Because a white Delta Police car approached me with flashing lights.  A female officer emerged from the car; she seemed stern, serious, severe.  “What’s going on there buddy?”

“Nothing.  Just passing through.”

“Well, we’ve had some complaints you’ve been pounding on people’s windows as they drove by.  Got any ID on ya?”

“Are you serious?”  I ignored her question.  “That’s ridiculous.  Why on earth would I ever do something like that?”

“I’m not saying it’s true.  I’m just saying we’ve had complaints.  Now how ‘bout some ID?”

“Why do you need ID?”

“Because I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing.”  She put her hand on her gun. “Now, if you don’t give me some ID, we’re gonna have some trouble.  Do you understand me?”

What could I do?  I gave her my Brendan Riley license.

I don’t remember taking off my pack; I do remember sitting on it.  I also remember my throat tightening, so I was conscious of breathing.  Those same visions flashed through my mind – lawyers, judges, courtrooms, jailcells, news cameras, reporters, protesters – all jumbled together with iron fears, concrete sorrows, and an overwhelming visceral dread of the cinching clicks and pinching steel of the serrated handcuff joints.  All the thoughts were the same, but I realized with rising horror, the situation was different.  Because no one was there to protect me; I was alone.  Neither Carmen Pace, nor her influence or cheesecakes, could get me out of the mess this time.

I was in big trouble. 

The female cop sat in the her driver’s seat with the door open, holding my ID in one hand, her radio in the other; I tried to listen to her conversation, but I was too far away.  I considered running, but what good would that do?  She had my license, and I didn’t know where to go.  I couldn’t believe it.  I literally shook my head in disbelief that all my plans and preparations, all my intentions, all my future hopes and dreams – all of it – it was all going to end by the side of the road in Delta, Colorado because of some severe bitch with a power-trip.

Another cop car caught my attention; it also approached with flashing lights.  A male officer emerged from the car.  He was a tall, pale, rawboned guy wearing black gloves and a black cap.  He glanced at me, then looked at the female cop.  “Was it Tisdale?” he asked. 

She stood, so she could speak over the opened door.  Still holding my ID, she ignored his question and asked, “Do you have a computer in your car?”

He shook his head, then looked at me.  “How ya’ doin’ man?  What’s going on?”

I nodded in reply, still sitting.

“Do have any warrants, that you know of?”  He stood over me like a giant. 

I stood, but he still looked down at me.  “Not that I know of,” I managed to say.  It was true, because as far as I was concerned, Brendan Riley didn’t have any warrants.

“Well, you should be free to go here soon.  The lady who made this complaint – she does this sort of thing – so as long as you don’t have any warrants, you’ll be on your way.”

“I want to run him through the database,” said the female cop, from her car.  She pointed at me.  “Something doesn’t feel right.”

“Was it Tisdale?” he asked again.

“Doesn’t matter if it was.  I want to run him through the computer.  He’s acting suspicious.”

“Maybe he’s got one.” 

The male cop pointed to a third police car arriving on the scene – this one a sleek black cruiser.  It was a Delta County Sheriff, and I could immediately tell he outranked the other two – not only by the way he looked, but by the way he acted.  He wore technical police fatigues – all black – and as he approached the female cop, I heard him demand, “Was it Tisdale?” 

She didn’t reply; she sat in her car again. 

So he approached me.  “Hey, how ya doin’?”  He hooked his thumbs on the sides of his vest.

I nodded.  “Good.”

“Listen up, here’s what I can do for you.”  He pointed up the road.  “I can give you a lift to the county line.  But just so you know, it’s out there in the middle of nowheres, right in the middle of 50, so tell me now if you want to go.”

I didn’t care where the hell it was – as long as it was far away from that female cop’s radio.

So after storing my pack in the trunk, the Sheriff retrieved my ID, and I rode shotgun beside him in that sleek black Delta County cruiser, doing 85 headed north on Highway 50, passing every other car on the road.  I was nervous as hell, of course; I thought his radio would cackle to life any minute and broadcast an APB for Brendan Riley, Tyler Anderson – or both – and all the trouble I had miraculously just avoided would ultimately transpire after all.

