1. Oklahoma

"Give me another please."

The bartender, a burly man with more hair sprouting off his shoulders than head, lifted his eyes from the morning paper, reached underneath the bar, and poured another shot of Old Crow. This time he didn't stop. He poured until the bourbon cascaded over the rim and formed a puddle around the base of last two shots had been "regular," two fingers by bartending standards, but the third he poured to nearly five.

The man smiled to himself and considered, just for a second, bending down and slurping the spilled bourbon. He stopped himself, not wanting to think better of it. Mostly, he didn't want to feel the judgment of the bartender's glance. It was morning and the bartender looked as if he had been there all night. He was a bald, husky man who stood like a gorilla, with his weight on the palms and his body hunched over the bar. He wore a sweat filled 'wife beater' and a grease stained apron. His pours smelled of whiskey and his eyes peered red. He turned the pages of his newspaper with the speed of some one who only had the energy to read the headlines and skim the first paragraphs. He paid the man little attention.

The man raised his glass in a gesture of thanks and immediately tossed back two fingers. The burning his throat had given away to numbness. He was thankful not only to have bourbon but to have found an open bar and the company of a quiet man.

He had been driving for three days straight and with his destination only miles away he needed a drink. He dreaded what was to come and, after having completed fifty-seven procedures, knew that booze made the day easier.

Oklahoma had proved to be both beautiful and boring. The roads, which seemed like rivers of cement, wound and snaked through endless green fields. Rotting wooden posts connecting miles of barbed wire formed the banks of the cement rivers. Every breeze carried the musty, earthy smell of cow dung and dandelions. As he drove, the road disappeared into the horizon that hid behind the rippling landscape. Small towns consisting of one major thoroughfare and small grids of connecting suburbs quickly came and went. Old church steeples, red brick houses, silos, and dilapidated barns marked property lines. People moved slowly and cars clustered around diners, gas stations, and high schools.

He was in no hurry to arrive at his destination and once he reached Ames Oklahoma he prayed for an open bar. The Rusty Bucket was five miles outside of town and was and oasis of weathered wood and asphalt parking. In the distance it looked like a barn but as neared and lifted his foot from the gas pedal, a lit neon Old Style sign and open door welcomed him.

He sat with three fingers left in his glass. A triangle of sun inched its way through the open door and illuminated the circulating dust. He swirled the last of his bourbon, wished that he could leave Oklahoma, and finished with one gulp. As he swallowed, it was his sense of duty that kept him from a fourth.

"Thanks for the drink," he said leaving a fifty dollar bill on the bar. He turned and walked into the triangle of sun. The morning smelled of renewal. The air was clean and crisp. A lone tree stood on the other end of the parking lot and fanned its red, orange, and brown leaves toward the Autumn sun.

The drink rejuvenated him, gave him strength. He felt ready, or least as ready as he could. He knew the task would not be easy despite being a specialist. The only man sanctioned in all of North America.

He meandered in the parking lot. His was the only car and he walked to it slowly allowing the crisp breeze of Autumn to rush over him. He loved autumn. The contrast of the warm sun and the cold air tickled his skin. The smell of decaying wet leaves and the brilliant colors always gave him a sense of peace. He wished he could take the day off and wallow away the rest of the afternoon with a bottle of rum and a view of pastures dotted with grazing cows. He wished could relax but a sense of responsibility propelled him forward. He placed his sunglasses across his eyes and turned toward the sun. His slow pace and the hot sun had heated his all black attire and baked his skin. His shirt was a black button down. He left the top buttons open and a simple gold cross laid across his chest. He tucked his shirt into his black pants. Black Converse All Stars with black laces dressed his feet.

He planted his hand on the open window of driver side door and hopped, through the open roof, and landed with a bounce on the old springs. His 1966 Chevrolet Chevelle convertible was the one true love of his life. It was beautiful car. It was shinny black with a white vinyl top and unless it rained or snowed that top was down. It had four sunken headlights that gave it a sleek vicious personality. The tires were fat and chromed and gave it its quintessential muscle car feel. It was the kind of car that drew attention in small town America. When they saw him dressed in black, and jumping out through the open roof, the people looked and whispered things like "Hollywood here?" or "Was there a flying saucer crash I don't know about?"

Upon taking North America as his assignment, the car was his one demand. The man argued the road would be his life, that it was only fair to drive in comfort and speed. He knew it was a luxury; he was it was excessive, but he didn't care. The car would be his home, his companion, and he needed to love it. A Toyota would not suffice. After making the demand his boss raised his head, studied him in disapproval, and waved his hand in displeased agreement. "You may have whatever car you want," was all that what ever said on the topic. He choose all black 1966 Chevrolet Chevelle convertible. He never regretted it for a moment.

He had been driving around the country for three years and had logged 78,000 miles.

He fired the ignition and sent a spray of gravel, dust, and blue exhaust back at the Rusty Bucket. He quickly inched the speedometer over 95 mph. As he raced down a road simply called E0490, he glanced over at the case file sitting open on the passenger seat. The photo of a young girl stared back him. He flipped the photo and looked at the page of directions underneath. 2485 Brentwood Dr. was just two turns and fifteen miles ahead.

He unclicked his seatbelt and raised his body. As his head inched over the window, the wind smacked him, like a slap across the face, and knocked his head back against his neck. His eyes watered and he opened his mouth to gulp down the sharp air. He hoped the wind would sober him, just slightly, but the whiskey proved too much. He was drunk and about to work.

He sunk back into his seat and slowed a reasonable 55 mph.

As he approached 2485 Brentwood Dr. he repeated an affirmation he had taught himself two years earlier. "Even if it's fake, you're still helping somebody, and that's your job. Your job is to help people and it's a good job." He repeated this affirmation twice more.

Emily Hoebetker was be the man's fifty-eighth attempt at what he called an "exploration of truth." He believed all previous fifty-seven attempts to be failures.

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