A guy in an old brown van stopped for Carson the next morning. The man looked to be in his mid forties, thin, with a salt and pepper colour to his short curly hair and beard. He wore an old t-shirt, cut-off shorts and sandals. His eyes were red, and at first Carson thought the man was stoned, which wasn't the case.

The driver's name was Paul, and he was carrying a load of framed pictures in the back that he sold when he had to for money. There had to be at least fifty of the large pictures in the van, stacked together in a couple rows. Carson couldn't see what the pictures showed.

Paul said he had decided to do something different this summer rather than stay at home in Massachusetts . He was on a road trip for a couple months, heading in a westerly direction but with no particular destination in mind. He said he had become too stagnant in recent years, too much in a rut. He decided to do what he used to do often in the past and wander around the country; only these days he wasn't doing it with his thumb out.

The fact that Paul had hitchhiked in the past didn't surprise Carson at all. Most of the people who stopped for him had stood on the side of the road at least once with that hopeful look in their eye. The two men had no trouble filling a couple hours with stories of the road, and Paul liked the company enough to buy Carson lunch. They pulled over at a small diner before crossing over into Indiana . Carson felt a little shaky from lack of booze and he ordered beer with his lunch.

"You look like you needed that," Paul commented, smiling. "I noticed you were a little jittery in the van."

"I just came off a two day blast," Carson admitted. "Met some great people who liked to party." And how Carson wished he had saved a hit of that acid. Or at least gotten some weed to help ease his head down. The beer helped, although he still felt worn down. He had gotten some sleep the night before but had woken up early with the increased morning traffic. This was an overwhelming fatigue - called a crash - coming. He very much wanted to stay awake for Paul's sake, but Carson found his head slipping down.

"Go ahead and sleep, man," Paul said. And Carson nodded off. Paul was heading to St. Louis , which was all right with Carson.

Carson woke up when Paul stopped the van at a gas station-market in Indianapolis . Both men used the restroom, and Carson bought coffee, snacks and beer for them. He gave Paul five bucks for gas too. Carson appreciated the fact that the man had let him take a nap.

"I know how it is out there," Paul said. "A good night's sleep usually means three or four hours if you're lucky. Unless you're passed out drunk."

The talk warmed up again after a couple of beers each.

"I hardly ever drink when I drive anymore," Paul said, cutting himself off after two beers. "Not the way things are these days. There was a time when I never drove without a beer in my hand." They both laughed at that.

"I used to pop a top before I turned the key," Carson said. "That's when I had cars. The problem was I couldn't keep a car on the road and drink at the same time."

"Ten years ago you would have seen a cooler full of beer back there," Paul said, nodding behind him.

Hearing that, Carson had a fleeting wish that the guy was ten years younger. It was one thing to talk about the good old days, but it was more fun to be living them.

"Well, before you pull over for the night, I'll buy us some more," Carson said.

"All right. Once I park this thing, then I'll feel better. I don't have any place lined up when we get to St. Louis , other than find an all night supermarket or something." Carson shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"You don't have any weed on you, do you?" Paul asked.

"I sure wish I did."

"Maybe we can find some of that."

They did get to smoke some weed that night, after they purchased two joints worth of it at a bar they went to. This bar wasn't far from where Paul parked the van next to a restaurant. The restaurant had a bar, but it looked too expensive for their taste. They wanted to find a place somewhat like the one Carson had been in two nights earlier with Kendra and friends. After asking a guy on the street, they were directed to the St Louis Blues Bar.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Paul said, as they approached the fairly big place that had a boisterous crowd in it. Some rocking blues reached them on the sidewalk.

The place was pleasantly dark as well as on the noisy side, and the large square bar was full. There were two pool tables in a second room at the rear of the bar. A couple of guys shot darts. A tired looking but smiling woman bartender waited on them after a few minutes, and Carson bought two bottled beers - a dollar a piece on special.

"Never heard of it," Carson said, looking at the label. "Must be a local brew."

"At that price I'll drink it," Paul said. "And it beats sitting in the van."

