Aging sucks, at least some of the time. At the risk of sounding curmudgeonly, I used to be able to ride the rails for days on end. In my younger days, the rails were my home. Now, riding them wears me out. Every second or third day I need the comforts of a room. Although, the last time I stayed in a room, I awoke with a panic attack – the thought of riding the rails through desolate desert thousands of miles from home weighed on me like an impending IRS audit.
Today, I just didn’t want to move. It was time for a day off. I told myself I deserved it; my campaign was turning the last corner and heading down the home stretch towards the convention next Saturday. Guilt alleviated. I convinced myself that it’s time for a little Robert time.
An Alberton girl is a receptionist at a Carson City brothel. I would take her recommendation for talent and judge her kindly for her tastes. Decision made, I jumped into the shower. With hair washed, I even took time to run a comb through my gray mane. Who knows, I may even earn a vote or two on my day off.
Night: For posterity sake, let the record show that I hitched a ride to Carson City with a deacon from a local catholic church. Also a mortician, I joked with him that if I wore myself out, please see to it that the world knows that in tight situations, the only presidential candidate who publicly discloses answers to his biological urges, gave it his all and was willing to die trying.
After meeting with Kat, taking her recommendation, I treated her to dinner and accepted her offer for ride back to Reno. After catching up on Alberton gossip, we hugged and bid each other farewell. Two hours later, I was on a westbound freight chugging its way through the Sierras.
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