Czar, Alberta - Population: 208 (except Wednesdays)

Driving on a highway at the far eastern edge of Alberta, near to where the middle of the province meets the Saskatchewan border, the seemingly endless horizon draws my stare like a mirror to Narcissus. A more scrutinizing look breaks the illusion of a flat line, reveals prairie broken by undulating low hills riding an ocean of waving wild grass occasionally afloat with the bobbing heads of cattle swept along by the wind-borne tide. Rafts of fescue, nondescript scrub, and small island groves of weather-bent aspen line the bottom of shallow dales riven with the meandering trenches of long-dried rills, where prairie sage, crocus and coneflower can sometimes be found adding a little more colour to the more common drab fawn of the landscape.

Marshes sprouting cat tails bobbing with the weight of red-winged blackbirds wisp warm mist into the still chill morning air. Small vaporous tendrils seek one another out, joining to crisscross the highway like snow snakes in winter. Passing a hillock, the serenity of the scene suddenly shifts to near bedlam as an immense flock of migrating snow geese gaggle, jostling for space around the only visible open water: a small, low, oblong pan that typically serves to slake the thirst of local bovines, but now provides welcome respite for tired, irritable birds not even halfway along their migration from the arctic tundra to the Gulf of Mexico.

As the dawn breaks wider, so too does a pervading sense of being on a plateau beneath all of heaven, an immensity of lightening azure sky stretched overhead, speckled with the fading sparkle of brighter stars, the brilliance of Venus setting in the west the last remnant of night to wink away from the encroaching sun.

In the mid-afternoon of that same day, peering through my car’s bug-splattered windshield, a town appears on the road ahead of me; though the label might be too generous. Call it a village, just. Once in its environs, it presents more like an abandoned movie set. I can espy a gas station, a post office-slash-druggist, a general store, and a motel-slash-tavern. No church, no park, no all-night diner, no cinema, no laundromat, no haberdashery, no bank, no Tim's. No shops of any other kind. There are a few houses that remind me of clapboard facades, their yards overgrown with clover. Otherwise, the area appears as devoid of living beings as politicians a moral compass.

The buildings yet suggest the presence of life, at least beyond that of cattle, blackbirds and passerine geese. There is a sidewalk traveling one side of the street, but there are no pedestrians on it, nor vehicles in view; not even a derelict, rusting truck in a back yard, which is strange in this part of the world. All that's needed to confirm the place as a ghost town are tumbleweeds rolling with the breeze, but while it's gusty there are no wayward weeds tumbling down the single road, no shutters banging against glassless window frames.

I wonder at the need for the motel-slash-tavern. What visitors are expected to a place where there aren't even any visible residents? Regardless, it's precisely the one locale I need right now. I'd been further north while it was still dark outside, doing an installation for a farming supply store in Consort, to be completed before they opened for business. The town of Consort is on the Yellowhead highway, and at least merits the moniker. It has plenty of life, both extant and because of the proliferation of truckers who regularly use its inns as stopovers on their journeys east and west across the middle of the country. I hadn't the foresight to book a room ahead of my visit, being a city dweller unused to the goings-on in the place, and assuming I could drive up to any motel and easily secure lodging. Instead, I found myself heading south over a rarely used route on the advice of a local yokel who suggested I might find a room down in Czar, and according to the highway sign I'd recently passed that's where I was.

How the village got its name was a mystery. I saw nothing remotely Russian about the place, unless you counted the barrenness of the town and the area around it, the suggestion of an immense country no length of time could ever fill with life enough to displace its ubiquitous emptiness. No peasantry worked the land, no boxy Ladas sputtered down the single street, no militia wearing oversized peaked caps and touting shouldered rifles stood on corners, no gargantuan, red-brick, featureless structures lined the street. There was no music, no fountains, no cobblestone roads or walkways, no waterways, no trains, no grey men playing chess along the outer edges of the square; no square.

This being the days before mobile phones could access the internet and there being no one to whom I could pose the question, I sat in my parked car outside the motel-slash-tavern and pondered the seeming enigma of this town situated in the middle of absolutely nowhere Alberta named for the defunct Russian monarchy. Sure, there are as many odd place names as there are bucks in a bank vault, but the riddle of this one’s was something I couldn't fathom. If you're going to apply a label so it can be understood and summarily dismissed as banal, then I want to understand.

