Leaving Catoosa

The morning after the tornado.

Watching Hollywood movies and YouTube videos really doesn’t prepare you for the emotional impact of being at the mercy of Mother Nature. This was a dramatic reminder that survival is pure chance, all the time. Was I stupid and selfish to deliberately put myself in the firing line, pushing my chance of survival ever so slightly down? Maybe. But this was a consciousness-altering moment. I saw up close the mad spinning clouds, day turning to night, I felt hail and thunder shaking the ground beneath my feet; I was in the path of natural almighty chaos, and nothing has ever felt so real. For those moments I forgot all about the predictable monotony of modern life, the pettiness, the daily anxieties. The swirling, tightening clouds represented all the forces of the Universe; a physical concentration of reality – a terrifying, unpredictable vortex from which no bullshit could escape. A black hole on Earth.

Meanwhile, the early morning sun beamed through the lobby windows, all was clean and new and you’d have no idea of the drama from the night. There were no raging rivers, the cars shone in the parking lot, and people busied themselves preparing for drives to Tulsa or St. Louis or God knows where. A wet sheen was all there was left to show from it all.

The local news revealed aerial images of the devastation. The twister touched down five miles west of here and lifted whilst on a direct line to Catoosa. Pure chance.

When the breakfast came I got up and left. A couple of unscrambled eggs had been nuked in a microwave for quite some time and served with a thwaking sound as the paper plate hit the table. Not even tabasco could save this thing – and it was a thing – a solid, disc shaped thing. Had I dropped it, it would have bounced through the ceiling.

The car was parked across the interstate, under the solid concrete of the Hard Rock parking lot, and I dragged my suitcase through the underpass, where some remnants of last night’s torrent remained. The storm drainage system must be incredible here. I made a note to myself to look it up, and weeks later I found a scribbled note that said: “Look up drainage,” and threw it away.

The electric swamp atmosphere of the previous day had cleaned up its act. God had sent all that back down south with a mighty fuss, and the morning was cool and pleasant. As I walked from sidewalks to forecourts, to open roads, to 50ft wide drives, through parking lots and back to sidewalks, I was struck by the thought that I could be the first person ever to walk the great divide from the Catoosa Hard Rock Hotel & Casino to the Holiday Inn, AND back again. This could be my moment. My chance with the Guinness Book of Records. Strolling down the McDonald’s drive-thru I felt an air of invincibility, elation even.

Some interesting facts about Catoosa then. The town’s claim to fame is a large, blue plastic whale named ‘The Blue Whale of Catoosa’. It was built in the 1970’s by a guy named Hugh Davis for his wife Zelta, who had a thing for whale figurines. That entire sentence is true. Located just off Route 66 on the outskirts of Tulsa, it became a must-see pit-stop for easily pleased road-trippers. Or seriously tripping road-trippers. You can swim in the pond that Hugh built around it, and even walk through the whale itself. Again though, it is a large plastic whale, the kind you might find on a particularly weathered mini-golf course in Atlantic City.

Perhaps even more surprisingly, the Port of Catoosa lays claim to be the most inland port in America. I know, who knew Oklahoma had a port? It connects Tulsa’s evil goods to the Arkansas River, and by extension the Mississippi. Along with the port and the Blue Whale, there is of course the casino. And then, well, not much else these days, to tell you the truth. The population is a squeak under seven thousand and the proportion of sex offenders per population is 1 in 446.

So, allow me to transport you back to the Catoosa of the Cowboy Age. The railroads had just opened up vast tracts of the Midwest to cattle and their cowboys, and the rest that always followed: bankers, builders, realtors, prospectors, soldiers, prostitutes, lunatics. Just like in the movies (but with a lower risk of violent death. You were far more likely to die from boring things like polio, dysentery or hunger.)

It’s dusty. Crops barely grow, and its clearly prone to storms. Cherokee and Creek Indians lived here from the early 1800’s, but before that, there’s no record of settlement. And with the railroad it became the stomping ground for characters too crazy to be anywhere else. None more so than Blue Duck, the Cherokee outlaw of Lonesome Dove fame. He killed, he terrorised, and he cavorted with Belle Starr – a legendary outlaw herself – and in 1895, he was released from prison with tuberculosis. He died soon after, right here in Catoosa. He’s buried in Dick Duck Cemetery on 193rd and Pine. Yes, Dick Duck Cemetery.

I got to the Nissan, proud of my storm planning and secretly relieved there was no parking ticket. Even though it said free parking for Hard Rock, I figured there would be a catch. But then, no one was going to park here for anything else, were they? There was nothing else here. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere.

