Okay, I’m not going to turn around. I’m just going to keep walking down the street. I’m sure I’m not in any danger.
—————
The band Guided by Voices have a song on one of their albums called “Cheyenne.” It’s one of my favorite songs of theirs—just insanely catchy and memorable. I used to hum it all the time.
Although the song is not about the city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, I mention it because this story is about my visit to Cheyenne.
I have always loved the West. Ever since I was a kid, watching TV shows and old movies, I have loved the cactus (cacti?), the wide open spaces where you could walk, run—even ride a horse—as long and as far as you wanted without bumping into another human being, or seeing a car, or fighting traffic. And the mountains!
I grew up in Northeast Ohio, where always was heard a discouraging word, and the skies were cloudy all day. My only experiences growing up were “big city” experiences–crowded streets, large masses of humanity rushing everywhere, drivers cutting you off in traffic and cursing at you.
So I always yearned to go out West, which in my imagination was almost another planet. I guess I also thought that the going out West meant getting away from the “big city” and its problems—homelessness, drug addiction, crime. What would be the biggest crime out West? Cattle rustlin’?
One state that held special appeal for me was Wyoming. There, I pictured myself driving across great open vistas, spotting buffalo, caribou, maybe even the occasional roadrunner being chased by a coyote. And so, two years ago, when I really needed a break from Cleveland, I booked my Wyoming adventure. Wild Wild West, here I come!
I pulled into Cheyenne, population 63,000, on a beautiful September afternoon. It’s the capital of Wyoming, but until I got there, I didn’t realize just how small the town was, especially for a state capital. They did have a Starbucks, though.
I checked into the Historic Plains Hotel (with Western-style lodging) in downtown Cheyenne. They took the “western style” seriously. There were antlers of some large animal behind the front desk, buffalo statuettes in the lobby and on the chandelier. My room was huge; I felt like I was staying out on the prairie.
I dropped my bags on the floor, then ran down the stairs (passing the ancient-looking elevator) and out the door. Time to check out Cheyenne.
The hotel was located on the city’s main drag. Across the street was an ancient-looking movie theater, the Lincoln, complete with large stills from “It Happened One Night” and “The Wizard of Oz” on the front. Toto, I don’t think we’re in Cleveland any more.
I ventured over to the town square just up the street. It was a wide quadrangle, the words “Cheyenne Depot Plaza” attached to the silhouette of a train on the entrance archway. In front, an enormous green and blue cowboy boot, with a painting of two deer playing cards on it. You know, just like animals used to do in the old West.
Across the street from the plaza was The Wrangler clothing store. It was easy to spot, because “The Wrangler” was spelled out in ginormous letters. They had a huge selection of Western gear for us city slickers—boots, belts with buckles the size of Texas, and lots and lots of cowboy hats. Well, I thought, when in Rome, or rather, Cheyenne, so I spent some time trying some hats on. I finally found one that didn’t look completely ridiculous, so I took a selfie and posted it on Facebook. Yee haw.
I checked out the churches and the state capital building, admiring its beautiful golden dome. On Capital Avenue, I walked past the Boot Barn and the Cowgirls of the West museum. Just up the road a piece was the Cheyenne Frontier Days Old West Museum, not far from the Wal-Mart Supercenter.
Yes, Cheyenne was just what I had hoped it would be—a “Western” town, but really, more touristy Western. I wasn’t expecting the Cartwrights to come riding up from the Ponderosa, but I was a little surprised at how modern it was. It was “old West” the same way that Olive Garden offers “Italian” food.
Still, Cheyenne felt a lot different from Cleveland—as near as I could tell, it didn’t seem to have the crime or homelessness problems we had in the Midwest. The people seemed pretty friendly, in an old West kind of way—lots of “sirs,” and “ma’am’s”. I felt like I was getting my money’s worth.
I continued my tour of the town. As I passed an empty storefront, I noticed a guy standing in the doorway. When I say I noticed him, I mean that he just suddenly appeared in my peripheral vision. He caught my attention for two reasons:
- I’m pretty sure he was the first African-American person I’d seen in Cheyenne.
- He was standing stock still, as if frozen there.
He was dressed in ragged clothes, torn jeans and dirty t-shirt. The other item of clothing that stood out was a long, silver overcoat that reached his knees.
He eyed me as I walked by. I thought he was posing as a living statue, similar to those I’d seen in New York City and San Francisco, though I was a bit surprised to see one in a small town like Cheyenne. I admired his dedication to his craft and continued down the street.
As I did so, I became aware that the man was NOT a living statue. How do I know this? Because he had started following me. Well, no big deal. People are allowed to walk down the street in America, at least for now.
The other thing I noticed was that the guy was mumbling, rather loudly. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, and I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me, or to himself, or to an imaginary person. What I did know is that he sounded angry. Really angry. Pissed.
Hmm. This seemed like a “big city” thing. Thought I had left that behind in Cleveland.
I wasn’t really scared, but I was nervous. Was this guy talking to me? Did I do something to tick him off? Should I have given him some change for his living statue routine?
I considered my options. We appeared to be the only people around. He was several paces behind me, matching me step for step. I looked for a convenient place to cross the street, but if I crossed and he followed me, then I was probably in trouble. And, I was feeling pretty guilty for being just another white guy in fear of a black guy.
Then reality disappeared, and an alternate, dreamlike version kicked in. Because at that moment, a Cheyenne police car, lights flashing, whipped around the corner and stopped in front of us. A white woman cop jumped out of the car, gun in hand, and yelled at the guy following me, “Show me your hands! Show me your hands!”
No, this wasn’t a TV show. The cop moved toward the guy, who acted like he was expecting her. Maybe they’d been through this before?
And then another police car pulled up. This time, a large white male cop emerged and joined his colleague. They detained the man at the curb and began questioning him. And I decided to get the hell out of there.
You see, even in that moment, my immediate reaction wasn’t whether I was in danger. No, all I could think about was recent news events involving cops and black guys. My biggest concern was that I did NOT want to witness another potential episode of a white cop shooting an unarmed black guy. It had happened in towns all across America, including my home town of Cleveland. I wanted no part of it.
I started walking in the opposite direction, but after about 50 feet, my curiosity got the better of me. I turned around to see what was going on…and I watched as the cops pulled something long and shiny, and possibly sharp, from the guy’s overcoat. It glistened in the sun.
Was it a sword? A machete? It looked fairly dangerous from where I was standing. I quickly turned and walked away.
I checked the local news the next day, but didn’t see anything about this incident. Had someone seen this guy and called the cops? Was he already on their radar? Was I just moments away from being murdered with a machete?
So “big city” troubles had invaded the small town, after all. It was probably unrealistic of me to expect Cheyenne to be the Western version of Mayberry, but illusions were definitely shattered that day.
I pulled out the Guided by Voices CD the other day and listened to “Cheyenne” again. It’s still a really catchy tune, but now it just reminds me of this incident. So it may be a while before I listen to it again.
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