Maybe it was just run of the mill Russians who migrated here with the great Canadian Pacific Railway invite that started back in the 1880's, when plots of land along CP's right of way were offered for virtually nothing in a bid to increase the area's population, provide more tax dollars to the fledgling Upper Canada government, and more importantly supply workers for the ever-westward-expanding railway. Maybe; but then the subsequent boom in boosterism designed to create economic hubs around rail lines completely bypassed Czar, Alberta. There was no railway here. The place looked much like the rest of this part of the country: rich in dirt and naught else. Whatever had made it what it was had little to do with traditional rural growth, at least as I knew of it.

I got out of my car and, spotting a stela plunked down next to the four-way stop that marked the intersection of the town's one street and the secondary highway I drove in on, wandered over to look at it. It had a plaque on it denoting the incorporation of the village of Czar in 1917. Ah, now that was the clue I needed. Run of the mill Russians, perhaps, but escaping the assassinations of the ruling Romanovs during the Great War, and probably conscription into their side's losing cause, as well. Had they been monarchists fleeing the revolution, worried about being sent to the gulag for not being active Trotskyites or Marxists or Leninists or whatever other -ite or -ist they didn't want to be? If so, they'd ended up so far removed from their homeland or any hint of discovery by vengeful Bolsheviks that they had the chutzpah to name the town after their beloved head of state.

 It seemed a halfway reasonable proposition, for lack of a better one, at any rate. The plaque gave the population figure as 208 souls. Looking around, I wondered where they all lived. There were only six of the houses I'd seen earlier. Maybe there was a trailer park I couldn't see from my vantage, or maybe they were polygamous and lived 35 to a household. Another mystery, but by then I was losing interest. I knew enough about the place. Or so I thought at the time.

Walking back to the car, I grabbed my duffle bag and headed up the few stairs to the entrance of the motel-slash-tavern, which on closer inspection took on the appearance of having been built circa 1920. I had serious doubts about anyone manning the place, but I had no choice. If need be I'd break into a room and wait to be arrested, hogtied, dragged behind horses, or whatever they do to malcontents around here. One way or the other I was staying for the remains of the day as a guest in Czar, welcome or no. Though I half-suspected there'd be nothing on the other side of the door but air.

I pushed it open and instead entered a small room with faux wood-paneled walls, beaten carpeting that appeared to have once been brown but now had more grey in it, a door in one corner leading to what I presumed was the tavern (a flashing, arrow-shaped sign next to the doorway reading "Beer Here" being a bit of a giveaway), an opening to a staircase in another corner, and a yellowish melamine counter that must serve as the registration desk. A few glass-shaded wall lamps and a dated Coke poster showing a cowgirl whose smile had more teeth in it than a human being could possess finished off the decor. The place was very likely as old as I'd suspected, with possible reno's over the years to include flush toilets and electricity.

There was a desk bell on the counter. With something far removed from giddy optimism I gave it a try. After about two minutes I heard creaking from back of beyond the counter, and a disembodied female voice sounded.

"I'll be right there."

Signs of life were a relief, dispelling both a vague notion of something weird going on in the town and worry of spending the night in my car. I didn't hedge my bets. Either possibility was still on the table, but at least I wasn't alone.

I didn't bother replying, the bell having spoken for me, and not wishing to yell. I wondered what kind of person would be making their appearance, when through a door behind the registration counter came the proprietor of the establishment herself; or so she told me after the pleasantries of introducing one another were done. Georgette was probably in her late fifties, grey hair pulled back in a tight bun, red and black checkered shirt tucked into faded blue jeans belted with a buckle showing a tractor trailer, and about the same size. Her face was long and pallid, with liver spots speckling it. Her eyes were grey, her nose long like the rest of her visage. She was polite but reserved. Probably wondering what I was doing all the way out here. I was wondering the same thing.

"How many nights you stayin'?" she enquired.

 "Just the one," I answered. For about two seconds I contemplated what could possibly entice me to stay longer. Even the next love of my life wasn't inducement enough.

She flipped pages in a spiral bound notebook, like she was expecting a crowd any moment and struggled to find an opening for me. "Yer in luck. I gotta room just for tonight. Cost you $45."

"Okay, great. I'll take it."

"Mind you, it's nuthin' fancy. There's a single bed, a desk with a lamp, and a sink. The bathroom and shower are off the main room, and everyone shares them equal."

"No problem," I responded cheerily, though I figured she was being disingenuous. Unless a cattle drive was expected to come through, I was confident 'everyone' was wish fulfillment on her part. There weren't going to be any other guests.

