COLORADO GOLD

 

JANUARY:

The call came at half past ten. I’d been working the ranch for half a day already, and I recognized the voice on the line, all business and right to the point—Rona Fishburn, president and founder of RentaYenta, Tinsel Town’s go-to company for making the impossible happen.

“This is big!” Rona gushed. “And I need you, Luke, to make it happen!”

“Ok, Rona, what’s it this time?” I knew I was in for a ride. Rona never asked for easy.

“Picture this: Elite film festival…famous mountain community…gold rush theme.”

“Sounds do-able.”

“Completely green.”

“Like in springtime?”

“No, cowboy-brain! Eco-green! As in the ecology.”

“Hell, Rona, why me? You know I don’t do climate change shit. I’m a cowboy.”

“You’re the head of the‘Durango Boys, whose stuntmen skills will be required along with your wrangling abilities.” 

“Our wrangling abilities? Wrangling what?”

“You’ll see,” Rona laughed.

“Fax me the shit.”

 

A half hour later the fax in my hand outlined the event. Super elite, very intimate film festival and award presentation honoring the recipients of this year’s “Hollywood’s Hotties” prestigious indie film awards. Real big deal. Money to burn, with a statement to make that was almost comically woke and green. 

My guys, The Durango Boys, have been together for a couple decades, give or take, using a round-robin approach to our ranch work, while performing stunts for major films and events. We are the best there is. Old school with feet firmly planted, you could say. Which is why we got such a kick going down the list Rona had sent.

“So, the clever title for this Steamboat Springs event is, ‘Thar’s Gold in Them Thar Hills!’” My main men, Todd, Chuck, Sam, and Dave, nodded thoughtfully.

“And, first off, they want us to wrangle a parade of guests from the airport into town in a bunch of electric vehicles disguised to look like burros.…” 

“You gotta’ be kiddin’. Electric cars in the winter in Colorado?” quizzed Sam. “How’s that gonna’ work? Are they set up for that?”

“That’s not our problem.”

“Well, it could be….” Chuck retorted.

“GeezeAlmighty! They’re even requiring all the hotels to replace their plastic keycards with bamboo.”

Todd’s jaw dropped. “So they’ll be greenly cutting down a bamboo forest somewhere?”

“A sustainable bamboo forest,” Sam snarked.

“Owww! I got a splinter!” Todd mimicked a high-pitched whine directed at some fantasy hotel management.

“I’m gonna sue!” Dave chimed in. “It broke my sustainable fingernail made of cow chips!” 

The Durango Boys were now doubled over, giggling like teenagers. Finally, gasping for breath, we settled down to divvy up assignments while Rona and team worked their magic in the city rounding up more "sustainables.”

 

OCTOBER:

The Durangos hit “The Boat” as the locals call it, early, to oversee set-up and delivery, placement, and logistics. Just the logistics required to land fifty electric ‘burros’ in the mountains of Colorado was an exercise in fortitude, but we had plenty of that. We’re hard-range cowboys, after all, and we get the job done! That job expanded as we took turns in the mere five airport charging stations to get those “burros” ready for the entry parade that would deliver the guests to their hotels.

“Remember when you said this was not our problem?” Sam gave me the devil eye.

Opening day found us back at the airport ready to meet the guests landing there from across the planet. Flights had been synchronized almost to a T, which bode well for the coming weekend. A large tent housed food and liquor.

Guests were making merry, when a sudden wind whipped a tent flap back and blew the buffet right off the tables. Servers drenched in gravy and turkey dressing scrambled to right the disaster. Luckily, zero hour was at hand as the shuttles rolled up one by one. Guests, brushing off lettuce and specks of meat, gasped in delight at the sight of the “burros,” thankfully pulling their attention from this initial disaster.  I took my place astride, rather than inside, the lead vehicle, just as my walkie talkie buzzed.

I never did hear who was on the other end because our parade headed out of the airport and up the mountain road, guests whooping and hollerin’ like a wagon train beginning its westward journey. They were having a hell of a time.

I, however, was getting raw between the knees. Turns out, a company called Car-Tuners designed my “burro” to be a buckin’ bronco with no kill switch. Now, I’ll tell ya, I’m an actual rodeo bronc ridin’ cowboy, and this was no bronc, but a bouncing jerking bucket of metal with a burro head, disguised with a half-assed saddle, And me without my chaps! At the 10-mile mark, of the 25-mile ride, I halted the train, threw open the hood and ripped out the wiring to the bucking mechanism.

