Small Town

On person's small town is another person's big city. Coming from New York City, even Cheyenne, the most populated city in Wyoming, feels like a small town. The first month I was in town, I went to the mattress store to buy a futon for my bed on a Saturday. Assuming I could have it delivered, I was disappointed to find out they weren't sure their delivery guy could get it to me until Monday.

In front of me at the cash register was a couple, in their 40s, who were talking about loading up their mattress into their pickup so they could bring it home with them that day. They mentioned that they lived off of Campstool Road. My ears perked up.

"I live off of Campstool Road, too," I said, hoping they didn't mind that I was eavesdropping. They turned to me and started chatting.

After a little while, they asked where I worked, and I told them. "You work with my husband's sister!" the woman exclaimed. Small world. Small town.

Next they told me what one of their daughters did and I realized that she worked at a company I dealt with on a daily basis.

Before the couple left, I had the wife's business card, their home phone number written on the back, and I was invited to their house the next day to make tamales.

Then the wife turned to me. "If you'd like, we can load up your futon into our truck and bring it by to your place on our way home. We have to do some shopping first but we'll bring it by later this afternoon."

I was surprised, to say the least. "Okay, are you sure?" I asked and the next thing I knew, they were carrying my futon out to their pickup. I gave them my address. "Oh we know that place. That's Skip's place," they said referring to my landlord.

I watched them get into their pickup. They waved to me as they drove away. Either I was experiencing the benefits of living in a small town or that couple was just about to run off with my futon, I thought.

Later, I could make out the form of their white pickup against the prairie and sky as they wound down my long driveway. The husband carried the futon up a flight of stairs to my bedroom and wouldn't accept payment.

The next day, I drove to their place, a few miles further down Campstool Road, and sat around a large round table, drinking cherry wine and hand molding tamales.

Small world. Small town.