Saturday, March 26

Out along the foothills, everything blanketed in snow and the particular dingy grey of snowclouds still churning slowly over the mountains. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were still coming down up above Jamestown.

In Lyons, I remember the only thing I’ve eaten all day is a chocolate chip cookie. I’m in-between kitchens and the Fork isn’t open for dinner yet, so for reasons that escape me now I go to Oskar’s and buy a PBR and a hamburger instead of waiting half an hour.

Not long after I’ve finished the burger, a tall guy dressed like a cowboy (hat, Carhartts, neck bandana) steps up to where I’m sitting at the bar and asks me if I’m any good at math. No, I say, but what’s the question? He wants to figure out what he’s spending on gas in a day if he’s driving a hundred miles in his truck at 19 miles to the gallon and gas is $1.80. I do some arithmetic. We talk about wear and tear on the truck. And you gotta keep in mind, I say, a buck eighty for gas ain’t gonna last that much longer. Well, he says, especially with this crazy presidential election.

I am reasonably sure that he really wants to tell me about being a Trump supporter several conversational beats before he actually tells me about being a Trump supporter.

He at least has the decency to look a little sheepish about it, once he notices I’m not really biting. And when he says well, we really oughta just all live as simply as we can, I don’t disagree too much with that part. I’m grateful he walks away without saying anything else.

Not that I live simply, whatever that means. A week ago I was just getting off an airplane from New York City. A week from today I’ll be on the other coast, paying too much for drinks and otherwise living beyond my means. I am the problem, guy with a ranch job.

I guess we’re all kind of the problem.