"Yeah, this seems like what we were looking for. Besides, the only thing I've ever seen of St. Louis is the arch and the bus terminal."

They drank a few rounds, taking turns buying, and played some pool. It was while they shot a game of pool, playing partners, that Paul talked to one guy about weed. That guy talked to someone else, who had some.

"Might as well go all out if we're partying," Paul said, grinning. His thin face was flushed and he looked a few years younger than he had that morning. Carson felt as if his good luck had continued in his meeting this guy. The party continued.

Paul stepped into the bathroom with the man with the pot. The transaction only took a minute or so.

"Let's go try some, and then we can come back," he said to Carson. They walked back to the van, where Paul expertly rolled a doobie with a rolling paper from his glove box.

"I miss not being able to afford this on a regular basis," Paul said. "I can remember buying joints for fifty cents when I was in school." He chuckled.

"Well, I can't say I remember it any cheaper than a buck," Carson said. "But I do remember big nickel and dime bags that always weighed heavy. Hell, I went to school with guys that grew it on their farms." He laughed.

"Yep, you never saw skimpy little bags like this," Paul said. "This is two joints worth he told me. Two small joints." Carson thought of the quantity of free weed he had smoked recently. He hadn't smoked that much dope in a long time, particularly out of a bong.

He and Paul smoked one of the joints while listening to the radio - a "classic rock" station that played music from the late sixties to the early eighties. A couple of the older songs brought back memories for Paul who had come of age in the sixties.

"You really feel old when they start calling it classic rock," he said, laughing.

"It still sounds good compared with most of the stuff I hear now," Carson said.

"Yeah, that rap stuff doesn't do much for me."

"No, I could listen to some of it a few years back, but they've done it to death now. Like everything else that catches on. They try to shove it down your throat."

Paul laughed.

"Well, I stay away from as much of the media influence as possible," Paul said. "This is one of those rare times when I'll listen to the radio. When I'm high. TV, forget it. Newspapers I'll look at for amusement once in a while, the local stories."

"Yeah, if I see one sitting around I'll skim through it. TV? Well, all I can say is that I left a girlfriend one time because she watched too much of it."

They both laughed.

"Very few things irk me like a couch potato," Paul said. "I've known some good people who have basically retired to the couch these days. It's exasperating. They think they're too old to do anything but drink a six pack in front of the TV."

"Don't you feel like smacking them and telling them to snap out of it?" Carson said.

"Hell yeah I do. Especially when you see the crap they're watching."

When the joint was finished, the two men decided to walk a little further then the last bar to try another place. They passed a place to buy liquor and Carson went in and bought a pint for later in the night.

"You really do like juicing it, don't ya?" Paul said, smiling and shaking his head.

"It'll get the job done quicker with less pissing," Carson said.

"I bet you bought the cheapest stuff there was," Paul said. "The real rotgut."

"I usually do. But tonight I decided I'd get us something decent. Strong, but smooth." It was one of his favourite Canadian whiskeys, and one hundred proof at that.

"Well, we'll see how I feel when we get back to the van," Paul said.

He had already invited Carson to stay in the vehicle that night. Paul hadn't decided what his plans were in St. Louis . At that moment, it just served as a place to stop for the night, and have a little fun too. He, like Carson , was not governed by any schedule; his time was his own for the time being (although while he was in the city he thought he might try and sell some of his pictures). Carson was an easy guy to travel with, but Paul wasn't sure if he wanted to go in a southerly direction. Definitely not to Texas , he thought. He had been to that state years earlier and didn't have fond memories of his visit.

They found another bar, smaller and less lively. There were older drinkers here and the music wasn't as loud. Yet the beer was cheap and they could talk without competing with the jukebox.

"I wouldn't mind taking you further down the road," Paul said, "but I can't say that Texas is on my itinerary."

"Well, Houston is ostensibly my destination," Carson said, smiling. "It gives me the idea that I'm going somewhere."

"That's what I figured. I got the feeling when you took that nap you didn't care where you woke up." He laughed.

"Some people would have told me to get out."

