By Phil Roberts, 4-13-24
One day in mid-summer in the mid-1970s, I drew the lucky duty of measuring the jail cells and interviewing the various county and city officials about everything ranging from filling out the Uniform Crime Reports (UCRs) to asking about the quality of the food fed to prisoners. Cell-measuring was easy when nearly every cell was occupied. Prisoners were only too willing to hold one end of the tape measure. It not only broke up the tedium of the day—it gave them a chance to comment on the food. (I always asked, “How’s the food in here?” A far better icebreaker than, say. What are in for? or how long is your sentence?)
While one of my colleagues was counting dockets in the courts and the other was tabulating arrest records, both lengthy in Gillette in those boom days of the 1970s, I got to drive the state car to Moorcroft and perform the minor assessment of what the Justice of the Peace in that town had been doing since our last visit. If I had left-over time, I could get an early start at Sundance, on our schedule for Monday when we resumed our work after the weekend. It was a beautiful, cloudless day and, after lunch, it was turning out to be a very hot day. I finished in Moorcroft about 2:30 p.m., drove out to I-90 and I was congratulating myself on how smoothly everything was going—and then I glanced at the gas gauge. Down to a bit over a quarter tank. Whoops! I’d better find an exit and get back to the Highway Dept. garage in Moorcroft, wherever that is. We were told to gas up at highway garages and not use our state credit card, if we could avoid it. A long drive back to Cheyenne this Friday evening…
Suddenly, what did I see along I-90 but a rarely-used ranch exit on the interstate. What a stroke of luck! As I made the loop and began to cross under the overpass, I saw a State Highway Dept. pickup parked in the shade of the overpass. Again, what luck. The guy whose feet were sticking out the open door can answer a vital question. I drove up next to the pickup and I thought, as I saw the feet suddenly disappear into the cab, that the driver seemed to be rubbing sleep from his eyes. I reached over and opened the window on the passenger side. I asked that vital question. “Pardon me, but could you tell me where the Highway Garage is in Moorcroft?” He had taken a look at the state decal on the side of the blue state car. In the midst of saying, “I was checking on a rattle under the dash…” he abruptly offered to lead me there if I just followed his pickup. “A deal,” I said, not thinking of what was concerning him.
When we got to the garage, I pulled up to the pumps. Before I could get out to take off the gas cap, he appeared at the car window. “Don’t get out,” he advised, “I’ll put in the gas for you.” By the time I told him, “how mighty kind, but you needn’t…” he already had the nozzle out and pump ready. “As I was saying, just checking for a rattle…”. He brought over the clipboard for me to sign the charge ticket. “No need to even go in! On your way?” he shouted hopefully. “Yes, thanks. On my way,” I responded, not realizing until getting back to Gillette to pick up my colleagues for the long drive back to Cheyenne, that he might have had more than a rattle under the dash—and his boss in the highway garage didn’t even need to know about it….