Brandon is a Breath of Fresh Air.

Saturday evening Lala, Megan and I went out clubbing. It was a big deal. I got as balls to the wall pretty as I could considering I haven't even had a haircut in 11 months and we all went out to dinner beforehand. I gorged myself, knowing full well these girls could and would drink me under the table and I'd better be prepared. I had put all my lonely and pissed off aside, storing it in the backseat of the Civic under the dirty socks and Rollerblades, and went out unhindered by the likes of sadness. It was a wonderful feeling, almost new. Between the idiocy of Josh and the drama with my diseased relationship, it had been weeks since I'd looked at the world through unclouded, shining eyes.

Lala looked sexy and beautiful as usual in a black halter top and heels, so Megan and I had the honor of being the "Hi, who's your friend" girls. We like it like that. We split spinach dip and watched people watch us while we ate, over-dressed for midnight at 8 PM. Still, I wasn't wearing eye shadow or eyeliner -- that's a thing of the past for me. I like it like that.

After dinner we went to Hammerjack's, where I had first had the good fortune of meeting the girls, and I somehow traversed a laybrinth trying to find an ATM. "It's just through that door and go left," the lithe bartender in the cowboy hat said in Russian accent. I went out the door and to the left and into a hallway with more angles than a geometry textbook. I checked around the corner for Willy Wonka. Doorways decorated the walls, some with knobs and some without, but I headed for the one straight ahead. "I'm not that drunk, am I?" I wondered, noticing that the floor was getting closer to the ceiling and the doorway ahead was taller on one side than the other. But that is just the common side effect of buildings settling after a century of serving the public.

Through the door was -- what else? -- a casino. A woman sat feeding bills into an electronic slot machine, her face drooping and yellow, lit by golden, 16-bit graphic cherries and bells. Her backside looked molded to the vinyl stool she occupied. The machine gobbled the money with a mechanical slurp, the ends of bills flapping like a single strand of pasta being sucked through lips. "Feed the beast, honey," I thought. There was more animation in the twirling fruit on her screen than her eyes may have ever held. And I'll never know.
I couldn't see the ATM for the jaundiced light of slot machines, even though it was right in front of my face. The one boring, stoic machine, gray, unenhanced, like a CPA at a disco. Yet it gets more action than all the other playthings combined. It's the pantry where the beasts' food is stored.

Safely back on my barstool, after a trip back through a series of doors and crevices that would have made Sacagawea proud, we were joined by Rosie, a full-blooded Native girl with black hair stretching down her back and a smooth caramel complexion. She spoke with the rounded speech heard on the reservation and I loved it. I could have listened to her talk all night. "How do you deal with the stereotypes?" I asked her. Natives, especially Native girls, have a terrible reputation in Missoula for being stupid and quick to pick a fight. Granted, the fighting part they've earned, but I wonder if it's because of the former. I'd be scrappy too if everyone assumed I was stupid.
"I try not to associate too much with anyone who starts trouble, Native or not. I hang out with Lala and Megan a lot so people know me as someone who gets along with people real well. I don't just hit up the bars in Missoula when there's a pow-wow and then stir up some shit."
"Does it hurt your feelings to know how Natives are treated around here? Or the conditions on the reservation?"
We were interrupted when a guy -- a non-Native guy -- tried to hit on Lala a little too hard and we had to intervene.

Being white and asking a Native person about stereotypes and reservations is a little like asking a black person if they're pissed about slavery. You know it was hundreds of years ago and it wasn't you personally that enslaved anyone, but you still feel a little bad. I know I shouldn't, but I do. White Guilt is valueless as an emotion, but some things you can't help. So when Rosie and I were interrupted, I didn't push the issue. We were here to have a good time and any more questions would have fallen into the trifecta of taboo bar subjects -- religion, politics and admitting to owning a Flock of Seagulls cassette tape.

The barbacks cleared the dance floor but we were moving on, back to The Boardroom, where Lala and Megan had gotten me drunk my first night in town. That night it had been just the three of us and the bartender, and a lone Spanish man staring at the wall. But this night it was chock full of all-nighters, benders, frat boys, chiquitas and one bachelorette party. The bride wore Mardi Gras beads strung with penises and I, well on my way to a healthy buzz, sucked on one in the bathroom, waiting for a free stall. The maid of honor got a picture and we all had a good laugh. It was a good night.

The foremost thing on my mind was ecstaticism and surprise over how well I had pushed both Josh and the problems with my relationship to the back of my mind, if only for an evening. I twirled and popped and shimmied my way across the dance floor that night. "Dance like no one's looking," the proverb says, and that's exactly what I did. But for the first time in a long time, I knew I was sexy. That was another first, bestowed upon me by the forces of The Road. Fearlessness. And confidence. At some points it was only myself and Lala on the floor, while everyone else watched, men wanting us and girls wanting to be us. As awful as it sounds, it's a good feeling I indulge in about once a year. I may not be the hottest girl out there, but show me the hottest girl and I'll dance her under the table.

So as Lala and I were out there, by ourselves, shaking it like salt-shakers, a wonderful thing happened. A man with an obvious disability came out on the floor to join us. Given that his movements were awkward, palsied and a little slower, he had very good rhythm and my heart swelled with an odd pride for this stranger. Neither Lala or I danced exclusively or closely with him at that time, because the song stopped and we both were parched, but I was still blown away by him all the same.

I will say it here and I'll say it again to anyone who asks, I greatly admire anyone with a disability who, knowing that 99f the shallow girls on the floor in a club are there to see and be seen and not be seen with a gimp, would still get out there and dance.

I watched this man as he went back to his table of friends. He hopped up on a stool and drank beer and laughed. Looking at him sitting down, it was very hard to tell that he was even handicapped. Another song I like started, I asked Megan and Rosie to watch my beer and made my way back to the dance floor. So did he. I danced with Lala, and again we were the only two on the floor. The man bopped and snapped his fingers on the edge of the wood floor, swaying back and forth to the beat. Eventually, he ventured out. I gave Lala the "I'll be right back, are you okay dancing by yourself?" look that girls give each other sometimes and made my way closer to the edge of the floor where the man was dancing, shifting his weight rhythmically on a-symetrical knees. I held out my arm, curling my finger to say, "Come here," and he did. He smiled with a bit of disbelief that I shooed away, grabbing his hand and leading him out further on the dance floor. We held opposite hands like a handshake and danced in a style that, considering the beat of the song, could have been called "plodding", but it gave me a chance to talk to him.

"What's your name?!" I shouted over the bass.
"Brandon! And you?!"
"Jessica!"
"Nice to meet you!"
He wore glasses and a white T-shirt tucked into khaki pants. He was about a foot shorter than me, and had a fanstastic, wide smile. Lucky for me, he was well on his way to being drunk as well. He made several bold exclamations to me as we paraded slowly around the dance floor, which by this time had filled to the brim with wannabe-strippers and men who wanted to take them home. "Missoula is the new City of Sin!" he cried over the music.
"Really?"
"Yeah! What happens in Missoula stays in Missoula!"
"I see."
"It can get pretty crazy!"
"I noticed!" I was, after all, the girl who had fellated a string of Mardi Gras in a public restroom.

The song ended and we parted ways for the time being. Walking back to where Megan and Rosie held court over our table, I was chatted up by a strapping, blonde frat guy, only to be whisked away by a middle- aged Chinese man in a tight black wifebeater. For having come of age in New York City, I haven't been to that many clubs, but I'm always amazed by the gamut that is run by the guys in one. Lucky for me that night in Missoula, the quintessential Puerto Rican New York City Club Rat was nowhere to be found, the scary kind that, in his short-sleeve polyester button-up, likes to push girls up against any flat, vertical surface and proceed to not only gyrate on them, but also sweat on, kiss and whole-tongue lick them from nape to scalp as well. I have fallen victim to this traumatizing type twice, and both times resulted in longer-than-average dry spells for me.

For someone who so agonizes over White Guilt when it comes to Native Americans and blacks, I have no problem narc'ing out the club rats. Perhaps this is because no war-painted brave has ever thrown me up against a wall and lathered me in foreign saliva. Should the day come, I would surely have no problem lamenting it.

The Chinese man and I danced for a few songs. As a woman, I made sure not to get too close, to imply the wrong intention, while making sure not too pull too far away, so as not to imply the wrong intention. As a woman, this can be a delicate matter. We must adhere to a certain, unspoken code, not unlike The Guy Code of "Don't Use the Urinal Right Next to the One I'm Using" and "Don't Sleep With Your Friend's Ex". This code, The "I-Like-You-But..." Code, exists in three stages:

1. "I Really Like You Tonight" -- This level of code is reserved for Guys You Would Take Home But Only For Tonight. In this level, you may dance closely with The Guy, which includes wrapping one or both arms around his neck, holding him close, and making sure his right leg is strategically placed between both your left and right legs as you grind on him. Further acceptable movements include pulling back and touching his bottom lip very softly as you bite your own and also scratching the back of his neck. Meant solely to ensure a booty call. Not recommended for partners you encounter after 6 beers or shots of any hard liquor.

