Scrambling for the First Issue

After checking in to the Enchanted Mesa, I felt that I might begin to get my mind around finding some stories for the next issue of the Mancos Times. I now was down to three days to rustle up at least three stories and an editorial. Former editor left no leads, no phone numbers, no nothing, and when I asked, he would say, "look it up yourself."

So I found City Hall (not hard) and wandered in to introduce myself. The very civilized town manager welcomed me with trepidation in his eye, which suprised me. Nothing for me here, though - the next town board meeting wasn't for a week. But I did learn where to find the mayor.

A block away, there were smells of food coming from the Mancos Inn. It was lunchtime, so I sat down in the restaurant and waited to see what would happen.

A pleasant young man came and took my order. I asked him where Greg was and he directed me to the kitchen. There, behind a hot grill wearing a white apron and flipping burgers, was the mayor.

"I realize you're busy - I just want to introduce myself and see if you have time to chat later. He gave me a cryptic sideways glance. He also had trepidation in his eye, and looked as if he was trying to decide whether to apply the Napoleonic code or let me be innocent until proven guilty.

It was dawning on me that perhaps local officials disliked the press. This is no good. You want these guys to talk to you. If possible, you want them to trust you. In previous reporter beats, I had enjoyed good relations with my elected officials and had cultivated some give-and-take with the bureaucrats, usually too afraid of their elected bosses to speak openly.

But I never imagined it would be troublesome to break through here. I decided the best strategy was to eat frequent meals at the Mancos Inn. Be a paying customer and let them sniff me out a little.

This tactic worked. Dean, the young man who seated me, was friendly, and quickly established himself as the mayor's partner by identifying himself as "the first lady of Mancos." I told him I would like to move to the patio seating outside - no problem.

Now at a wire patio table with Ivy on my lap, I tried to relax and take in the view. I wasn't alone for long. Within five minutes, a young man with heavily plucked eyebrows seated and introduced himself. Wow. Could this be a reconnaisance agent?

This young man, we'll call him Mike, chatted me up like crazy. By now, I was happy to run into somebody friendly, and also somebody who was not Former Editor. Greg, the mayor, told me months later that he and the entire town board had been awaiting my arrival with a mix of anxiety and hope. It seems that seven years with Former Editor had engendered, well, bad feelings between elected officials and the Mancos Times. A new editor could be the end of an old era of paranoia and distrust, or the beginning of a new one; nobody knew, everybody was guessing. This new editor business was a big deal - I had no idea how big of a deal.

The mayor also believed that Former Editor was deeply homophobic, hating all gay men, although he managed to get along just fine with the lesbians. At one point, someone speculated that Former Editor cultivated good relations with the lesbians in the hope of someday getting REALLY lucky. But I made that part up. Just like I made Former Editor up.

Greg also later confessed that when he looked out the front window and saw me chatting away with Mike, he gave a quiet cheer over the grill. "I knew you were a fag hag! I was so happy!" Now, this news came months later. If I had had a clue I was being painted as a rabid groupie for homosexual men, I would have politely backed out of this chat with Mike.

I have many friends. Some have different sexual preferences than I do. That's the whole story. But "Fag Hag" has some weird implications that bug me a little. Maybe it's the "hag" part.

Mancos, as I was informed by the mayor, was a gay "destination," a result of the first lady's marketing efforts on the internet pipeline. At one point a lesbian town employee suggested changing "Mancos: Gateway to Mesa Verde" to "Mancos: Steers and Queers." While, Greg explained, there was a core group of gay men, they were far outnumbered by lesbians, which led to occasional political wars. Town Hall was a frequent stage for these conflicts.

But I digress - while I was pleased to have at least made first contact with some key players, I still had to scare up a story. After lunch I decided to head to the mothership office in Cortez and see if I could pick Suzi's brain.

On my way there, I noticed a funky building with giant arrows sticking out of the ground around it - The Mud Creek Hogan Trading Post. It looked like a 1950's postcard of something on Route 66. I stopped - no customers at the moment, so I was able to introduce myself to the owners, Bill and Judy Countess. They were friendly and conversational. Native American people were wandering in and out, having quiet, quick conversations with Bill. "Good luck," they said, when I told them I was the new editor.

When I took a look around, I realized this was more than a souvenir trap. I saw exquisite Navajo rugs, and in the back of the store, intact Anasazi pottery worth a fortune. There were also plenty of knock-off items, like fake southwestern rugs and baskets from places like India.

"People come in and want southwestern rugs and whatnot, but they get sticker shock when they find out what the authentic stuff cost. I stock these knock-offs so they can afford to take something home," he explained.

A big guy came in to talk to Bill - a Native American with a very "authentic" look - plenty of silver and turquoise, a blanket thrown over his shoulder, long ponytail wrapped in cloth strips. They chatted briefly and the big guy left. "He buys those knock-off blankets from me and sells them out on the roadside as authentic." My jaw dropped and Bill and Judy laughed and told me that the roadside Indians sell loads of fake stuff - fake jewelry made in Taiwan, fake blankets, fake everything. "They have to stay ahead of the Feds," Bill added.

I could smell a story here. Aside from the "real" stuff Bill had, the fabulous rugs and jewelry and pottery, there was another dimension, a thriving economy of fake. Bill was straight with everyone about the origins of his imitation southwestern-via-Asia stuff, but tourists bought it anyway as something affordable with a southwestern vibe. Bill also did a brisk business with serious collectors of genuine navajo blankets and ancient pottery. I bought a fake rug to throw on the back seat for Ivy. Fifteen bucks and washable - hard to beat.

Bill and Judy agreed to a story. I made a date with them for the weekend and bought a pair of earrings. I'm trying to remember a time when I didn't walk out of that place without some fabulous piece of jewelry. Didn't happen.

Next: the truth about turquoise, blankets and pottery and a crash-and-burn first issue.