I pop into El Rancho for breakfast before heading back out to see Joe one last time. I order some eggs and hit the bathroom. There's a guy in the next stall, mud caked on his boots. He's on the phone.
"Mac, I can't make it to work. My car broke down. I called you. Did I leave a message? No, but Mac, I swear I called. Yeah, I'll be there tomorrow. Thanks, Mac."
I hold off flushing so as not to interrupt this gilded symphony of horseshit. But then I hear another noise, the unmistakable sound of something being snorted off an arm. I flush and try to get the hell out of there. Too late, my new friend is popping out of his stall.
He's not wearing a shirt and smells awful. He gives me a high-five and slips his shirt back on. It's probably the drugs, but I'd like to think he's psyched for a day off the rig. Last I see he is sashaying down the street in his oil-drenched jeans. And that seemed like a good place to leave it. I call Joe and make my excuses. It's time to get gone. I drive 90 mph until I hit the Montana line. Goodbye, boomtown.