But it didn’t.  The only broadcast I heard from the radio was some complaint about a stray dog; it had nothing to do with me.    

So when we arrived at the county line, the Sheriff retrieved my pack and returned my ID, then shook my hand and wished me luck.  After skidding his car around, he drove away.  I was alone. 

I felt like crying. 

I truly was in the middle of “nowheres”.  Miles from the nearest town, all alone, basically broke, and terrified the cops would somehow, someway realize they’d made a mistake and come get me.  Maybe the female cop would call another cop in the next county; maybe the Sheriff would run my name in the computer – maybe, maybe, maybe.  It was all trouble, trouble, trouble.

I just couldn’t let that happen.  But what to do, where to go?  I was as stuck as I’d ever been since first running from the law – stuck on the side of the road – lost, abandoned, alone.

But it was beautiful there.  The High Country desert seemed to glow in the last light of the setting sun.  In every direction, mesquite scrub-brush plains rose into and eventually became distant flat-top mountains.  The overhead clouds were pink and gold in the raw red dusk; the air was clear and cold.  It was a time and place I never would’ve experienced rushing past it in a car.  That’s another thing I learned from that hitch-hiking trip.  You get dropped off and experience the most random place along the road; they’re places most people never see.  I guess sometimes, what you want isn’t necessarily what you need.

But I didn’t have time to think about all that right then.  I had to get out of there – fast!  But how?  Who was going to slam on their brakes in the middle of the highway to pick up some stranger along the road?

Hell, there was nothing to do but try. 

So I started jogging along the shoulder – literally – my sign in one hand, my upturned thumb in the other, my big heavy backpack swinging from side to side, while cars whizzed past me and the big rig trucks tried to pull me under their wheels with snatching gusts of wind.  It was awful.

But still I continued – cursing, panting, sweating – determined to get a ride.  I’d come too far to simply give up.

And then, up ahead, I saw the miraculous glow of taillights in the raw red twilight.  I couldn’t believe it, but it was true – right there in front of me!

As I sprinted up to the white sedan stopped on the side of the road, I realized old David was right for the second time that day – not only was I blessed, lucky, fortunate, and everything in between, but nothing will change your life faster than the glow of brakelights.

The driver’s name was Xavier; he was a sweet kind Mexican who greeted me in Spanish.  His wife was Maria; she barely spoke English.  He nodded, and she smiled when I thanked them in English, Spanish, and every other language I could think of.  They truly saved me, and I wanted them to know it.  I offered to give them money, to pay for gas, to take them out to dinner, but they just smiled and shook their heads, saying over and over again, “De nada, de nada.”  Later, I found out that translates into, “It’s nothing.”

But it certainly was something.  They saved my life – or at least, what I thought my life should be at the time.  And I felt humble and grateful for their kindness.

They dropped me off at the Maverick gas station in Grand Junction, Colorado.  I felt so relieved to be off the road and out of trouble I called a cab and told the driver to take me to the cheapest hotel in town.  

Actually, it was a motel – the Pine Tree Motel – and it cost thirty-two bucks to stay the night.  For that, I got a shady yellow room, with a big double bed covered in patterned blankets, a cramped bathroom, and an open closet.  There was a rattily old heater by the window, a TV by the door; I turned one on, kept the other off.  I just lay beneath the blankets and stared at the ceiling.  It took a long time to go to sleep.

The next day began much like the first – after downing a cup of coffee, I hit the road. 

My first ride was with a little old woman named Marie; she had gray hair, buck-teeth, and sat on a pillow hunched over the steering wheel of a silver Aries-K.  She barely looked at me, and didn’t say much, so I didn’t either.  I just sat there silently and stared out the windshield, wondering if I would somehow survive to get another ride.

