We enter Outback Steakhouse with our smiles akin to a yet-to-be breaded Bloomin' Onion. It's our first real sustenance since midday in Chicago. Shane, Brian, and Mike settled for 7-Eleven fare on the outskirts of Illinois the night before, since we rushed out of Chicago to avoid the holiday exodus, only to remember too late that it was a Sunday night. I chose to subsist off Nutri Grain and Quaker bars in the interim. So as our young black male host looks at me as if he beholds black gold, I am preoccupied prospecting the nearest menu.
On a roadtrip, few things are as comforting as a sit-down meal. A bed is a worthy competitor, but I choose not to fight for one. When I get out of the shower, Shane, who is wary of sharing a bed with another guy, is already sprawled out on the floor, blanketed by his Old Spice body spray. Brian and Mike are displaced across each queen-sized bed, out like a pair of blown Motel 6 bulbs inside a Super 8. I settle for the floor and let them count their blessings and their sheep.
***
As we eat a less than super continental breakfast the next morning, we overhear a gentleman telling one of the hostesses that he lost his camera on a train ride the day before. It had twelve days of pictures on it. On a roadtrip, one's camera is almost as important as one's pair of eyes. My heart drops for the guy, but it's rapidly driven out of Rapid City, breaking the loop of infinite plains and soft hills and entering the Black Hills out of which the busts of legends loom.
And yet, it is not even the monumental patriarchs that most impressive me, but rather diminutive Alex, son of New Jersey who lives up to his last name: a small being, human in form, playful and having magical powers. Mr. Fay is a hypnotic orator, energetic and informative, with a clean shaven face and sparkling apple cider eyes that have seen no more than twenty-three years. That it's his first year as a tour guide is even more impressive. His presentation is as broad-knowledged as Washington's shoulder's; as flowing as Jefferson's hair; as enhancing as Teddy's spectacles; and as sharp as Lincoln's nose. I've often felt that I belonged in the past, so it's no surprise that a section of my anachronistic soul should remain etched in stone, over a day behind Eastern Daylight Time.
A good tour guide like Alex can sometimes outline the wonder of something that might not have been appreciated otherwise, just as a good writer like yourself can bring beauty and depth to moments that might have seemed merely ordinary otherwise.
ReplyDeleteGuides of all sort should be appreciate, really, but tour guides don't get enough love. Too many people just think of them as part of the scenery, but they're really closer to teachers in trade. And a good one can occasionally make nearly the mark that a good teacher can. I've lost the name of our guide in London, but never his face or his performance.
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