Thursday, September 23, 2010

A Fat Man Yells at Me

I left Yellowstone heading East across Wyoming. Not long after leaving the park, I saw this funky log cabin perched high on a hill:

I drove on for about a quarter mile before convincing myself to turn around to take a picture of it. After all, who knows when I’ll ever see something like it again. On the way back, I looked for a good place to pull over and found a little RV park conveniently right below the hill where the cabin stood—perfectly located for a good photo.

I pulled into the RV park’s entrance and saw several funny metal signs that showed a picture of the cabin with a red ghostbusters-like slash through it. No words, just that image. I sat there for a bit, scratching my head and trying to figure out what that sign meant. I used to be a graphic designer, and I know somebody spent a lot of money making these full color metal signs. I wish I got a picture of that sign after what happened next, but here’s a rough Photoshop rendition of what it looked like:

So I took a couple photos of the cabin, then turned my car around to leave. As I was pulling out, a really fat guy with a caterpillar moustache and big plastic glasses ran out and waved me down just before I exited. I rolled down the passenger’s window to see what he wanted and he asked, in a very friendly voice, what I was doing there. I told him I was just turning around and asked if he knew what that funky cabin was on the hill. Still friendly, he said he saw me taking pictures of it. I said yes, I did, adding that I’ve never seen anything like that before.

Then his voice took a darker tone and he asked if I didn’t see the signs posted by the entrance. I told him I did, and asked what they meant since they seemed weird in themselves. Then his formerly jolly face turned into some kind of manifestation of Satan and he started yelling at me, telling me I knew damn well what those signs meant. He went on yelling that I was trespassing, breaking the law, being disrespectful and disturbing everyone in the RV park (I think I saw a total of two RV’s there, parked far off in the distance). I got a word in edgewise and told him I didn’t mean any disrespect and that I really didn’t know what his weird signs meant. He just went on yelling that I did, then asked—at full volume—if I thought all the people in the RV’s wanted me stopping there to take pictures of the hill above them.

That was a strange question to me. I sat there for a moment trying to think of the right way to say that I really didn’t think they’d give a shit. After all, I’ve met a lot of folks in RV’s on this trip and they usually take a zillion photos of everything themselves, even if it’s just a squirrel crossing the road.

As I thought about it, he asked again. Then I decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to make peace with the evil fat mat, so I told him I wouldn’t waste any more of his time, gave him a wave and drove off as he yelled after my car.

I will say I’m glad I didn’t squirm and turn into an apologetic wuss like I would have done when I was younger. Nor did I get aggressive and yell back, as I’ve become tempted to do as I’ve gotten older. I’m proud that I’ve learned to stay polite and assertive with difficult people (with some exceptions). Driving away, it really made me wonder what kind of life this guy had. I mean, he lives a few miles past the exit to Yellowstone and probably gets hundreds of tourists driving past his place every day—maybe even thousands during peak season—and I imagine a good percentage of them must pull into his drive to snap a photo of that cabin. His signs are vague at best, so how many times a day does he come out and yell at people for taking pictures? He must have paid some good money for those nice ambiguous signs when all he needed was a piece of plywood painted to say “please do not take pictures here.” I wonder if he gets a kick out of being tough and mean when he can.

That poor lonely evil fat man.

Incidentally, a quick Google search revealed that the cabin was built by one man, Francis Lee Smith, and is made entirely of recycled materials. He spent 18 years building it until he fell from one of the roofs and died in 1992. More info here: http://www.smithmansion.org.

Too bad the fat man didn’t realize he was sitting on a potentially profitable tourist hot spot.

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