Wes Mantooth

Just a little something to add to the section, I hope you enjoy it. I was trying for a deep look at my own past and the downward spiral of the American small town...I don't think I quite hit the nail on the head. Anyway I always enjoy comments and criticism so have at it.




The East Burdick Expressway passes through the heart of Minot, ND, past the Souris Valley Golf Course it skips across Main Street and heads east towards civilization. A barren dusty wasteland with a heavy boredom of such density it successfully created its own worm hole that puts it roughly fifteen years behind everyone else. Vacant faces shuffle by on sidewalks in a stampeded of lassitude and small town angst in search of deals on day old bread while fiddling in pockets hoping to find enough change for a stamp. The water bill was due. It was a sad little burg, full of sad people, sad ideas and sad jobs.

I was equally sad to discover the band I’d been touring with had booked a few dates at the local Best Western. A prefab highway side monstrosity towering above the tired faced of McDonalds…Burger King... Sam's Club...Home Depot…sigh…Applebee’s…a Wal-Mart thrived just down the street locked in mortal combat with its hated rival Best Buy which arose as a challenger to its dominance sometime last year. Yup I was smack dab in the middle of big box hell and was expected to weather the storm for the next three days. Hunkered down in a tiny convention hall in the basement of a Best Western in Minot, ND playing for glassy eyed tourists turned around on their way to Branson….

…I needed a drink…


The Minot computer told me of a place across town called the Rockin’ Horse. A real shit kickers heaven. I had to see it. Besides it was located easily enough off Burdick and I was not going to get lost on the streets of Minot, at least not before I was liquored up and looking for a fight. It sits on the East side of town across the street from the local gas franchise called the “Kum n Go” standing proud in the middle of a massive parking lot with its W roof and fake wooden hitching posts. It almost reeked of cattle from inside the cab, I couldn’t wait.

The bar itself was a major disappointment, just another highway side tourist trap for cowboy wannabes. Another gift shop full of coffee mugs and t-shirts helping fulfill Americas lust for tacky gifts with words written on them. I bought a green foam hat that read “Rockin’ it in Minot”, put it on and bellied up to the bar. At least they had lots of Jack and some local swill called “Magic City Beer”. I used my free sample of this legendary beer as an ashtray and ordered more Jack. I let the warm haze roll over me like a gentle brook while the jukebox in the corner surged and crackled its way through a worn out copy of “Once Bitten Twice Shy”.

I began to drink in the local color. I held the tumbler of Jack to chin and peered over the rim of the glass to take stock of the chunky waitress in acid washed jeans mill around behind the bar. Her stoic trailer park essence fascinated me in a way few other people had, her rigid hair sprayed bangs a sad attempt at an ancient fashion statement picked up in High School over a pack of misty lights. I surmised she owned a fry daddy and enjoyed fish sticks and creamed corn for dinner before an evening on the broken sofa watching the fine programming of the WB. I found myself wanting to paint her portrait as a homage to the tragedy and hopelessness of small town America. Her earth weary facade echoed the epitome of my time spent at the edge of civilization. It was as desolate as the landscape that surrounded while bearing the scars of being crushed by the weight of nothingness. Perhaps the whole scenario simply reminded me of home, my own upbringing in small town America. My fascination a subconscious attempt at covering up my apparent homesickness and hatred of my youth.

I turned on my stool while lighting a camel and finishing off my Jack…neat... in time to observe a middle aged fellow shuffling across the tiled floor of the bar in black cowboy boots, he straightened his black mustache through the tips of his thumb and forefinger, tilted his green cap back and leaned over the jukebox with the concentration of a jackal. His spindly fingers tapped the edge of the glass as he leaned in closer to read the print before fishing around in the pockets of his black jeans and plunking a few quarters in the machine. My anticipation was almost palpable! What kind of music did this dusty, wannabe biker enjoy listening too? I had prepared myself for the worst, perhaps a mix of Garth Brooks and Nickleback. Suddenly the aged speakers of the jukebox crackled, hummed and the music began. The song sounded familiar as the tacky 80's bass and drum synth begin to build to a crescendo, but I couldn't quite place the song. I let it dance around my head for a few bars while hammering down the rest of my Jack before it the lyrics kicked in. Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins. My last frayed sinews of patience had snapped and plunged into the dark empty abyss below. My fascination with Minot was quickly being replaced with a combination of hatred and disappointment. "Is every corner of America the same?" I thought to myself. I shook my head, shrugged, donned my green foam “Rockin’ It in Minot” hat and stumbled out into the July Minot sun. Not even alcohol could fix this.

I let the amber flow carry me across the barren parking lot where I decided it more appropriate to walk back to the Best Western in what I assumed was some attempt at maybe working out the ever growing frustration. Sadly the years of cigarette smoking had left me wheezing for oxygen as I made my way down Burdick past the sealed up store fronts and the parking lots over grown with weeds. I did the only thing a drunk, out of shape musician could do in downtown Minot, I sat down on the sidewalk, lit up a *snap* camel and watched the traffic roll by under the dreary Midwestern sun. I sat and smoked while I watched a young Mother and her five kids struggle across the street towards a run down sun baked Dairy Queen. The pickup trucks rumbled by spewing exhaust, stopping only for the young mother and the occasional traffic light. I watched them splinter off Burdick towards small town gas stations, fast food joints and convenience stores up, the drivers returning to their bondo crowned trucks with white bags full of burgers, beer and coffee.

I leaned my head back against a telephone pole and watched the sparse clouds roll by, each blocking out the devastating sun as it passed over head lulling the spinning of my head for only a second. I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt while lighting up another smoke and began to watch a gangly old man hobbling down the sidewalk with the aid of a cane. His red cap and brown buttoned sweater made me smile, I pictured a kindly old man who had spent his whole life here in Minot. He probably worked his whole life at the factory across town and filled his small home on Green Street with a slew of kids and grand kids all of whom were filled with pride the day he retired. They watched as the owners patted him on the back and presented him with a gold pocket watch before showing him the door to his own twilight years and firing up the machine that was intended to replace him. I wondered what he thought of the Big Box Hell out by the freeway and how it turned his once proud downtown into a pathetic husk of rundown business while choking his familiar main street to a deep viscose blue?. I pictured him wagging his cane at town hall meetings towards the very kids he watched grow up in a pointless attempt to rescue his once proud Magic City only to be laughed at and told he was afraid of progress.


I shook my head, pitched my butt in the sewer and pulled myself up against the telephone poll. My buzz had reached its crescendo and I wanted to hold onto it for my gig that night at the Best Western. It was my best chance of getting out of Minot both alive and sane. I hailed a cab and pressed my face against the glass as it kicked and bucked its way down Burdick out towards the Best Western. The din of the afternoon traffic had began to cease while the orange glow of sunset cast its long shadows across the strip. I wanted a mental picture to take with me, one last shot of the train wreck before the police hustled you away and the sheets were pulled over the victims.

Minot, what a trip.

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