The pages in this manuscript that documents my trip are falling out. With age comes wear and tear. I know this because I am living this. Still moving through Big Sky country I am gliding on streets like sheets of glass. Any semblance of traction is dissolved and the ride is smooth as ice. I slip through canyons, and over rivers, lakes and creeks. There is a cacophony of sound from insects and birds over a gentle summer breeze. Today I walked through the tall grass to reach a branch of the Clark Fork River. An old man was fly fishing. As I strolled through high blades of yellow, crickets leapt from the impending giant’s feet crashing down upon them. They clung to my toes and the surrounding folioles. On the pavement, butterflies with orange wings flirted. They promenaded with big bright arms fluttering. They would sit perfectly still on the hot black tar for one moment, and then take off and dance a waltz in mid-air. The river water was cool and inviting. I saw no fish, but the fisherman, he was determined. He wore high boots and an ecru hat that hung low over his eyes. He did not sweat in the sun. He remained in utter silence. He moved not an inch. He simply stood and waited. Me? I’m always moving. I have nothing to wait for.

The River (one , two , three , four)
The Road (one , two , three , four , five , six , seven , eight)
Big Sky Country (one , two , three , four , five , six , seven , eight)

In Billings, I strolled around Grand Avenue, the main stretch of local businesses in this city. After visiting a record store (whose facade touted the availability of tie-dyed t-shirts), I strolled into a store called “Brews.” Expecting to find some local beers, I was instead greeted by a selection that consisted solely of wine. Upon walking through the door, a voice behind me boomed.

“Hello, there.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I kind of snuck in behind you.” The man was old with white hair, and very thin. He was holding a clipboard. He asked, “Are you here for the wine tasting?”
“N- Well… is there a wine tasting today?”
“Yes there sure is.”

So I lied. I said I was there for the tasting and I sampled the six or seven local wines they were touting. When I had completed my chores as a taster, I wanted to get out of there and leave. The clipboard guy was following me, though. He even called for Kevin, one of the stores employees, to see what I wanted to take home with me. There was no way in hell I was going to buy anything, so I needed to figure out how I was going to leave empty handed. After fifteen minutes, I dug my hand into my pocket and fumbled around with my phone. I dialed Ilya’s number from inside my jeans waited two seconds. Then I yanked the phone out and said, “Hello?”

I was talking to a dial tone, but I started babbling anyway. When Ilya picked up, I asked him kindly to “say something that’ll take like, fifteen seconds.” He mumbled something and I looked at the clipboard guy with a puzzled look on my face. I held up my index finger, the international sign for “one minute please, I’m getting some bad reception in here,” and I walked out the door. Then I ran to my car and away I sped.

By 6:00, everything in Billings was closed. The people vanished. I went to a coffee shop to watch a three-piece jazz group perform. I had a bagel and some coffee. After thinking about retiring to my room for the night, I went to a bar called The Grand Stand and drank while talking to some of the locals about baseball. We decided over many bottles of Guinness and Keystone Light that Pete Rose–even if he bet on baseball–is more worthy of a spot in the Hall of Fame than someone who used steroids. The rationale seemed to be (I think) that since he didn’t blatantly mis-manage his team into losing, the fact that he placed bets had a negligible effect on a particular game’s outcome.

Sleep.

Gretchen won the shot glass from Weed by default because she was the only person who actually remembered to include a mailing address. Don’t worry, if you didn’t win the first contest you can still apply to win a nice 4″x6″ sticker from Idaho or the newest cheap prize, a “I’d Rather be BBQ-ing” magnet from Montana. Simply write “magnet” or “sticker” in the subject of an e-mail (evanhlevine@gmail.com) and include your address. The first two responses win.

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