2. "I Think You Are Nice And All For The Next Three Minutes But Please Don't Offer To Buy Me A Drink" -- This section of code is used in those crucial moments when you are asked to dance by someone you could never see yourself engaging in any affectionate act with, but don't want to hurt their feelings either, because it's obvious that they come here every week on the same night, dressed in the same outfit with the same haircut and wearing the same cologne and go home to the same basement apartment that they've occupied for the last seven years and god forbid you send them home crying. This is the guy you would like to pull aside and offer some friendly "girl advice" to, as to their general level of dress, odor, coiffe, career, etc., but alas, you are a stranger and you don't know this person well enough to do so. To attempt to befriend any man on this level would be social suicide, because you met in a club and therefore you are not "friend material", you are automatically escalated to, "This Hot Bitch I Met In A Club". You can never escape THBIMIAC status. This man, despite your best efforts to secure a platonic friendship, will consistently elevate you to a level beyond that of your comfort any time you are around him. However, when dancing with This Guy you may feign to enjoy yourself, while making sure to create and maintain an amount of space between your bodies greater than that of "I Really Like You Tonight" Guy.

3. "Sweet Jesus No" -- This level of code is critically set aside for those men your mother warned you about. However, you will blatantly ignore this warning and go balls-out for exactly the person your mother warned you about, and rather set aside this code for Men Your Mother Would Approve Of, which means any man in the club who happens to have a decent job, reliable four-door sedan, and respect for women, making him virtually invisible but for the crowd of Level 1's and 2's crawling all over the damn place.

On this night, I opted for Level 2 of the code with my Asian partner. In a conversation shouted over the woofer, he told me he had been born in China, moved to the U.S. at 17, and worked in his parents Mandarin restaurant in the mall food court now. "You come by, we have good food, yes?"
"I'll try!"
Eventually I ended up back with Brandon. I tried to find a semi-quiet corner so I could pick his brain without drawing attention to the fact that I wanted to pick his brain.

As is the case with Natives and black people, it's possible to feel pretty bizarre talking to a disabled person about their disability. You want to bring it up, but don't want to offend them by pointing out that you can walk fine. It's a fine line. Lucky for me, Brandon was The Most Upfront, Down-To-Earth Person Ever. "So what brings you to Missoula?" he asked.
"I'm a travel writer. Well, more of a traveler who writes."
"That's awesome!"
"What do you do?""Well, I'm pretty much in between jobs at the moment. I just finished an assignment with AmeriCorps. It's like the Peace Corps but stateside."
"Wow! That is so cool! What did you do for them?"
"I worked with teens in a dating violence prevention program. But now I think I'll go to grad school."
"Sweet. Where?"
"Well, not the University, that's for damn sure."
"Why not?"
"Too many problems. It's terribly mis-managed. Did you hear about our athletic woes?"
I hadn't.
"Well, our athletic director came over from Florida State. And he tried to make our team just like Florida State. What he didn't realize is, we're not Florida State. We aren't even Division 1, we're D-1-AA. We can't court the big players and we don't have the budget that Florida has. Most of the school's budget comes from taxes but only 900,000 people live in Montana. Compare that to 15 million in Florida. See the pitfall? But he didn't care. So when the end of the year came, there was a one-million-dollar shortfall in the athletic budget. Basically he was forced to resign in disgrace, but that didn't solve the money issue. So who ended up paying for it? You guessed it -- the students, and taxpayers."
"Dude, that's awful."
"Yeah. And also the president of the school doesn't care about students with disabilities. He basically said he's going to build his way out of the ADA.""What's the ADA?"
"The Americans With Disabilities Act. And he said he's going to build his way out of it, by registering the buildings as historical landmarks so he doesn't have to refurbish them or add special facilities like wheelchair elevators and things like that. He says it will be cheaper to build new buildings than refurbish the old ones. Again, who pays?"
"Man. That sounds terrible."
"Yeah, it's pretty ridiculous."

"So are you from around here?" I asked.
"Yeah, but I'm looking for a change. Missoula is cutting it anymore."
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know. Someplace with a good grad school where I could actually use my education degree. I like to check out new places."
"Have you ever thought about New York?" I like telling people to move to New York, I think it does a body and mind good to try. Everyone should live there for at least a year.
"Well, I've been there, which is more than I can say for a lot of people from Montana. I like visiting, but it's not for me. I'm too used to open space. New York is just all crowded and concrete jungle-like. I couldn't live there. My friend and I are thinking of moving to LA and starting a porn company."
"What?!"
"Hahaha, gotcha! But no, seriously, you don't think that would be a good idea? My last name is Viall so it sounds just like "vile". "Viall Entertainment", a porn studio! No? Come on, America thrives on small business!"
"Actually, you could probably make millions. Give me a cut and I'll be your marketing girl."
"Awesome. Will you do porn?"
"No. I'm marketing, not talent."
"Fine, be that way."

"I've actually done a lot of traveling myself," he told me. "I like to go to places that people wouldn't ordinarily go. You've been to Chicago, right? What part of Chicago did you go to?"
"Mostly the north side, but I liked the south side better," I said. "It's not as pretentious."
"Did you go to Cabrini Green?"
"Where's that?"
"It's the part of Chicago where even the cops don't go. Basically, if you get shot in Cabrini Green, you better have someone to carry you to the edge of town so the ambulance can pick you up."
"Some parts of the Bronx are like that."
"Yeah, exactly. So I went around the Cabrini Green area because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I wanted to see if it was as bad as people say, and just to talk to people. I wanted to hear their thoughts, and tell them that not everyone who isn't from there looks down on them. And actually, people seemed to respect that and they were more open to chatting with me."
"Did you feel scared at any point? Because I took the train into the South Bronx once, to do the same thing, and I was fine except for the people saying things under their breath as I walked by, stuff like that. Some little boys called me a honky bitch, you know. The usual."
"Yeah, I got a bit of that, but that's typical. And it wasn't about to scare me away."
"That's awesome." I really had to hand it to him, the guy had balls.

I thought about interviewing him, as in officially, before I left Missoula, but I enjoyed our casual banter. I didn't want it to become "an interview", since people sometimes change their words or demeanor when they know they're on the record. I mentioned this to Brandon. This is what he said:

"You can do what you choose, but just know -- I'm one of the most blunt people you'll ever meet. I tell it like it is, even if people don't like it. So if you do choose to interview me, rest assured you'll get the real thing. No holds barred. Being born with a disability, I learned pretty early that being honest was the best way to get around what may be considered rude questions by people, about the disability. You see, it's not that they know they're being rude, they just don't know how to ask the question, "What's wrong with you?" in any other way than how they're asking it, which is usually, "Why do you walk weird?" I even gotten, "Why do walk so fucked up?" My point is, in all of this, I learned to be blunt early in life and my shell got pretty thick. I don't much care what people think of my these days. That's not to say I don't care at all, I mean, I'm human. I started out with a thick skin but I was still shy. I opened up in college. But basically, if you were going to interview me, I wouldn't act like a different person." He laughed. "That was kind of a long answer, huh?"
"No, it was perfect."

We ended up back on the floor eventually and parted ways again. I went to find Lala, who was at the bar with about six shots of whiskey under her belt courtesy of a friend she had met up with, and Brandon went to find his friends. Megan was trying to corral Lala away from any source of Crown Royal and back to the table and she had it quite under control, so I went to dance with Rosie. We were just bopping around when this tall, dark-haired guy tapped my shoulder. I recognized him as one of Brandon's friends. "Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?" he shouted over the music.
"Yeah, what's up?"
"I just wanted to thank you for dancing with my boy. That was really... just... awesome. Thank you so much. You're like a hero."
I couldn't believe he was saying that. "Me? I'm not a hero, honey, don't call me that. I just danced with him."
"Yeah, I know, I know. But you know what I mean -- he usually gets ignored or even made fun of sometimes but you didn't. You know? That means a lot to me. That's why I say 'hero'."
"If anyone's the hero, it's him. He's a brave mother-fucker, that one."
"Yeah! Yeah! Totally! He's... he's the best. Anyway, thank you so much."
"You're welcome. Thank you."

When the lights came on and the bouncers started collecting bottles, I scribbled my email address on the back of a Taco Bell receipt from my purse and shook Brandon's hand, pushing it between his fingers. "It was so nice meeting you. Keep in touch, okay?"
"You bet. We'll meet back up in LA and become porn moguls!"
"Um, yeah. That."

"What a Jerk-Face Susan!": The Saga of Josh (new pics below!)

Lala put the kids to bed, I spent about 45 minutes in the shower with a bottle of conditioner and a fine-tooth comb and, one-third of my hair in the drain later, we sat on the couch, watching figures move on the television but not really watching. "So did you talk to Josh today?"
"I called him before I went to Max and Willow's and he said he'd call me but he hasn't."
"Well... you might want to call him soon. Tonight at work he told me he's going out of town tomorrow for a week."
"What?!"
"Yeah, he said he's leaving town."

Okay, people, let's do the math. Josh called and invited me to Missoula for a week. I arrived on a Tuesday evening. This was Friday evening (also, in my last blog post I said the day I visited Max and Willow -- the same day I had this conversation with Lala -- was a Saturday, but it was actually Friday.) So Josh, unbeknownst to anyone, least of all me, decides to get the hell outta Dodge and leave me stranded with no place to stay after only 72 hours. And as if that weren't bad enough, I had dropped off film to be developed in a week's time, because I figured on being in Missoula for a week, so now I was stuck. I couldn't just up and leave.

Lucky for me, I have some gracious helpings of Lala and Megan and Adam in my life. They weren't about to let me leave, or search for a place to sleep or anything like that. "You can stay with us as long as you want," Lala assured me, which I was glad for because I certainly liked staying with them than with Josh's cranky ass. I did try to call him, though, because I was just in complete shock that he would pull a stunt like that. Voicemail. I left a message saying, "Um, hey, Josh, it's Jessica. Can you please call me when you get this because I heard you're going out of town and it would be nice if I could come over and pick up the stuff I left over at your place, since I thought I was going to be staying with you some more. Talk to you later."

