Monday, December 14, 2009

Gary Busey was exceptionally helpful.

I had moved in with my mom, into her new faux-townhouse condo, where are the row houses are across from the elementary school in Swan River. While she was outside being ditzy, the place caught on fire. I lost pretty close to everything, and freaked out. I walked away, holding my head, yelling out loud "how could this happen to me, after everything else?"

I walked downtown, and reached the hotel with a bar and diner (the name of which I can't recall).  Gary Busey was there, and was about to drive his truck and trailer north to Nunavut with a delivery.  He offered me a ride, and I was glad for the chance to get the hell out of town.

It was a long trip, I guess, but it didn't seem so long.  At one point we came across some airplane debris -- a large wing fragment and a tailpiece from a commercial airliner.  We got out and took pictures of us posing with the wreckage.

I drove for a while, despite having no license, until it looked like a cop was behind us; we switched seats while driving.

Finally we got to our destination.  I don't know the name of the town, but the road forked gently to create a downtown area shaped like the Flatiron building (with the left branch going gently uphill).  There were a few restaurants, a surprisingly well-appointed arcade, and (I think) a remote college campus nearby.  Seemed like a nice place to stay.

As soon as we parked in the garage and got out, a Spanish man ran up to us and delivered a black notebook.  It was mine, and apparently not lost in the fire; it was his task to give it to me, but he didn't know it had belonged to me.  "Remarkable penmanship", he said as he handed it over.

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