The Flagstaff Chronicles, Vol. 3

Keep in mind that we have yet to even make it to a hotel room for the night. Hell, we'd only been in town for thirty minutes. Upon departing Snowmass, we all believed we would be spending the night in my new house.

The silver horse trailer made the right hand turn off of North Park Drive back on to Route 66 and made its way west. My phone rang.

"Hey, are there any goddamn hotels or something along this fucking road, or what?

It was rush hour. It was Monday. It was busy. We were traveling together. My whole plan regarding a domicile had just evaporated in front of my face. I was flustered. All I could remember from my other visits here was taking a left over the railroad tracks, then another left and there would be a Holiday Inn Express I had stayed at before.

I just couldn't remember the street name and I was at the back of the train, so to speak. Couldn't see a damned thing.

I spoke at the last available second.

"Hey! Take a left at your next light. I got the lane blocked for you. Cross the tracks and take your next left. It's kinda like a huge switchback sort of intersection. Just get all the way left. The road curves back to the right. The hotel will be on your right in a half-minute or so." Click.

Of course, Brad missed the entrance to the hotel and had to take a detour. "Oh! That hotel," he shouted from across the other parking lot. We got settled and checked in. We unhooked the trailer and parked my Jeep five inches away from the back gate and left the little red dog in the Jeep to deter any curious individuals from rummaging around. We then parked Brad's Dodge perpendicularly in front of the trailer so that no one could back under it, hook up and drive away with everything from my knickers and books to my passport and freezer. Because, see, we needed a vehicle to get around Flagstaff for however long it would take to secure a place and my Jeep was full of my own stuff.

The Holiday Inn EXPRESS, Flagstaff does not expressly offer rooms with three beds nor rooms with two beds and a couch. (That must be what the Express is all about.) About three and a half months prior, I had shared a room in the same exact hotel with my mother for three days. That was, as the saying goes, a first. On this evening, I was going to be sharing a room with my brother and my good friend, both of whom were going to win any battle regarding who will have the beds and who will have the floor. Three grown men in a hotel room is, well, a lot like this photo to the right.


But no matter. We had a plan and we had a computer and we had 24 hours.

First things first, though.

"Where the hell can a guy get a decent steak around here?" my brother asked.

"I have no idea," I said. "I do know where there's a hell of a good pizza place, though. Mom and I saw Larry Fitzgerald there in August."

"Who in the hell is Larry Fitzgerald?" asked Brad.

"Wide out for the Arizona Cardinals. Mom stood right next to him, giddy as a school girl," I said.

"What the hell is a 'wide out?'"

"Wide receiver. Football."

"I ain't eatin' no fucking pizza, Johnny," said CW from the shadows.

Brad grabbed a phone book and opened it to the Restaurant section. He read off a few local places and asked me what I knew about them. I had no idea.

"Black Bart's!" he shouted out. "Ha-ha. Yeah, that's the one. Steakhouse, it says. That's the place that the gal at the front desk told us to check out. She said it's right here, just a minute or two away from the ol' hacienda. East Butler Avenue. Where the hell is that?"

"Hacienda means ranch. We're in a hotel," I said. They ignored me. "Butler is that road right there." I pointed out the window.

"Well, shit, let's go," Brad said. "I could go for a big ol' chuleta right now. 'Steakhouse and musical ree-vyoo' it says. What the hell does that mean, ree-vyoo...it's spelled different," he asked.

"Singing and dancing and stuff, like a dinner theatre...like the Crystal Palace at home, I think. Mom and I were going to go but--don't you need reservations for that place? I remember that from this summer," I said.

"Dancin' girls?" asked CW.

"I'm not sure but I would assume so," I answered through a smile. "We are in Arizona, you guys, this ain't Vegas you know."

"Well, shit. Sounds like a damn good time to me," Brad said. "Big ol' steak, a couple of toddies and some dancin' girls - a guy cant go wrong, ain't it? Let's go."

And then they both picked up their cell phones and called their wives. 

Which, in reality, Black Bart's is pretty damn cool. And, in reality, there aren't dancin' girls. The scene is best described thus: Your waitress - as well as all the other waitresses - is also a performer and there's a guy who plays a piano and the waitress goes on stage and sings a song she has picked out from a playbook. When they finish their song, they swoop down to your table and ask you if you need another whiskey (answered, in unison: "Yes, please!") and how your salad is. It's an old log building with an actual fire going in the middle of the room and a bunch of big, dead animal's heads hanging from the walls. They grill a fine steak - I recommend the NY Strip - slathered in sauteed mushrooms and/or onions with your choice of tuberous accompaniment.

Black Bart - the man, a.k.a Charles Bolles - has the following tidbit posted at the restaurant as part of his legacy.

"Black Bart, a taciturn road agent, achieved legendary renown because of his many successful stagecoach robberies and the bad poetry he left behind. When he stopped a stage, Bart invariably used just four words to tell the driver what he wanted: 'Throw down the box!'

In the years between 1875 and 1883, twenty-eight drivers ultimately did throw down their express boxes for Black Bart, and after nearly every robbery he left behind a taunting verse signed "Black Bart, the PO-8"…

"So here I've stood while wind and rain

Have set the trees a sobbin,


And risked my life for the damned stage

That wasn't worth the robbin!"

Bart never wounded nor killed anyone, never took a lady's purse, and always used an unloaded shotgun for the holdup. He was eventually apprehended and sent to San Quentin.  He served a five year sentence, after which he disappeared forever.

Or did he?"

Either way the story goes, the restaurant that bears his name in Flagstaff, Arizona is well worth the visit. You won't be disappointed. As we walked out the front doors, my cohorts livened up a bit and gave me the typical shit that they always do.

"Johnny, you oughta get a job at that place. Dancin' girls, good food, a piano...hell, you'll fit right in!" said CW as we were leaving.

"Yeah," chimed in my brother, "get your ass a job tending the ol' suh-loon in there. Ha! I can just see it: Johnny standing there, 'What can I get-cha stranger?' Ha ha ha ha!"

"He can wear that goddamn outfit he wore to The Mayor's wedding. You know, with that fucking retarded hat and his vest and shit? Ha! They'd have to change the name of the place from Black Bart's to Brown Johnson's. Ha ha ha ha!"

"Piss on you two," I laughed.

"C'mon, Johnny, you could go up there and read your store-ees, have a dan-sin girl as your co-star. You'll be fame-us!" CW said as he could barely keep himself together he was giggling so hard.

We eased back to the truck; laughing, full of steak and salad and potatoes and whiskey, some pleasant surprise, all the while basking in the fresh memory of company at dinner that was - I must say - quite easy on the eyes.

There's an old song that I used to listen to and it has a simple yet very poignant refrain: "Some days are better than others."

I don't know a whole hell of a lot but I do know this: some things stay exactly the same and some things change drastically and having an inclination that in between those two extremes there exists a positive force is a comforting fact.