Wyoming Speed Limit

Back in the last century the speed limit in Montana was 'whatever is reasonable an proper' and in 1995 while driving with my mistress in a rented car I passed a piggy back truck at 110 on I-90 east. A Montana Statie hid about five car-lengths before the Peterbilt. Barbara told me to slow down.

"No, if I step on the brakes, the officer will know I'm guilty of something."

I maintained the speed. Nothing happened.

Four years later Maybe 1999. I was on a road trip with my father through Montana and Wyoming. My mother had passed two years previously and we both loved the road. My mother had loved the road too.

Someplace desolate and flat north of the Wind River Mountains on 120 I was driving ten miles over the speed limit. A state troopper car was coming in the opposite direction. The car passed and u-turned with lights flashing. I hadn't seen a car in twenty minutes. I pulled over to the breakdown lane and rolled down the window.

The green-shirted trooper asked why I was speeding at 75. He pulled down the brim of his campaign hat, as if to indicate he expected the truth.

"In other states you can drive ten years over the speed limit." I was a good citzen. At least I hadn't had anything tio drink at lunch on Thermopolis. that was the truth, not an explanation.

"Wyoming isn't other states. This is a warning. Kept it to 65."

I thanked the officer and time seemed to stop at 65. When my father took over, he leadfooted to 100. "They aren't any other police out here."

And he was right all the way to Cody.

Nantasket Beach Forever

In 1981 I was working after-hour clubs for Arthur Weinstein. I needed a break from the hustle and fled north to the South Shore of Boston. No one called me. I slept and read. My mother greeted me at the breakfast table and apologized for the boredom of the suburbs and I recalled a line from Tallyrand, "One has to have loved a genius to appreciate the love of a fool."

I told my mother I couldn't be happier.

"Boredom is a blessing for those cursed by constant entertainment."

That afternoon we drove down to Nantasket Beach and watched slow waves crawl across the gray sand.

And that was not boring.

And it will be beautiful forever.

To view Nantasket, please go to this URL

https://youtu.be/2YV_Vjfln9E

Waiting For My Man

The year was 1997.

The night New Year’s Eve at the Helmuth Building on West 18th Street and 7th Avenue.

The party was hosted by my good friend, Juliana, and music provided by her music fanatic ex-husband.

A Chelsea loft filled with old jazz musicians, real estate moguls, and a crew of Italian visitors.

The latter wanted drugs.

Cocaine to be exact.

I had a connection.

The desired amount was an ounce.

The dealer gave a rendezvous. He was more than two hours late. I overcharged the Italians $500 and pocketed 2 Gs. No one at the party had a scale. The Italians understood the delay and one of them said, “Waiting for my man.”

They loved that song. The wait had been true New York. Never obsolete. We huffed lines and that night I spoke Italian with a fiery tongue. I had studied Latin in high school. A dead language reanimated by the New World.

Never better.

Never again.