"Are you sure he said tomorrow and not next Saturday?" I asked Lala.
"No, he definitely meant tomorrow."
"Son of a bitch!"

Did he have any idea how that made me feel? Did he care? Obviously not. But in what shallow defense he deserves, he probably had no idea how it is to live on the road, to become dependent on strangers for human contact, to latch on to anyone who treats you kindly and cannonize anyone who would go so far as to invite you into their home for a week. When people think of traveling or road trips, they usually think of a couple of buddies taking off for two weeks, floorboards littered with fast food styrofoam and 2 AM pictures taken in truck stop diners. But no one pictures the spectrum of emotions, the exacerbated highs and lows, and how low one can really feel when someone dangles friendship like a carrot and you follow it for seven hours on a rainy afternoon, only to have it pulled away again. And Josh had evidently not thought things through that far.

Adam heard me make the call and looked at my quizzically. "He's going out of town? What?"
Lala answered. "Yeah, Josh said he's going out of town for a week even though he said he'd take her hiking and stuff."
Adam, usually the tough guy, tried to lighten the situation -- and my facial expression -- by using a silly voice. "What a jerk-face Susan!" he cried.
I did laugh.

The next day I stopped by to collect my things. I called Josh's cell first and got no answer. When I got to the house I was thinking of just going in the back door, since I didn't think he'd be home, but figured I'd knock on the front one first. "Come in!" a deep voice yelled. I opened the door, face blank.
"Jessica! Hey!" He was playing a racing video game and barely looked up.
"Hey. Just wanted to come by and grab my stuff."
"Really? Oh, okay. Did you have fun yesterday?"
"Yeah, I had a great time. You?" I was making a pile on the counter -- blanket, pillow, camera case.
"Eh, I just worked. It was okay."
"Still, that's cool." I sat on the couch to re-case some of my CDs on the coffee table.
"So what are you doing tonight?"
"Lala and Megan and I are going out. Just barhopping."
"That's cool. I gotta work tonight."
"Yeah, I know. And I'd say meet up with us after you get out of work but I guess you're going out of town tonight, huh?" I didn't quite bother to hide my pissed-offedness.
He was excited. "Yeah, yeah! My boys and I, we do it every year. My buddy's got this cabin up in the mountains and we just go up there and hang out for a week or so. Sorry about the short notice, by the way."
I feigned a hint of surprise. "Oh, you are? Oh, well thank you." I gathered my things in my arms and balanced them on my knee to open the door.
"Are you okay?" he asked, following me.
My eyes both welled and rolled as I put my stuff on the counter and turned to face him. I gave him a hug, the last one I'd probably ever give him. Love thine enemy, the Bible says, so I gave him a hum-dinger of a hug. Then I pulled back, saying, "Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. But I came here because you invited me. And you promised that we were going to do all these great things and now you're blowing me off. But I'll be fine. See ya."
I stepped out the door and slammed the screen in his face, the banging drowning out the confused, "Okay..." that trailed from his lips.

Later on, talking to Adam, he said, "I asked Josh why he was taking off on you like that and he said, 'Well, I shouldn't have to change around my whole schedule just for some weird girl I don't even know. Besides, it's weird to have someone stay in your house when you barely know them. It's not my fault!"
"He said that?"
"Yeah!"
"That's ridiculous. First of all, he invited me. Second, I never asked him to change his schedule, he offered to do it. Shoot, I'm pissed I had to change around my schedule for him. I could still be in Salt Lake City right now and then have come visit you guys after the fourth of July, y'know?"
"Yeah, I know."
"Dude, seriously. It just goes to show."

That is exactly what Josh was, he was a lesson. Just because someone is nice when you meet them and nice on the phone, doesn't make them a good friend. And yes, I was upset about leaving Utah, but overall if I hadn't left when I had, and left Missoula when I had, then I probably wouldn't have met all of the amazing people I've met since then, the ones I have yet to write about. And truly, all Josh did in that very moment and scenario was bring me closer to Lala, Megan and Adam. I am so blessed and grateful to have had them there, to hang out with, drink with, laugh with and dance with, the whole time I was in Montana that week.

And truth be told, I haven't discussed the three of them that much up to this point, because I've been concentrating on Josh because that whole situation was a point I'm trying to make, but to be honest, I really did have a good time in Missoula, all because of them. I owe them one, and if you ever make a trip to Missoula, be sure to stop by El Cazador and say hello. Just ask for Lala's section, not Josh's. Actually, don't even mention the name Josh, because they'll look at you funny. As is the case with most situations like this: NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE IDIOTIC.

Max and Willow pics!

Max and Willow, Revisited.

I met Megan at the Super Wal-Mart (not to be confused with the regular size Wal-Mart 8 blocks away) and, one case of Beast Light later, I was following her to Lala's. Lala herself was already home and Adam was nearly done with the steaks. He had outdone himself. There was asparagus, corn on the cob, homemade hollandaise, bean salad and of course, steak. It was amazing. Lala and Adam's three little boys were running around, too -- Devantee, Ethan and Juan. They were adorable. Juan sat in my lap during dinner, drinking water out of my Six Million Dollar Thermos. Adam had bought some bottles of chiles, Mexican spices, and was testing them out on the corn. "This would be great on oranges," he said. Lala and Megan agreed.
"Huh?" I asked, ever the rube. "Chiles on fruit?"
"Oh yeah! Look at the bottle!" Sure enough, there was a pineapple and an orange on the label.
And here this whole time I thought I was an expert on Mexican food after living in LA for two years.

Adam inflated the family air mattress for me in the kid's playroom and they had fun jumping on it and playing hide and seek on top, under, and around it. Being with them made me think of what the triplets will be like in a few years. And I'm very afraid.

As the night grew later, Devantee and Ethan fell asleep downstairs, watching caricaturas where it was cooler, and Juan actually fell asleep on the kitchen floor at his mother's feet. "Is he okay right there?" I asked.
Lala giggled. "Oh yeah, he loves the floor. Seriously, even if I put him to sleep in his crib, he'll get out and lie down on the floor. He's funny like that."

We drank beer and discussed everything from immigration reform to Josh to eating the worm.
Adam told me about a woman in Missoula who formed her own church in which prostitution is legal -- the perfect American loophole. "Yeah, she has her own website, it's called snatchtemple.com. Except she's not really cute."
"Yeah, and she looks like she's been rode hard and put away wet," Megan added.
"Dually noted," I said.
After awhile we all looked pitifully at Megan. "You have to be up at seven!"
"I know, I know," and she reluctantly went to bed on the couch in the basement, her usual spot.

We followed suit soon after and before I fell asleep I thanked god that, even though Josh was a weirdo and hadn't called, Missoula hadn't totally turned its back on me.

The next morning, at 6:30, I woke up with Devantee in my face. "What are you doing?"
"Um, well, I was sleeping."
"Oh. What's in there?" He pointed to my backpack.
"A bunch of stuff. What time is it?" I looked at my phone and groaned, hiding my head under the pillow.
"Guess what. I can read."
And with that, I was awake. (I was kind of sour about it then, but writing about it now I can't stop laughing. As is the case with most everything.)

I made Devantee some cereal and swiped a handful for myself, then tried my best to pawn him off on the television and sneak away under cover of bright morning sunlight. No dice. Ethan appeared, and soon the two of them were bouncing off the walls and onto the bed I was trying desperately to sleep on. I tickled them to get rid of my hangover and we played for awhile, until I really did fall back asleep, from exhaustion. They left me alone for about 45 minutes, then it was Juan's turn. We played hide and seek and Devantee showed off his stellar reading skills that he woke me up to tell me about, then Lala and Adam took the kids out to breakfast. "Do you want to come?" they asked.
I wasn't hungry, so I stayed home and showered and thought up ways to fix my ailing relationship. No dice.

The rest of the day was spent writing and on the phone, until about 5:30 when I decided to take a drive over to Turah. Turah. Wonderful Turah, wonderful only because it is home to The Two Most Beautiful People Ever. Max and Willow. I called Josh on my way there to see if he wanted to tag along. "No thanks, I have to work. And I don't really want to hang out with people who poop in their living room."
"Suit yourself. Call me later?"
"Yeah, I'll give you a call when I get out of work."
"Okay, cool." I knew he wouldn't.

I was supposed to meet Megan and Lala at 8:30, and figured three hours would be ample time to spend visiting Max, Willow, Bernice, Burnett, Kathy and Larry. And Steve. And Lee. And Jamie. Man, I had met a lot of people in Turah!

I pulled up in the lot, my heart actually racing. "Why am I so nervous?" I wondered. To this day I still have no idea why. I parked by the C-store and passed Lee. "How ya been?" I asked.
"Oh, not too bad. You back to stay?"
"No, just to visit! I went down to Salt Lake City and Idaho and Wyoming, but I wanted to come back before I go to Seattle!"
"Well then! Have fun!"

