Dinner at The Alleged Tony Corona's with Steve the Culinary Redneck.

I grabbed my tent off the picnic table after cleaning the vomit from my boots. I wiped my face with a leftover McDonald's napkin and silently hoped that Max and Willow hadn't heard me get sick. The last thing I needed was to offend my new friends. If they did notice, they didn't say anything.

I laid the tent on a small patch of grass and began putting together the stakes. Two older couples had gathered in patio chairs under the awning of another large fifth-wheel trailer about 50 yards away and were watching me. "Someday I'm going to get used to the stares," I thought. "But today is not the day." I still hate the feeling of being watched by the natives, as though they're thinking, "You don't belong." It's most likely my own paranoia, but I haven't been able to let go of it for some time now.
Max called out the door of the trailer. "You need some more help?"
"No, I'm good, thanks!"

When the tent was finally up, I began putting together a bag to take to the shower. It was the entire reason I had driven out to the tiny campground and paid for a night's stay, so I was excited to finally have a chance. It had been three days since my last shower. While I was digging through the pile of clothes that has exploded all over my backseat, a middle-aged guy with glasses and a beard drove right up to my car in a tiny golf-cart-esque vehicle with a small cargo hold in the back. The cargo hold was filled with pinecones. "Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He just stared at me and smiled.
"Um... are you here to clean the pinecones out of the fit pit?" I asked.
"No." He just kept staring and smiling.
"Okay."
"Whatcha doin?"
"Going to the showers. You?"
"Nothing."
"Well.... okay!"
"I'm Steve."
"Jessica." I shook his hand and continued packing up shampoo and clothes. "So.... do you live here?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I have a camper over there." He pointed to a row of trailers on the far side of the grounds. "Where are you from?" he asked.
"Baltimore."
"Man, you're a long ways from home."
"Yeah, you're right."

We chatted for awhile about absolutely nothing. I made sure to mention my boyfriend about six times, but I'm not sure he heard me. I wasn't even at the showers yet, but already I was undressed by this man's eyes. "You're cool," he told me.
"Uh, thanks!" I was getting uncomfortable. "So, what do you do?"
"I'm a mill-worker."
I noticed his union t-shirt. "That's nice. It must be a good job."
"Yeah, I hate it. I want to be a forest ranger but I have to finish up college."
"What's stopping you?"
"I don't know. My ex, my kids, I don't know."
"You have kids?"
He looked embarrassed, as though letting that slip was going to decrease his (already null) chances of getting laid. He spoke in a voice slowed by shame. "Yeah, I got kids."
I played it up. "Awwww, do you have pictures?"
He pulled out his wallet and I cooed over a photo of four adorable little ones.
"Aw, they must be the love of your life!"
"Uh... yeah. Yeah, they're, uh... you're right."
One surefire thing I've learned on the road: If you want a guy to stop hitting on you, ask him about his kids.

Max came outside again, yelling, "Steve, are you gonna bother that sweet lady all night?"
Steve walked over to Max's trailer, allowing me to finish getting ready. As I was walking away, I went over to where Max and Steve were standing, to be polite. I heard the four people under the awning say, "She's...."
"They're talking about me," I brooded aloud.
"Nonsense," Max said.
"I hate it!"
"Just ignore it," Steve told me.
"Yeah, I'm going to the showers."

The bathroom was huge, clean, well-lit, didn't look like a jail cell and was a sweet respite from bad smells, staring neighbors, unsolicited advances and the still-cloudy sky. It was heaven. I took a long shower, but not too long because I wanted to get into town, to see the acoustic act at Liquid Planet. I figured I could call Lala and Megan and we could all meet up. That's such an amazing feeling, to be out on the road and finally know people in a strange place. I wanted to take advantage of it while I could.

A cute, short lady with bright blonde hair came in as I was putting on make-up. We chatted about the grounds, Montana, bears, Baltimore, and finally, the weather. "Do you think it'll rain tonight," I asked her.
"Oh, I don't know. Well, I think you should be fine. I think it's all blowing east at this point."
"Awesome. I don't want a repeat of my night in Glacier!" I told her about the flood in my tent.
"Oh, god! Well, I think you'll be alright."
"Thanks!"

I finished drying my hair, curling the ends up like I used to do when I didn't live in a car, and when I turned off the blow-dryer I noticed an odd, loud sound. Is that the fan? I thought. Or is that.... RAIN? I opened the door to peek outside, almost afraid of what I'd see. And yes, it was a deluge, soaking everything in Western Montana with an angry vengeance. I was only six-thirty, but the sky was dark as night. "FUCK!" I shouted. No one heard me over the thunder.

I knew the only reason it rained was because I pitched my tent. AND left my driver-side window open. If I had closed the window and let the tent dry, then put it back in the car, there wouldn't have been a drop. But no, I had to go tempt Fate's fucking evil ass and pitch it, so it mocked me by opening the skies. "I fucking hate rain," I mumbled, slamming the bathroom door and twisting my cute, fluffy hair into two pigtail braids, which would stand up better to the downpour. I waited until it was just a shower, not a thunderstorm, threw a towel over my head, and headed back to my car.

