Gypsies and Truck Drivers

I had nothing but time and money to kill and an itch to scratch. So I packed up my new traveling companion who had only 43,000 miles on it (I added another 5,000) and I hit the road like a gypsy.

I stopped in a little city where the sun don’t set called The Vegas and visited mi amigo Stephanie, who moves like a jelly fish and used to drink a teaspoon of soy sauce before bedtime. Her roommate Mindy, who called me "Ash" and I liked that, came bearing gifts.

All along my trip I filled my car with gifts, collections from my travels and half an Asian market. My car got heavier. My soul got lighter and started to smell like Korea.

I’m in love with the open road. Nothing but dust and burning desert to distract me from finding things I’ve lost, like peace of mind. An abandoned highway and the red and orange of dusk gives me clarity from the jumble and routine of our modern day lives. I'd left behind the numbing of everyday, the red-yellow-green, the assault of irrelevance.

On the road the sunset is mine to own. I don’t have to share it with anyone else, except Earl that creepy truck driver who seriously gives me the willies. Even though Creepster McGee probably had some poor soul duct taped in his passenger seat, maybe he found my same clarity. And so someplace between Provo and Sin City Earl and I shared a fleeting and soon forgotten sunset.

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