The Lincoln Highway

I got a double shot of espresso from one of Nebraska's many Photomat-sized coffee huts.

The Lincoln Highway provided a respite from the tedium of the interstate.

The scenic Nebraska byway ran side by side with the Union Pacific Railroad, which on a Saturday afternoon was as busy as I've ever seen a railroad.
It seemed each town had its own seed mill that the trains just had to toot about.
It got hot.
I turned off the radio and listened to Nebraska.
The squeal of the railroad.
The whoosh of an oncoming car passing.
I came up with some ideas for the writing project that won't leave my head.
I yelled them into the movie recorder on the camera.
It got really hot.
I kept going with the windows rolled down.
What I wouldn't give to have AC in my van at home.
But this wasn't my van.
And I wasn't home.
So the windows remained down.
That's how the Lincoln Highway felt today.
Out of nowhere, the most scantily clad town I've ever seen in the midwest happened.
Young men and women, tanned crispy red, strutted around shirtless or in bikinis.  
I actually hooted out loud.  
Like a dog.
A front yard was rock show packed.
Some burly dudes with super soakers sprayed the sea of skin.
Suddenly I found myself on some sort of cruise strip.
Classic cars, sluggy folks in lawn chairs, goons on the beds of pick up trucks.
The corner of my eye caught a carload of teenagers looking at me and laughing.
What are you laughing at?
You live here.

That espresso went through me.
 I found a McDonald's to put it into and headed to Omaha.

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