I padded down the gravel lane to Max and Willow's trailer. The familiar stench greeted me before they did, but I was determined not to let it bother me. "I'll just stay outside," I thought. I saw Willow's bare, spindly leg sticking out from her spot on the bench seat, and Chickie barked loudly, running around the white Ford Galaxy to announce my arrival. I walked around the car and knocked on the side of the camper, the tin resonating as I called, "Hey!" Poking my head in the door, I came face to face with Willow's gentle blue eyes, a beautiful sight for my sore ones. She smiled her taut smile and nodded as I asked, "How are you? Are you good?"
"Who's there?" came a grumpy bellow from what little recesses the camper afforded.
"It's me!"
"Me?! Me who?"
"Me, Jessica! Get over here and say hi!" I had been tempered by Max enough to know that the old man liked to dish it out, and loved to take it.
His white head appeared in the doorway. "Well! What're you doin' here?" he asked through broken gums.
"I came back to visit! I missed you!"
"Well, I'll be! Can you b'lieve that, Will?"
Willow gave a blinking half-nod, her way of saying yes.
"So where ya been?"
"Oh, lots of places. Salt Lake City, Idaho, Wyoming, Yellowstone, Teton. But I came back to visit Missoula 'cause I liked it so much the first time! How have you been?"
"Oh, can't complain. Same shit, different day. I live here in a trailer with an old gimp wife. She drives me crazy. Makes me do everything for her." He winked at Willow, who swatted his shoulder, laughing. "Did you tell your parents that two hicks up in Montana think they did a good job?"
I blushed. "No."
"Well you be sure to tell 'em that next time. In case they care what hicks think."
"I'm sure they would."
"You can tell your boyfriend the same thing."
"Um, okay."
"How's that goin', by the way?"
"It's going. Sometimes I don't know where or how or why, but I guess it's going."
"Yeah, well, expectations are funny things. In relationships and not. When I graduated with my Master's, I expected all this honor and fanfare and elysium, but I never expected to be an old hick in a camper."
I said nothing, too busy trying to process hearing the words "fanfare" and "elysium" in a sentence at all, much less spoken by a man that most others would write off as a stupid, dirty hillbilly.

"Did you ever fix Willow's talk-box?"
"Huh?"
"Remember the last time I was here, and you were teasing Will and you pushed all those buttons on the box? And then it wouldn't work right and she was mad?"
"Oh, yeah! Oh, my! Yeah, she got it workin' again but I think if she were able to curse at me she would have been cursin' at me that day! Huh, Will?"
She nodded as vigorously as she could and swatted Max's shoulder again.
I laughed. "Yeah, well, you deserve it."
Willow laughed from her bench.
"Oh, you think that's funny, huh Will?"
She blinked and nodded.
"Well, I'm glad you're finally startin' to get the hang of our sense of humor!"
"Shut up, old man!" I teased, winking at Willow.
"By george, I think she's got it!"

"How's my dog?"
"Oh, that brown one?" Both Max and Willow had insisted on me picking up the town mutt on my first trip through. "His owners don't watch him none," Max had said. "He'd be better off with you. I can give you twenty dollars to take him to the vet for shots."
"Max, I can't just take someone's dog." Although I was more surprised at his offer of money. Here, a man with next to nothing was offering up what was probably his last twenty dollars to pay for shots for someone else's dog.
"Sure you can! He's always gettin' outta their yard and runnin' around. They don't watch him. Besides, you need a travelin' dog."
"Agreed, but I can't just take this one. My dog used to get out of the yard and run around, but it would've broken my heart if someone just stole him."
"Well, fine then. But I say they won't even notice he's gone. Tell you what -- the next time that dog comes through, you want me to hold him for ya?"
"No."
"Well, too bad, I'm goin' to anyway. That's your dog now."
I didn't like the idea, but I liked the dog, a friendly brown and gray pitt bull mix. He was the perfect size for my car, not too big or too small. In my head, I named him Bucyrus.
"So how is he?" I asked, noticing that he certainly wasn't being held for me at this point.
"Ah, someone complained to the owner 'bout him gettin' outta the yard all the time and we haven't seen him since."
"Aw, well that's good. He's probably better off. I don't think I could afford a dog anyway." But secretly, I was heartbroken.

"So are Bernice and Burnett here?"
"No, they went over to southeast Montana to sell fireworks. They won't be back 'til after the fourth"
"Oh, that's right, they were telling me about that!" I looked over at the Walker's trailer just in time to see them load their dogs into the blue truck and take off. "Well, I guess I won't be visiting Kathy and Larry today. But will you be sure to tell them I said hi?"
"Will do. So how long are you here for?"
"About another four or five days."
"No, I mean tonight."
"Oh! Well, I'm supposed to meet my friends at 8:30."
"Well, you got a couple hours. You want us to take you on a drive up to real Montana?"
"No, that's okay." I was nervous about riding in a car with them, lest I get sick again. I cursed myself for turning down the hospitality, but my nose would not let me say yes.

However, Willow insisted. She pointed at the red and white Chevy pick-up truck parked kitty-corner to the Ford and reached for one of the ropes hanging at various intervals around the camper, which Max had installed to help her stand. She hooked her one working finger in the loop and slowly pulled herself up.
"I guess that means we're goin'," Max laughed.
"Can I ride in the back?"
"Of the truck? Huh?" He was incredulous.
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Totally." Sadly, it was the only way I could keep from throwing up.

I went to the bathroom while Max got Willow ready to go. When I came back he was still using spit to brush the crumbs and dust from her blue tee shirt, the same one she had been wearing two weeks prior. I wondered if they had changed clothes since. It was doubtful. I helped her down the rickety steps and into the truck. I liked the way she held my hand for support as she took her slow, shuffling steps. It made me miss the times I volunteered as a child, with my father, at a group home for the severely handicapped. I found myself wondering what happened to the residents after the home shut down when Max brought me back to the present.
"You sure you want to ride in the back?"
"Positive."
"Well, suit yourself. I'm gonna put Chickie in the back with you. I don't think she'll like it none, so you gotta hold her leash and make sure she don't jump out."
"Um, okay." I wasn't thrilled, because to be honest Chickie was horrendously dirty herself, but what could I say?

Chickie, a shaggy black sheepdog, would not be goaded into the truck bed, so Max lifted her by the collar and tail. She careened into my lap and I wrapped her leash around my fist. She barked loud and steady as Max climbed into the cab, because she usually rides with him. And she didn't stop. Barreling down the highway in the back of the pickup, that dog yelped and whimpered and even tried a few times to leap out of the truck. I was holding on for dear life as she covered me in grungy hair and fleas and tried to deafen me with her cries. Between that and the wind I nearly did go deaf, although I did hear Max scold Chickie several times from the cab, opening the middle back window. She calmed a little at his voice, but still went back to barking each time. The road went from asphalt to gravel to dusty dirt, and we passed tiny shack houses with broken windows. We were heading up a hill, and I laughed at the potholes and absurdity of it all. I also laughed when three big dogs came running wildly after the truck, teeth bared, gunning for Chickie as she tried to jump the gate and fight them. If the truck had been going any slower they could have jumped in the bed, and then I'd have a real shit storm on my hands. I half-screamed, half-laughed as they nipped at my hair, which was flying at absurd angles all around my head, which I couldn't help because it would have meant letting go of Chickie.

Finally, we stopped on the top of a steep foothill, where an iron fence kept cars from sliding down the slope. There were no houses, just flowers, succulent sagebrush, tall willows and oak trees. Dragonflies and tiny yellow butterflies fluttered under our noses and wrists before swooping down the crest into the afternoon sun. (In Montana, where the sun sets at 10 o'clock, 6 o'clock is still the afternoon.) "Well," said Max, awkwardly lowering himself from the truck, "this is the place."
I opened the door to help Willow out. "What place?"
Max watched Chickie bound from the truck and run down the grassy hill. "This was the first place that Will and I camped, before where we're at now. This is where she learned to walk again."
"She couldn't walk before? I didn't know that."
"No, not when I met her. But she told me she wanted to learn, so we came out here and we walked together up and down, up and down this here hill. All day long, just up and down the hill. We put our camper just down there, see that tree? We put it right near there for the whole summer. By the time we were ready to move it for the winter, she was doin' real good walkin'. And this was about twelve years ago, before this road was here, and this fence, it was all just open, wild space."
I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. I had been amazed by them before, but this was unbelievable. I had never met two people more in love, under such incredible circumstances. Fanfare and elysium to helping a woman to walk again on a mountainside in Montana. It was nearly surreal, the stuff of Hallmark Channel movies. But no, it was real life, their life. The same kind of life that happens every day, all over the world, in our own backyards, the stories that make us stop and re-evaluate everything. "Why do 'regular' couples have such trouble making marriages work, when these two poor people, one disabled, have got it all figured out?"

Willow took a few tentative steps forward on her own and pointed, to what we didn't know. "What is it, Will?" Max asked. "The hill? You want to go for a walk?"
She furrowed her brow to say no.
"The rock?" I offered. "Do you want to sit down?"
Again, she frowned.
"Well, what is it then?" Max chided, as she began to get very frustrated.
Finally, she reached out with her good finger and hooked a tall, green willow.
"Oh! The willows!" I finally understood.
She beamed, and slowly pointed from the willow to herself.
"That's right! You go to the willows!" I could again feel tiny tears stinging behind my eyes.
"Yep. Belinda of the Willows," Max said. "She picks a willow every year and puts it in a vase. However many willows in our vase, that's how long we been together. What is it now, Will, five years?" He was teasing her. She gave him an exasperated look and he laughed. "I know, I know. It's twelve. So is this this year's willow?" He broke the stem about halfway down and handed it to her. She nodded. "This is number twelve? Okay, okay. Now let's keep movin'." He began to help her back in the truck.
"Wait, wait. Can I take a picture of you with the willow?" I asked her.
She smiled broadly, and struck a silly pose with the willow under her nose like a moustache.
"Perfect." I picked a willow for myself, my reminder of my summer with them, and we walked back toward the truck.
"Y'know," Max said offhandedly, pointing to the tree down the hill again, "one time me an' Will were doin' love junk down by that tree and a big ol' helicopter flew over us. So we waved and went back to messin' around." He winked at Willow, who was wearing her famous big smile.
"You kids are crazy."

