Rode Hard & Put Away Wet: Two Jet-Ski Cowboys Under The Tetons

Beg’s the question, I say with a slight chatter to my teeth. Why is a lone moose more dangerous than a herd? 

It’s not a riddle, Dude-Bro, Tusk explains with steaming breath. Tusk, in his overinflated ski-jacket, and in his knowledge of fuck-all, is lecturing me on alpine creatures. If a moose is rogue, he must’ve been kicked out of the tribe or some shit. Pissed up the wrong tree, maybe. Or got caught fucking bison, cos he’s dirty like that. 

Filthy animal, I say.

As snow continues to be crunched under footfalls, Tusk elaborates. A non-rogue, however… a moose who is still accepted by moose society, welp… he has more to lose if he starts acting like some entitled antlered asshole. Right?, Tusk says. A non-rogue will follow the rules. A herd of rule-followers is predictable, tame. Safe. But back to your entitled loner: the rogue moose has zero fucks. He’ll mount a bison. Fuck it. And when you see a rogue moose, and he’s eyeballing you back, you know he’s drunk & lonely & looking to scrap, edging for a fight.

I see, I say. Sounds like your brother.

Ha!, Tusk laughs with a snort; a snort which turns into a belch. Except, Tusk says after he blows away his burp, no self-respecting lady bison would let my brother within ten yards of her hairy buffalo.

We enter the saloon. The Mangy Moose is a warm sanctuary. Earlier in the day, with the sun jogging along the southern horizon, the slopes of Rendezvous Mountain were forgivably frigid. Then the sun decided to hide behind the jagged Tetons. The valley temperature has since plummeted. The frigidness is now quite formidable. I require whiskey. I require something to melt my spinal fluid, which has congealed into a frozen freezer-pop. Squeeze me tightly, baby, and I’ll shit out a popsicle. And my knees, having been twisted ninety-three degrees every which way, are as stable as a match-stick house built atop a urinal cake on nickel beer night…

Dude-Bro!, Tusk says. Crank the commentary down to simmer, motherfucker. We’re in polite company. 

The company he’s referring to is Shae, the blue-eyed, raven-haired, beauty in a tank-top & stetson. She’s behind bar and full of teeth when she recognizes our arrival. Well, howdy, strangers!, Shae greets us in her almost heaven, West Virginia accent. Y’all over here pissing by your lonesome?, she asks. Tusk & I both blush, aww shucks, yeah… What’re y’all thirsty for?, Shae asks us. What would you recommend?, I inquire. Depends, Shae says, on how much regret you can live with. I nod at Shae, if you can pour it, I can live with it. Giddy-up!, she says. How about it, Tusk?, she asks. You know what I want, he smirks at her. BRB, she says. 

The Mangy Moose sits at the base of the ski slopes. Rendezvous Mountain looms at our backs. Through the saloon doors, snow-bunnies and powder-lords are walking in after kicking off their ski-boots. This isn’t a saloon of ranchers and rodeo clowns. This is a ski-dive, a place for moneyed tourists from Cali-Rado or elsewhere, here to numb their limbs and savor their glories. Even the staff is comprised of migratory ski-bum vagabonds from outside the Mountain Time Zone. There may be fewer Wyomingians (Wyomongers?, Wyomoose?) under this roof than there are Florida jet-ski cowboys, of which, at present, there are at least two: yours truly and Tusk St John. 

As soon as Shae sashays away towards the whiskey shelves, Tusk punches me in the arm. Yow! The fuck?, I say. Dude-Bro, Tusk growls at me. Stop talking at my cousin’s girlfriend in your deep voice. Don’t make me whoop your ass, he says. Again. I wasn’t talking any deeper than normal, I squeal at him, rubbing my arm. Fuck you were, he says. Fuck I weren’t, I say. Damn-it, shit!, Tusk says, you are the douchiest bag. I shoulda left you on that mountain. Damn-it, shit!, I say mimicking him, you did leave me on that mountain. As soon as I face-planted, you passed by me like I was a diapered-bastard left at your doorstep. “Adios, pendejo!“, I recall you hollerin’. By the time I relocated my skis, you were overhead on the lift, about to make your second run.  

True as that may be, Tusk says, you need to cool it with Shae, Vic. No more writing haiku on cocktail napkins. In all fairness, I counter, her boyfriend, your cousin, did try to kill us this morning. How so?, Tusk asks with a raised eyebrow. Ha!, I laugh, “how so?” How about two flat-landers show-up in the Rockies and on day-one your boy pushes us off the ledge at Dog Face? I ask Tusk, are you sure your cousin didn’t take out a life insurance policy on you?

Tusk mulls it over a sip of beer. Now you mention it, he says, I thought I was signing a waiver to use his outhouse. Guess I shoulda read the fine print before I wiped my ass with it.

Tusk hops off his barstool and, like a dog surprised by its own fart, stares intently at the warm seat. What, I ask, the fuck? Hmm, Tusk responds. His brow is furrowed. As he ponders his seat, I ponder my own. Feels sturdy enough. Shae has served me a cocktail smokey & whiskey & risky. An eventual dismount from my perch is fraught with peril. Tusk, though, isn’t diving into the whiskey. He is swimming in the shallow safety of hefeweizen. And he’s eyeing his seat as if the barstool was trying to ride him rather than vice versa. What, I ask again, the fuck? 

I might just stand, Tusk says. Hmm, I hmm. 