By the time we reached the last hotel, I waddled to the bar for aspirin and a double shot. My crew was happy to join. We were still there when Dave noticed a new line over at the front desk. Seems the guests were trying to trade in a pile of broken bamboo key cards and demanding bandaids for splinters. The Durango Boys sat back, snorting into their cowboy hats.

 

The next morning featured our exhibition shootout on Main Street. No sooner had a couple of blank rifle shots rung out, than a wail arose from the crowd. 

“Make them STOP!” someone sobbed. “I’m sooooo against guns!” Friends reminded her that she’d once played the lead in “Annie Get Your Gun,” but she evidently needed to update her resume with a more current monologue. 

The crowd waited politely for her diatribe to end, before leading her away to an offering of lemon-drop martinis, the fruit of which was guaranteed to have been picked by someone’s “personal fruit pickers”. Seriously. Bartenders never lie.

The festive mood on the street had vanished now, though, and the crowd meandered off to shop until lunch.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, WELCOME!” cooed diva extraordinaire, Mirl DeWinter, from center stage. Did you all get your Welcome Bags from the hostess tables? We’ve chosen some real goodies for you to savor and I reeeeaaaallly hope you LOVE them!” she gushed, thrusting her hand into her sample bag to dangle a slip of shiny fabric. 

“First, know that our challenge for this weekend was to have the greeeeenest event EVER presented and we think we’ve out-performed even our own expectations. I’ll leave you to investigate the many contents, but I do want to showcase a couple things. First, ladies…the Techtronic Bra. Ta Daaa!”

Mirl dangled one above her microphone and continued. “Not only does it have its very own set of reusable chopsticks tucked into a hidden pocket for your sushi pleasure, but there’s an added perk! The company claims the chopsticks’ placement’ will help support the breasts and also accentuate cleavage! Wow! huh?” 

“—But wait! This bra is made of fabric interwoven with tiny wires which can produce electricity from the bosom's natural bouncing motion. Throughout the day, it can support enough power to operate a cell phone or an iPod. The larger the cup size, the more energy produced. How’s that for cool? And gentlemen… don’t you feel left out! You have your very own Jockeys with the same capabilities! And where do you think that friction comes from? Ha Ha! So powerful!” 

Throughout the ballroom, bras and shorts were being inspected amid a combination of sarcasm and muffled gasps of delight.

Mirl continued, “But we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s move on. Anybody hungry?” Heads nodded collectively as waiters dressed as prospectors, in Levi's and bandanas, began circling the tables dishing gourmet food onto meticulously arranged lunch plates. Cries of appreciation followed, as aromas rose up and people began to feast.

 But Mirl had more sustainable surprises!

“Our sponsors have gone to great lengths to make sure every detail of our eco-friendly modality is met during your stay. You’ll note the beautiful tableware you’re eating off of. Gorgeous, right? Well, what if I told you, it’s actually made of recycled pig urine?”

Up front, a literal full row of eyes widened.

“Did she just say we’re eating pig urine?” someone asked.

“No, we’re eating OFF pig urine,” her companion replied, hand flying to her mouth. With that, the first speaker swallowed hard and upchucked her Chicken Divine right into her hostess bag. 

“Agggg…I’m so sor…” she gulped, while wiping her mouth with the hemp tablecloth, before the woman next to her, taking a whiff, immediately repeated that performance. As sights and smells compounded, the sound of the gag reflex crackled through the room. People began pushing back from their tables as a tidal wave of heaving chests dashed from the room, leaving Mirl standing guard over a forest of “bio-degradable when wet” hostess bags, now melting into soggy hemp. The scent of half-masticated Chicken Divine hung sourly in the air.

White-faced, Mirl scrambled from behind the podium, snatching Techtronic Bras on her way out the door. 

Back stage, the Durango Boys agreed they’d never had such fun in their lives! 

 

That evening, after the most profitable lunch shift Majestic Burger of Steamboat Springs had ever seen, seemingly recovered attendees found their way to the Chief Theater for that evening’s films.

Four award-winning indie shorts were lined up for presentation, and all was running smoothly until the one comedic offering was about three quarters in. 

The auditorium was rocking with laughter when suddenly there was a squeal from the VIP section. Seconds later Mirl shot out of her seat, swatting at her ample bosom. Yelps from other attendees peppered the auditorium as well.

