Standing There Like an Ogallala Hooker

I gifted Dan a bottle of Ogallala Bay Rum this past Christmas. I love the scent and knew that he would appreciate it. I also knew that he would pick up on the reference to a puzzling incident in our shared history, one that occurred fairly early on in our courtship.

When we met 13 years ago, one theme that repeated in our beer-fueled conversations was a common fascination with the American West. He had lived in that region for some time while I had only visited, quickly falling in love. I had begun the process of researching graduate programs in the southwest when we met, and would probably be running a community-based mental health agency in a border state today, had it not been for the realities of marriage, babies, mortgages, and aging parents that have occupied the past decade.

Soon after we started dating we made the decision to plan a trip out West. We charted a course to Glacier, Montana and cashed in a few weeks of vacation time. We loaded up his Jeep, dedicating the back seat to his rifle and to Blackstone, his black lab. We meandered through the Midwest, stopping briefly in Ohio to spend some time with family. Then onward to Glacier.

We timed our trip to ensure a 4th of July sunrise on Going to the Sun Road. This necessitated long drives and camp outs throughout Nebraska, Wyoming, and South Dakota. We breathed in mouthfuls of truck and dog exhaust. I exercised my second amendment rights and discharged Dan’s rifle in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, taking aim at the impossibly bright stars with the Jeep’s engine running and his gun-shy dog plastered to the floor well.  

As a lifelong Virginian by way of Venezuela, I am no stranger to heat. Boy howdy, those were some hot days, chased by still, sweaty nights in a poorly ventilated tent. I adopted a uniform of tank tops and jeans, my nest of curls held in check by a bandana and braids so as to minimize sweat and ticks.

It is in this condition that we found ourselves in Ogallala, Nebraska one hot July afternoon. We made a pit stop to gas up, give the dog a chance to do her business, and to pick up some chotchkes for Dan’s nieces and nephews in Ohio. The inclusion of the dog on our trip coupled with the heat meant that only one of us could go into any establishment during the day. She was inclined to jump out the Jeep's windows to find us when left alone and the Jeep didn't have windows you could roll up part way.

I stayed outside with her and found a shady wall outside the souvenir shop on which I could lean and wait. After Dan had been inside for a few minutes, an older gentleman ambled across the parking lot towards me. He stopped a few feet away and addressed me, “Hi. You workin’?” “No, I'm on vacation,” I replied, cheerfully. He shook his head with a confused expression and walked away back across the parking lot.

It took me a minute to grasp the arc of the whole transaction. When Dan came out, he found me bewildered. When he asked if I was okay, I gestured across the parking lot and exclaimed, “I think that guy thought I was a hooker!”

I replayed the whole scene for him, and he became increasingly agitated over the course of the telling. I had to talk him down from driving around Ogallala to confront him, holding the guy accountable for...what? Confusion? Lust? The fact that my sketchy appearance apparently made me look like an Ogallala hooker?

We laugh about it now, and it always makes for a good drinking story. The immediacy of my feelings in the aftermath of the incident hasn't faded, though. I'm often reminded of how hungry people are; of how often drowning, starving people reach out for handfuls of warmth and comfort; of the meagerness of fleeting, sensual fare and how poorly it slakes our thirst for connection, for being heard, for feeling accepted and understood.