A butterfly had found its way into the truck's cab, and Willow watched in childlike amazement. She looked at me and pointed to it, yellow wings bumping up against the visors.
"Yeah, I see it! I love butterflies!" Again, my eyes were welling in spite of myself. It was a beautiful scene, dirty truck, gnarled hands, filthy dog and all.
"Will has a thing for them butterflies," Max said, and waited until the thing had flitted away before closing the doors.

I thought it was time to go home, but I thought wrong. Max and Willow had more they wanted to show me. "Let's take a ride over to Will's son's house! You can meet him! We need to go over there anyway."
"Fine, but can you put Chickie in the cab with you?"
"Actually, I'm gonna let her run with the truck for awhile."
Which is exactly what he did. The dog ran in front of the truck and alongside, barking, frightened that we would leave her behind. She ran like that all the way down the mountain, until the dirt turned to gravel and the gravel to asphalt once again. "Get in, Chickie!" Max shouted, and she hurled herself into the cab, to Willow's dismay. But at least she stopped barking.

I tried to pull my hair back, already matted and snarled beyond repair, and wondered if I'd have to shave my head to get all the knots out. But riding in the back of the truck sans pup was downright enjoyable, as I could rest my arms on the gate and watch Montana go by. Tall trees, tall grass, tall rays of sunlight stretching across the narrow roads, making the asphalt appear glossy. Not sure of the local laws, I would bend over at the waist and hide whenever we came upon people, and I could hear Max laughing at me in the cab. Finally we arrived at Steve's house. He's Willow's son who was one year old when she had her accident. Now in his early thirties with kids of his own, they live in a trailer house on a residential street in some tiny town near Turah, and he works the third shift at a factory nearby. When we pulled up, his wife was giving their son a mohawk with clippers in the yard. A lithe little girl with white-blonde curls picked her barefoot way across the gravel of the drive, finger in her mouth. "That's Kayla," Max called to me from the back cab window.

I remembered tales of Kayla from my first visit with Max and Will. "She won't call Will 'Grandma'. When she sees me, like in the store or something, she yells, 'Grandpa! Grandpa!', but she's scared of Will. Kind of upsets Will, y'know? I tried to get her to call her Grandma but she won't." Now that we had invaded the family driveway, Kayla was somewhat more polite, but kept her finger in her mouth to keep from saying anything. Steve came around the corner and I recognized him from a fading, yellow picture on the camper wall taken ten years earlier. Gone was the long hair, the moustache, the baggy jeans and black t-shirt, replaced by khaki shorts and a baseball cap, as they often are.

"Hey, Max," he called, laid back and walking slowly towards the truck. He walked around the truck to plant a tiny kiss on Willow's grinning face through the open window. "Hi, Mom." Unlike many mothers and sons, they kissed on the lips, which was heartwarming considering Willow's level of hygiene. It was obvious they were as close as they could be for two people who couldn't converse with each other. I wondered what it had been like when Steve was growing up, if he rebelled and against what, to whom. Was he angry at the world for his mother's condition? Or her for getting in the car with a drug addict? Or had he been taught to understand, as simply as to reading and potty-training, to accept his mother's condition? Those are questions that time and tact cannot answer.

He opened the door for Will as Max introduced me and then brought up a subject I still don't understand the apparent severity of. "You talk to your grandfather 'bout that land yet?"
"Yeah, just the other day. He wants me to fly out there and look at it to see what I think."

Steve is being offered a huge chunk of land stocked with maple trees in Central New York, as an inheritance from his grandfather, Willow's ex-husband's father. Most of the trees are not yet mature enough to give sap, but the land is free for the taking (aside from the property taxes). But it means moving to New York, which breaks Willow's heart. To be honest, I'm still confused as to why. It seems like a win-win situation to me: either Steve and his family, Max and Willow all move out to the land and farm maple syrup, in a climate not unlike Montana's, or they sell the land for profit. What is there to lose? Still, the whole situation upsets Willow to tears every time the subject is breached. However, seeing Steve was enough to quell her tears for the moment, as she stepped out of the truck and held up her hands to him.
"Oh, you want a hug, Mom?" He enveloped her small frame with his big one, holding her tightly and leaning back for another kiss. I swelled with an odd jumble of emotions, one part being proud of him, for not shrinking away from her, despite the odor, and the other contentment. I found that I had become quite protective of Willow in our short time together, and I would defend her against anyone who treated her as less than human, for handicap, hygiene or otherwise.

The three of them discussed plans for Steve and Willow to fly out the next week to see the land. I tried to imagine Willow on a plane, but stopped myself, bristling with just the thought of anyone staring or snickering. I did wonder, however, what she would wear.

Finally, it was time to go. Steve shook my hand and gave Willow another hug and kiss before helping her back in the car. I liked him very much. As I clamored into the truck bed, I blindly assumed that we were headed back to Turah and was surprised when Max turned away from the highway. But the back of a pickup hurtling down the pavement at 75 miles per hour is not the place to scoot around and knock on the window to ask. After about fifteen minutes, which felt like fifty, we pulled into a tiny gravel parking lot alongside the Blackfoot River. Max got out and said, "This here's the place Will and I spent our first winter in the camper. We spent about five winters here altogether. Now we winter at the place you saw. But this was the first. Come on, let's take a walk, I'll show ya."
He began limping into the woods, not bothering to get Willow from the truck. "What about Will?" I asked.
"Oh, she's all upset about the maple syrup thing. I think she just wants to be left alone, come on."
As I turned back to look, Willow's usually gentle face crumpled into a sob.
I didn't ask Max why.

As we walked, the path grew narrower and more overgrown, then opened up again to a clearing padded with pine needles. Chickie ran ahead as Max pointed out some landmarks. "This spot here's where we put the camper the first year. We had a different camper then. It had a holding tank, but I broke a hole in it at the beginning of that spring when I backed it up over there, see that hole in the ground over there? Well, I was backin' up and ripped a hole right in the holding tank, and boy it stank! There was some people over there campin' and they were pretty downright mad with us, but what could we do? We just drove away!" He laughed.
"I'd be pretty mad too if that were me."
"Oh, I know, but this was 'bout fifteen years ago. I'm sure they're over it by now."

Coming into the clearing, the first thing I noticed was a large fire ring inlaid with three sets of stones in symetric patterns. "Ain't nobody supposed to be back here no more, that's why we camp in Turah," Max said. "State wanted to keep the land from gettin' used up, but people come back here anyhow."
"I can see that." The ashes were fresh. It looked like something from a documentary on Satanism.

Max disappeared with Chickie into the deep woods and I busied myself by noting everything in the brush that wasn't a part of the forest. A piece of a porcelain bowl, an empty can of beans, beer cans, a sneaker, a silver fork. Near a tree lay a makeshift raft, made of plywood on which was nailed a rust-and-plastic lawnchair. It was spray-painted psychedelic colors and some spots and vaguely resembled a medieval torture device. The swift river ran only thirty feet away, but the thing didn't look seaworthy, or even pool-worthy. Or even land-worthy for that matter, which was confirmed when a large red and black spider crawled from underneath the folds of turquiose plastic wicker.

On the shore of the river, between the trees and where the water meets pebbles small enough to serve as chunky sand, was the largest ant hill I'd ever seen. It stood about four feet high and three feet wide. It was actually a decaying tree trunk, so diluted and infested with ants that looked more like sawdust. It startled me because at first glance it looked alive. Tiny black dots moved rapidly over every bit of surface, giving the whole thing the appearance of static on a TV set. With the river in the background, the rustling of the pines, and the hum of gnats over the water, I could almost hear the same white noise. I struggled to find a suitable lesson in the thing, something meaningful about men and work and life and money, but came up empty. I heard a terrible sound in the distance, but close enough to be within the forest. It sounded human. It had to be Max calling the dog, but how? By removing a lung from his throat and compressing it like a bagpipe?

Whatever banshee was screaming, Max or not, he was nowhere to be found. "Lala and Megan are gonna kill me," I thought. The sun was already dangerously close to the tip of the mountain on the other side of the river. I took to examining the patterns in the fire ring, looking for symbols and animal bones, or at least sacramental sage, but still found nothing concrete to determine who had set it. Finally, Max emerged from the thick woods, Chickie on his heels and a tall, white daisy in his hand. "You ready? Where were you?"
"Down by the shore, just over there."
"Oh! Did you hear me call the dog?"
"I thought that's what that was. Sweet Jesus!"
"Yeah, Will hates when I call her like that, but damn, it works! Ja'stick your feet in the river?"
"No, not with these boots on. Maybe tomorrow."
"I'll tell you what, people get in that water! Man! That's too cold for me! But there they go, floating down the river in them inner tubes!"
"Yeah," I mused. Josh had promised that we'd go floating the river while I was there. I wondered if that would happen. I knew it wouldn't.

We walked back to the car in silence and I climbed in the back while Max handed Will the daisy through the window. "Better now? Yeah? Still love me? I love you too. Give me a kiss?" He stood on tip-toes to lean in the window.

