 In Havre I get off to
buy a sixer from Oxford Sports--my usual stop and purchase. The barmaid puts
down her paper and swings around to other side of counter, unfolds a cardboard
holder and fills it with longnecks from the see-thru fridge. A man walks
up to a woman at the bar, announcing that Donna's changed her number and
no one would answer the door when he brought the pullups over. He left them
on the porch. He saw the curtains drawn. "Just tell her this," he insists,
"she has to talk to me or I'm taking her to court. I should be able to see
my child on Halloween and birthdays. I'm 43 years old. I'm not a kid anymore...."
I walked past the gambling lounge, leather couches, shoeshine stand, Ms.
Pacman, clutching my brown bag, out the back door. Outside it's grey. People
smoke on the platform. Back aboard, they announce alcohol is forbidden in
coach but allowed in sleeper cars. I'll just have to be careful, keep an
eye out for conductors, avoid spilling, and gulp it in large mouthfuls before
it gets warm. |
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