No Place Like Home: Notes from a Western Life

Tattoos and a Thong

Tattoos and a Thong The first time I hear the story, I am neck deep in the Lobster Pot, the hottest pool at the Star Plunge in Thermopolis, Wyoming, soaking winter’s aches out of my muscles. When tension rides our necks, Jerry and I sometimes head for this small town built around hot springs that have been reducing stress for generations . Legend declares that the West’s hot springs have always been considered zones of peace, where Native American tribes at war could relax without bloodshed. Lovely metaphor: these pools of pleasure are born of the West’s violent volcanic heart, but the peaceful tradition continues. “I gotta tell you this story,” says a teenage male voice, tense and excited. His words echo off the concrete walls. I let my eyes slide past the boy just as he glances around to see if anyone is listening. He is probably high school age, a lifeguard, squatting on the edge of the big pool beside a longhaired older man whose muscles ripple with tattoos. I squint and look up at the ceiling, thinking how invisible middle-aged women usually are to young males. He drops his voice. “I was bowhunting last week, about a mile outside of town.” He stops, tries again: “A mile or less from town. I just walked up a little draw and sat down in some willows, like a blind you know.” He glances around. “After school. Just thought I’d sit awhile, shoot something if it came by. I’d just got settled when a coyote came along, hunting mice. I thought I’d shoot him if he’d get close. Found two plastic bags in my pocket and 104 Nn n o p la c e li ke h ome rubbed them together, you know, trying to make them squeak like mice. That didn’t work; he just kept on sniffing and pawing at rocks. So I just tried a voice call. You know, made a sound like a fawn lost from its mother or maybe hurt. That coyote looked right at me for a minute, then sat down and howled. Just threw his head back, you know, and howled.” The boy looks carefully around the room. I sink a little deeper in the pool, stifling my groans. The boy goes on. “It wasn’t more than a minute before I heard yipping, sounded like it was everywhere. You know, coyote yips, like they do at night when they’re hunting.” He glances around, takes a deep breath. “And then eleven coyotes came over that hill from every direction. Eleven coyotes! They gathered around the one that howled and sat there, looking through those skinny little willow branches at me.” He stops, looking at the tattooed man as if he expects him to say something , but the man is kicking his feet in the water, not looking at the boy. “I thought maybe I’d got myself in trouble there,” the boy continues . “I only had four arrows. Figured maybe if I shot one or two, the rest would run off. So I shot one arrow to the left, and missed. Shot another one straight ahead at the first coyote that howled, and missed him too. I dropped my aim a little, shot again, and it went over his head again.” The silence lasts so long I open one eye to look. The tattooed man is shaking his head. He says, “It’s instinct. The first one thought he had a meal in those bushes.” “Well,” says the boy, “I aimed like that.” He raises his arm to demonstrate how he placed the bow. The man waves his hand, cutting off what the boy is trying to say. “You don’t have to aim. Just lift and fire if you want to hit them. Get rid of that compound thing with the springs. Get a recurved bow, or a longbow maybe.” The boy stammers in frustration. “I like my compound, but that’s not what I meant. I wondered why—” The man cuts him off. “What good is it? You confessed yourself—I didn’t drag that out of you—you missed four times.” He snorts. The boy says. “Three times. But that’s not the point. I’m not really sure I meant to hit any of them. I was just scared for a minute. Have you ever Tattoos and a Thong...