He walked around to his door and said, "Okay, now there's one more place we're gonna take ya."
"Oh, god! I was supposed to be home a while ago, with my friends! I told them!"
He spoke slowly, which was unusual. "Well.... I mean... I guess we could take ya back.... if you really needed to go... but I really wanted to show you this place... I don't know why but I think it's real important that you see it."
"How far is it?"
"'Bout twenty, thirty miles."
There and back would put me at Lala's after dark, but it was Max. How could I say no to Max?
"Okay, let's go."
"You sure you still want to ride in the back."
"Sure as sure."

So up we went on Rt. 200, past Bonner, past the Garnet Range, past the ghost town of Garnet itself, past Miller and Twin Creeks and up towards McNamara, past the fish and game ranger station, until finally a dirt road led into a field by one of the thousands on creeks in Western Montana. Max yelled from the window, "Remember this place! It's the left turn after the ranger station! In case you ever need to find it again!" The field became a thicket and the thicket became a forest. People were camping on the water's edge but Max turned away from the road. "Remember this too -- only make left turns! One here!" -- he lunged to the left, now off-roading -- "And again here! And don't go up that hill over there, see that? Don't go there, there's bears! (Dually noted.) Go left here instead!" He parked in a grove of massive oak and fir. "This here's where Will and I'll come in a couple weeks, for the hot months. You gonna be comin' back through here? You can stay here, if you can find it. Remember, it's all lefts."
"Well, I don't think I'll be back for awhile after Monday. But thank you for bringing me here, just in case."
He looked choked by words caught in his throat. I couldn't figure out why. Again he spoke slowly. "I don't know why... but I felt it was important that you see this. There's something about this place. You can feel it. I don't know... I just... you needed to be here."
I must have looked quizzical, because he continued quickly, stammering. "I mean, I don't... you could... y'know, stay here... if you didn't have anywhere else, but... this place... it's nice, it's... I needed to bring you here."
"Well, thank you."
"If'n you come back before the summer's over you can stay here with Will and me."
"If I come back through, I definitely will."
Even though in my heart, I knew it would be a long time before I came back to Missoula. Although one never knows.

Truth be told, there was a bit of magic in the place, the same kind palpable in any scene completely surrounded by nature and devoid of any human elements besides you and whatever carried you there. Not Grand Canyon magic, not face-to-face with a bear magic, but magic all the same. Max let Chickie run as I watched the sun slip behind the mountains, leaving the shade dusky and thick. I was anxious to leave, anxious to not piss off yet another person in Missoula. "Lala and Megan, please don't think I'm a flake!" I pleaded with the air.

Finally, Max loaded the dog back in the truck and we were on our way back to Missoula in the faded light of Saturday. We made one more stop, because Willow wanted me to see Johnsruud, a public boat launch that fifteen years ago was just another unpaved piece of land that locals camped and fished on that slowly was eaten up by regulations and signs that say, "No overnight parking." We parked amid the weekend crowd, which is (I think) what Willow wanted me to see, the discrepancies between the grove near McNamara and this parking lot of late-model German cars with kayaks and inner tubes strapped to the racks, children running and carrying fishing poles, swinging hooks treacherously close to eyes, and half-naked teens splashing in the water. We didn't stay long.

Safely back in Turah, my hair a prime piece of high-quality real estate for any bird or rat looking for a nest, I said goodbye. Again. I helped Willow from the truck and Max laughed at me. "You really like helping her, don't you?"
"Does that shock you? You signed up for the same deal, you're the one that married her!"
He giggled through the gaps in his teeth, but really he was impressed, softened by watching us.

"Thank you so much for showing me around. It was a perfect afternoon."
"You remember how to get to the spot?"
"Yes."
"You'll give your parents our regards?"
"Yes."
"Okay, then. You're all set."
"Good luck with that maple syrup thing."
He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks. I have no idea what's going to happen."
"Whatever does, I'm sure it'll be fine."
"You're probably right."

I pulled Willow close to me, like Steve had done, rather than the typical periferal embrace. I didn't breathe, I just held her. "I'll try to come by again. We can talk some more then, okay?" Her eyes half-blinked and her chin raised. "Okay, then, it's a date."
"We may already be at the summer campsite," Max added.
"But you showed me where to find it."
His eyes grew wide. "Didn't you?" I asked.
He smiled and looked at the ground, softened again. "You're right. Go on, get outta here before it gets too dark."
"Bye, Max."
"Bye, girlie."

I made it to Lala's house at 10:30, just as Megan was leaving. "Dammit!" I cried, hopping out of the car. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know I said I'd help you babysit and cook dinner, I'm sorry!"
"It's cool, where've you been?"
"I kind of got... kidnapped.... in a good way. I had to ride around Montana in the back of a truck, I had no choice, I was forced. But it was fun. Um, do you have some mayonnaise I could spread on my head to get these knots out of my hair? Or a razor?"

Beautiful Megan and I in Missoula.

Fighting Lonely is Sometimes a Losing Battle.

My alarm woke me up at nine o'clock the next morning and I got started cooking breakfast -- chopping mushrooms, stirring potatoes, making everything look nice and pretty. If I had accidentally offended Josh in some way, I was damn sure going to make up for it. With omelettes.

When the meal was almost ready, I debated on whether or not to wake up Josh or let him rouse on his own. I decided against waking him and was relieved when his door cracked and he appeared, groggy but upright, in the living room. "Mornin'!" I said brightly. "Told ya I would fix you breakfast!"
He rubbed his eyes, almost in disbelief. "Wow," he muttered sleepily. "This looks awesome. Oh, man, is that sausage? Dude, sausage is my favorite, how did you know? Man, thank you so much."

We sat down to eat at the little counter in his kitchen. I gave him the pretty omelette and kept the messed-up, half-burnt one for myself. But before I let him sit, I grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Because you've been kind of... I don't know... you've seemed distant. And I wanted to do something nice for you." His eyes wandered. I pulled him into me and gave him a hug.
"Oh, yeah, I'm totally fine. Let's eat."
I wasn't convinced, but didn't want to push it.

"I'm glad you woke up," I told him, trying to liven the mood. "I was a little scared to wake you for food."
"Yeah, it's a good thing you didn't, 'cause I hate being woken up. I probably would've been pretty pissed."
What do you say to that? I said nothing.

I told him about the hippies and the bottles of water. He told me some stories of work the night before, of the one big black guy in Missoula who moved to the town to play football for Montana State and never left and now just picks fights with frat boys in the college bars. "Two months ago he punched me in the face in a bar and nearly knocked me out. All because of a girl. Then last night he tried to scam free tacos out of me, but I said no. Then he was like, 'Come on, nigger, come on!', like we were friends or something. He's like that with everyone."
Josh isn't the first person I've talked to in Missoula who remark on the presence of young black males, at the school mainly for football and basketball, but hardly any females or older black males. Knowing what little I knew about Missoula black culture, I almost felt bad for this man. He must feel like a veritable relic, a dinosaur, adrift in a community that accepts, but doesn't acknowledge him.

I had made so much food neither one of us could finish our plates. I cleaned up a bit and somehow Josh and I got on the subject of Jason Mraz. "Have you ever heard of Jason Mraz?" he asked offhand.
"Hell yeah! I have a bunch of bootlegs in the car, like underground stuff of his!"
"You do? Oh, my god, can you go get them?"
"Yeah!" I came back with a few, and we spent the next hour or so comparing bootlegs and versions of songs. Josh has an old guitar stashed behind his couch and I pulled it out, trying to teach him some songs. He's a pretty fast learner.

We were having such a good time and good conversation that I thought we'd made it out of the woods. At least Josh wasn't being distant or standoffish anymore, thank goodness. I gave him one of my bootlegs to keep. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You'll be losing a lot of good stuff."
"No big deal. I have a friend who can just burn me another one."
"If you say so."

Speak of the devil, my friend who had burned the bootlegs for me called. I went outside to take the call and sat on the stone wall overlooking the creek behind Josh's apartment. It was sunny and gorgeous, and the creek was crystal-clear. "I'm in Missoula! I love it here!" I told my friend John. Now that things were better with Josh, everything seemed A-okay. I had my friend back.

I hung up the phone, after waxing poetic on everything from Nashville, Tennessee to In-and-Out Burger, and went back inside, only to find Josh asleep on his bed. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just tired, I'm going back to bed."
"Um, okay. Well, I'm going to go into town to get some work done. I guess I'll see you later? I'm staying at Lala's tonight, but will you call me when you get out of work? Maybe you can come over?"
"Yeah, whatever," he said into his pillow, not rolling over. "Whatever. I'll call you."
"Okay."

"Bizarre" doesn't begin to cover it.

After a few hours of work at Liquid Planet -- where I still didn't see Jamie, unfortunately -- I went to El Caz to meet up with Lala. Josh was at work by that time as well, and didn't say hello. That stung. Lala still had about an hour left of work, but I chilled at the bar, hoping to get a chance to talk to her father, Alfredo. Alfredo is a virtual celebrity to me, after hearing so many stories of his self-made life in America. However, he was really busy and only had time to crack a beer for me as I sat and waited for his daughter. Maybe next time.

In the meantime, a young, attractive businessman sat next to me, also alone. I got a call on my cell and broke the cardinal rule, actually taking the call at the bar. I could have gone outside, but I probably would have lost my seat. So the businessman overheard me talking about Yellowstone and the bear and the calf and such. When I hung up, he was full of questions. It's amazing to me how people cross your path for all the right reasons at exactly the right time. His name was Damon. He's in his late twenties, he is a traveling auditor for the Ford Motor Company and he and his wife live in Denver. I needed him. I just didn't know it at first.