I did; a guy in a furniture van picked me up.  He was a carpenter; I could tell because his dog’s name was Miter, and saws, compressors, and other tools occupied most of the van.  As we drove down the road, he showed me a photo album filled with pictures of his work.  Much of it was bookcases, bunkbeds, and desks – customized, of course – for rich people living in mansions.  When his phone rang in the van’s center console, he answered it, then tried to steer with his knee while writing measurements on a pad of paper.  I reached over to steady the wheel, and he nodded in appreciation.

The next ride rendered my sign useless, because I finally left Colorado for Utah.  I knew it, because Kent, my driver, pointed out the “WELCOME TO UTAH” sign posted beside the highway.  He was a wiry little guy – blonde hair, blue eyes – wearing a flannel shirt and jeans while chewing a toothpick and driving an old pick-up truck.  The sign was blue and orange, with white lettering, and beneath the formal greeting, it declared “Life Elevated”.  Apparently, in Kent’s life, the only thing elevated was his debt, and told me all about it.  Man, that guy could talk!  By all accounts, he was a “handyman from hell”, who bought and sold things in an effort to make a few bucks.  Cars, trucks, vans, pee-wee 50 motorcycles – he exchanged just about anything.  Currently, margins were best on electric wheelchairs.  “They got those glass-mat batteries,” he said.  “When they run down, you just pop the seal and fill ‘em up with purified water, then sell ‘em like they’re new.  Love those glass-mat batteries.”  He nodded.  “Wish I could get my hands on a few old golf carts.”  He glanced at me.  “But there ain’t much in the way of those things ‘round here.  No rich folks in Utah – poor old bastards, yes, but no golfers.”

He told me about one of his girls – Janet.  She drove a Camaro, and in an effort at precision, he actually spelled it for me, but he did it wrong.  Then he said, “I’m trying to pronounce it from spelling, but I ain’t no good at that.  Anyway, her dumbass parked beside a dumpster and got the back-glass broke, sure as shit.  So I bring it to this guy I know, say, ‘Dude, you got back-glass for that?’  He says, ‘Seventy-five bucks’.  So what the hell?  But I swear the guy was drunk,   because he messed up the rubber gasket.  Can’t believe I let that jackass put it in.  Anyway, I had to get her a new one, so I got her a Celica GT – that’s C-E-L…..”

I nodded.  “Got it.”

He glanced at me.  “Asked the guy what’s it worth.  He says, ‘Five-hundred bucks.’  I said, ‘Must be a piece of shit.  I’ll give you four hundred.’  You can’t listen to these people – they’re drunk all the time.  But then, after buying it, Vicki calls and says, ‘You want to buy a van?’  What the hell, right?  I say, ‘Sure, why not?’  So I spent another five-hundred on an Astro van.”

“You got ‘em both?”

He nodded.

“For both girls?

“I got a few of ‘em everywhere I go – old divorced high school girls I’ve known all my life.  Most the time, I don’t know if I should ask for their phone number or throw corn at them.”

“Corn?”

“You know, like a hog.”

I tried not to laugh; I didn’t want to disrespect the girls this stranger knew, so I looked out the window and tried to concentrate on the passing scenery, but I couldn’t help it.  I laughed and laughed as he continued talking and telling me about some guy he knew who built buoys for the Coastguard and the U.S. Navy, just north of Jacksonville, Florida, at a Trident Submarine Base.  It was quite a ride.

He dropped me off at the Gas ‘n’ Go in Green River, Utah.  That’s where I met Ivan Cruz – he was going one way; I was going the other.  But that didn’t stop him from giving me advice on my trip.  He was a short bald man, wearing threadbare clothes and carrying an army rucksack.  Apparently, he was also a pastor in the “Christ is the Answer” ministries; because of it, he ended most of his phrases saying, “Praise God.”  He had nineteen children with three different wives, all living in separate countries.  Currently, he was headed north to the Yukon Territory, where the temperature dropped to eighty-five degrees below zero, and Eskimos baked everything they ate with marijuana, so they all lived until they were 120 years old.  He was a Vietnam Veteran; he did four tours back in the 60’s.  In 1969, on August 30^th, he died of shrapnel wounds and remained dead for thirty-three minutes, until a Private First-Class revived him.  That ended his Vietnam experience forever, “praise God”.