"Okee-doke, then just sign here and I'll give you the key. Are you hungry?" She asked this with a sort of hesitation, but I wouldn't learn why until later.

I gave her my credit card and replied, "Famished. Cook on duty?" I asked.

"She is, 'cause she's me."

"Great. Let me get my stuff upstairs, and I'll come down to the uh, tavern?"

"It's right through that door. I'll turn the tv on. You want a beer waiting?" I had the distinct feeling she'd rather see me drunk than fed, but again couldn't tell why.

"That would be wonderful. Got any Big Rock?" 

"Don't think so, but I got all the usual stuff."

"Okay, I'll take a Pilsner."

"Which one is that?"

"Uh, MGD?" 

"Hmm..."

  

"Corona?"

 "Maybe..."

 "Stella?"

"If you like, I could take a look-see for any of them."

"How about a Blue?"

"I think we're out."

I gazed at the space around her head for a moment then back into her face, and stifled a sigh.

"Canadian?"

"You got it."

I left her at the desk shuffling paper and made my way up the narrow, unlit stairway. Every step creaked. No one would be sneaking in uninvited guests around here.

At the top of the stairs I arrived in a room about twenty feet square, carpeted with the same dingy, formerly brown fabric as the lobby below. The floor had a noticeable depression in the middle. I advised myself to take a wide berth around it. My room was number four, which was surprisingly easy to find, there being only five doors off the main room, one of which I assumed concealed the communal bath.

Georgette hadn't lied about the guest room. There was a single bed almost as low as the floor with a coverlet the same colour as the carpet, and a pillow with as much fluff factor as a remnant of roadkill. A desk with a bare bulb hanging over it was the only light in the room, wanly illuminating pea green walls, a sink with a washcloth and a ridiculously small bar of soap, two hand towels, and a shelf for sundries. It was better than nothing, and after all this lap of luxury had only cost $45. I'd sleep well enough, or at least be able to lay flat for a few hours and pretend.

I ditched my bag in a corner, kept my jacket and wallet with me, and went out toward the bathroom, traversing the sides of the main room, just in case. Opening the door to it I reached in to turn on the light, which was probably a mistake; but it was done without forethought of what sights might greet my eyes. There was an ordinary shower stall to the left of me, if you discounted that the glass doors and sides weren't actually frosted, but virtually opalescent with soap residue; and the floor was tilted away from the drain toward the back, as well as looking like some new, vaguely vegetative life form had begun to take root in it. There was a toilet in front of me, walls the same pea green as in my rented room, one empty towel bar bent in the middle, and that was it. Upon closer inspection - which I instantly regretted taking - the toilet bowl was stained ochre, the seat was scratched and could not possibly have ever been white, and the pale, yellowish linoleum floor around the base showed misshapen marks bordered by dark red edges and melted brown streaks where people had obviously placed their burning fags down while they attended to the business end of their digestive systems. I wondered if smoking

while sitting on the seat of ease made the endeavour any more enjoyable. Yeah, all that enjoyment until you picked your smoke up from off this floor and put it back in your mouth.

I could feel myself frowning, and at the same time my nose crinkled upward as it caught the full reek of the room, which almost made me retch. It was like an indoor outhouse without the disinfectant pellets, air vents or sanitary hand soap, and I quickly resolved to let some other intrepid explorer uncover its mysteries. I would try the gas station, if I need do anything involving sitting.

Again the thought occurred that visitors to the Czar motel-slash-tavern had to be rarer than white buffalo and probably less hygienic, given the disaster of the bathroom. I also pondered that I should feel at least some small measure of gratitude for finding a room for the night, but in truth the car was looking like the better alternative. It was a damn sight cleaner, for one thing. Well, hell, I'd already paid.

My rumbling stomach protested that until it had been fed the car was off-limits, regardless. I couldn't argue the point, and with a sense of relief closed the bathroom door. If I'd had the tools handy, I'd of ensured it never opened again. Instead, I walked toward the stairs and made my descent to the lobby, so-called, and from there toward the tavern entrance.

Going through I was momentarily taken aback. Had I time-tripped or walked through a portal to another world? The room I entered was a veritable clone of every other tavern I'd ever set foot in. Big screen tv's were on three walls, a stylish wood bar formed a horseshoe against a fourth, replete with chair-backed stools. There were speakers everywhere and various forms of lighting, including neon signs advertising booze on the walls and pillars. The tables were also wood, or near-wood perhaps, with chairs that matched the bar stools. A juke box, pool table and several games consoles were scattered here and there, and a couple of dart boards were up in one corner, just next to a small sound stage. The place looked like it could accommodate a hundred people easily.

