My biggest complaint in life right now is that sometimes when I put my contacts on, they pinch in unpredictable ways. This concerns me, not because it really matters, but because everything else is just fine. My mind is losing the scab of real problems. Sometimes I’ll just sit around and stare, working myself into a low-grade buzz as I appreciate the emptiness of my worries.

Assuring me thus this morning, I was pouting in the mirror when my boyfriend came up behind me and said, ‘Goddamn Honey, that blond braid of yours is like a hard on homing beacon. The tighter the weave, the tighter the cock. You’re gonna attract every good ol’ boy within fifteen miles with that thing.’

Sitting down on the toilet to pee, he offered, ‘It’s like the corpuscles inside my penis have synced up with the pressure inside those knots.’

Correcting him on the details while careful to affirm his plight, I replied, ‘Sweetie, corpuscles as far as I remember are in your blood, so maybe they have something to do with it, but the tightness probably has something to do with the tissues responding to stimuli. Like when you flex your muscles on purpose or use them to move a couch.

‘I don’t know, Darlin. It feels like a crack-a-lack a ding-dong to me.’

He has always had this fascination with my hair, teasing me to no end. But as of late his baroque metaphors linking braid to member have taken on a stranger tone.

We live in southeast Arizona in a town close to the Mexican border. It sits in the valley of the Chiricahua Mountains, the only relief from the sprawling Sonoran Dessert. I work at my parent’s lodge as a waitress, cook, and maid. My dad makes fun of all my different hats, reminding me that only hillbillies take on so many jobs. In turn, I remind him that my acceptance on this matter is overshadowed by his culpability.

I graduated from high school two years ago, and I’ve completed a few online courses, but the internet is too sketchy out here for most hour-long classes. So I remain at the lodge, charming tourists for tips, and living with my boyfriend. He was the only one in high school willing to put in the work, but the nerve that made him stand out among fifty other boys was also his undoing.

Aware of my beauty since I was little, I learned to use my face with caution, cringing when all the adults would make such a fuss. In a place so small, the opinion was unanimous. Even so, I was smarter than everybody else, too, which seemed unfair. I longed for a comparable defect to balance the unequal delegation of gifts. While waiting for it to arrive, I leveraged my abilities with grace and humility. And to my surprise, my demon never showed. Up until this morning I managed myself as a bulwark against the grinders of life.

He started drinking earlier than usual, something he always does on his day off. After I was done getting ready for work, I could smell the Vodka, typically reserved for the weekends.

‘Wow, Honey, you partying a little earlier today? What’s the occasion?’

‘No occasion. I’m just getting my drink on. Is that ok with you?’

‘You know it’s ok. I’m gonna be gone most the day, but I thought we were gonna wait until I got home tonight. Aren’t we going over to Jessie’s?’

‘Yeah, well, I wanna have a drink now, and I don’t want to go over to fuckin’ Jessie’s house. She’s boring, and all she wants to do is get high and get diarrhea of the mouth. And you’re like, her toilet. She dumps everything into you.’

‘Jesus, Honey. Can you take it down a notch? Jessie is going through a lot right now. She’s my sister-in-law. What am I gonna do, ignore her? You know she’s trying to work things out with Joe.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe we need to give em a break and let em’ figure it out on their own.’

Normally I would just laugh this off and let him realize his passion was lacking, but something in his voice suggested an aggression I had yet to hear. It scared me, and with fear came the adrenaline.

‘Maybe you should figure out ‘on your own’ how to control yourself a little bit. You’re all over me this morning, trying to pick a fight or get my goat or something. And maybe you should stop hittin’ that bottle like it’s fucking oxygen. Take a second to consider what’s coming out of your mouth.’

In our two years together, maybe this was the second time I spoke to him like this, but it turned out to be my last.

Lunging towards me, he said, ‘Get the fuck over here. What do you know about me? And what the fuck do you know about my drinking?’

We were out of the bathroom, making our way to the kitchen, and along with his words he used his left hand to grab my braid, pulling it to stop me from behind. He moved in front of me, putting his right hand around my throat, tilting my head back.

