Edward Adrift

named Jim Quillen got stopped at a weigh station near Grand Junction, Colorado. The weigh station personnel came out and checked the paperwork on his big drilling rig and a smaller truck with a water tank on the back. They climbed onto the cab of the drilling rig, measured the overhang on the mast, and told Jim Quillen that it went too far over the snout of the truck.
    “Quillen was a hothead, but he was smart, too,” my father said. “He knew that if he kicked up a fight, they’d just shut him down permanent. So you know what he did, Teddy?”
    I did not know what he did, and I told my father so.
    “He brought that water truck around front of the rig and backed it right up till they were almost touching. Then he lashedthe trucks together, and he hauled out of there. No more overhang. Quillen said that when they went by the shack, those guys’ mouths were open to the floor. Serves ’em right, the fuckers.”
    My father told me this story and he laughed so hard that his face turned red. I could tell that it was one of his favorite stories. It was a pretty good story, I guess. I don’t rate these things, but it’s not the best story I’ve ever heard. All the same, I’m thankful that he told it to me, so I could remember it now and think of him.

    The route I’m traveling, Interstate 15 South into Idaho, takes me through some beautiful country, and twice I pull off to take a picture along the Beaverhead-Deerlodge National Forest. I’ve never been much of a picture taker. I tend to remember so many things that I don’t need the pictures to remind me, but I must concede that I’ve been glad to have all the pictures of Donna and Kyle and Victor that have been taken and given to me in the past few years. When I’m feeling especially lonely, I bring them out and remember the good times when they were taken. These pictures from this trip, which I’m taking with my bitchin’ iPhone and sending to my “cloud,” might serve a similar purpose for me sometime. Part of me wishes I could leave the interstate and do some exploring. Virginia City, which was the territorial capital of Montana, is not too far away. Neither is Bannack, which was the territorial capital before Virginia City. I learned about these places in my Montana history class in the eighth grade at Will James Middle School, and I would like to see them someday, but I have hundreds of miles to go and can’t deviate (I love the word “deviate”) that far.
    My predeparture peeing program seems to have paid dividends. Before I cross over into Idaho, I stop only once to drainmy main vein and make my bladder gladder, and that’s in Dillon, 66.1 miles into my trip. I drive into the parking lot of an Exxon station and half-jog inside. I’ve planned well. Unlike yesterday, I don’t feel as though I’m about to burst, and so I’m able to get to the bathroom without drawing attention to myself by holding my tallywhacker. Two minutes and seven seconds later, after I’ve washed my hands thoroughly, I pay the store cashier for a pack of sugar-free gum and I’m headed back to the car.
    At 11:28 a.m., I am on the interstate and headed for Idaho.
    This is a good day already.

    I’m 24.7 miles beyond Dillon when my bitchin’ iPhone makes a noise at me.
    I pick it up, and this message is on the screen:
Whats up. LOL.
    That doesn’t make sense.
    With one hand on the wheel, and glancing repeatedly between my phone and the road, I type back:
Who is this?
    I put my right hand back on the steering wheel and try to keep my eyes focused on the road, but curiosity is stronger than my desire to drive in the recommended safe manner. I keep moving my eyes so I can see the phone’s screen.
    Finally, another message comes through:
The cops. LOL. Turn around and go home. LOL.
    I’m really flummoxed now. Again, I split my attention and spell out a reply:
How did you get this number? And what’s so funny?
    I’m not stupid; I know that LOL means “laughing out loud.” I also know what ROFLMAO means, and I have figured out most of the things that are known as emoticons. I do not like them.Internet culture is destroying the way we communicate with each other.
    I look down again at my phone, waiting for a response. When I look up, I’ve drifted too far to the right, and I have to pull hard on the steering wheel to keep the Cadillac DTS from leaving the road. That was a close one. My heart pounds.
    In comes the next message:
I know everything. LOL.
    As I reach down