He had the usual inquiries and wide-eyed looks when I said, "Yes, I do all of this alone." I told him about What It Is That I Do, and in doing so was reminded of how incredible what I do really is. In the minutae of everyday life -- where do I sleep? what do I eat? how do I afford to do anything? how can I make this person like and trust me in ten minutes flat? -- the simple and wonderful essence of this journey can fade from the forefront. Damon helped me bring it back, just by asking questions.

The jarring thing he asked me was this: "How do you fight the loneliness?"
Aye, there's the rub. "I don't."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't fight it. I can't. It's useless. It's always there, sometimes stronger than others. But I'll tell you what, I do a lot better with the loneliness when I expect it. Like if I'm in a town where I know no one, then it's a given. I know I'm going to feel lonely, and I'm much better prepared to deal with that. It's times like these" -- I nodded to Josh, walking by with a tray -- "times when I'm expecting to know people and them to know me and treat me like I'm welcome, and then it doesn't happen. That is what hurts the most. And I know I shouldn't have expectations of anyone, but when I'm invited somewhere, and then treated like an intruder, that is the most hurtful feeling in the world. It probably hurts more than it should, but only because to be on the road like this is to live at extremes. Everything is exaggerated, exacerbated. The good is so good you can barely keep from crying, but the bad feels so bad that you damn sure can't keep from crying."
Damon watched Josh carry a basket of tortillas to a table. "Why is that guy being like that?"
"Beats me."
"Well, I'll tell you what. If you're ever in the Denver area, you just give me and my wife a call. I really admire what you're doing. I wish I could do something like that, but with the wife and the house payments and all that... ugh. It's just not something I can pick up and do."
"That's funny, because I look at all my friends that own houses and whatnot and I'm always like, 'Oh, man! They're so cool! They own a house! And I live in a car, what a loser!"
"No, no, not at all. I mean, the grass is greener and all that, but no seriously, what you're doing is very cool. I'd love to help out if I can." He jotted his number down and I traded mine.
Thank you, forces of nature, for putting the exactly what I needed on the barstool next to mine. Damon was a testament to the true kindness of human nature, which is at this point tantamount to perfection in my book.

Lala came over, smiling, and said, "You need to go meet Megan at the Super Wal-Mart to pick up beer. Then you guys'll come over to my house for dinner, Adam's making steaks!"
I looked at Damon. "See? This is the best part, this is how I fight the lonely. Just keep looking for people like her!"

Utah to Missoula, Take Two.

Leaving Utah, heading for Missoula, I cried like a baby. The entire time I was there was terrific -- Kristen took me rock climbing, hiking, waterfall-wading, and for drives up in the mountains (where I got REAL altitude sickness and ended up puking in her mother's sink). I got to have tickle fights with little Kaeden and listen to Matthew talk about the trading card game he was creating -- from scratch. Seriously, that kid is the smartest kid ever. Someday, someone is going to build a time machine and his name is going to be Matthew.

Kaeden wanted to play a game called Pirate's Plunder or something like that. It consisted of a plastic barrel with a spring loaded center, where you push a pirate figurine inside and then stick a plastic sword into slats cut in the barrel, until the right one catches, releasing the spring and causing the pirate to pop out. Except Kaeden had filled the barrel with something other than a tiny pirate. "Wanna play this game with me?" he asked, those big baby blues looking up at me so sweetly.
"K, what'd you put in there that's gonna fly out at me when I trigger it?"
"Nickels."

The second day I was there, Matthew wandered into the kitchen and asked his mother, "Mom, why is Jessica here? Doesn't she have a home of her own?"
I was sitting right there. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" Kristen said.
He turned to me. "Jessica, why are you at our house? Don't you have your own family?"
It wasn't being asked in malice or cruelty, it was just an innocent kid question.
"Yes, I do, honey," I said. "But I like your family almost as much as I like my own. So I thought it would be nice to stay here for awhile. Is that okay?"
He smiled. "Yeah, it's pretty cool!"
Pretty cool, indeed.

Fast-forward to nearly a week later, pulling away from Kristen's house and onto the freeway, bound for Montana once again. And completely in tears. I called Josh. "I'm leaving now," I squeaked.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm just going to miss Utah so much!" I sobbed.
"Oh, Jess, it's okay. Wipe those tears away! You're coming to Missoula! And we're gonna go tubing on the river and hiking and floffing!"
"What-ing?"
"Floffing. It's frisbee golf! Come on, cheer up! I'm totally excited, aren't you?"
"Well, yeah! Thanks. I feel better."
"I'll see you when you get here."

I was glad to be going from one place where people knew me to another. That, in itself, was a comfort.

I raced the sun for seven and a half hours, all the way to Hellgate Pass. Coming through Idaho, just past the Utah border, I watched a rainstorm pound a valley, but the sun shone over me as I drove higher up the mountain. Watching the clouds lower and rain fall so close, yet so far away was incredible. When I got to Josh's, it was twenty after nine and the sun was just setting. I gave him a running, jumping hug and he caught me, spinning me around and laughing. "You made it!" he said. "You wanna go for a hike right now? We can hike up to the L!"
This is my kind of friend. "Hell yeah, let's do it!" I cried.

Soon we were marching up a hill, which didn't look too menacing from the bottom but turned out to be a killer. We panted our way up to a large, concrete L on the side of the hill, which commemorates someone named Loyola who was instrumental to Missoula's creation. Traces of the sun remained, making technicolor paintings with red and pink and purple over the western hills. Every light in Missoula visible from up there, and even Josh, who's lived there for seven years, was awestruck.
"Can you imagine being one of the first people to see this?" he asked me. It's something I've been asking myself six times a day, everyday, since I left Chicago, each time I see something that renders me speechless.
"No, I can't."

Talking to him in person was like meeting again for the first time. I realized that I still didn't know him very well, but it didn't matter to me one bit. I was having so much fun just being with someone who seemed happy to have me around. The absolute best part about it was that he wasn't hitting on me at all, at least not that I could tell. There was no sexual tension, no "I-hope-he-doesn't-expect-me-to-put-out", it was just pure, unadulterated chilling. "This is going to be such an awesome week!" I thought to myself.

We padded down the mountain, slowly so we wouldn't fall, and decided to rent a movie. "It's 99 cents night at the video store!" Josh said. On the way to the shopping center I asked if he'd seen "What the Bleep Do We Know?" a docu-drama on quantum mechanics. He hadn't, and I made the mistake of trying to explain some of the easier points of the film. Maybe I alienated him by doing so, I don't know...

First we stopped at a gas station for bottled waters. Josh ran into someone he knew, a short guy with sunken eyes shrouded in baggy clothes. "Hey! How've you been?" Josh asked.
"Oh, man, I just had surgery. On my kidney." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal his hospital bracelet.
"Really? How'd it go?"
The kid pulled up his sweatshirt to show us his scar. "It's okay. I just can't work. Just been chillin' at home." He didn't sound thrilled about it. It was a strange conversation, especially since I'd never met him, but maybe I should have seen it as a harbinger of how weird and awkward things were going to get.

Josh and I did a lap around the video store and finally settled on "Waiting...", which I'd seen several times but he hadn't. "You sure you don't want to get one you haven't seen?" he asked.
"No way. You're a waiter, too. You need to see this."
"Okay."

While we were in line, a woman in front of us was giving the counter girl hell and beyond over a three-dollar late fee. We stood behind her for a good ten minutes, during which the driving and hiking and such got to me and I completely zoned out, exhausted and withered. I think Josh tried to talk to me at one point and all I could do was nod. When we finally got to the counter, Josh commended the girl on how well she dealt with Late Fee Woman. (Josh is a talker, he loves to talk to strangers. I'm amazed he was never kidnapped as a child. Then again, it's how we met, so I like it.)

We walked home in near silence. Something was different than it was on the mountain, something inexplicable. I tried to perk up and be good conversation. Josh hopped in the shower before we put the movie in, and then I took one. He started the movie while I was in the bathroom, and when I came out we watched from the middle together. Or rather, I watched him to see if he'd laugh at the parts that I laughed at when I first saw it. But he didn't laugh too much.

When it was over, we went to bed, me on the couch and he in his room. Goodnight, mittens. Goodnight, mouse. Goodnight, Missoula. Goodnight, house. Goodnight, Josh, who barely said goodnight. Goodnight, Jessica, lying on the couch wondering if she did something wrong.

"And you, Miss, are no Wadee!"

My second night in Preston started much like my first, except without the frantic phone calls and cheap booze. I wrote like a madwoman, trying to purge myself of every detail before it was broken down to a gelatinous mass that would drift, unrecognizable, though the recesses of my brain, keeping the snippets of childhood songs and other useless knowledge company.

Late that night I got a call from Missoula Josh. He and I had been concocting a plan for me to visit Missoula again, this time for a week, and it was time to hammer out details. Megan, Lala and her fiance, Adam, were in on the plan, too, so we decided that I would spend most of the week with Josh, except for a couple nights that I would stay with Lala and Adam and their three little boys. Sunday we'd all have a barbecue at Lala's, since she was going to change the schedule at their restaurant so both she, Josh and Adam would have the day off. I was excited -- Missoula had been such a great place the first time around, and this time I was going to get to nourish those friendships even further. I could ever visit Max and Willow again! I went to bed that night eager, though not ecstatic, because flipping through the channels I landed on a PBS documentary on childhood cancer. Nothing says, "Jessica, you're a douchebag for complaining about not getting hot meals every day," like watching a 14-year-old having a stroke on TV.