He told me all this as we sat on a curb in the parking lot, drinking iced tea and sharing a pack of crackers.  Trucks roared in and out; families passed us on the way to the restroom or to buy a few snacks.  In the distance, across a vast expanse of ruddy Utah desert, flat-top mountains and broken mesas appeared to support small, ragged, white circular clouds – all jumbled together – like wooden tables supporting eggs and feathers.  I was exhausted from the journey so far, and it felt good to rest awhile. 

“Give us this day, our daily bread,” said Ivan, after eating another cracker.  “Praise God.”

“I don’t believe in God anymore,” I replied, staring out into the distance.

“Sorry to hear that.  Would you mind very much if I inquired as to why?”

I looked at him.  “I guess I’m sick of getting let down.  That’s all.”

He nodded.  “I feel as if you’re not alone in this assessment.  It’s sad, but true.” 

“Why do you believe in God?”

“I’m afraid the answer to this question might not satisfy you in your current state.”

I shook my head.  “Forget it.  I don’t even want to know.”

He sipped his tea.  “May I inquire as to why you’ve embarked on your current journey?”

I didn’t feel like telling him where I was going or why I was going there, so I didn’t.  “West,” I simply said.  “I’m headed west.”

He nodded.  “I’ve gathered this much so far.  I therefore feel obligated telling you about your impending crossroads, your decision with destiny.  I pray you make the wise choice, praise God.  If not – with your blessing – I shall petition Him on your behalf.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everyone traveling 70 must make a choice, and this choice will affect you and your destiny in the afterlife.”  He paused.  “Will you go down to Lucifer’s Lair, or up to the Sacred City?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Up here a few miles, 70 intersects 15, and you have to decide if you’re going south to Las Vegas or north to Salt Lake City, but I implore you to make the right decision, praise God.”

“I don’t need to go to Las Vegas.”

“This is the right decision, praise God!”  He stood.  “I’m so happy you have chosen wisely my friend!  So many of us succumb to temptations of the flesh.  I’ve seen it happen many times – a simple turn of the wheel, and eternal souls are doomed to burn in everlasting fire.  But if you are serious about your decision, I implore you to avoid temptation altogether and take 191 here.  Don’t even chance seeing signs to that pit of sin.”

“Is that another route?”

He nodded.  “Route 191, right here.”  He pointed.  “It cuts through the mountains and goes up to Salt Lake.”

I believed him; I didn’t think he’d lie.  But I wanted to see for myself, so I studied my map.  Indeed, Route 191 cut the corner off the 70/15 intersection, then terminated in Provo, Utah.  From there, it was only a short distance to Salt Lake City, where Interstate 80 makes its final run to San Francisco.

So after some more of his praises, petitions, and prayers, I thanked him for his advice, wished him Godspeed, and left. 

My walk to Route 191 brought me across a single set of train tracks.  There was nothing special about them; they seemed ordinary.  Except they paralleled the highway all the way out into the desert as far as I could see.  I stood there beside the road and looked around – the mountains, the sky, the clouds – it all made me feel so insignificant.  It truly didn’t matter what I did in this great big world.  Sure, I had come so far, but I had so much further to go.

The best ride of the trip approached me in the form of an old gray Land Rover – a boxy four door wagon with forward front fenders, center grille winch, and a tire on the hood.  It looked like a safari vehicle.  But it wasn’t driven by an African tour guide; instead, a surfer was at the wheel.      

Russell Emery MacArthur III claimed to be the only surfer in Utah.  He had curly brown hair, piercing blue eyes, and tan leathery skin that looked darker on his face because of beard stubble.  Beneath his bottom lip, I noticed a few stitches closed a wound that looked black and blue; also, more significantly, it looked like it hurt.

