hierograms

	Halfway through this five-week run, the desolate drives were long enough for plenty of time to worry about imagined things. 

The engine light never appeared on the minivan instrumental panel, just in my mind when a noon appointment was overcautiously arranged at an Idaho dealership for a speculated leak.

I left at 5AM for the four hundred miles ahead. It was rainy & stayed dark while negotiating mostly with semis on the winding interstate. 

I arrived early & reserved a nearby room, expecting the worst.

By noon, the inspection was done. Miraculously, they found no leak. I cancelled the room & just kept moving west, like I’d gotten away with something &’d better keep going. The sky opened.

Three hundred miles later, I arrived in eastern Washington for an evening off.

	Too late for the Fest, I checked into a downtown two-star & walked to a nearby pull-tab bar & grill. 

I didn’t recognize any of the beers on tap. The music was familiar-yet-not aughts-ish nostalgically nodded by tank-t tats or loosened hoodies passing their prime together, blithely pulling tabs & flicking them to the wet floor behind the bar, creating a bedding like fallen foliage after an autumn fog. A younger bartender trekked between damp mounds in slip-on sandals & sweats. Someone mistakenly tossed a $1 winner & the bartender moved a garbage can to crawl beneath the bar & look for it like it wasn’t unusual. 

I left because of the music & the beer & walked across the street to a Mexican restaurant/bar in the midst of a karaoke night. I couldn’t believe it: Negro Modelo on tap. 

About ten talents were shepherded by a sweetly animated MC. The first few songs were country hits that everyone seemed to know except me, then, finally, a guy did Seger’s Night Moves, as should be.

A father & daughter traded verses on an upbeat song about a cheating couple. 

A long bob & a goatee duetted Love Shack then split up for a solo lob performance of REO’s Can’t Fight This Feeling, beginning with a quick apology for doing it a second time that night. The goatee ordered drinks.

A middle-aged mustache sitting alone at the end of the bar picked Air Supply’s All Outta Love. He seemed shy at first, looking down when he said “Thank you” quietly into the mic in a baritone, then suddenly came alive singing in a higher octave, not reading from the video monitor, but staring off beyond the audience as if possessed into a different being by the music.

The MC joined in occasionally, either with another singer or on their own. Everyone clapped & cheered for everyone else there, every song — a show just between them, for each other. They mingled as they filed out like a leaning congregation, saved once again & promising next-times. 

	I tried to hit up the Fest the next morning, but it was closed down for Sunday service. 

Instead, I opted for a spudnut eucharist on the way outta town to carry my good fortune to the coast. 

The leak was forgotten, but a few days later I picked up prescription for pink eye.

The precursor to this episode is stationery destinations: Wrecks of WY.