Saturday, October 10, 2015

There is no Rocky Mountain Way 2

Michael does adrenaline.  He smokes weed and also does adrenaline though he doesn't drink.  As a child he nearly died when he learned of a food dye allergy by eating it and was prescribed an epi pen to carry about.  He took to it and was soon buying black market epi pens for fifty dollars a pop while selling a few of these on the side to make ends.  He assured me that it's good for you and perhaps the man is able to survive a longer drowning or more massive blood loss than you or I could.  I don't know.  I do know that he's a very chittery and scatterbrained man and that we didn't make it out of Salt Lake that night. 

Michael wanted to go to a strip club before leaving because he heard that they were forbidden in Utah.  Which isn't true though they are harassed discouraged and rudely zoned, same as in other conservative states.  So I directed him to a place on South State that I had noticed, I forget the name.  It was a decent club on the tolerable side of depressing and with its own house DJ.  I drank well gin while Michael drank coke.  He told me he had orders from his prospective employer to find one man and two hot women for work at a pot farm in the mountains of CO, near Georgetown.  I told him that I couldn't find the women from where I was but would gladly offer my own labor.  "So you're coming then" he asked me and I said yes. 

He had been unaware that the fastest way to Denver from Salt Lake was through Wyoming.  He asked me if Wyoming was dull and I said that yes it most certainly was, and we'd be driving through it in the dead of night furthermore which disturbed him.  After this we went to the rear lot to smoke weed.  The police showed up in two cars with lights blaring which led Michael to throw his bracelet sneak-a-toke over a wall and run.  He later told me that the pipe had cost him eighty dollars but no it didn't.  The police had come for a fugitive.  An assault with a deadly weapon from somewhere out in the Mormon desert who had decided to hit up the club.  The cops were done with their business and gone in five minutes and there was little for me to do but to stand by Michael's Grand Am waiting to see if my ride out would return.  After about twenty minutes he did return just as I was about to take my money and go, and we got in his car and rolled away. 

The incident left Michael scared and very agitated.  So instead of leaving he followed his GPS to a truck stop on the edge of town where the freeways to Vegas and Reno mate.  There we stopped.  I slept in the back seat while he mainly smoked outside; wondering inside the main building and out again all throughout the night.  Next to us were ski-kid looking folk from Sacramento except it was too early to ski.    

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