Distinctly Montana Magazine

w w w . d i s t i n c t l y m o n t a n a . c o m 53 D E PA R T M E N T e ice machine, firewood, and a lone rack of discount DVDs lined the wall behind the four checkout lanes. Waiting shoppers clogged the store's arteries: a barge-like woman carefully inspecting the items in her packed cart before setting them on the conveyor, three teenage girls holding identical baskets of Diet Coke and Twizzlers, a buff guy in a tank top jog- gling on his toes as if he immediately needed to lift something heavy. All kinds of new people were moving to the Bitterroot Valley from California, Washington, Oregon.… Outdoorsy types who could work remotely and wanted cheap property under big sky with no zoning re- strictions. e valley's population had nearly doubled in Ruthie's lifetime. She felt dread and a hard little knot of anger. She longed to flee. To push her cart through the doors and run with it into the mountains. e world was overflowing. e spaces between farms filling in, parking lots that sprawled across former pastures. e December afternoon darkness seemed to press in on the windows. Ruthie weighed her options. e far left line was the shortest but the barge woman had already set aside several items in anticipation of price checks or a battle over expired coupons. She looked like the type who rarely went out in public and needed conflict when she did, to justify her lonesome, miserable life. e buff guy was joggling even more rapidly, perhaps preparing to crush the skull of the gray-haired old lady in front of him. Just go. Ruthie maneuvered the cart on its rickety wheel into the lane behind the teenage girls. All three wore matching volleyball warm-ups. "His parents were upstairs," one of them said. "Like ten steps away." Ruthie thought of herself at that age: the feeling she'd had that each mo- ment was of vital importance. Now months passed without her noticing. She worked at the Montana Cafe in Darby and each shift was so like the rest that she measured time only in seasons. How was it winter again? She imagined the girls at practice. Eyes wide, chins upturned, their young arms outspread like wings as they watched the ball sail over the net, holy with anticipation. Bump, set, spike. All she knew of volleyball from her four year annual tradition of watching the Summer Olympics in a state of lackluster interest. "He was out cold," the girl went on. "We weren't even sure if he was still alive." "Madison had to pepper spray him to wake him up. Pepper spray." ey laughed. Ruthie squeezed the cart's handle. e bright-boxed frozen meals stared back at her mockingly. She imagined discovering some great and fearsome strength, bending the handle in half, tearing it free from the child seat, and raising it above her head as a warning to the other, cower- ing shoppers, the girls in particular. ey were watching the shaggy- haired checker mumble to himself as he ran items across the scanner. ey hadn't even glanced back to note that Ruthie was there, becoming invisible as she aged, disappearing like the open spaces in the foothills. e sliding glass doors past the firewood hissed open and a short, dirty man wearing green fatigues and a tattered brown sweatshirt stumbled into the store. His hair was dreaded into clumps. He stopped in the bright light and looked up, as if surprised to find people in a place he'd expected to be abandoned. His face was so wrinkled and leathery it took Ruthie a mo- ment to find the features: sunken puckered lips, bent nose, and bright blue, twitching eyes. He looked like all the other vagrants who gathered on the shoulder of the highway trying to hitch a ride over Lost Trail Pass. "Hey," the man said. His voice rose to address the store. "Hey!" He took three more steps and stopped in front of a table of discount cupcakes. He squinted at the red Christmas frosting, then turned to face the waiting customers. "You better watch out." fiction (excerpt) by MAXIM LOSKUTOFF S UPER 1 WAS MEDIUM-SIZED. It had seemed huge to Ruthie as a girl, but now she realized it was smaller by a half than the Safeway in Missoula, or the stores in most towns. A dying breed. With the new Walmart just past Lolo, it was only a matter of time before it was gone. Like the buffalo. Like the passenger train. She smiled to herself. Since turning 30, she'd discovered the capacity to be nostalgic for things she actively despised. L I T E R A R Y L O D E THE MOUNTAINS Even

• Cover