The thing that struck me the most was the juxtaposition of the parents versus the doctors. The parents never give up hope, even in the midst of the shitstorm. A doctor told a woman right to her face that her son was dying and she just smiled. "He's a fighter. He's a fighter," she kept repeating. "We just need to find something new, a new treatment." The heartbreaking thing was, her son had already had every treatment on the market, as well as some experimental ones, and nothing was working. The doctors were trying to explain to her that there were no more options, but she had that smiled plastered on like a Kabuki mask. "He's a fighter. He's a fighter." I turned off the TV before I could see if the boy lived or not. At least that way I can convince myself that he did.

Before Missoula, I had more time to spend in Preston, followed by a much-needed stop in Salt Lake City, Utah, to rest and visit some friends of Greg's. I woke up that Friday morning knowing that I had to check out of The Napoleon Suite, because I couldn't afford to stay another night. Rather, I would trade The Lincoln Bedroom of Preston, Idaho for the front seat of my Honda and the Preston City Park. The car packed and shower taken in Midget Shower, I said goodbye to my flippin' sweet room and pulled out of the Plaza Motel. I drove past the high school and past Pedro's house to the one place I know I can find solace no matter what town I'm in -- the library.

I walked up to the information desk and asked the young girl if I needed a password. I didn't, but she directed me to a tiny room with a desk and chair. "I'm going to be in here for awhile. Like, a really long time, probably." It was 11 AM.

I emerged from the room at 5:30, withered, hungry, not having taken a bathroom break or anything. At times like those, when I write so much, I feel like I expend more than just finger-power. Usually, I stand up in a daze, shaky, as though all the nutrients and energy in my body has been given over to Writing, leaving an empty, brittle shell of skin, an exoskeleton that then must be nourished back to health. And it's the greatest feeling ever. I love those days.

And then I eat. And I eat. I eat like I have never seen food before in my life. I eat like I'm filling a hollow wooden leg. And that day, I went to Big J's.

The creepy-nice employees behind the counter began their campfire round of "Hi, welcome to Big J's!" and I felt right at home, if still a little creeped out by how overly-nice they were. I was carrying my Six Million Dollar Man purse and children stared. "Mommy, why is that lady carrying a lunchbox?" I ordered a burger and fries and they handed me a tablestand. Then they brought my food to me -- which is unheard of -- and later on a manager came around and asked me if everything was alright. Bear in mind, people, this was a fast-food restaurant. I was blown away. Or so I thought, until the pretty blue-eyed girl came over to my table with a basket full of candy and sweetly asked, "Would you like a sucker?" Then I was so blown away my hair stood on end.
"Are you for real?" I didn't mean it to sound harsh, it just slipped out.
"Yes."
"Um, okay. Thank you!" I hadn't had a watermelon Dum-Dum in awhile.

I didn't like the way two construction workers looked the candy basket girl up and down and said, "Yeah, I'll take a sucker. Do you like suckers?" I wanted to punch them both in the face.

While eating, I think I saw one of Pedro's cousins from the movie, the guys that drive around in the hydraulic convertible. But I said nothing.

After Big J's I went to the park. It was a beautiful Friday evening and families were picnicking. Oak trees offered solace from the usually barren Idaho landscape. Children ran and chattered on the playground, some running back and forth between a little league game that was being played on one of the ballfields. The one electric hook-up in the park sat near the drinking fountain, and little kids said shy hellos as they came to get water. I said hi back and kept writing, occasionally stopping to people-watch. A girl of about ten reminded me so much of myself at her age I almost teared up, part from nostalgia and part from embarrassment -- she was ridiculously overdressed for the park, in a mini skirt, pink fur vest, pink rollerblades, pink go-go dancer hat, and a purse covered in huge silver sequins. She ambled awkwardly around the grass in her rollerblades, posterizing, trying desperately to look cute. "Yeah, that was me," I thought. "And still is?..."

Two very little boys, just barely three, chased each other over to the drinking fountain. Both were white-blonde with blue eyes. The one with the shorter hair opened his mouth and struck me dumb with this question: "Wadee, can you put some wadder to me, in my mouf?"
I couldn't move, I was in a cute-coma.
"Wadee, you pick me up an' push da buttin!" It wasn't a question, it was a command. I laughed and did as I was told. Holding a child again felt good.
The other little boy silently let me know that he didn't need help, by lifting his leg to kick me when I came near. "Okay, okay, I won't touch you." He giggled at me.
The two of them ran away, cheeks puffed out with water like chipmunks. Not one minute later, they were back. "'Cuse me, you push da buttin again!" Soon they were running back to the playground, cheeks puffed out.

The fifth time they came back, in seven minutes, I offered to give them a bottle of water, but that hospitality was refused. "No, iss gots gween in it."
"Bottled water? No, it doesn't!"
"Yuh-huh, iss gots poop in it!"
The quiet one giggled. "Hee, hee! Poop!"
"Man, you guys are hilarious!"

They came back for more water six times before I finally figured out that they were running over to the merry-go-round and spitting it onto the center, where kids hold on. They came back and asked me to help, but I said no. So they turned to the spigot on the side of the fountain. "Uh-oh!" I warned. "If you get those tennis shoes all wet your mommy's going to be really mad!" Mommy was eating dinner with some friends at a nearby picnic table.
"Nuh-uh! Mommy be happy!"
"Suit yourself."
Mommy shouted from her picnic table, "He's yours! Five bucks! You can have him!"
"Great, I've always wanted a slave!"
The boys started to spit water on me rather than the merry-go-round. "Whoa! Whoa!" I shouted. "I've got a laptop here! No water!"

I noticed the quiet one sneaking around to other families' picnics and trying to take food. It seemed that no one really knew who he was or who he belonged to. When he came for more water, I asked, "Honey, where's you mommy?"
He shrugged.
"Who are you here with?"
"Gamma."
"Your grandma?"
He nodded.
"Where is she?"
He pointed vaguely to the playground.
"Did you eat dinner today?"
He shook his head no.
"Are you going to eat dinner?"
He shrugged.
"Are you hungry?"
Again, a nod.
"Do you want some crackers?"
Another small nod.
"Go ask your grandma if it's okay if I give you some crackers, okay?" I didn't want to be the creepy stranger giving out poison to kids at the park. Still, hunger is a problem that sometimes goes overlooked in this country, and I wanted to do what I could.
He ran back to the playground, but never came back to give me an answer. Later on, I heard a crackled voice bellow and the little boy ran out of the park.

When it got too late to write, I drove around aimlessly. When that got too boring, I went to the only bar in town, The Owl Bar. Dale Earnhardt Jr. paraphanelia was everywhere. A hot game of Texas Hold 'Em was going on at a card table right next to the formica bar. The lady with the high stack was pregnant and sucked on a Pall Mall. The bartender was playing too. I had to wait until the hand was over to order. It was 10:00. I had to stay until I got tired, or I'd never fall asleep in the Civic. "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" was on, muted, on the TV above the card table. A man walked in and ordered a pitcher of beer and drank the whole thing himself. I sat there for two hours. No one spoke to me. No one said a word.

Finally, I asked the bartender why there were no liquor bottles. "It's a Mormon town. You can only serve beer and wine. You can serve liquor at an Elks Lodge or Moose Lodge, but you have to be a member. We're right on the border of Utah, so we get a lot of their crazy laws."

That night I parked under a streetlight and next to a sign that said, "Overnight Parking Lot". Still, the cops knocked on my window. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm just sleeping, officer. That sign says I can be here."
"You got any kids in there?" He shone the light into my backseat, revealing a guitar and scads of laundry, but no car seat.
"No, sir. But I'm not doing anything wrong!" I pleaded.
"Okay, okay, you're right. You're not doing anything wrong. You be safe, okay?"
"Thank you."
It was the first time the cops had bothered me since leaving for the road in April of last year. Considering how many times I've slept by the roadside, those are pretty good numbers.

In the morning I washed in the public restroom -- nothing says sexy like shaving your armpits in public restrooms, let me tell you -- and set off for Salt Lake City. Crossing the Utah border I thought, "Another state down!" Then I remembered that I had been in the southeastern-most part of Utah four years ago. Oh, well! I stopped for breakfast in Logan and had yummy homemade rye toast and watched a middle-aged couple corral two toddlers. "Listen to grandpa!" the man commanded. Grandpa?

Kristen, Paul and their family live in Sandy, just south of Salt Lake City. Road construction got me good and lost, and Kristen stayed on the phone with me for nearly twenty minutes trying to direct me to the house. Finally, success. I got out of the car and looked Kristen in the face for the very first time. It was like coming home.

Kristen is Paul's wife and Paul was Greg's old boss when he lived in Utah, which is how Kristen and I started emailing each other, which is how I came to visit them. The family is truly one of the most amazing groups of people I've ever had the good fortune of spending time with. Between the two of them, Kristen and Paul have eight kids, six from previous marriages, plus various friends and boyfriends and one random hobo chick roaming about the house. It was packed. It was never boring. It was heaven. I didn't want to leave.

My first night there I got to crash a wedding. Granted, I wasn't there to pick up chicks, and I didn't get any pictures (dammit!), but it still constitutes as crashing because I didn't know a soul there except a friend of a friend of the bride. And I stole a centerpiece. Go me.