Tusk is an engineer. Years ago, far far southeast of here, we were playing pool in a palmetto scrub lean-to of a bar when Tusk took a step back and scrutinized the pool table. What, I asked then, the fuck? He had an idea on how to build a better billiard. The next weekend, I went with him to North Florida, to his familial river home, where he would set to work. His revolutionary pool table was hexagonal. And had bumpers. It was brilliant. Tusk built the entire thing while I sat on his mother’s toilet. I sat on the toilet after eating his mother’s swamp chili. Chili made with river shrimp and soft-shell crab. I didn’t just get food sickness from the dank-water shellfish, I got the gout. 

Dude!, Tusk says, always with the fucking melodrama? Could you at least leave my mama’s chili out of this? Fine, I say with a shrug, returning to my whiskey. 

Tusk takes off his ski jacket and places it upon the bar stool. With the additional cushion, he re-mounts his seat. That’s better, he says. Hemorrhoids, I ask? Welp…, he ponders. If you are making a seven-layer dip of me getting old, hemorrhoids might be one of those thinner layers, Tusk says. Oh, I ask him, your hair wouldn’t be the thinnest layer? Fuck you, Tusk says, you furry fucking ape-man. I’d spit in your mama’s eyes, he says, except I like your mama. And she’s too damn Neanderthal for me to spit that high. But the next time you get a mail-order bride, I’ll spit in her mama’s eye. Yeah?, I say. And I like your mama’s chili. Not your mama’s, but if you had another mama that made chili edible for anything other than a goat, I would like her chili. Tusk shakes his head, grimacing. You son of a bitch, he says. 

Shae arrives after making the rounds. Tusk and I both straighten our posture, backs cracking from shoulder flexes. I subconsciously rub my chin stubble, as I do. Tusk gives her his muppet smile, as he does. Shae hasn’t arrived empty-handed. She’s put her mixology skills to use. For good or for evil, this much remains unseen, unsipped. What’s this?, I ask of the 3 shot-glasses filled with a lavender-hued milky substance. I call it “Grumpy Old Florida Man”, Shae says. It’s gin, creme violette, half & half and it goes down like Maalox. I figured it would hit the spot, she says, for you suffering fools. 

Nah man, Tusk says as he pushes his solitary shot away. I can’t drink this. I don’t have a gallbladder. Wait!, what?, Shae says. Why don’t you have a gallbladder?, she asks. Ugh, he sighs and hooks a thumb in my direction, saying, Vic’s wife got it in the divorce! Don’t worry, I consider myself lucky!, he says. Vic’s ex wanted half of everything. His lawyers talked her down from my left nut to just my gallbladder. 

Y’all’re idiots, but I love it, Shae says and cheers us with her shot. She and I gulp down the medicinal substance. It’s smooth, yet leaves my tongue feeling fuzzy.

Y’all been friends for a while then?, she asks. Since college, we say. How’d y’all meet? Some frat? Hell nah, we say. We were neighbors, Tusk tells her. We got into a fight over a girl, I tell her. Oh?, Shae asks with genuine interest. Do tell! It wasn’t a true fight, Tusk says. If we fought for real, Vic would be walking sideways like a concussed crab. He’s lucky to get away with just a busted sneeze-horn. 

Who was this chick?, Shae asks. What woman could possibly come between such upstanding gentlemen?

Tusk and I share a look. Hmm, we hmm, squinting at each other, trying to recall the night in question. Ellen of Troy?, I ask. Nah, Tusk shakes his head, she preferred horses to men. More likely Sheryl Chernobyl. Except you are allergic to redheads, he says. I still liked her, I say, she just made me itchy. Perhaps it was Demolition Debi. “Demo…”?, Shae says, interrupting us, how does someone get named “Demolition Debi”? Cos, Tusk says, Demolition Debi exploded more hearts than the Zellwood Corn-Dog Festival. Present hearts inclusive, I say to Shae. Deb was savage. 

Y’all’re idiots, Shae says. She leaves us to deliver new whiskey pours further upstream. 

Damn-it, shit!, Tusk says, why’d you have to go and bring up Demolition Debi? Now, I am guilty by association, Tusk says. Shae thinks I am an asshole by being in proximity to the black hole of assholiness that is you, douchebag. 

Oh, I am the asshole?, I say while reaching for his untouched Grumpy Old Man shot. You’re the pope of assholiness. You are the assholiest of holies. But y’know what, Tusk? I’ve learned something of friendship tonight. How’s that?, he says. I wince after shooting the last of the shots. I say, I’ve learned true friendship is being friends with a guy who is the absolute worst and still having his best interests at heart. Ha!, he laughs. Don’t go getting soft on me, Vic. Besides, you don’t have my best interests at heart, he says. I do, I tell him. When Shae comes back, I am going to take one for the team. I am going to humble myself and ask her where I can score some hemorrhoidal cream. And I am doing this for you, douchebag.

Tusk glares at me with his beady eyes before turning back to his beer. He prepares for a next sip, pausing only to say, bullshit. I’ve seen you waddling. You just want the cream for yourself. Best interest, my ass, Tusk says. Shit, if I had your best interests at heart, he says, I would’ve let you date Sheryl Chernobyl, back in the day, instead of charming her myself. I know she made you itchy, but she really was the only woman who could ever love you. 

Yeah, I say. Other than your mama. 

Fuck you, he says. Just keep her chili out of this.