As he turned off his computer, he chuckled at the attempt in humor of the story about the boy trying to solve a murder only to find out it is fiction story written by Stephen King. He got up and crossed the hallway, got undress and laid down on his bed. Sleep found him quickly.
That morning’s alarm burned a hole in his dreamscape with it’s harsh buzz-buzz-buzz. He rolled over, fumbled with the clock, before finally finding the sliding switch that turned the noise-maker off.
It was still dark out, but John Meyer knew the sun would be up shortly. He got up, showered, dressed, made himself a toasted bagel with some raspberry jelly on it and headed out the door, happy that he’d packed his gear the night before.
Before backing out of his drive, he laid two notebook in the passenger seat beside himself along with an ink pen. Meyer enjoyed the ability to write out thoughts while racing along the highway.
Finally, he stopped a the 7-11 store at the corner, a mile or so from his house, and bought himself what he call a ‘frou-frou coffee;’ sweet french vanilla. Road trips were the only time he allowed himself this simple pleasure. Any other time, it black coffee, hot or cold, but always black.
Before long he was heading east on Interstate 80. In half and hour he’d be cruising southbound on US 95 towards Vegas.
Meyer had plans for the weekend. He wanted to take photos and hike the desert, maybe even visit the worlds largest temperature gauge at Baker, the gateway to Death Valley.
Soon, and with the sun up and at a blinding position coming in through his truck’s windshield, he made the left hand jog at Yerington and pulled into the first Chevron he found. He needed to fuel up, take a massive piss and get another cup of frou-frou coffee.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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