Also Kansas City, Missouri (but not Kansas City, Kansas). And, of course, bustling Cheyenne, which we'd passed on our way up Interstate 25.

Reading the names of those first eight cities, you probably doubt that Casper could hold court in any way with these great American destinations. But it's statistically true, for each, like Casper, is the second-largest city in its respective state. (That's according to United States Census population estimates for July 1, 2006, in case you're feeling defensive of, say, Nashville's supremacy: sorry, but Memphis has you beat. And New Orleans only makes the list because of the displacement by flood of so many thousands of people.)

With that distinction, naturally, the similarities end.

Our visit to this second city was marked by several firsts: first snow and first frigid temperatures—the day before, Denver had been in the 70s—and first performance in an arena-style venue. An over-confident SUV spun itself around on the exit ramp in front of our hotel, probably the first weather-related traffic mishap for the season (or perhaps just a Bronco as untamed as the one forever bucking its lone rider on Wyoming's state emblem). And first impressions: Casper was frozen shards of wind through every seam and buttonhole in my coat, snow swirling frictionless across asphalt, as if the pavement itself were ice. Brakes creaked and metal groaned as boxcars were shunted, and a skyline of two or three boxcar-like buildings shivered behind a gunmetal gauze of falling snow and twilight against an industrial gray drop cloth of a sky. Night fell cold, sharp and hard like an icicle, and morning in Casper I never saw.

In the lobby of the Parkway Plaza Hotel, Christmas decorations were going up, though Thanksgiving was still two days away, and although Casper was a frozen outpost on the remote windswept plain, both a full-service restaurant and a fully functioning bar were at our disposal. The latter was a tired, time-worn saloon with brick above rough-hewn wood paneling accented by faux Italian frescoes, imitation brass sconces and wrought iron filigree; a faded red-and-white awning hung over the bar itself. The carpeting and upholstery were from sundry generations, none of them current, and the clientele equally anachronistic, as you'd only expect to see in a film about people more miserable than yourself. As for me, I thought it the coziest place I'd been in a long time.

Our surroundings were as desolate as they had ever been, and the months and miles had accumulated like the snowdrifts now forming, but two days later I'd be at the Thanksgiving table and home for the holidays. So, in a Wyoming winter amongst Christmas decorations, the warm glow of ambulance lights, and that desperate dive in the second-largest city of the emptiest state, I felt snug in insular comfort by the peculiar familiarity of where I was and the welcome knowledge of where I would soon be going. It was eminently fine.

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Postscript:

As it happened, the bar denizens were true to their mien: while civil at first, after unsuccessfully offering to buy drinks for the ladies of our group they were thrown out on their staggering butts into the snow. We were told this was because they intended to avenge being jilted by administering a 55-gallon drum of whoop-ass onto us fellers. The bronco forever untamed. Yee-haw!