‘I asked you a question. What do you know about me?’

‘I don’t know, ok. I know you’re scaring me, and I know you’ve never done this before. You’re hurting me.

‘You’re treating me like I don’t exist. Like I’m not here just because I have a few drinks in me. I’m in here. I’m the same person, even if my behavior changes for the worse. You can’t treat me this way. It’s your job to be good to that person, regardless of his behavior.’

He stood over me, hand around my throat, pulling me back until we were both on the floor. His acrid breath covered my face, and my body went limp under the weight of his assertions. When all the fight went out of me, his face relaxed and flexed into an expression of regret, his eyes searching mine for the extent of my pain. I remained in shock for a minute, feeling the relief of the cool floorboards. A truck pulled up in our driveway, and I remembered that Joe was picking me up for work.

‘Who is that? Is that Joe? Ah fuck, honey, why didn’t you tell me he was taking you to work? Don’t tell him about our fight, OK? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, baby. Please. I’m still drunk from last night. You’re not gonna tell him, are you?’

Rising off the floor, a few tears escaping my stifled sob, I shook my head and agreed, just so he wouldn’t touch me again.

Without propriety long abandoned by familiarity, Joe would usually barge through with a holler for us to put our clothes on. Today he came in with his usual speed, but he said nothing as he stopped and locked the door behind him. With his former grace my boyfriend greeted my brother in a hurry, leaving me to clean myself up behind the wall.

‘Hey Joe, what’s goin’ on, man? She’ll be ready in a little bit. She’s just finishing some breakfast.’

I peeked around the corner to say a quick hello, only showing my face for a quick flash before pretending to get ready. When I saw my brother’s face, I knew something worse was wrong, regardless of my secret. Mad dogging his prey, Joe started closing in with purpose.

‘Hey, you didn’t come over to my house last night when I wasn’t there, did you?’

‘Nah, man. I was here last night. Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing is wrong, I just need a second to think of another way to ask this. Ok. I think I got it.’

‘Regardless of where the hell I was last night, were you over at my house?’

‘What? No. What are you talking about, Joe? I was here last night. Your sister was out with friends. I just stayed here, played video games, drinkin’ light beer. What else would I be doing?’

‘Fuck you forever, man. You’re lying. I know you were at my house. Fucking my wife. She told me this morning.’

I stopped pretending and made a loud noise in the bedroom, ‘What! Are you shitting me’, forgetting myself and rejoining them in the front room.

Even though I just found out my boyfriend was sleeping with my brother’s wife, I still didn’t expect things to escalate so quickly. I barely had time to shake off my inaugural assault, which in turn reinforced the rage of what happened next.

Moving in with a manic smile that happens when things get bad, I said, ‘So let me get this straight. You just beat the shit out of me not only because you’re a worthless drunk, but also because you don’t think you should feel guilty for cheating on me, too? Oh, Fuck!’

During the next ten minutes my brother and I corned my boyfriend and took our revenge. First Joe screamed in his face, assailing his integrity as a man and then as a human. Then he started to describe what he was going to do to teach him a lesson. With these threats, my boyfriend started shifting, trying to make his escape. Backed up by my two-hundred-pound brother, I steeled myself for violence, moving into position. He apologized over and over, confused about which one of his sins was worse, landing on a vague plea about the impossibility of biological suppression. With that, Joe surprised him by punching him in the stomach, doubling him over as our anger switched to glee.

Over acting the effects of the blow, my boyfriend pushed a chair in front of us and ran to the back of the house, reaching the back door before Joe could grab him by the collar. As he pushed him outside onto the concrete steps, he let out a wail, pleading for us to leave him alone. We stared him down, surrounding him with silence so he could appreciate his fear. Then Joe started barking in his face, letting out these ungodly sounds, cornering him between the stucco and the steps. Finally, he grabbed the back of my boyfriend’s neck, pushing his face down on the steps and yelling, ‘I want you to cry, and I want you to be scared, and I want you to know there is nothing you can do. This is what you have done to me and my sister. This is what we all have to live with now, but right now we’re gonna make things worse for you, and better for us. Do you understand?’

