0500 hours, October 26, and Wilson’s body continued to tingle as he stepped onto the wooden porch of Crazy Kate’s boardinghouse on A Street. Passing through the Gate did that to him every time.

He reached the door and tried the knob. It turned, and he pushed his way inside.

To his left was the glass oil lamp, as expected. It was lit, with the wick barely visible.

As he moved forward, he stepped on the tail of an orange tabby that had never been there before. The house cat screamed in pain and bolted between Wilson’s legs, throwing the man off-balance.

In trying to avoid the cat and regain his balance, Wilson bumped into the low table on which sat the oil lamp. Before he could react, it smashed to the floor and erupted into flames.

There was nothing he could do. The boarding house was a tinder box and exploded into a roaring conflagration.

All Wilson could do was return to the Gate and the 21st century, leaving 1875 Virginia City to burn yet again.

Saturday, just after noon — I had finished delivering the last of the Comstock Chronicle and Dayton Valley Dispatch. My truck broke down, so I could not finish it the day before.

Driving up Six-mile Canyon, I happened on a woman in a small car with a flat tire. Knowing what it is like to wait for service, I pulled over and offered to help her, which she happily accepted.

During our few minutes by the side of the road and her car, I learned she was in the Comstock scouting locations for an upcoming dystopian film and looking for local talent. I told her about all the actors Virginia City had working in it, especially at the Cowboy Show next to the Storey County Fire Museum.

She gave me her card and asked if I had ever done any acting. Boy, I was glad she asked.

After I listed all my various film gigs, she told me to make a short audition video and email it to her, which I have. Now, we wait.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Smile at your enemies as if you have a case of gas, and if possible, fart, then walk away.”

Tipsy the Clown stepped out of the bar and into the evening’s chilled air. Drunk, he proceeded to stagger to his clown car and climb in.

With his knees higher than the steering wheel, he turned on the car and stomped on the gas pedal. The tiny vehicle took off at a fast rate of speed, disappearing into the dark.

Suddenly there was a loud crash as Tipsy missed the sharp curve heading out of town and slammed into a huge tree.

When first responders arrived, they immediately radioed for 24 more ambulances. They had all seen this carnival show before.

“I found a new butcher’s shop today,” she said.

“What was wrong with the old one?”

“Nothing, it’s just that this one has better, leaner cuts of meat, and the prices are better.”

“How long have they been in town?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe two weeks or so.”

That night, at dinner, he agreed that the roast she had bought from the new butcher was tastier and more tender than what they had been eating.

She smiled.

---

Three counties away, the local sheriff was investigating yet another disappearance of a young child.

“That’s the third one this month,” he complained.

As any service member can tell you, there is a penalty for alcohol abuse. In this case, we are speaking of spillage.

When it happens, punishment — erm — we mean discipline — must be provided to the offender. Though it varies from one duty station to another, a set of push-ups are generally the prescribed correction.

As I sat in the Union Brewery Saloon in Virginia City, I was startled by the sudden affections of a woman. As she hugged me and kissed my cheek, I knocked a newly decapped bottle of Yellow Belly to the floor.

Because of “muscle memory,” meaning I didn’t think first, I dropped to the hardwood floor and started “giving 25.” It became a sad spectacle as, by the ninth one, I knew I did not have it in me to finish.

My arms collapsed, and my back spasmed to the point I lay on the floor, flopping like a fish out of water in spilled beer. The laughter that ensued was not my intent, but I rolled with it anyway.

Now I wonder which needs more work, my push-ups or my alcohol abuse.

it is not a smoke day for schools
pity the little school children
sitting in class and dreaming
staring out the smokefrosted panes
thoughts of making smokemen
creating winged smoke angels
tasting newly fallen smokeflakes
eyelashes catching smokeflakes
building not-so-secret smoke forts
having many smokeball-fights
and sledding down smokehill
on last years steel smoke-runner
gloves and knit smoke hat ready

Ink, 8 x 11 1/2 inches

My Cousin Elmo says, “Stop buying plastic skeletons for Halloween. They are bad for the environment. Locally sourced, all-natural skeletons are much more environmentally friendly.”

For the third time in the past six months, I played the song “The City of New Orleans,” by Arlo Gutherie, written by Steve Goodman. It’s a nostalgic tune about the passing of the railways throughout the U.S.

It leaves me both happy and sad.

The first thing I thought of when hearing it this time is the Virginia & Truckee Railroad and how hard Tom Gray, and his late father Robert, have worked to keep the engines moving. Then like a needle on a record that gets bumped, I skipped fancying if anybody would find a gas-powered engine nostalgic.

“Them was the days, boyos! The days!”

Lastly, I wondered if a song would ever find its way into American folk music.

“A salute to the ruling classes
U don’t know a gas-powered engine
Once was the proletariat workhorse
We would go four hundred miles on a tank again”

Nailed it!