Big Game
Only two distant stations are available through the rabbit-ear wire antenna, and your boss can only reach you through a pay phone. Welcome to the 1970s.
A doper lady who camps out under the stars hitches a ride from a millionaire with a hole in his heart.
When you pay, you can really move.
Back in the 1970s I had the perfect job. A motor club paid me to go to all the resorts and tourist attractions in Colorado. I crossed the continental divide 23 times that summer. I ran free as the snowy clouds that were scuttled over the peaks, close enough to touch. The boss knew I camped out every night along the rushing rivers, but I was never sure he knew I took my big brown dog along. Perhaps he turned a blind eye because I sold more advertising than my predecessor. Still, the job paid relatively little. The cheap motels I could afford felt like prisons and staying in them would have put my boss in my ear each evening. There are advantages to a lack of connectivity that we fail to value now. To me, forty hours seemed sufficient labor for the little I earned, so I dreamed under the stars and called him each morning instead. I didn’t have much of a car when I applied. The Rambler was okay for trips to the grocer, but I had to get out every third or fourth stop, pop the hood, and …