Steve saw me come out and shouted from his trailer, "Jessica! Hey, Jess! C'mere!"
I was in no mood. "What?!"
"C'mere!"
"No! I left my window open, I gotta go," I snapped, turning on my heel. I felt somewhat bad, but knew deep down that I was way too pissed off to politely deflect anymore advances.
However, by the time I'd closed my windows, dried my seats, and all the other things I had to do to get ready to head back to town, I felt really bad. "That was so rude," I scolded myself. "You could at least go see what he wanted."

I parked in front of Steve's trailer and knocked on the door. He opened it with a phone in his hand. "Uh, Mom? Mom. I have to let you go. I'll call you back later, okay? I love you, Mom. Okay... bye." He shut the phone with a, "Hey, come on in!"
I stepped inside and said, "Hey, what was it you wanted earlier?"
"Um....." He used his best romantic voice and asked, "Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"
"Right now?"
"Yeah!"
"I can't, I have plans. How about breakfast or something tomorrow? We could ask Max and Will to come, too!" I did not want to be alone with this guy.... although the idea of free food sounded nice.
"Uh, see, that's the thing. I have to work tomorrow."
"What time?"
"Like, five."
"Crap. Well, what about lunch? Tomorrow's Saturday, what time do you leave work?"
"About five in the evening."
"Dammit. Well, sorry, I have plans tonight."
"Oh, please, Jess? I'd really like to just go eat, and this place has awesome Italian food, it's really good. Come on. Please?"
I was starving, and here was this guy bribing me with fettuccine alfredo. It wasn't fair.
"Well... okay, fine. But we have to take separate cars, because I'm going to stay in town, because I have plans and some work to get done." It was true, I was planning on writing while I listened to music. Also, I didn't want him in my car, the quarters were too close and he could get the wrong idea. In a tiny car, there's nothing like reaching for the parking brake and accidentally grabbing your passenger's thigh to give out the wrong impression. Not only that, I didn't want the other people at the campground to get the wrong idea if they saw us piling into my vehicle and taking off. They whisper and stare even when I'm not harboring middle-aged divorcees in my car, just think of how bad it would be if I did.

He snapped me back to reality. "Yeah, see, that's the thing. I'm not really.... allowed to drive," he giggled.
"DUI?"
"Yeah, two of 'em"
"How do you get to work?"
"Carpool."
"Shit. Fine. Fine." The visions of bruschetta dancing in my head were breaking down my guard. "But this is not a date!"
"No! No, not a date. But you're gonna love this place, it's called Tony Corona's. Best Italian food in the city!"
It better be, I thought.
"Do I have to dress up?" I asked. I was in a pink t-shirt, jeans and pigtail braids.
"Shit, no, I'm going like this!" He pointed to his dirty Dickies, dusty undershirt and flannel jacket.
"And this place has the best food in the city? And you can show up like that?"
"Yeah!"

I was tempted to ask him to change, but I held my tongue. "Wait here, I have to move some stuff around in the car." I was angry at myself, selling out for a ten-dollar plate of pasta. As I threw stuff in the back, I calmed myself down, thinking, "It's just a meal, and he could be good conversation. Don't write the whole night off just yet."
"We're all set," I said, walking back to the trailer, careful not to be too loud or draw attention.

We hopped in and headed back to Missoula. As soon as the doors was closed, I smelled something that turned my stomach. "What is that?" I cried, worried that being inside Max and Willow's had made me incredibly sensitive to odors. Then I remembered. "My jeans!" I said out loud. From the corner of my eye, I could see Steve looking at me like I was nuts.
"What are you talking about?' he asked.
"My jeans! These are the same jeans I was wearing inside Max and Will's place. The smell is still on them! We have to go to a drug store right away!"
"What do you nee---"
"Febreze!"

I raced into town while Steve dialed 411 to get the number for the restaurant. "It's Friday night," he said. "We may need a reservation."
When the operator picked up, Steve said, "Missoula, Montana..... Tony Corona's. Yeah, Tony Corona's, it' on Reserve Street. To-ny Cor-on-as. Reserve Str--- no, no, T-O-N.... Yeah, Reserve. Okay." He turned to me, saying, "This guy's an idiot. It's just Tony Corona's! I mean, jeez, right? How hard could it--- yes, sir! Okay, you got it? Great. Thanks." He closed the phone, saying, "Jackoff."
I ignored him, pulling into a Target parking lot. "We can get Febreze here."

I giggled to myself while we were walking in, remembering the last time I was at Target, when Greg and I ran into an old friend and his kids. "What're you laughin' at?" Steve asked.
"Ah, nothing. Just something my boyfriend said once."
"You have a boyfriend?" he asked dejectedly. He obviously hadn't been listening during the 4,000 times I'd mentioned it prior to that.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do," I said, my attitude slipping out.
"Oh."