"Yeah, some people want to be entertained. You don't do that, they get pissed."

"Unfortunately, that's the downside to hitchhiking. You know you're always going to get the assholes and the crazies once in a while."

"That's why I stopped," Paul said. "I got one scare too many and decided it wasn't worth it. And I was a guy who loved to stick my thumb out for kicks."

"I hear you," Carson said. "Just the other day I was thinking about my first trip west. I thought I was onto something at the time. It seemed like I'd been looking for just that kind of kick for years."

They both laughed.

"You must have read Kerouac," Paul said.

"Sure. Everything I could find at one time. Some I liked, some I didn't care for."

"Yeah, he was up and down. It was great when he was high and rolling though."

"I took a look at On the Road recently and I still liked parts of it," Carson said.

"That's my favourite. You know what I've been reading lately? It's about another guy wandering around, only it goes back a lot further than Kerouac." He paused for a swig of beer. "Don Quixote."

That surprised Carson.

"I've never gotten around to that one."

"It's good. If I was anywhere near the end I'd let you have it." He laughed.

"The last big classic I got through was Moby Dick," Carson said.

"Now that's one I haven't read. Always wanted to but never got around to it."

"It's got some great descriptions of the sea. And everything you ever wanted to know about whaling."

Paul smiled.

"There's a writer who could get rolling," Carson said. "Things would get a little slow, and then all of a sudden Herman takes off. And that's when I'd feel good and have a drink to good writing." He raised his glass of beer then, and they toasted. Carson went to the bathroom to empty out and have a shot. Again he had that feeling that his trip was going along as well as it possibly could; he had met another friend here, it seemed. Suddenly, he thought of Myra again; the touch of her warm, smooth, hard body came back to him and had him aroused. He had a hold of himself in front of the urinal and he thought of some quick relief action, but held off. Let's see what St. Louis has to offer, he thought.

"I got us a couple more," Paul said. "And then I figure we'll get out of here and continue on."

"Yeah, maybe we'll find a band playing. Some lonely gals."

"That'll be all right with me. I'll have a St. Louis story to tell my friends back home."

They didn't find a bar with a band playing, but they did meet up with a couple ladies of the evening outside one place. It was a "salt and pepper team", in Paul's words: one woman white, the other black; both in short skirts and showing plenty of leg (and plenty there was to show). They were clearly dressed for a night of business, and like any women they had ever met in that business, not shy with men. The two women, both fairly good looking and young (mid twenties) boldly sized up the two men as they walked up to the door. Both smoked cigarettes, and smiled at Paul and Carson. The red eyes said that they had been pulling a shift inside. Paul started some small talk with them, asking them where the action was around there that night, telling them where he was from, with Carson adding a few things. The working girls knew of a place where there was live music, but it was too far to walk. Still, there were hints that fun could be had.

Paul and Carson bought the ladies drinks inside, as they waited to get on the one pool table. The black woman, a little bigger than her partner, stood close to Paul, drinking her vodka drink and pretending interest in what he said. Carson acted friendly with the white woman, though he wasn't as keen about this kind of action as Paul evidently was. Carson thought that this night could get more expensive that he wanted it to. He had already spent much more of his money than he had planned to at this point in his trip, but he didn't want to seem like a poor sport to Paul. And the friendlier he was with this woman next to him, the more she would expect.

The bar itself was depressing: dark, old and rundown with a sticky wooden floor; a dive of dives. There wasn't the easy air about the place as there had been in the other bars; Carson sensed that the looks they received from other drinkers weren't friendly. Here were people who were probably miserable before coming into the place, and whose moods couldn't be expected to improve no matter how much booze they sucked up. It looked like a place for fights, Carson thought. He wondered if Paul had noticed that, but his new friend was absorbed with his thoughts on one subject, and that subject obviously centred on the well-stacked figure in wooden heels before him. It had probably been a long time for him, Carson thought. Hell, it had been quite some time for him before Pittsburgh.