Unlike the rest of town, there was nothing at all rundown about this bar. It was so beyond any expectations I swore I could feel its embarrassment at my finding it here in the boondocks, rather than down the street from my place in the city. Like it was philandering with some hayseed out on the range just for kicks, and knew it was overdue to get back to its urban cowboy.

I was just stupid enough to miss the obvious import of the modernized surroundings, being both dry and hangry. My mind slipped gears from the enigma of the bar and shifted into basic needs mode. I found what looked like a good seat at a table more or less in the middle of the bar; which wasn't much of a challenge, being as no one was in it.

The World Series was on the big screens, but my beer hadn't yet made an appearance. I looked toward the bar, but Georgette was nowhere to be seen. I was about to stand up and search her out when she came through a swinging door behind the booze counter - now also sporting a blue and white checked apron over her other clothes - opened an unseen fridge, grabbed something out of it, and plied a bottle opener. It was my beer, of course, so I sat back down and got comfortable.

Georgette also brought a menu with her. It was a plastique'd one-pager with nothing but diner fare listed on it. She waited while I scanned the thing. The choices were limited, but at that point almost anything would have been well received.

"I'll have a beef dip with fries," I told her.

"We're out of shaved beef," Georgette answered.

I instantly had a feeling of dejá vu. "Okay, I'll take a steak sandwich, medium, with fries and gravy."

"We’re out of steak,” she iterated.

 I hadn't been blind to the preponderance of raw beef wandering the countryside on my highway sojourns, so along with the dejá vu there was a slight irritation growing. I was going to get persnickety, but decided just to try something else. 

"Do you have the roast chicken?"

"You don't mind waiting 'til I can kill one first?"

While wondering if she was serious I managed to keep a straight face, and that glued firmly forward to the menu. I decided to try another option. "No, no, don't worry about it."

"How about a hot dog? I could boil one up pronto."

"Um, that's alright. How about a cheeseburger and chips?"

"Is that what you want?"

"Do you have the fixings?"

"Sure, but I'll have to turn on the grill."

Numerous witticisms came to mind:

 

'Yes, probably too late in the day to put the meat on a sunny windowsill.'

'Unless you plan on having it delivered.'

‘Will you have to slaughter a steer first?’

However, I kept my wit locked away. "Is that a problem?" I asked.

"I've never done it before," came the honest if particularly unhelpful response.

I stared at her, this time with an incredulous look I couldn't have hidden if I'd tried. I was beginning to contemplate if I'd ever get fed. Getting drunk started to look like the only alternative; possibly the better one. There was another, however. I buried the look and smiled at her optimistically.

 "Listen, Georgette. I know how to turn them on. Would you like a hand with it?"

Her face showed more concern than I would have thought possible for someone who must be an old hand at running a motel-slash-tavern. Instead of taking me up on my offer, though, she replied, "No, no, I'll manage. Insurance doesn't allow guests in the kitchen, anyhow. You just enjoy your beer, and I'll get cookin'."

"Okay, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

I hadn't intended to. Sheesh, what an operation. At least now I understood why she'd seemed so hesitant about serving me food earlier. What the heck did she do when the tavern was full? Oh, right; it never was. Or so I assumed. Once more I missed the obvious meaning behind the modernized bar, but it would be made clear soon enough, even to my limited thought processes.

I drank my beer and watched the game. I wasn't a huge baseball fan, but it was the World Series, so it was exciting, to a point. I heard noises from through the swinging door behind the bar, and hoped Georgette had figured out how to turn the grill on; preferably without starting a conflagration. The old dumpy motel and the new bar attached to it would go up in mere seconds. For the umpteenth time I pondered how she managed the place if they ever had a crowd, and for the umpteenth time decided crowds were the least likely of her concerns. Just having one rare guest was pushing the envelope for her. I also wondered how the Czar motel-slash-tavern even survived.

When at last Georgette came out of the back with my food, I had long finished my beer. I was still thirsty and now had a ravenous hunger. I unwrapped my roll-up, placed the napkin in my lap, and sat up a little straighter. She placed the plate on the table in front of me, and said,

"Here you go. Just so's you know, we don't stand on ceremony in these parts."

