There is nothing like a rainbow over a Colorado mountain valley. I had to pull over - not, mind you, for the rainbow, but for my new friend, a drifter named Apache who had first drained a Gatorade bottle full of whiskey and then attempted to drain his bladder into said Gatorade bottle, to my increasing alarm. My truck, Bertha, may not be new and she may not be pretty, but up until this point she had only smelled of diesel and Axe Body Spray, and despite an absence of fondness for either smell, they were both infinitely preferable to urine. I'd met Apache while renting a box truck in Grand Lake in order to move what had turned out to be a gigantic stack of 2 x 4's that I had won in an auction. I was moving this mountain of lumber with two kind sexagenarians who had stepped up to my Facebook plea. So far, however, this expedition had gone terribly wrong, with a late start, too much rain and my own poor spatial skills misjudging a grainy .jpg. With only an hour left to load more wood than my F250 could hold, I had offered Apache a ride down to Denver and some cash in exchange for his help. Facing a two-hour bus wait he obliged — not knowing what he was getting himself into. But then, did I know what I was getting myself into? Do I still? How did I even get here?
Tilting at windmills.
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