The white woman seemed to be waiting for more of a sign of interest from him, and kept looking around the bar. Carson had run out of small talk. He went into the dirty, stinking little pisser for another shot. He wouldn't have minded another toke of weed then, and decided to suggest it to Paul. It would get them out of this dump at least, and maybe the women knew of a place they could go.

The working women had a room nearby (only a block from the bar), which was no surprise. It was located on the second floor of an old, rundown house, and was reached by going up a shaky flight of wooden stairs that rose from a muddy yard. The house and surroundings were as depressing as the bar, Carson thought. The four of them had smoked the second joint in a side alley by the bar, and it was clear that Paul was going to go with the black woman. They went into the room first.

"You're not shy, are you?" the white woman, whose name was Sharon , asked, giving Carson her most girlish of smiles. Carson could see in an instant that what looks Sharon did have wouldn't last more than a few short years. She looked a little too thin for her frame now (crack?), and there was no smile that could completely hide the weariness that was there at bottom.

Carson had hesitated before going up the stairs, still thinking that he might just let Paul have his fun, and wait down here. But Sharon wasn't going to let that happen. They were all high and drunk, and she now assumed, rightly so, that the rest of the business would be concluded. She came to terms with him (her best deal for a quick servicing), which wasn't as hard on his wallet as Carson thought it'd be. "Excuse us," Sharon said, leading him by the hand to the small bathroom in the place. By the one bed in the place, the black woman was already attending to Paul, whose pants were around his shoes.

Sharon shut the bathroom door, thinking he might want privacy. She got busy right away as Carson looked out a screen window at the lit sign for a nearby garage sticking up over some smaller houses and buildings. "Ooh, I thought this was you," she said with a laugh, discovering the whisky bottle. Carson took another little swig and offered it to her. She poured a little on her fingers and rubbed it on his dick, sticking her tongue out teasingly. She rubbed his ass and pushed him up against the door. Then he concentrated on her dyed blond hair and the black roots he could see. He heard the sounds of traffic and a short squeal of tires. Then there was the sound of some guy yelling, drunk it sounded like.

The next morning, Paul decided that he wanted to try and sell a picture or two, and that if Carson didn't mind waiting a couple hours or so, he'd take him to Kansas City . The night before, sitting in the van and drinking the last of the whisky, the two of them had looked over a map, and their eyes went right to that city. It seemed to be the next logical stop on their journey, and of course the famous song about someone going to that city came to mind. Both were drunk enough to try to sing the lyrics they could remember.

In the morning, Carson didn't care where they went or when, as long as he got some hair of the dog. Paul first insisted that they get some breakfast and coffee.

"That's one thing I did learn from my wild years," he said. "It might not be the first thing on your mind, but you'll last longer. I don't want you passing out on me today." Carson was hungry, but the food he ate didn't stay down, though he didn't tell Paul this. He had hustled into a bathroom just in time.

Of course he felt better once he had gotten a beer into him, and he sat in the van in shopping plaza parking lot as Paul tried to sell one of his paintings or velvet pictures. Some of the paintings were actually Paul's own work, some of them the work of other artists he had picked up cheap somewhere back home along with the garish, velvet pictures that Carson had seen the likes of in carnivals or fairs. The velvet pictures were of famous people like Elvis or Marilyn Monroe, or of snarling tigers, fire breathing dragons, cobras ready to strike, along with a couple of Harley Davidson ones. They had colours like purple and black, orange, pink and blue, combinations meant to stand out and grab you, but nonetheless overdone and cheap looking when all was said and done. But like Paul had said, he had gotten a bunch of them cheap from someone he knew; he had taken them off that person's hands.

Paul's own paintings were landscapes of different places he had been to: some from Florida with palm or cypress trees, Everglades's scenes, orange sunlight setting over water; some coastal scenes from the Carolinas; and then some with a New England setting and the famous Fall colours. Carson thought they were pleasing and competent, if not memorable, but he refrained from any critical comments, his knowledge of painting being quite limited.