I'd no idea what she was talking about until I saw she was looking at my lap. I smiled sheepishly, put the napkin on the table, and answered, "Right-o." It's not often I'm told not to mind my manners.

The plate had a decent-sized burger on it, but there were no fries. Instead, I got what I'd ordered: chips. In this case, a bag of Old Dutch Szechuan Beef-flavoured potato chips. I didn't even know there was such a delicacy. I hid my disappointment and asked Georgette for another beer.

She swung off toward the bar while I ripped open the chip bag and dumped the contents on to the plate. I lifted the bun off the top of the burger and saw one piece of cheese on top of the meat, which thankfully looked cooked enough to eat. There was nothing else between the buns.

Raising my voice, I shouted after my server, "You got any condiments, Georgette?"

"Comin' right up."

Man, this place was like something from a bad dream. Then again, I was out in the country. People weren't as picky out here, or so I presumed. Food was welcome any time, in virtually any manner. You couldn't afford to be picky when the selection was limited to beef, chicken, and beef. There weren't any delis or Asian restaurants nearby, no fancy French service, no McDonald's to voluntarily shorten your lifespan with. I chose to suck it up, get on with eating my meagre grub and enjoying my crap beer, and make the best of things. I supposed I was still shortening my lifespan with what I had in my hand, but since I was on a work junket I could at least expense the expense to my wellbeing.

While I was noshing, my thoughts turned again to the absence of the townies. It was now eight o'clock; where was everyone? Why didn't I just ask Georgette? In a way, I was afraid of what she might answer, something along the lines of, "They're fixin' up a warm Czar welcome for ya yonder at the bonfire pit," or, "Yer eatin' one now." I threw those idiocies aside, and decided to get to the bottom of the conundrum asap.

Right then I heard a door close, and figured Georgette was coming back with my condiments and beer. I turned and instead saw a man enter the bar from the lobby. I must have been staring, because he gave me a hairy eyeball and sort of sidestepped toward the bar counter. I was dumbstruck to see yet another person besides myself in this place that was so absent of humanity when I arrived, and now seemed positively crowded. Making up for my bewilderment, I threw a kindly and hopefully non-threatening sounding "Hello" his way, and waited long enough for him to visibly chill and offer me a nod.

He must have been either terribly lonely or wonderfully friendly, because he came over to my table.

"Mind if I join ya? Place is kinda spare right now."

My mouth was full of hamburger, so I just smiled and gestured with my head toward an empty chair. 

"Name's Mike. You just passin' through?"

How he might have figured I'd be doing anything but left me momentarily nonplussed, and though sorely tempted to respond with, "I'm GRU. Every citizen related to town founders will prepare for immediate re-settlement to Kolyma," I held back the sarcasm. I forced the oversized bite down my gullet and nodded an assent. "James. Yeah, I was in Consort early, but didn't book a room. So here I am, on the advice of a Consortian. Consortist. Contortionist. I don't know what they call themselves, actually."

"Well, it ain't contortionist, but that's as good as anything else I've heard." He smiled to show he was in earnest.

I smiled back and took another bite of my burger. In my enthusiasm at being in the presence of further proof of life in these parts, I was about to speak through its gnashed remnants when he beat me to it. Just as well. I may have spat fragments.

"Yeah, the truckers take up every room all week long. Mind you, they may have told you to go up to Wayford, instead. It's bigger than here, and has more stores and stuff. Closer to Consort, too. Wonder why they didn't."

I was now wondering the same thing, and as I did the hair rose on the back of my neck. I actually felt it. I thought that only happened to canines. I don't have hackles.

So did some country bumpkin play a fast one on the city slicker? That sorta sucked. Mind you, the guy had been missing his two top middle teeth. He might be able to spit a fair distance, but he was nothing to look at otherwise. Maybe he was just pissed at the planet. Who knows? It didn't matter now. I decided not to get het up about it. I felt my hackles relax. Which was weird.

"All good," I said to Mike. "I'm here now, and it's real quiet. Like, really quiet. Sort of too quiet." Hint, hint.

He gave me a look askance, and for a moment I thought he'd missed the inference. Then a broad grin split his face. "Ha, yeah, I'll wager you thought this place was a bum steer with no one but Georgette around."

Aware of the idiom but unsure of how it applied to the lack of a populace in town, I simply answered, "Yeah. Where the hell is everyone?" To the point, at last.

