The miles slipped past, and we were happy to see a fruit stand on the side of the road. We selected a variety of succulent oranges, apples, and grapes, but when we tried to pay the owner declined our money, saying, “Anyone crazy enough to pedal across the country on bikes can have whatever you want.” 

In Guthrie (pop 140), we ate at the only cafe in town. At dusk, we walked across the street to the sheriff’s house to ask if we could sleep in the jail, but no one was there. I suppose we could’ve found a way to spend the night in jail, but our plans were a little more nebulous about getting out the following morning when we wanted to leave. There would also be the question of bail. Instead, we set up camp behind the old King County Courthouse.

After scotchguarding the tent, I walked back across the street to make a phone call. There were three unsmiling men sitting in rickety chairs in front of the old country store, spitting and talking in hushed tones in the dark. All conversation stopped as I closed the gap.

“How’re y’all doing?”

“Fahn.”  

… then ... silence.

One of them spit into a coffee mug.

“I was wondering, is there a payphone around here?”

The pause wasn’t long enough to be uncomfortable or awkward, but it was there. 

“Nope.”

Again. 

The pause.

“Is… there a payphone somewhere else I could use?”

…               …              …

“Nope.”

Not being much of a conversational weightlifter, I left them sitting in the dark and went back to the tent to sleep.