“Caught a fin in the face down in Puerto Escondido,” he told me.  “They don’t wear leashes down there, and it wasn’t long until I realized why.  Just got back…..um…..but you know that.”  He stared out the windshield a long time, then looked at me.  “Pardon me, but sometimes my   brain just fizzles out.  One moment I have my whole destiny planned, then the next thing I know, everything goes to hell.  But you know what I mean.”

I asked him what he was doing in Utah, but he ignored me.  He just pointed out my window, then said, “Frank Joyner was a millionaire by the time he was sixteen, blew it by the time he was twenty-two.  Now he just hangs out in these ranchlands with an Italian shotgun and shoots stuff.  Drives a big ol’ mudswamper diesel dually, rockin’ a six-inch lift and 33’s.  When he rolls across the yellow line changing a tape, these guys’ll be in a ditch for three days because no one ever comes out here.  All this land is his.  He once tried to start a Christmas tree farm – can you imagine?  In the deserts of Utah!  Most pathetic tree farm ever!  Short pudgy pines, crooked rows.  He limped around the place cursing all the time.”  He glanced at me.  “He broke his ankle riding a motorcycle wearing flip-flops.  Couldn’t change gears.”  He looked out the windshield again and nodded.  “Ah yes – desert, desert, desert – all you see is desert.  If you go out there, you won’t come back for three days.  So what’s your story?”

I told him I was going to California to see a girl. 

He nodded again.  “That’s why everyone goes to California.  I’m headed out there myself, when I find the time.  Met a Wyoming girl up near Bridger Bowl, Montana – half-bred Indian.  Almond eyes, dark nipples, Laramie Pete, I call her.  She kicked down my door and stayed a week.  Now she’s camping in Big Sur.  Gotta go camping to find her, or maybe she’ll just bust down my door again.  Who knows?”

No one. 

No one knew a damn thing. 

That’s what I realized plodding along in that drafty old vehicle with Russell Emery MacArthur III.  I felt so content sitting there, listening to his stories.  I really was making it; despite all the obstacles, I was gradually achieving my goal.  In one long detailed description that continually included tangents, he explained the difference between the Bonzai Pipeline in Hawaii and the Mexican Pipeline in Puerto Escondido.  One was a reef break, the other a beach break, and although he’d surfed them both, he couldn’t tell me which one he liked better.  Ideally, he’d like to surf Hawaii in the winter, Mexico in the spring, then hurricane swell all summer and fall.  In response, I told him I’d lived in Nags Head, North Carolina, the previous summer and caught huge waves from Hurricane Matthew in the fall.  For a long time, he said nothing; I thought his brain might be fizzling out.  But finally he nodded and exclaimed, “You gotta be shittin’ me!  Of all people, in all places, all the way out here – I run into some Outer Banks surfer?”  He reached over and punched me.  “Dude, one Halloween I caught some big ol’cray-cray mondo-mackers down at first jetty in Hatteras  – the Lighthouse goes off!  Where the hell is Buxton, right?”  He laughed, and I laughed too, recalling the bumper sticker.   He shook his head and said, “Dude, I just can’t believe this.  But I guess you know that – everyone knows that!  Crazy, right?  If someone told me I’d meet you today, I wouldn’t believe it.  It’s like this pen.”  He picked up a pen off the dashboard.  “If you told me I’d use this pen to write a check for a million dollars, I wouldn’t believe you.  Who would?  But you never know man, right?  You just never know.  The world surprises you everyday.”

Up ahead, the highway intersected the train tracks at a signaled crossing.  Before reaching it, we abruptly decelerated, because Russell lifted his feet off the pedals and the floorboard.  After crossing the crossing, we accelerated again.

Apparently, he noticed me noticing him, because he said, “I’ve been doing that forever.”

I nodded.  “I used to do it too.”                    

He pointed out my window.  “You know, those tracks go all the way to California.  If you ever get sick of hitching, you can always hop a train.”

I looked out the window.  “Are you serious?  Those tracks right there?”

“I see the Amtrak out here all the time – the big double-decker one.  Up ahead, there’s even a town called Helper, because the train gets another engine to help push it over the mountains.”