"It's bowling night in Wayford. Whole town is in a league, and they all head up there every Wednesday. It's about forty-five minutes up the road from here, so they leave at five and come back around 10."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone. Take their kids and dogs and all."

"Do they take some houses with them, too? There don't seem to be many here."

 "Heh-heh. Nah, most everyone is on a ranch, right? Some live at their businesses here in town, like Georgette and me, some in the houses. Ranches aren't huge; just big enough for eight or ten folk to handle them, and none too far off from town. It's all specialty beef they ranch in these parts, special grains they feed 'em, so they don't need thousands of acres for the cattle. There're twelve 'steads within an hours' drive, couple more a little further out. Usually two families running 'em."

"Okay," I said, then observed, "The village sign said '208 souls'. I just thought that was usually people who actually lived in the town proper."

"It might do, but we pad the numbers with everyone in the county, otherwise we'd be overlooked by pretty much everyone else, like service companies. They'd ignore us until we screamed bloody hell at 'em, and that's just a pain. Trying to get contractors out here is a chore, nevertheless. When they do come out, they try to fudge their mileage expenses. Government is a different animal. They don't overlook us nearly enough. They want to keep raising property taxes within the village limits, claiming increases in service costs. But the few folk who actually live in town don't use shit by any standard you care to name. Haven't figured out what the government thinks they're doing for us, other than pissing on us and charging us whenever we need an ambulance out of Consort."

This guy might have looked like he belonged out here in the boonies, but he was on the ball. Why was I surprised? I guess it was just I always figure I'm the smartest guy in a room, and when someone else was smart, I got game. Yeah, I'm a bit of a narcissist. Sue me.

"So you and Georgette...?"

"We live here, sure. We own the place. What d'ya think?" I immediately suspected he was baiting me, but his look was guileless.

Hesitating briefly, I started to reply; but he cut me off.

"Real shithole, ain't it?" He was smiling broadly again, but I couldn't just say, 'Damn straight'.

With a weak smile I knew would look false as it spread limply across my face, I said, "No, no, it's... quaint."

Mike laughed out loud. "That's what folks say when they mean shithole. Don't worry about it. I know it ain't the Ritz Carlton, but it's home. And there are comforts enough when you look closer."

"You mean like this bar?" I was nodding an assent. "Seems like the nicest place in town."

"It is the nicest place in town, and in about an hour or so, everyone will be here, back from bowling. Then it'll liven up."

 Another mystery solved. Of course the bar was the nicest place in town. I would have suggested to Mike it's the only place in town, but again bit my tongue. No need to tell him what he already knew. The bar was where everyone hung out; it was the only place to hang out in. The only watering hole, the only restaurant, albeit without a proper cook. It was probably the town hall, too.

As if reading my thoughts, Mike added, "This is also the admin building for the village. I got an office upstairs of the back. I'm the mayor, and all the village's official business goes through here. We have our council meetings and religious services here, too."

Well, didn't that beat all. A tavern was the seat of civilization in Czar, Alberta. I was willing to bet some of the church services saw worship taken to a higher level. This village had become far more interesting since I'd first stopped the car in it. Which raised the matter of why I had dissed it so badly.

While Georgette stopped by to drop off a beer for Mike - she'd forgotten mine and the condiments, but I was already half done my food, anyway - the back of my mind was turning over my inner query. Some spark there flew up and set off a small fire. I had soured on the place simply because it looked like shit, I knew shit about it, and took it as shit on face value. I found ways to see nothing but whatever reflected my current outlook in that fairly recent moment, which was primarily shitty. Even so, the bathroom upstairs was still a disaster.

"Listen, James. I don't know much about much," Mike began, "but I do know people. If you don't mind my saying so, you look like you could use another beer."

The guy truly was a mind reader. "Absolutely, Mike." I was about to add a fellow wouldn't mind an actual beer as opposed to the bilge water I just drank, but stopped myself. Man, when did I become such a picky bitch?

Mike laughed and looked over toward Georgette with a nod. "Folks'll be coming in about fifteen minutes, or thereabouts," he said to me. "Our little space is about to be invaded. I'm gonna get my kicks in now while I can, but I'll be back." He got up and went over to one of the gaming consoles, sat down, and plunked in a coin. A few seconds later I heard the unmistakable sounds of Space Invaders. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd planned the pun.

