Gus pulls ahead and drives for what seems like a full hour, but what turns out to be just a few minutes. He slows the van and turns left onto what I assume is the super max’s cargo access road. When he stops upon arriving at the guardhouse and the big fence that surly secures it, he rolls down the automatic window. It’s what I’m picturing in my head.
“Morning, Officer,” he says in the friendly voice I recall from his Gus’s Hotdog Shack days. “Fresh laundry delivery. Not that the inmates inside that Everest cooler deserve it, big fat traitors that they are.”
He laughs, pretending to be one of those annoying guys who belly laughs at his own witticisms.
“You’re not the usual dude,” says the guard.
“Called in sick,” Gus says. “When I was young, you worked, sick or not.”
“Not if you’re cra
