TONOPAH, Nev. — I’m toeing the abyss, and the very edge of civilization, here in Nevada, on an adventure that reminds me why I adore a good road trip — the endless possibilities, the greasy grub that sometimes tastes like pavement, the last slice of steamy-warm Americana.
CHICAGO — I’m standing at the arrivals curb at O’Hare on a night of deep and brutal cold, counting down how many seconds I have left to live: 10, 9, 8 … In midwinter, Chicago looks like it’s being held at gunpoint.
In our last installment, I was self-soothing with banana cream pie, a gateway drug, and hikes into the foothills with White Fang, our demi-dog, who’s about the size of a sheep yet produces much more quality wool.
My buddies have been asking whether I miss working downtown, and I tell them that I miss the clatter of hooves and carriages, the bustle of the urban core, the stench of the sidewalks, the occasional knifings and felony busts.
We had this thing going on the other day, Peterman and I, where all he wanted was regular cream for his coffee, and all he had to choose from at the diner were little plastic depth-charges of Irish cream or peppermint caramel.
In last week’s sermon, we discussed how I’d fallen out of bed, banged my head on the Old Testament and the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, before landing on the carpet that the 300-pound beagle had ruined over the years.
On a lazy morning at the library, we discovered that you can check out an astounding 50 items at once, which pretty much should cover us for the rest of the summer -- an item a day, a novel, a biography, a classic Jimmy Stewart flick.