One of the following things is true about Bill:
(a) He enjoys oragami
(b) He's a master chef
(c) He's trying to bring orange back to the forefront of American fashion
(d) He's the guy I paid $70 for a set of tire chains on the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains
To be fair, a, b, and c could be true. But for our purposes here, d is the only answer that matters.
Ma and I woke up in Reno to a sight not unlike our view from the Akron Radisson. Unfortunately, instead of coasting along the relatively tame terrain of Indiana and Illinois, this time we had to climb 8,000 feet. The signs started as soon as we got out of town. Trucks need chains. Weather ahead.
"Poor guys," we laughed. "It must take forever to get through those mountains with chains on."
Then, a few miles later, we saw another sign. Snow chains required for all vehicles. Road block 2 mi.
Who's the poor guy now?
We pulled off onto the shoulder, where all the folks from Nevada and California who already had these stupid things in the trunk were loading them on. And there was Bill — an official 'Nevada Chain Installer' (one wonders whether Nevada has its own particular brand of chain) — happily holding a brand new set. A $70 set. "Either you wait it out here with me," he told us with a smile, "Or you put on some chains." Bill seemed nice enough — who knows, maybe he could've taught us to make paper swans — but as a rule I don't hang out with people who just hung a 200% mark-up on me. $70 chains it was.
This article appears in Mar 1-7, 2006.