My boyfriend complied with a silent nod, and with his face scraping against the concrete he cried with his eyes wide open; the cracked falsetto of his drunkenness, terror, and guilt anticipating the full extent of his sentence.

Joe looked up at me, issuing the final penance. ‘Ok, Sister. Now it’s your turn. I want you to kick him in the face. Don’t think. Just do it.’

I kicked once, and I kicked as hard as I could. Joe held him in place as I smashed his nose in with my bare heel, feeling his cartilage skip as his bone popped. Joe held him another few seconds, enough time for the blood to mix with the snot. Then he let go, and we all stayed still, feeling the moment for what it was, wanting to move but not knowing how.

Two hours passed. We all moved on and the birds are gaping in front of the lodge. The June heat is pushing triple digits as I push a dish cart away from the fryer. From the kitchen I hear the screen door slam and kick back, the spring loaded slinky never doing its job. Two cowboys agree, and before I show them to their table, they congratulate themselves on ‘just compensation’ for a job well done.

I had already started serving a group of four young men who were passing through on their way to Tucson. They were in a lively mood, making a show of how hungry they were and trying to one up each other by seeing who could pay me the most attention. In the outside seating area, a solitary man was finishing his meal by scattering a bunch of notes and guidebooks across the table. He had been drinking multiple cups of coffee, and I recognized him from last night. He got dinner before returning to his campsite down in the South Fork of Coon Creek. Returning to the table of four to bus their dishes, I glanced at the tip and saw a huge number; over forty dollars on a sixty-dollar tab. I couldn’t believe my luck, so I ran outside to thank them in person before they could get away. After I yelled my thanks in their direction, they all turned around with a shy wave and a gracious nod, almost like this was something they do for everybody.

Walking back inside I was still invested in my shock, but I saw the man with notes and hiking pants trying to get my attention. I acknowledged him as I went inside to prepare his bill. I thought to myself, maybe this dude will drop a twenty if I play my cards right.

This valley is not for everybody, but I have always enjoyed its lush confluence of desert, mountains, and water; the bracing heat trying to overpower the only prevention against total control. I have lived here all my life, only leaving on the occasional trip to the normal places everybody else calls home.

When I returned to the solitary man with his bill, he surprised my reverie by reminding me of my good fortune.

‘I heard those guys left you a big tip. Can I ask how much?’

‘Yeah, it was forty-three bucks. That’s the biggest percentage tip I’ve ever received.’

‘You didn’t laugh at their jokes, did ya? I only ask, because when you laughed at my joke last night when you were serving me dinner, you threw your head back with this amazing sound like a forty-year-old woman whose seen it all. I was surprised because all I said was something stupid about the menu.’

‘Oh, man, really? That’s funny. Yeah, well, I laugh at everybody’s jokes, and most people tend to bring their A-game when they try to make me laugh. I think most people just wanna impress me, and a lotta the time they do.’

‘You mean the fellas wanna impress you, right? I think any one of those guys would marry you if given half a chance. I’m surprised they didn’t ask you right then and there. Hell, when you laughed at my joke last night I had this reflexive movement under the table. My right hand jumped over over to my wedding ring, like an angel of mercy was trying to pull it off or something. You better be careful with that cackle, or you might get a reputation as a home wrecker.’

‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry, but you better be careful with how you talk to people around here. Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the one flying off at the mouth about something you know nothing about.’

‘You’re right. I’m a stranger in a strange land, and I’m fixin’ to see me a Yellow-Breasted Chat. That’s all. I’ve come a long way from home, and I know you probably get a lot of birders around here, and we’re all alike, but like I said, all I’m looking for is a Chat and a little bit of kindness.’

‘Well, I can’t tell ya where to find a Chat, but did you get a chance to see the Elegant Trogon?’

‘Oh yeah. I saw them early and often. Not to mention the Painted Redstarts, Cactus Wrens, Scott’s Orioles, and Pink-Sided Towhees. Shall I continue?’