No one except me, of course. So after an accidental double trip to the valet section, with confused ‘I’m not from around here’ facial signals sent to the suspicious valet man, I finally made it back to the Interstate, heading north-east. The plan was simply to eat miles with the eventual destination of northern Minnesota in four days time. It was such a beautiful morning. I felt alive. The freedom feeling was strong.

And then, once again, I got pulled over by an unmarked police SUV, lit-up in my rear view mirror like a Belfast night.

I was not speeding. I wouldn’t be speeding. I was exiting the Will Rogers Turnpike toll booth, and hadn’t even had time get up to speed. What the Hell, man?

“Licence and registration please Sir.” He was younger than me. This made me nervous.

“I’ll just have to get them from the boot. Do you mind me asking what I was doing wrong?”

“Sorry, Sir?” He was blank. I went blank.

“Ah, sorry. I meant the trunk,” And I reached for the door to get them out. He put his hand toward his firearm.

“What do you think you are doing?? Remain stationary please Sir.”

I nodded in complete obedience.

It’s safe to say we got off to a bad start, but gradually things de-escalated. It was a bit like the Cold War. Putting my hand on the door handle was the equivalent of Russia sending ships to Cuba; while he was Kennedy, hand wavering over the button. It transpired that I had not – get this – indicated which lane I was heading for on leaving the toll booth. If that sounds like bullshit to you, it sounds like bullshit to me too. He probably just noted my out of state plates and cheap, shitty rental car and assumed I was on drugs. Quite a few people over the course of the trip asked if I was on drugs.

In any case, with the relationship now chummy, he invited me over to his SUV where I was to sign some papers confirming my official warning. He actually let me in. It was amazing: completely black inside, the windows dark tinted so it was like night, despite the bright sun outside, everything dark except for all these cool blue LED lights and buttons and dials. It was nothing like my Nissan. And it made me wonder: if an Oklahoma Highway Patrolman has a machine this far advanced to anything I’d ever seen, what other mega shit could be driving, flying, snooping around this crazy country?

He was briefly surprised, and I was briefly alarmed at his surprise, on discovering the rental company let me take the car without an international driver’s licence. After a moment’s silence we continued as if that conversation never happened. He loosened up. Now, despite being a hardcore introvert it never fails to amaze me how once you get talking – really talking – to anyone – there are things in common you would never believe unless you took that leap. Thankfully all Americans take that leap for you, without the merest hint of hesitation. The trooper’s name was Dan. He knew all about Wales, he’d even been to Holyhead, of course he had. Some of his best buddies were in the Air Force and had trained at RAF Valley, they’d said it was a really hardcore place to train.

After two days in Missouri and Oklahoma I’d only had real conversations with three people, and two of them had once been within a hundred yards of my house. This was not expected.

Then something really strange started happening; Trooper Dan started casually swearing: Fuck this, fuck that, fuckin’ A. I’d never experienced anything but robot-like professionalism from US law enforcement and now this guy has me riding shotgun in a spaceship telling me about how his “Fuckin’ hilarious Polish wife hides in the fuckin’ bathtub everytime the fuckin’ tornado sirens go off.”

“Which is a fuckin’ lot,” he added.

Say what you will about US cops (and this was during the Ferguson riots, so plenty was being said), but I came to realise how much I underappreciated the Hell on Earth situations they have to front up to. In the States they genuinely risk their lives every single day, it’s not just a turn of phrase. Everyone here is armed. Lots of people are drunk or drugged or both. Storms kill indiscriminately. Dan was one of the first responders in Moore after the devastating EF5 tore the place to shreds in May 2013, the second EF5 to strike the city in 13 years. I didn’t ask, but he told me things I haven’t been able to erase ever since.

Now I’ve never fawned over any sort of authority, and I’ve never particularly liked alpha male types (and Trooper Dan had all the characteristics of your classic alpha male), and I’ve especially never warmed to officers who pull me over for no reason. But this was a guy who spent his working days trying to save peoples lives and comforting those who had suffered unimaginable loss. I know I couldn’t do it, and I have ultimate admiration for him and all the others who can and do.

He still pulled me over for no reason, though.

I told Dan I would be writing about my trip and he asked for a nice mention. So there you are, Trooper fuckin’ Dan. Seconds after pulling back onto the highway, he came up behind me again, lights flashing. What now?? But then he shot past, and while I couldn’t see the nod through the tinted windows, I sensed it, and just like that he disappeared over the horizon, already late for his next Klan meeting.

One other thing he said was, “You’ll like Kansas City.”