"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.