Just as Mike finished up his game and came back to the table, the baseball game ended. I don't recall who won. I don't even recall which teams were playing. Truth is, I was too busy flapping my gums and pounding back lousy beer the rest of the night to remember much of anything but some of the people I met and even less the conversations we shared.

One of those confabs involved the first two people who returned from bowling and had made a beeline for our table. That was Jared and Michelle, otherwise known as Mike's son and his girlfriend.

 They were in their mid-twenties, or thereabouts, and after introductions were made they recapped for Mike the goings-on up in Wayford.

I couldn't help but notice Michelle kept looking at me, but it wasn't because of any instant physical attraction. It was because she was digging to see if I'd spotted what she was carrying in her arms. I'd of been blind to have missed the fact she was cradling a life-sized baby doll in them, replete with diaper and soother, given its face was almost in mine every time she lifted her hand to take a drag on her cigarette. Giving into her need for my curiosity, I asked the inevitable.

"So Michelle, what's with the doll?"

"Oh, you noticed that, huh?" She practically jumped out of her chair with her reply.

Once again the clever part of my thinking apparatus came up with a witty rejoinder, and I was about to reply, "It was hard to miss, since you've been trying to feed it to me for the last fifteen minutes." Once again, I squelched my inner bitch, and simply nodded.

"Well, I'm on a newborn course. I'm pregnant, and the course is teaching me how to look after my baby."

"Our baby," chipped in Jared, confirming his patrimony like it was somehow in doubt.

"Right, like I said, my... our baby." Michelle's smile never diminished an iota as she talked to me, nor did her eyes waver from mine. I could tell she was already feeling protective of her as-yet unborn child, even around its father. It did raise the thought of how protective she'd be after it had come into the world. I decided I wouldn't want to be in Jared's shoes when that time came.

Michelle took the time to explain to me what her course entailed, and what she'd learned so far in it. Diaper changing, preventing skin rash, feeding and burping, use of a baby monitor, keeping baby safe from chemicals and other hazards to its life and limb, watching for colic. I found myself refraining from commenting on the fact that she was drinking and smoking in a bar with an infant cradled to her chest. I would have docked her a few percentage points for that faux pas, but baby didn't seem to mind. Probably helped that it was inanimate.

The rest of the evening turned into something resembling a rollicking good time, me and the townies getting to know one another - or at least slurring words together over really loud country music - and generally cavorting like it was everyone's last night on earth. Mike and I did a lot of tongue-wagging, and by the time things wrapped up I had to concede I genuinely liked the guy, and most of the other folk, too.

At some point that night, in a rare solitary moment, I considered my earlier attitude. When I'd first rolled into town, I would have been less surprised if the stela with the village plaque on it had suddenly blasted off into space than foreknowledge of the blast I'd have later. I'd been unimpressed with everything I saw. So just what I had I based that disgruntlement on? Perceptions without any meaning attached, seeing without observing. It wasn't the place that mattered; it was the people who lived in it that provided the meaning.

For a moment I felt somewhat guilty at outing myself as an ass. It wasn't the first time, and it didn't feel any better than it had times previous. I looked at Mike and Georgette, who were exchanging polite words at our original table. They seemed happy enough, though I was sure they had their share of troubles. Who didn't? But they seemed somehow removed from deeper concerns, from ruminating on the philosophies of life; and I suspected if they ever did consider them it wasn't with much conviction. They lived in the real world, and that was enough. I lived in my head. Which was more real I couldn't say.

I looked around the bar at everyone else, smiling, laughing, some in serious conversation. The people seemed normal enough, their individual eccentricities notwithstanding. Was this place the epitome of ignorance as bliss? Was life better that way? I had no clue. With all my education and experience, I was yet feeling rather un-blissful and fairly ignorant about my own life, never mind the lives of others. I suppose it's all relative, and ignorance can be a measured quantity, like anything else. So maybe I'm relatively stupid. At least I was aware enough to learn something that night. Though I'd likely forget it as soon as I was back on the road in the morning.

Thing is, I never have forgotten. I have tried - sometimes successfully - to recall how nice it is to just be in the moment with other people, no matter my preconceptions of them or where they live. As for the folk from Czar, Alberta, they're engraved on one of the many rocks in my head. Whenever I think of them on a Wednesday evening, I find myself hoping that Georgette hasn't had to turn the tavern grill on, Mike is happily obliterating pixelated aliens, the rest of the townies away up in Wayford are bowling strikes, and the stela hasn’t blasted off into space.