So began his thankless investigations here in this dingy, littered gas station perched on the knife’s blade between road and desert, civilization and chaos, sobriety and insanity, where he quietly pumped premium deluxe gasoline into his Miata.
The young man, with the confidence of a horny gazelle, strutted down the street in his flamingo pink suit, his posse of women dutifully trailing behind him, waiting for the promised ice-cream cone that would never come.
