Or else I hated you that afternoon beginning of August, how you stood with one foot planted in the miracle turf and the other against the corrugated vinyl:
“When the sun went down,” you explained between drags on a Pall Mall. “I figured I’d better try and find it. Got on 1-70, drove west. Drove all through the night, looking for the sun. And then about four, five in the morning, I see this great big pink-and-orange fire, right there in the middle of the desert…”
You deployed your conspiratorial grin. You waited a beat—waited exactly long enough— before delivering the punchline: