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Show 168 It was December. We'd seen no snow so far, but it was going to be cold out there. I opened my closet, grabbed several sweatshirts as well as my sleeping bag in case Tamara was planning on staying there overnight. Then I said yes, please come pick me up. The drive was different at night and Tamara was much quieter than usual. Our visibility was mostly limited to the paths lit up by headlights and the occasional sections of white salt and sand that glowed in the moonlight. It took night falling for me to notice that most of the components of Exit 88-the makeshift train station, the openness, even the constant, garish Wendover billboards-suggested the possibility of being one step away from getting out of there. I was getting used to the bare, white skeleton anatomy of the area. All of it used to be water, after all, and I was coming around to thinking about the possibilities of getting to know something after it has dried up and its life has changed. I didn't know if it was identification or affection that drew Steve to those kinds of spaces, or how much difference there was between the two. I think it might be a distinctly Mormon tendency to think of places being made with us in mind, and that spot might have been one that seemed made for Steve as he went over his choices in his track. After exiting 1-80, we turned onto the rocky dirt road and we could see dust particles swirling like a snowstorm in the headlights. Tamara parked in front of the gate and we got out to walk in the dark. |