I scurried into the store with Steve on my heels, eventually finding a perfume aisle. "I need this!" I said, my eyes wild. "Let's test them out!" I sprayed a bottle of Raspberry Dream in front of my nose, pointing the nozzle to the side -- and right into Steve's face.
"OOOOFH!"
"Oh, did I get you?"
He tried to talk through the sneeze. "Yeah, yaaACHOO!"
I laughed for the first time that night. "Sorry!"
"Man, it's a good thing I wear glasses, or you woulda gotten me right in the eye, ya butthead!"
By this time I was losing it. I couldn't stop laughing. Maybe because I did it half-way on purpose.

Finally, we were on our way to Tony Corona's. Or were we?
"There it is right there," Steve pointed, to a sign that read, "Johnny Carino's"
"No, that's not it, is it? You said Tony Corona's."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did!"
"Really?"
"Yes! Yes, and you made a big stink that the operator didn't know what you were talking about and you called him an idiot and a jackoff because he couldn't find the number! For Tony Corona's, you lameass!"
"I really told the operator the wrong name?"
"Forget it."

We ordered an appetizer of fresh mozzerella, tomatoes and basil with a balsamic vinegarette and
I told him about my previous night of partying with Lala and Megan. "I can't handle my whiskey anymore, which is sad, because I'm Irish!"
"Man, that must be why I was taken by you. My ex-wife is Irish."
I pulled the BF Card again. "Yeah, my boyfriend's family is Irish, too."
"Does he have an Irish temper? My ex did."
"Sometimes."
"So tell me about yourself," I said.
"Me? Man. Well, I'm a mountain man, born and raised. I couldn't ever leave these mountains. I love hunting, fishing and hiking too much. People say there's mountains in other states, but I'm sorry. There ain't nothin' like the mountains in Montana and Idaho. Well, Washington and Wyoming, too. Still, you got mountains in Maryland?"
"Um, kind of."
"No, you got hills."

The waitress told us the soups for the day. "We have eye-talian minestrone and eye-talian wedding soup." We both ordered a salad. She brought a dish of amazing garlic aioli for the bread, and it was then that Steve began to relay his hidden talent.
"This is so good," he mused. "The parmesan completes it."
I looked up at my new friend, in his frayed flannel, with a little smile. "What?"
"The parmesan and asiago, those little flecks in there, you see? They totally compliment the garlic oil."
"You're right!" I was having trouble eating, between the nausea from Max and Willow's place, my lingering hangover and the altitude sickness that had been toying with my stomach since entering Glacier National Park. Still, the soft eye-talian bread was making me feel better, not to mention the parmesan and asiago.

When the salads came, Steve lamented choosing Ranch dressing. "Ranch is so overpowering, I don't know why I ordered it. Haven't you ever had a Ranch dip or something and that's all you can taste? It's like the vegetables are just a vehicle for the dressing."
"I know what you mean," I said.
The mozzerella and tomatoes arrived, with fresh basil and a balsamic ganache. We both bit into the cheese and melted. "This is amazing!" I said, my nausea completely gone.
"Yeah, yeah, it's the balsamic!" he said. "That's so odd, I wonder how old this vinegar is? Because I have a bottle of eight-year-old balsamic at home and it's not even this mellow, it still has that balsamic bite to it, y'know?"
Agreed.

Later on, over seafood alfredo, he said, "There's sun-dried tomato in this sauce, although it doesn't say it on the menu. There may also be a touch of vodka." I stared at him, in his ratty baseball cap -- which he wore at the table -- his calloused hands and t-shirt laced with sawdust. A typical write-'em-off redneck in anyone's eyes, but really so much more.
"Steve, why are you a mill-worker? Why are you not a chef?"
"What?"
"You have such a discerning palate!" I laughed. "Why not use it?" I was awestruck by his knowledge of culinary finery.
"Oh... I don't want the stress. I couldn't work in a kitchen. I love food and cooking, but I don't want to grow to not love it. All the management, the customers, the stress, basically. I don't want to fall out of love with food."
I thought of the bags under the eyes of chefs I've known throughout the years, the late nights and early mornings, the rampant alcoholism, the four-letter words that flew from their mouths like bullets from a gun.
"You're right, it is hard."
I was beginning to soften, to actually like him.

We boxed up our leftovers and headed for Turah. I was too tired and it was too late to head back into town after taking him home, and my nausea had come back. I dropped him in front of his trailer. "Thanks so much for dinner and the company!" I said. "I'm probably leaving tomorrow, so I won't see you."
"Aw, that's too bad. Come in and watch a movie with me?"
In a flash, I was back in high school, memories of sweaty hands crawling up A-cup bras pecking at my brain. I almost laughed. "No, thanks." At 25, I know what "watch a movie" means.
"Okay, well, I'll see ya!"
"'Bye!"

I pulled around the bend to my campsite, watched the still-falling rain molest my sopping tent, changed into sweatpants while sitting down, laid the seat back, and fell asleep.