‘No, that’s ok.’

‘…Jimmy-sided Lumpkin’s, Potato-skinned Foxtails, Tender-footed Scoobies. I mean, you name it, this place has it.’

‘Jesus, all we get are weirdo birders out here. Don’t get me wrong. You seem nice, and the birders probably bring in half our revenue, but it’d be kinda nice if people came out here once in a while just to see the people.’

‘Well, maybe the people aren’t as pretty, present company excluded of course. But you’ve seen the Trogons I take it? Not a fan? Too much of an unconventional posture for ya?’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen em. They’re ok, but you’re right about the people. We are a brutish lot, but we tell it like it is and we live without reservations, consequences be damned.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Sure’

‘Do you wanna get out of here?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m just noticing that you seem like you need to get away. Maybe for an hour, or maybe forever. There’s something in your voice, or something in your face. I’m not trying to pick you up, I could just use someone to talk to on my drive home. I have one more stop in Patagonia tonight, then I’m heading back to L.A. You can ride with me for as little or as long as you like.’

‘Well, gee, this forty three bucks is really burning a hole in my pocket. And it does happen to be good timing to make myself scarce.’

‘That’s the spirit. If you just wanna go down the rode a bit, that’s cool, otherwise maybe you want to camp in Patagonia and do some birding in the morning. Either way, you can leave these one story townies behind for a while.’

An hour later I was in the car with the solitary man, driving southwest towards the border as he told me about his exploits in the woods. It only took a little rearranging of my day to make this work. I told my Dad one of my friends in Tucson was having an emergency with her mom, and she needed some moral support. I called my ex-boyfriend to see if he called the cops, and found out he wasn’t planning on it. I gave him a little more hell, but my actions with my brother had gone a long way towards making things right. I felt like we were even, and it was time for us to part ways and start anew. Now the man next to me was jabbering wildly about all the text messages coming through on his phone, backed up for days in the cue, flying through the bottleneck of reception.

‘I’m tired of all this liberal bullshit. I give a bunch of money to Obama and a little money to Bernie, and if the 10 phone calls each day weren’t enough, now I’m getting texts about who to vote for? Good God! It’s not enough that I’m driving home to vote in time for the primary, now I’m supposed to vote for the mayor of San Francisco, too? What kind of executive experience is that!? Do you have to put up with this shit in AZ?’

‘Well, I’ve never given money to any campaign, and I don’t think a democrat has been elected out here since the 80’s, so why bother?’

‘Jesus, do you at least vote in the primaries?’

‘No, not usually. I’ve only voted a couple times. I’m only twenty.’

‘Good God. You don’t have the nerve then to complain about the state of affairs when you didn’t even vote, do ya?’

‘I’ll complain about what I think is wrong, and I’ll complain about the big cheese. At least I didn’t vote for that.’

‘What do you think we should do to the people that did?’

‘You know, I’ve been thinkin’ about that, and I think such an anti-American vote is worthy of a bill in congress to try and revoke the citizenship of the folks that did this. At least the ones between the ages of 30 and 70. They should’ve known better, and now it’s time for them to pay.’

‘Damn, you’re not kidding around, but considering the circumstances, that sounds pretty good. This creep is like the Manchurian candidate, or Damien’s uncle or something. He hasn’t even called out Russia yet. Can you believe this is happening?’

We went on like this for some time, grandstanding for the high ground on each successive outrage. This grew tiresome, and the man let it be known that he didn’t intend to bore himself by explaining conventional politics to a beautiful young girl. So I told him of my life, and of that morning. If he was not yet wary of his passenger, from then on his comfort level changed. He shot me a look of respect, but underneath I could see he was checking for crazy. Continuing with his story about his ever growing life list, he eagerly started in on his interaction with an English Biologist.