The same could be said for the other artwork in the collection that took up a good bit of space in the rear of the van. Competent, but nothing he would personally hang on a wall: horses, birds, dogs, cats, farm scenes, light blue sky with clouds. Carson wondered how much of a living Paul could make with this stuff, as he watched the artist approach a woman who was loading something in her car. There appeared to be a lot of quick talk along with the hand gestures and smiles, trying to get the fish to bite and then keep it on the hook. Carson had to give the guy credit for having balls; it was the kind of sales work that he wouldn't even consider doing. He didn't have the confidence or the nerve, and he hoped Paul wouldn't ask him to try.

After an unsuccessful attempt at a sale, Paul would look around to see if any other people were walking through the lot, and if not, he'd come back to the van. When he saw somebody that he thought might be a potential buyer, he quickly made a decision as to what kind of picture they might by. He usually approached somebody with two in his hands, one of his own work perhaps, and one of the animal pictures. The animals sold well, according to Paul.

Carson was surprised when, after an hour and a half or so (and three beers), Paul sold one of the paintings: a country scene with a pond and birds. He had told the elderly man that he had painted the picture himself. Carson was sitting in the van, reading, when Paul hopped in with a grin on his face.

"Well, it's gas money," he said. He'd sold the picture for twenty bucks. "That's all he had."

"You ought to think about cutting back on that stuff, man," Paul said, when they were driving out of St. Louis . Carson had just taken a shot of whisky. "I mean the beer is one thing, but that shit's gonna do you in. You hardly ate any breakfast. No lunch. And it's early to be starting on that stuff. I mean I'm not trying to pull an older brother thing on you, but I've seen that stuff eat up too many good people."

"Yeah, I'm just trying to keep my nerves steady," Carson said. "I want to be good company."

"You are good company. In fact I think you're better company without that stuff." Paul looked at Carson seriously. "You make more sense."

This reminded Carson of a talk his old man had given him a few months before; in fact, they were almost the same words. Carson had heard similar words often enough in rehab centres, words that came with good intentions. Yet he was a little surprised and angry that Paul had started on this line so soon after meeting him. Carson didn't think that he had gotten out of hand with the drink. Sure he had taken a nap yesterday, but that was due to lack of sleep. And Paul matched him drink for drink the previous night (at least with the beers). Carson had switched to the hard stuff toward the end of the night.

How nonsensical had he become?

"You're young, but not that young," Paul said, smiling. "You ever see anybody get yellow from cirrhosis?"

"Sure have. An ex drinking buddy of mine."

"That's right. He's no longer around, is he?"

"No, he's been gone a few years now." Carson felt like slamming back a couple more shots then, but he held off. He didn't want to push it with this guy; he might just get dropped off on the side of the road. Still, he wished Paul were as light-hearted as he was the previous night; this sombre note he had just introduced wouldn't make the ride any easier. He could have saved that for when they were parting. Carson hoped the guy wasn't the counselling type. He was thankful for the burning warmth of that last shot.

"You told me last night you'd like to do some writing," Paul said. "And I've never seen anything you've written, but I'll bet you have something to offer. You might have a contribution to make, man. I'd like to see it some day. I'd like to have a copy of your book right here in the back of my van some day." He laughed. "I can tell other hitchhikers that I met the guy. That we got drunk and got blowjobs in St. Louis ." Carson couldn't keep the smile from his face. He started to raise the bottle to his lips, and then stopped. Paul laughed.

"I'd like to be able to tell those people that the guy is still kicking. That he's writing other books."

"I hear what you're saying," Carson said.

"I bet you've heard it from others too, haven't you?"

Carson looked at Paul, who was still smiling.

"Yeah, I've heard it before."

"See, I used to hang out with heavy drinkers, man. I used to hit it pretty hard myself, like I told you, though I didn't take to the hard stuff like you do. I saw you hit that whisky last night like it was Kool-Aid. Not even flinching when it went down. And I knew right then. I've seen it before. But, as I said, I'm sure you've heard it before. I just thought I'd put my two cents in real quick, and I'll let it go at that. All right?" He looked over at Carson .

"Sure. I'll keep what you said in mind. It might just be what I need when I get to Houston ." He smiled.

