Terry Umble had hoped to get away early that Wednesday morning. He had plans. But his alarm clock was unaware of the urgency and made no more than the usual feeble effort to roust him. Then Rue took an amount of time that stretched the limits of credulity selecting which of his clothes to wear. He’d never thought of his wardrobe as such a cornucopia of choice before. Then the bike had to be loaded into the back, as it was unlikely that they’d be heading home at the same time.
By the time he pulled up at Campadillo, it was clear that he’d have no time for errands and would likely be late for work. But she ruffled his hair, kissed him on the neck and told him he was wonderful before wishing him a great day. In fact he did feel pretty good and he dropped the windows to let the air rush in as he hit the highway and made for Moose Hills, Saskatchewan. Even the prospect of a full day at the John Deere mailroom seemed pretty good. It was a tedious place, but at least nothing happened there that did not make sense. The gung-ho can-do atmosphere that had taken over CRAK left him feeling quite alien. If you can’t be a nay-saying slack-ass at an alternative radio station, then what hope was there left anywhere in the world?