Sacrament-Ho!



Just outside of Sacramento



In Wyoming there had been a point where the predominant local industry seemed to be the manufacturing of clouds. Above the purple-redish Mazda (Fred) the sky had been packed with little fluffy clouds. Each seemed to be of a similar size and shape, and all were distinct individuals. On the floor of the rolling basin, a gargantuine smoke stack spewed white puffs of steam skyward. This, He thought, must be the cloud factory. Wyoming was the holding area for the cumulus bunch; a prep area where the clouds were sorted, packaged, and then sold to the highest bidder.

California did not purchase its clouds from Wyoming. Typically, it imported them from overseas, and today it was obvious that the weekly shipment was extremely late. The sky above Fred was azure and devoid of varience. Kim was driving now and He road shotgun once again, typing away His thoughts into the Duo 2300 He had so lovingly reconstrcuted from used parts at the ACCRC. Originally, they wanted to drive straight from Cheyene to San Francisco, but upon arriving in Sparks, Nevada, they nearly fell asleep over their Applebee's dinner. And so, they checked into yet another Motel 6, thoroughly convinced that they were in the same exact room that they had rented in Cheyene.

Now, they were once again on Interstate 80, rolling slowly down the hills of eastern California on their way to Sacramento, then on to the bay area. The travel was slow: most of the road was blocked off as construction crews layed down blacktop and drew new lane-lines. The road work came in 10 mile bursts. Here, 60 miles east of Sacramento, they had enountered no fewer than 7 seperate work crews, all busily fixing the ailing highway. While the constant delays were extremely annoying, it was obvious that I-80 was in dire need of the attention. At times, it seemed as though the road was composed only of loose rocks poured on top of cement. It caused the CD player to skip repeatedly, completely ruining the irony of the Propellerhead's "Take California."

About 40 miles behind them, they had been required to stop and speak to some sort of deputy fruit marshal at a California agricultural check-point. The purpose of this stop is still unknown, and the attendent had seemed more interested in the point of origin than the destination of their trip. The marshal, it seemed, was from Baltimore.

Once again there was a break in the roadwork, and Kim pushed Fred up to a respectable 70 MPH. Along either side of the car, evergreens wizzed by. Out of the speakers came the electic boogie of The Orb, probably playing due to His memories of the cloud factories. He knew that ahead of Him lay only open sky, open road, and the promise of a new working life. He simply didn't know what any of those would offer.

And that was the best part.























































































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