DARLIN' NICKY: Bozeman, MT to Brooklyn, NY

“So, are ya travlin’?”

The waitress slides into the booth across from me. Her name is Nicki. She’s blonde and cute and Minnesota through-and-through.

“Mmm-hmm,” I hum, swallowing another spoon of chili.

The neon sign advertises family dining, but all I see in this diner on the outskirts of Sioux Falls are truckers. It’s a dimly lit joint, with brown pleather seats and linoleum flooring. It’s clean, aside from the clientele, with bathrooms that smell like lemon Lysol. Above the sole urinal there’s a condom machine. Scratches in the paint read, “This gum tastes like rubber.”

“So whereya goin’?” Nicki smiles.

“Brooklyn, eventually. But tonight, just across the line to Minnesota. Jackson maybe. Here, I’ll show you.” I turn the atlas so we can both see it, and lean across the table, pointing at the map. “I started out here, in Bozeman. Montana. Drove straight across here, through Billings and Buffalo. Got pulled over here, in Spearfish—no ticket, though. Then, straight across South Dakota.”

Nicki leans in to get a better look. She smells like oranges.

“Up here, in Michigan,” I continue, “there’s a little ski area called Bohemia. It’s a really small, end-of-the-road kind of place on the tip of this little peninsula, by Copper Harbor.” Nicki readjusts her weight, tucking her leg underneath her, and cocks her head to follow my finger along the map. I tell her what I know about Bohemia—that the base lodge is a bunch of yurts strung together and the accommodations are little cabins with bunk beds and not much else. They don’t do any grooming either, I explain, and the whole mountain is rated advanced or better (including the elusive triple black diamond). I tell her about the glades off the back and the cliff band you can jump, if there’s enough snow. There usually is, I say. The ski area sits on a 1,000-foot hill practically in the middle of Lake Superior, and sucks about 275 inches a year out of the sky.

“I plan on hitting that tomorrow night,” I tell her.

“Ah, so yer goin’ way up, to da U.P. Are ya goin’ through Canada den?” She reaches across to touch the map and accidentally hits my hand. She pulls back quickly, startled, maybe a bit embarrassed. Slowly she reaches back and puts her hand on the page.

“Nope,” I continue. I adjust the beanie on my head and lean in closer, still looking at the map. I smell like oil. “From there I’m heading straight south to Chicago. Joliet. Have you ever seen The Blues Brothers?”

Nicki shakes her head no, still smiling. Poor, sheltered girl.

“Well, it starts with Elwood Blues picking up his brother Jake—‘“Joliet Jake’”—at prison. He picks him up in an old police car, which sends Jake—John Belushi—off on a tirade. I’m driving an old cop car, too. So I’m going down there to pay homage, sort of.” I lean back in my seat.

“Yeah I saw ya drive up,” she says. “Is that car gonna make it all the way?”

Don’t insult Joaquin, Nickiy. The deer antlers and crossed- up Budweiser skis screwed to the hood shouldn’t fool you. Neither should all the stickers. She’s a solid rig, still capable of running a drunk driver off the streets of Boise. The skis will probably blow off outside Minneapolis, but they fit in the trunk. And somewhere along the way I ruptured the oil line, but there’re redundant systems for that. It’s a cop car, after all. I finish my bite of prime rib sandwich.

“Oh yeah. No question,” I answer calmly. “That car’s tight. As long as I dump a few quarts of oil in ’er every time I get gas, she’ll be fine.” I take another bite, and lean back across the table. Our heads almost touch; I can smell the oranges. I start to talk, still chewing. “So from there, I’m goin’ straight east, here, across Pennsylvania. I might hit a ski area or two there as well. Maybe Blue Knob, down here, by Altoona. Though I hear it’s all pretty brown right now.” I slump back down and look across the table at Nicki.

She continues to smile, not saying a word. Just looks me straight in the eye.

“I like to ski,” I add. I hold her gaze for a moment.

“Yeah, ya look like a skier,” she says.

I screw like a skier, too, with a firm ass and strong quads conditioned from working hard and fast for long hours at high altitude. But Nicki will never know this. She gets up to wait on another table. I throw a 20 on the check and walk to the door, the atlas tucked beneath my arm, intent on logging a few more hours before stopping for sleep. There’s no more time for Darlin’ Nicki tonight. I’m on a mishin from Gad.