"That used to happen to me all the time," Paul said. "Some driver would say something to me, and I wouldn't think much of it at the time. But a month or so later it would come back to me and I'd appreciate it." That night in Kansas City both men were tired. Again, they sat in a supermarket parking lot, watching the people go in and out of the store, eating some food and slowly drinking beer. Paul had tried to sell another picture but hadn't had any luck.

"I was thinking you might have better luck than me," he said, smiling at Carson . "You've still got some of that All American look about you. You might just get the sympathy of the ladies anyway."

"Yeah, they'll smell the booze on my breath and say that young man's going to seed. Maybe I can help to steer him on the right path, help him get something to eat."

"You never know," Paul said. "There are some good people out there."

"What I could really use is some of the help I got last night," Carson said.

"You and me both. But I don't think I'm up for the bar scene again. I went over my budget last night."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Maybe we can find a park to sit in for a while. Drink a few beers, crash early. I wouldn't mind being fresh for the morning."

"Sounds all right to me," Paul said.

They did find a park - a good sized one with plenty of people in it. Everything looked peaceful, and the two men got out of the van and stretched, and walked over to a pond where people sat on benches under the lights. They sat on a grassy slope and watched couples stroll by, and Carson nipped at his whisky.

"I can remember walking in the town park with my girlfriends," Paul said. "That was a thing to do where I grew up. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do really, except drive around on the back roads. There was one movie theatre, one park, a ball field, a bowling alley, that was about it."

"Sounds like the town I grew up in, only we didn't have a movie theatre," Carson said. "Come to think of it, we didn't have a bowling alley either. We had a pool hall for a while. There was a little park, but we never took our girlfriends there. We took them out in the woods whenever we could." He chuckled.

"Small town America , right?" Paul smiled.

They walked off to another part of the park and came upon a scene that wasn't peaceful at all. A big group of what looked like teenagers had gathered in a corner of the park, around two young men who faced each other as if ready to fight.

"It looks like some action, bud," Paul said.

"Hell, I haven't seen one of these since high school," Carson said, laughing.

"We're just in time for the donnybrook. Where's that bottle?" There looked to be pushing and shoving in the group around the two men, and there were shouts goading them on. There was laughter also.

"It's just a bunch of talk so far," Paul said.

"Yeah, they look tough, don't they?"

One kid was skinnier but taller than the other, but the shorter one had more muscle and looked to be the more aggressive of the two. The shorter one had long blond hair while the taller kid's head was shaved. The taller one was backing away a little, but he couldn't go too far because of the bodies behind him. These kids wanted to see some action, as did the two older men standing a short distance away. There were cries of pussy, faggot, kill him, kick his ass, from the group, and it looked like some scuffles had broken out in the surrounding group. Partisan tempers flaring up.

"This is better than TV, isn't it?" he said.

"Kansas City , here I come," Carson said, taking a good swig. He no longer felt sluggish or tired. Here was that old second wind.

Finally, the taller kid realized he had no alternative, and when the shorter one pushed him, he threw out what looked like a slap jab. And then a straight right that missed by six inches. The smaller kid went for the other's belly it seemed, and that was all Paul and Carson saw, for the group moved in close. It seemed that the fighters had gone down on the ground.

Paul whistled. Carson was reminded of similar scenes on school playgrounds in his past. Some things never changed. The haircuts and the clothing did, but the attraction of a good scrap was always there. The two fighters were up and the whole group of yelling, screaming young people surged one way with the action. A couple of them fell, and then bodies parted and the two combatants emerged again, wrestling now.

"I'm taking the long hair, how 'bout you?" Paul said.

"Yeah, the giraffe looked like he was whipped from the start."

"Did you ever get in any fights when you were in school?" Paul asked.

"Not like this one. I didn't warrant that much attention."

"I got in one doozy with a bully. Surprised him too. One of my finer moments, I'd say. Only there were just half a dozen guys that saw it. No girls. No moment in the spotlight." He laughed. "But I got a reputation as a scrapper because of that, and I never had any problems after that."