It seems their laughter had produced a higher-than-average ratio of bouncing in breasts encased in Techtronic Bras. This had led to both increased sweat and wiring shorts, causing mild electrocution amongst the wearers. 

The men in Tech Shorts seemed unaffected, but the larger the bosoms, the larger the shock value, which sent anyone with larger-than-life cup sizes jumping around the room while tearing at their bustlines.

Those unaffected stared in astonishment as women, (and a surprising number of men) shot from their seats, ripping bras out the arm and neck holes of their impeccably designed evening wear to fling the offending undergarments wildly away. 

When the melee came to an end, the Durango Boys were the proud possessors, just for shits and giggles, of some fantastic candid video taken from our positions backstage. A rainbow of colored boulder holders decorated the empty hall. The boys and I were howling with laughter. We would have worked this gig for free! 

The next day social media went crazy:

“Hollywood’s Green Extravaganza Proves Electrifying!”

The event had become infamous overnight, and there was nothing I could think of to turn that perception around. The spin would be Rona’s job. We just had to move forward. The Durango’s last responsibility was to get our burro train wrangled back to the airport in the morning without another catastrophe. 

This seemed possible until, with no warning, clouds swept in, bringing with them a light snowfall. This was the one thing the boys and I had feared from the beginning, as the lack of chargers in town meant every bit of sunlight was needed through the weekend for the solar panels to make the return trip to Yampa Airport. The darker it got, the darker our prospects. Rona’s team, it seemed, had no back-up plan for this eventuality. All we could do was hope for the best as the day moved on and snow continued to fall along with our spirits.

 

Morning arrived, bright and sunny. After breakfast, on actual china this time, the boys and I angled the burros into position for the trail back. With a great sense of apprehension, we began to roll, but we started to relax as the burro train seemed to be making a successful trek down the mountain. At the 23-mile mark, we were feeling like we’d aced any last looming disaster. That’s when the train of cars sputtered and died, one by one. 

Pulled off the roadway, we surveyed the stranded vehicles stretching out behind us. The batteries were out of juice with only a couple more miles to go. These people would never make the journey on foot. I texted Rona the bad news. 

I was cursing her non-response when my cell blared to life confirming the reason I’ve continued doing business with RentaYenta over decades. It appeared the Yentas hadn’t ignored this possibility after all, and they’d even kept the solution ‘green’. I listened intently before starting to laugh, then motioned for a Durango huddle. 

One by one, we walked the burro train, reaching in and pushing the fifty secreted buttons which popped out of a stack of flattened, reusable, bio-degradable jars to be distributed to all riders. My men and I spread out down the train so everyone could view our upcoming demonstration, which, we hoped would be the last stunt we’d have to attempt to pull off.

On my signal, Todd, Chuck, Sam, Dave, and I popped our jars into circular shape and whirled to face the snowbank on the side of the road. In seconds steam rose over our heads.  We turned around, popped the hoods and poured our collected urine into the nearest car batteries. The drivers turned their keys and the engines gurgled to life.

Rona. You genius! You contracted with a company with a back-up plan! Who knew piss could trigger an electric charge?

Another compartment holding pop-up tents provided private roadside porta-potties. One by one the burros sprang to life again, and we all continued down the road to Yampa while cracking old, worn jokes through our headsets about not eating the yellow snow.

The Durango Boys lined the airport bar to watch the last plane taxi down the runway. 

“Kind of resembles what we just poured into those batteries,” Dave remarked, admiring his twinkling tequila shot . Our glasses clinked and down the hatch flowed the warm golden liquid, marking the end of this classic misadventure.

“What do you think tomorrow’s headlines will read?” Sam asked, chuckling.

I pondered this.

“Thar's MORE Gold in Them Thar Hills NOW!” I quipped.

The bartender glanced over, pulled out his cell and tweeted, “There’s five cowboys who appear to be crying at the airport bar in Yampa!” 

The tears of hilarity running down our cheeks while we giggled like teenagers, were just more proof positive that, seriously…

Bartenders never lie!

 

 (c) ~taree Belardes 2022

 

NYC MIDNIGHT SHORT STORY COMP 2022

GENRE; Comedy

SUBJECT: Eco-friendly

CHARACTER TO INCLUDE: A stuntperson

WORD LIMIT: 2500

TIME LIMIT: 1 WEEK (Actually written in 48 hrs)