This is a story that has its origins from an odd series of events starting over Thanksgiving and culminating last night. My mind is still blown, actually.
So I drove out to Las Vegas to climb over Turkey Day. On I70, about 4 miles east of the Eisenhower tunnel, I start hearing chatter over the CB that there’s a huge accident right in front of us. Continued driving for about another mile, and that was it. Complete standstill.
Apparently, a flatbed tractor trailer that was travelling eastbound slid across the median to the westbound side and jack knifed, crushing several cars in the process. The accident completely blocked all westbound lanes, and traffic didn’t move for about 2.5 hours.
I sat in the car for a bit listening to bored truckers chat idly over the CB. I was enlighted to learn that according to truckers, a “yuppie” is a college educated idiot who, if in the army, would never make it above the rank of corporal. Also, the yuppie habit of going up to the top of a mountain and sliding down it on a pair of skis is insanely stupid. I made the decision not to engage these philosophers in dialogue and friendly debate, and just listened in.
At some point, I got bored, and decided to entertain myself by walking along the highway and meeting my fellow stranded travellers. Right next to me was an odd fellow in a beat up VW Rabbit with a Tennessee accent thicker than frozen molasses. Michael was a hurly burly mountain man on his way to Telluride and looked and talked somewhat like Rupert from the latest season of Survivor. We struck up a conversation, and I was enchanted with how odd the man was. At one point, he gave me two pairs of latex gloves because they were “awesome for keeping the cold off you, man.” Feeling silly and surreal, I put them on anyhow.
Michael also asked me if I was single. Upon learning that I indeed was, and the fact that I was going out to Vegas to rock climb, he immediately said that he was going to hook me up with his friend Humana who was “absolutely gorgeous and a hard core climber” or something like that. Instantly, Michael whipped out his cell phone, and before I knew it, I was leaving a message on a complete stranger’s voicemail, laughing my ass off and babbling about I70 and snow and climbing. Odd, to say the least.
Finally, they cleared the wreck, and we went our separate ways. I told a few people about the weird dude I met on I70, but basically forgot about it until last night.
Fast forward to last night. I’m out with my friend Heidi (whom I’ve only known for a few months) for a few drinks, and she’s telling me about some of her ex-boyfriends. The reason she moved to Colorado was that she met some dude who lived in his van and somehow became enamored with him, and they ended up moving out to Telluride together. She mentioned something about how the dude was pretty cool, but was a born again Christian, and that the religion issue was somewhat dividing. Then she mentioned his name, and the third odd coincidence was that the dude’s name was Michael.
Now when I met I70 Michael, I had heard him talking on his cell phone to a few friends, and he always signed off with a hearty “God bless you brother.” I also knew that Michael lived out of his van. Odd.
I started asking Heidi what Michael looked like and how he talked and what he did, etc. etc. I asked a few questions describing the man I met on I70, and Heidi replies, “Yeah — that’s him. I probably introduced you at some point.” I’ve usually got a pretty good head for faces and names, and there was no way that I would have forgotten a chap like that, and insisted that we’d never been introduced by her.
I then told her about my trip out to Vegas, the accident, and meeting weirdos on the side of the road. Finally, I remembered that Michael had given me his cell number with the intent to meet up for a few drinks if he was ever in Ft. Collins. I read his number out, and Heidi says, “Holy shit — that’s his phone number!”
Weird weird. What a small world we live in.