When I saw the sign marked “Rest Stop”, I pulled over. North-central Oregon was starting to look like west Texas, and my mind was starting to wander. The signs kept promising “Port” this and “River” that, but I hadn’t seen any water so far. Besides, that ham wouldn’t last much longer unrefrigerated, and I was hungry. I hopped onto a picnic table, made myself a sandwich with a not-quiTe stale baguette, and surveyed the rest stop. This was new territory, subtly different from Idaho and Eastern Oregon. A self-important shaved head guy with hip sunglasses stood blocking the sidewalk, talking loudly on his cell phone. “She’s just lucky she wasn’t actually using any illegal substances.” A dusty minivan pulled up and emitted 5 or 6 sobering reminders of why white folks ought not to marry first
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