• E.S.
Seems I always arrive in Sunnyside in the dead of night, when it's terrifying. Once with a bent bumper in search of a mad cow. Once with an assignment to enter a tough bar and drink a Mad Cow (Tequila, 151-proof rum, Kahlúa, a splash of milk, and a pink straw). And then, late last night, with a plan to sleep a few hours before going to see an alleged mad ranter.

I spent a good part of last night (when I wasn't listening for the footsteps of Dick Hickock and Perry Smith) wondering why I'd become such a wimp about remote rural towns at night, and then I remembered the above, which is another way of saying I remembered the fear wasn't new; rolling into a rural place after dark has always and forever scared the shit out of me. From my journey to the pink straw:

My traveling companion, Ryan, agreed that there is something inherently unnerving about arriving in a remote rural town at night, even one colored blue on voting maps. "There's so much invisible space," he said. "Which means there's so much possibility for crime."

And so few witnesses, I thought.

  • E.S.
Now, morning light and remote rural towns—totally different. Sure, no one's there to hear you scream. That's the same. But at least you can see what's coming.