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Show RIVER We had even more junk than when we'd left California, including a lawn chair, an ice chest, axes, packs, a car battery, plus Rick's gear. Despite the abundant evidence, they refused to believe we were going to the Mississippi River. The first cop saw where I'd spray painted the name Prometheus on the van back in Battle Mountain. The trooper tapped the name and said, "Who's that?" "The Greek god of foresight," I said, not explaining that it was an appropriate name for a vehicle with no reverse gear. "He gave fire to mankind." "Unh," said the trooper. "I'm not up on my Greek mythology." He wasn't up to finding any drugs, either. "Look," I said finally. "Do you think I'd be stupid enough to smuggle drugs in an old wreck like this?" He grunted. Obviously I was that stupid. I was getting indignant, but I had sense enough to keep my mouth shut. At last they gave up and let us go. We ate miserable hamburgers in miserable Sidney and drove on through the miserable Nebraska night. By dawn our heads were bent with blue smoke from the exhaust, our stomachs were knotted with truck-stop coffee, and our backs were twisted from the constant jolting of the ancient van. And the rear end was dragging its ass again. Once we'd crossed into Iowa we pulled off the highway and drove on a dirt road back into the harvest-heavy cornfields. Rick went to work while the rest of us tried to regain the use of our legs. All around us on the gently rolling prairie were September-tall stands of corn, sprawling as far as the eye could reach, growing out of the thick black soil. I was amazed, I'd never seen soil so deep and rich. It took a while, but at last I recognized the tall, stringy weed growing in profusion all through the corn. It was hemp. It seemed like just revenge on the Nebraska State Troopers for forcing -55- |