‘I found him sitting on a log on my way out, listening to two male Trogons singing back and forth. His other colleagues doing the survey had mentioned he was wearing a blue shirt and that he was English, but I didn’t expect him to be six foot five. I don’t know why, but all these field ornithologists are either quiet and grounded, or like Professor Baby Huey on downers. He was the latter. For some reason, I got real competitive, even though I haven’t been in the field in years. I asked him where I could find a Chat, and after he told me my best bet was Patagonia, I asked him if he was ‘pretty knowledgeable’ about the birds in this area. He replied in his English accent, ‘well, I should think so.’’

‘That sounds like a totally normal question and response.’

‘Yeah, it would be if he was just some random hiker in the woods with some binoculars, but I knew ahead of time that his colleagues really respected him and he was the one to ask if I was trying to find something. After the words left my mouth, I immediately regretted them, chastising myself for letting my competition get the better of me, especially on a day where 1 of every 2 species was a lifer.’

‘You shouldn’t beat up on yourself like that, everybody has the things they are competitive about. And when the dragon rears its ugly head, our fight impulse takes the wheel and tries to drive us towards the win. It’s biological, man. Don’t sweat it.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. And he did have that horrible English accent. If it’s not bad enough that he comes from some Skidmark Island across the sea, now he wants to try and show up our domestic biologists, too? The class on this guy, right?’

‘For sure. The English only gave us a few good things anyway. They gave us a reason to get away, punk rock, and those sweet little biscuits. Digestibles or something, right?’

‘That’s right, those really are quite good, but don’t forget about the Beef Wellington, too. Order one of those with a huge glass of beer, and you’re all set, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You know. Before you came along, I was getting too content with the sound of my own voice. Now I’m remembering that the sounds up in my head weren’t all that cohesive. Just kind of a jumble of sentence fragments up there, and when I actually do talk to myself I’m too nervous to actually have a conversation. Strange, huh? This worry about looking crazy through your own eyes and ears when no one else is watching?’

‘That’s not crazy. Of course we have to be on the lookout for signs of our own mental fatigue. When we talk to ourselves with actual words when everything we need to know is behind our skull, that’s definitely a sign that something is wrong.’

He seemed pleased with this answer, and I was pleased to be escaping my life and placating my ride. The thought of staying away for good was becoming a tempting reality. I had that forty-three bucks, but I also had some savings, about $5000 squirreled away since I was twelve. I could make a new life somewhere. Maybe Tucson. Maybe Phoenix. But maybe I could visit California first. We drove for another couple hours until we reached the border checkpoint about an hour east of Patagonia. As we slowed down and the officer approached the driver’s side window, his Aviators and cowboy hat on point, the solitary man whispered, ‘don’t worry about this, I’ll handle it.’

‘Good afternoon, folks, where you headed?’

‘Hey there, officer. We’re on our way to Patagonia.’

‘You doin’ some campin’ out there?’

‘Oh yeah, we’re lookin’ for some Spizella, some Empidonax, and maybe even some Myarchus. You don’t even wanna get me started on those guys.’

At this point the officer switched his gaze to the back window and took a long look inside, continuing his inspection.

‘Where you guys coming from?’

‘Yeah, that’s all camping gear, man. You ain’t gonna find no immigrants back there. We’re coming from the South Fork of the Chiricahua. You see what I’m driving, right? All the secret compartments are spoken for, as far as I remember.’

‘I just need do a thorough inspection, sir. You have a good day.’

‘I hear you there, officer, but I mean, take a look around you. If an immigrant got this far, all the way to the border through all this hellish Arid Zona, do you really wanna stop them? If all they need to do after crossing hundreds of miles of unforgiving desert is walk through this invisible border, you know, maybe you should let em. Talk about the tenacity of the human spirit, man. Shouldn’t that count for something? I mean, being out here, I’m rethinking my whole immigration policy. Maybe you should too.’

‘Ok, sir, I’ll be sure to call that one in to the boys upstairs. You have a good day.’

‘You too, sir. Are we free to go?’

That afternoon we made it to Patagonia State Park with an hour to spare before sunset. Pulling up to the entrance gate, the ranger approached the driver’s side and asked for our camping fee. Apparently rattled by something or wanting to have some fun, the solitary man spoke to the ranger, this time with an air of panic.