"I took on a loudmouth in a wrestling match in gym class one time," Carson said. The two fighters were up now, and the smaller guy, his carefully combed locks in disarray now, pursued the taller one who looked badly winded.

"The only problem was that he was a big loudmouth and he slammed my ass. My neck wasn't right for days. The gym teacher loved seeing it because he didn't like me. I was always getting out of his class with asthma. But that taught me something about taking on a guy who was thirty pounds heavier than me."

When the fight action was over, the two men walked some more before going back to the van. Paul wanted to find a place to park the van for the night, a parking lot somewhere. He agreed to go to one bar for a nightcap - Carson 's treat. Carson had the feeling that he and Paul would be splitting up the next day. He was still thinking that he would go in a southerly direction (perhaps camp in the Ozarks for a while), and Paul probably further west. If he were going to Houston , then Carson would want to go directly south from that point on.

"I'm thinking about Colorado ," Paul said, as they sat over beers at a small bar not far from the park. "You're welcome to come. I wouldn't mind the company."

The thought of the Rockies did appeal to Carson . He had to admit that it did sound better than Texas in the summertime. And here was a ride all the way there. He smiled at Paul, and Paul knew the answer. So, instead of a last beer together, it was a drink to the continuation of their trip.

Paul sold one of his velvet pictures the next morning, and then they headed out of the city into Kansas . They were going to push it, as far as driving went, for the next couple days on their way to Denver.

The ride was hot and uneventful in the wide-open country, except for one incident that shook both of them up for the remainder of the way. Somewhere in western Kansas ( Carson remembered plenty of small towns off the highway) Paul had briefly nodded off at the wheel and nearly rolled the van as they went down a long, gradually sloped hill. The van had gone over into the breakdown lane, and almost off the road completely into some grassy field, before Carson, the co-pilot (nodding off himself), noticed and yelled. He had his hand on the wheel as Paul snapped out of it and wrenched them to the left - too hard. The van skidded and it was all Paul could do to keep it from going over, never mind on the road. They ended up uncomfortably close to a telephone pole, and sat there breathing hard on the side of the road for a few minutes. The pictures had been tossed around in the back of the van, and one had clipped Carson in the back of the head.

"I guess that means I need some coffee," Paul said, smiling a little, though he was shaken up too. It was hard not to feel uncomfortable with that telephone pole only a few feet away. Fortunately, there hadn't been a vehicle right behind them.

Both of them welcomed the sight of the Rockies after the open, rolling pastureland of eastern Colorado . It reminded Carson of the first time he had seen them, and the car he had been in when he did. Some young rich kid (he couldn't have been more than twenty) had picked Carson up in a new red sports car and they wasted no time racing toward that wall that gradually rose up on the horizon.

Carson told Paul about how he had headed up into Rocky Mountain Park with only a light sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a light blanket in his bag. No sleeping bag or camping gear. A driver who lived in the mountains year round informed him of the unpredictability of the mountain climate, and especially the cold night temperatures. He provided Carson with extra clothes and an old sleeping bag, which Carson had indeed found use for.

"He told me I was dressed fine for southern California ," Carson said to Paul.

"He knew a flatlander when he saw one."

After they got into the mountains, they made a rest stop at a place they could look out and down in the direction they had come, and then turn around and see the rocky crests ahead of them. There was a refreshing breeze in the air and they both felt good about coming.

"I had this in mind the day I took off from home," Paul said. "It's been years since I've been out here too. Too long. Maybe I'll start painting again." He smiled at Carson , but his eyes were serious.

"Why not?" Carson said. "Maybe we'll both get a jump start out here."

"I wouldn't mind that at all. It's been too long since I've felt any good energy about that stuff. I think there was more desperation in my leaving than I wanted to admit."

"Sometimes it takes that to get you moving."

In Denver , the two men spent one more night together, and then Carson decided that he would look for a few days' work while he was in the city. Paul was going to look up an old friend, and he gave Carson the friend's address.

"Stop by and we'll go out one more time," Paul said.

But it never happened. When Carson went to the address a week later, Paul had already moved on.