This time, I said nothing, and I felt like my brain might be fizzling out.  I couldn’t believe the same train Jending and I rode out of Chicago months earlier – the California Zephyr Superliner that abandoned us in Hastings, Nebraska – followed the same route as Russell and I did in Utah.  It was a staggering thought; I found it impossible to believe. 

But at that moment, I did believe something strange was going on.  Because circumstances proved another one of my drivers right.  Indeed, the world surprises you every day.    

Just past Helper, the road intersected the tracks again.  This time, both of us lifted our feet. 

When we arrived in Provo, he drove me to the outskirts of town so I could easily get a ride.  Then he shook my hand and wished me luck with genuine sincerity, before plodding off into his own destiny, with all its worldly surprises. 

I didn’t wait there long.  Captain Electric picked me up.  He was a big old guy driving a big old truck, proudly displaying his name on the door.  His face was red; his beard was white; a faded tattoo stained his arm.  The truck was also red; it had been converted from a flatbed into a utility truck.  There was some sort of crane in the back and compartments on the sides.  After climbing into the cab, I asked him how he was.  “Awful,” he replied.  “I need heart surgery and brain surgery, but I can’t afford either.”  He adjusted a ballcap reading: INVEST IN AMERICA, then stepped on the gas.  The big truck backfired, once, twice, and rumbled up to speed. 

But that speed was woefully inadequate.  As we humped down the center of the road, cars passed us on either side.  I asked him about his name, and he told me he was a Captain in the Merchant Marine, but when his boat “Penny” sank in the middle of the San Francisco Bay, he thought he’d find a new line of work.  “So I started doing odd jobs,” he said.  “Little bit of this, little bit of that, until I realized all the electricians made the real money, so I started classes…..”  The truck suddenly backfired again, then abruptly stalled.  “Son-of-a-bitch!” he exclaimed.  “Gas!  We’re out of gas!”

Automatically, I started scanning the sides of the road for a gas station; I didn’t need some long delay.  But Captain Electric turned his attention to the dashboard.  While steering with one hand, he fumbled under it with the other.  Suddenly, the engine roared!  “Two tanks!” he yelled, then laughed so hard he started coughing.  I stared at him, amazed.  After composing himself, he said, “I put two goddamn tanks in this son-of-a-bitch when I converted her – thirty gallon and ten gallon.  So there ain’t no stoppin’ her now – we’ll keep ‘er rollin’ out!”  He laughed again.  “Forget puttin’ her in park, right?  Don’t ever put ‘er in park!”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t care.  I just laughed and said, “Damn right!”

The streets are wide in Salt Lake City; they’re also clean.  It’s a city of God, a community of faith, founded and built on the principles of reverence and worship, not the secular desires of the unfaithful and non-believers.  I discovered all this while Captain Electric dropped me off on the corner of Temple Square, right in the middle of town.  The Temple itself – the headquarters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints – looked like something out of a fantasy book.  It was a triple-spired castle, like some sort of gothic pitchfork, upturned and pointing toward the heavens in a symbolic display of hard work, dedication, and commitment.  If I wanted further proof the city was, indeed, sacred, I had to look no further than the end of every street, it seemed, where the great pale face of a wrinkled old mountain rose up and loomed over everything like an image of God himself.  It made me realize Ivan Cruz was also right, even if he wasn’t a driver.

After arriving there in Salt Lake City, the first thing I did was get something to eat.

Across from the Temple, I found a little Mexican diner serving breakfast burritos for lunch.  For five bucks, I had scrambled eggs and chorizo sausage, rolled into a flour tortilla, then topped with pepper jack cheese, hot salsa, and sour cream.  I thought it rivaled the bacon, egg, and cheese burger Jending recalled so vividly and fondly, just outside Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia.  Or maybe I just liked it so much because I hadn’t eaten in three days. 

After lunch, there was nothing I wanted more than a cheap hotel room somewhere.  I could warm up with a hot shower, relax and watch TV, maybe even take a nap.  But I didn’t have enough money to stay in an expensive city hotel.  Besides, I still had to get through half of Utah and all of Nevada before even arriving in California.  So I pushed on.