‘Well, geez, how the heck are ya. Can you tell me if this is a good place to see a Yellow-breasted Chode, er, I mean Chat? We’ve been fagged and fucked all the way from home, and we’ve been chasing this elusive bird since 2006. Everybody else seems to get one but us. But now some limey bastard has us creepin’ all over the state. He says we can’t go wrong in the mesquite riparian zone of Patagonia. So give us your best campsite closest to the trail. Money is no object here, as long as it’s no more than twenty bucks.’

After we checked it out and ate some chips, the man gave me his spare tent, and we said our goodnights. It was still early, but I was eager to have some time alone to collect my thoughts. I lay in my tent, listening to the generators, barking dogs, and a kid letting out her last scream of the day. I thought about my fight, what I did, and where I was going, none of these things proving serious enough to shake my peace. If I was worried about anything, it was falling for this solitary man, the self-righteousness of his middle age not quite enough to suppress my desire. It probably would not happen, and it probably would be fine. It always was, and I was confident in my ability to take some time off without overthinking.

In the morning we went birding around the perimeter of the lake. Along the way the man kept shouting about seeing all these new species, but he was confused by all the cattle. I told him that we do things differently out here, and our parks aren’t allowed to exist for the sake of existence. They have to be managed for wise use along with the needs of the people, the highest of those needs being creamy milk and tasty beef. The cow patties were everywhere, and when the man found his Chat, he spoke into a recorder to capture the moment, out of breath but still mentioning his right foot in a fresh patty. It was a pretty cool bird, I’ll give him that, what with its spectacles, striking contrast, and song, but my anti-birding bias still has a long way to go before I really give it a chance.

Hitting the road, hours later we were east of Phoenix when one of the billboards woke me up a little bit. An elderly lady was looking at me and saying ‘I have power’ as the rest of the text directed me to a hotline for my gambling addiction. A minute later, another billboard, this time one for a Harrah’s Casino told me to ‘Come play the Slots!’ I was trying to decide where to get off, and if I didn’t get off in Phoenix, I figured it would have to be California. Not wanting to make a decision, I asked the solitary man about his reaction to the billboards.

‘Can you believe these things feeding off each other like incestuous parasites?’

‘Seriously. I just saw one advertising for an online high school. WTF is an online high school!?

‘Not really sure. I went to an old fashioned one with buildings and stuff.’ Seemed to do the trick.’

The first highway signs in Phoenix direct you to the I-10 towards Los Angeles. It seemed to be now or never, so I piped up to get the man’s opinion about his home.

‘So what do you think? Should I hop out in Phoenix, or go to L.A?’

‘Well, that depends. Do you want to stay in a modern metropolis with all the amenities and perks of a hip young city, or do you want to try your luck on the land of broken promises, endless crawl, and starlet nymphomania?’

‘I think maybe I’ll try my luck on the latter, but is it really all that bad?’

‘Well, no, it’s not all that bad, but coming from an almost town like yours I would be ready for a shock, and I would also suggest keeping an open mind. Convincing yourself that everything is awesome is a good way to start out here.’

‘Have you made a lot of friends in L.A.?’

‘No, most of my friends come from elsewhere.’

‘What are they doing now?’

‘Oh, most of them are having their first kids and stuff like that.’

‘I take it you don’t have kids yet?’

‘No, not yet. I’m kind of behind on that one, as I am on a lot of things, but I’m still the first to publish a peer reviewed paper in a respected scientific journal, so at least there’s that.’

‘Not bad for a guy driving a Toyota Matrix.’

‘You said it. Not bad at all.’

With that I made the decision to get off somewhere in southern California, the thrill of adventure replacing the safety of home. The solitary man was happy to have the company, and he was ever more emboldened with his recorder.

‘Note to self. Do not stop at Waffle House for lunch. Maybe hold out for In N’ Out or Sonic. Stop.’

Getting rather hungry myself, I offered my suggestions.

‘What about Red Robin or Ruby Tuesdays? I’ve never been to either.’

