TWO WEEKS LATER, I arrived at Lester's in the same old '57 Chevy pickup we'd once used to commute back and forth to La Grande. Besides some spare clothing, hiking gear, mostly, I’d brought along only one thing. Nothing that was really vital to my plan—yet something that was sure to enrich my enjoyment of its conclusion, if it should indeed go that far. This item, which I’m not going to reveal just yet, I brought to Lester's in a black, metallic briefcase.
Old Lester came charging out to greet me, looking considerably worse than how I left him (he still wore the same coveralls, I marveled), a bottle of Rainier in one hand. He wore a filthy, sweat-soaked red and green striped thermal undershirt. And he smelled.
We went inside, and I placed my things by the couch before having a seat. Leste