It was an easy-riding afternoon.

A few interesting drivers carried me around the Great Salt Lake, then across the rest of Utah on Interstate 80 – the transcontinental superhighway that goes from New York to California without a single stoplight.  One was a make-up artist who worked at Savage Salon.  He wore earrings, nail polish, and jewelry; his hair had frosted tips.  Another was a surly rich kid driving his mother’s Mercedes.  He had long blonde hair, and he kept tucking it behind his ears.  Apparently, that day he was upset because he had a dentist’s appointment.  He hated going to the dentist, and he kept complaining about it.  But I just wondered if Utah was the only state where people used interstates to get to the dentist.  Finally, two handsome Mexican playboys – wearing Armani shirts, gold chains, and cologne – picked me up in a Spanish rocking Towncar.  They didn’t say a word – to me, or each other – during our entire trip.  So I sat quietly behind them, marveling at their silence, and wondering if they were thinking in Spanish.  The Mexican music was so loud, I know I did.            

Just past the Nevada border, in the town of Wendover – actually West Wendover, I later learned – a skinny college kid named Fred picked me up.  He had a shock of brown shaggy hair, a pale complexion, and tiny yellow teeth; they reminded me of corn.  Chain-smoking Marlboros, listening to the radio, he drove an old white sedan with the windows open; it had some sort of Italian name – Riviera, Monte Carlo, something like that.  He was a student at Great Basin College, in Elko, Nevada, studying the core curriculum because he hadn’t chosen a major.  Like most college students, flush with new insights and information, he wanted to appear intelligent when meeting strangers, but he did it by making profound declarations and asking inane questions, all completely unrelated to anything and everything.  After greeting me and telling me his name, he said, “Hell yeah dude, I know how it is!”  But then he nodded gravely and said, “Just so you know, I’m someone who trusts in the power of love, not the forces of destruction.”

I paused a moment, then said, “I too trust in love, not the forces of destruction.”

He nodded in approval.

Another time, he said, “The human conscience is divided into three parts – one-third is your own, another third belongs to your parents, and the last third is the party conscience.”

What could I say?  I agreed with him.

We drove into the setting sun, with visors down, trying to talk above the wind and the radio.  When he didn’t like a song, he looked at me and said, “I’d play a CD, but the last time I did shrooms I stuck two in there at once.  Now it won’t play them both.”

“Don’t worry about it.  That’s cool.”

“Hey, do you know what a liberal is?”

He dropped me off in Elko.  By that time it was dark, and I was tired, so I rented a room at the Regal Inn.  It was nothing more than an old rundown motel, with black-and-white security screens displayed in the lobby.  The rate was $39.95, plus tax – more expensive than the Pine Tree Motel – but well worth it.  Because I didn’t want to hitch-hike all night through the cold Nevada desert. 

I only had about seven dollars left. 

The room was freezing.  Not only did it feel cold, it looked cold too – white tile floor, Formica countertops, harsh florescent lighting.  I planned on taking a shower, but it was so cold, I simply turned on the heat and went to bed.  Lying there in the dark, I determined the reason for the stark temperature – no insulation!  Not only were voices audible, I could hear people banging around on both sides of the room.  But I didn’t care.  I was too damn tired to care about anything.

When I started hitch-hiking the next morning, I felt like an old pro.

A Karaoke singer in a Hawaiian shirt gave me a ride in a Ford Escort.  It had automatic seatbelts, and he called it the “Guillotine”.  When I closed the door, I realized why – it nearly decapitated me!  He drove me all the way to Battle Mountain, where a delivery man in a boxtruck picked me up.  He laughed at everything, and continually said, “It’s bad to the bone!”  We followed the Truckee River as it flowed down from the mountains, and also, I noticed, the Amtrak route again.  Elko, Winnemucca, Lovelock – they were all California Zephyr stops. 

In honor of the train, I lifted my feet whenever we crossed the tracks.