He picked up his recorder again.

‘Note to self. Nor will I frequent Red Robin or Ruby Tuesdays. Stop.’

‘Okay, I guess I have a lot to learn about fast food.’

‘You’re damn right you do. Take Burger King for example. From 1985 to 1993, Burger King was on top. They had the Whopper. The Original Chicken Sandwich. And their show stopper, The Cro-Sand-witch. Going to Burger King with my mom when I stayed home from school, even though I wasn’t sick; those were the best days of my life.’

‘All we had was a Wiener Schnitzel forty minutes down the highway.’

‘Dang. Poor you. You were missin’ out.’ But you know, you shouldn’t be surprised by Burger King’s demise. Philip Roth died recently, and he said, ‘the only constant in American life is radical change.’

‘And you’re calling a steady 20 year decline of a burger chain radical change? Isn’t that kind of gradual and banal.’

‘Banal, yes, you’ve got a good point. Not the best example perhaps, but keep in mind how short twenty years is. Humans live extremely short lives in the grand scheme of things, so really if anything of note changes when we’re alive, it changes really fast, and it’s probably way different from what came before it.’

‘Okay, maybe.’

‘I think what Roth was trying to say probably had more to do with the context of his writing. From what I’ve read, and from what comes to me when I think of constant radical change, I think he was trying to say that a good writer neither absolves us of our commitments to the emerging paradigms, nor does she dismiss the virtues of our past. She balances or destroys both directions, allowing the reader to react and choose for himself.’

‘I’m more of a Goodnight Moon kind of gal. Really spoke to me, know what I mean? Failing that, maybe the Giving Tree. Maybe even Hooper Humperdink in a pinch.’

By the time we crossed into California, we still hadn’t eaten, and the solitary man noticed he was out of gas. We stopped at a 76 station and picked out some sandwiches from the cooler. I had decided that I would get out at a heavily populated place, but one that was still a good distance from L.A. This would allow me the chance to experience the rush of people without the thrill of knowing that something awesome was just around the corner. Finishing our sandwiches, we were glad to be back in the air conditioned cabin.

‘I wasn’t sure If I was listening to that song or if I was eating that sandwich.’

‘What do you mean?’

You know that instrumental song that just played?’

‘Yeah’

Well, besides the different chord progressions, it sounded like a smooth jazz rip off of ‘Something’s Tellin’ me it Might Be You’ by Stephen Bishop.’

‘Oh, he’s great.’

‘I know, right. But paired with the relief of getting gas while eating a plain cheddar cheese and turkey sandwich on refrigerated wheat bread, there was this uncanny equivalency. Did you feel it?’

‘No, I got the roast beef and I was smart enough to use the mayo packet.’

‘Smart. Smart. But does the relief of our most pressing needs – aka sandwichgate – lead to a culture of low expectations?’

‘What pressing needs are you talking about exactly?’

‘You know, not being stranded on the side of the road in the crippling heat. Eating foodstuffs so we don’t die of starvation. Things like that.’

‘Oh, ok, so eating a bad sandwich so we don’t die allowed us to appreciate or at least ignore the mediocrity of that cover?’

‘That’s right. If we take care of these pressing needs without thinking of another way out, do we allow ourselves to fall victim to these cultural charlatans?’

‘I would offer you a qualified yes, but remind you in the process that you are simply stating the obvious and arranging clever words around an economics principle accepted for millennia as fact.’

‘Well damn, is there at least anything we can do to decrease the severity of those needs so we may then increase our level of expectations?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. A birds gotta eat and a birds gotta shit. There ain’t no way around it.’

When he dropped me off in the Inland Empire, waving goodbye after buying me a Trippel con Queso at the local In N’ Out, I saw him speaking into his recorder, probably talking about the last lifer of the day, an Abert’s Towhee, black lores and buffy undertail coverts.

‘I stood up and stood there for ten minutes, the yellow-eyed juncos right underneath me. I looked down and they were so close, hopping around while scratching at the dirt. I think one even pecked at my boots like I wasn’t even there.’