The Montanans

I pull into a Cenex gas station and bring four bottles of Gatorade up to the clerk at the counter to ring up. She is about 40 years old and when I ask her how she’s doing she tells me in bubbly tone of voice that seems foreign to this area that she is doing “ groovy”. I decide to play along.   “Far out,” I reply.

She is not role playing. This is who she is. She tells the next customer she is doing groovy. And the customer after that. 

I stand in the air conditioning while I chug two of the bottles of Gatorade. She points to my fully loaded bicycle and says, “right on.” 

Upon closer inspection, I can see that she would look right at home at Woodstock in 1969. Except that this is 2018 and Montana is a very long way from upstate New York.

She pulls out a bouquet of flowers from behind the counter and starts trimming the stems and leaves. She “digs” flowers. I knew that.