A hotel in my town has
rechristened its newly remodeled pub the “Silver Spur Lounge.”
I’m sure they just grabbed the last available piece of cowboy
mythology that hadn’t been snapped up by someone else in the
local tourism industry. But the name still has me puzzled: What
exactly about the reality of upscale downtown hotel fits with the
image of “cowboy”?
I envision a future scene like this,
with a well-dressed man approaching the front desk of the Silver
Spur Hotel:
“Excuse me, do you have any rooms available?”
“Well, welcome, podnah!”
“I’ve stayed
here before, I just …”
“It sher has been many a
moon since we’ve shared a wigwam!”
“Um, actually I
was thinking of the honeymoon suite. We don’t really want to
share…”
“Ah! A fine choice! It’s got the
queen-sized bedroll!”
“Uh, are you guys hooked for
wireless?”
“Keep yer spurs on there! Lemme see what we
got!”
“And is it all right to leave my car parked out
front there while we wait?”
“Hoo-eee! That shore is a
mighty fine hoss!”
“That’s no horse, it’s
more like a convertible, and I’ve got the top down so
I’m just worried about whether that storm’s coming
in…”
“Hoo-boy! Could be a gullywasher!”
“Love the slang, but, do you have the room or not?”
“You
know, highpockets, we do! You won’t hafta split soogans with
nobody!”
“What did you call me?”
“Highpockets,
‘cuz it looks like you ride tall in the saddle.”
“I
prefer to be called George Thistlethwaite,if you don’t mind.”
“You betcha, highpockets. Now how many moons will you be
staying with us?”
“Umm, just one.”
“Kin I make
you a reservation at the Chuckwagon?”
“Are they still
serving the braised sirloin tips with the orange fennel sauce?”
“Tonight we got… stew, plus hardtack
‘n’ beans. If’n you don’t like it, you
might could try the Silver Spur Lounge. But I hafta warn ya,
tonight the boys may well toss some lead.”
“Toss lead?
That’s new. Is it a liqueur?”
“No, no, no.
Gunslingers, you know. Sheriff wanted ‘em outa town by
sundown, but I don’t think they’re a-goin’.”
“I don’t remember any of this peculiar chitchat
from my previous visit. Whatever happened to the fellow who checked
me in last summer?”
“Well hell, he warn’t cowboy
enough. New owner fired him.”
“That’s terrible!”
“You ain’t heard the worst of it. His career was
ruint. Kept treatin’ folks like city folks, usin’ these
three-syllable words, talkin’ to ‘em ‘bout books
an’ whatnot. Ain’t no upscale historic hotel in the
West would hire him, less’n he did three-four months of
retrainin’ an’ dialect coachin’.”
“So
what did he do?”
“I hate to say it, Mister. That feller
was so useless to our economy nowadays, he had to go get hisself a
job on a ranch.”
John Clayton is a contributor
to Writers on the Range, a service of High Country
News (hcn.org). He watches the West from his home in Red
Lodge, Montana.
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