My friends who live in big cities have little understanding of the great middle of this country. This is not the greatest failing in the world, perhaps, but it’s a failing nonetheless. There are terrific and fascinating places and people on every square inch of the map, and I can’t think of a place that hasn’t educated or entertained me in some way. Sure, for some lives, New York is the place to be. LA for others. I know many pals who swear by the South. Others won’t leave the misty Pacific Northwest.

But I’ve never been afraid of the great expanse that Rand McNally and the fellas promise each year when the big Road Atlas comes rolling into my local Wal-Mart, and then into my car.

One of the reasons for this trip, in fact, was just for the sheer enjoyment of going all around the lower 48. I’ve been in all theses places before, but never in one swoop, so that’s part of the challenge. But the real joy is the intoxicating combination of people and places and events that come rocketing through your life when you travel 65 mph pretty much all the time.

This stuns most people who know me in my straight life, because, for the most part, when at home or at work, I shun everything outside my immediate view. Want to go horseback riding? No. Want to bungee? No. Want to try this new thing? I hate new; leave me alone. I’ve got the curmudgeon thing down second nature, and that works for me when I’m wrapped up in my teaching, writing, watching lots of TV whatever.

But when I let myself open up a bit, and when my wife and I travel around, I’m always buzzing from the big and small things that I stumble into.

In Iowa City today, as I drove the quiet streets of this beautiful college town, I spotted this fat guy leaning up against a truck that advertised “critter removal.” Two things. I have a strong affinity with the fat guys of the world. I’m fatter than Elvis. It’s a strange brotherhood of fat guys the world over who bond to me – and me to them. The second thing is, any town with actual “critters” has got to be lively. Plus, I like the no-nonsense lingo.

So I pulled over in my truck and said hello.

“Critter trouble? What are you looking for?”

The guy hitched his pants in a familiar way and came over. “Lady here,” hooking his thumb back, “says she’s got a family of possums in the attic.”

“Wow,” I said. “Has she seen them.”

“No, that’s the thing. She’s hearing them. I’m guessing she’s got squirrels running on the roof. That’s all. That’ll send up a whale of a racket.” He leans against the side of my truck, and wipes some sweat from his brow – my brother.

“What are you going to do?” I say.

“Well, if I can’t convince her they’re outside, I’ll put some peanut butter up in the attic with some live traps.”

“Peanut butter?” I say. “You catch possums with peanut butter?”

“Oh yeah, you can catch anything with peanut butter.”

“That’s funny,” I say, “My wife caught me with peanut butter.”

The guy laughs a big genuine laugh, not a timid one, not a wise chuckle, not a knowing huff. He likes it. He laughs big. He reaches out to shake my hand. “I got you,” he says. “You live around here?”

“No,” I say, pointing vaguely up ahead me. “I’m just going through.”

“Well,” my big friend says, “have fun.”

Bob was a rock and roll musician who had a short, failed career playing in clubs in and around Dallas, Texas. He was born in Bossier City, Louisiana in 1958, but then disappeared and was rumored dead in 1999 and later in 2014.

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