It is the hour before midnight, on the harsh, gray flat asphalt road along the banks of one of the Great Lakes . A truck races by like a shadow, the moon glowing behind a small house. The car swiftly goes on by, the dim light from the fogy night: --moon penetrating through the fog onto the tuck and house, where a man is standing by the road; -- music is heard coming from the car, Rock & Roll, as this stranger standing by the road, a man in a red plaid shirt, he stands erect, as if he was Paul Bunion; standing in-between the road and the house as a truck races by. The place was peopled by extras from "Hells Angels on Wheels" and every bad prison movie ever made. This woman kept bumping into me. She was medium height, slender, had long brown hair and three teeth. Her face looked a little like it had caught fire and some caring person had tried to put it out with an ax. Every time we collided I apologized nervously and she walked away. From behind she could have been Miss America. I swear.

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