I left that town almost on a whim, finally, just left with a few things. I'd be traveling for so long anyway that the roads for miles around were worn familiar, and I could no longer bare to fly. I packed lighter and fewer things than usual that day and when the ride who picked me up invited me to a 'picnic' out in the basins, I agreed to stop by. I found that when traveling alone, invitations to picnic are not rare.

The group that was already there on that windy sunny day was entirely in motion. A guy played an adaptation of ping pong, with a large bat and a long rope that let the ball reach far out over the water. Some danced, modeling either self-designed articles or wildly designed selves. A small charcoal pit next to a brightly painted and gutted minivan spat smoke around a revolving group of tenders. I was wearing almost entirely black, and I got some half-interested looks at my tameness as I trustingly leaned a laptop back against my surplus duffel. The docs tied to the back of the bag swung hobo-style and it made me feel really vulnerable, not only because a good swing might get me kicked in the head but because they were so heavy, dirty and exposed. My running shoes had seen better days, though I've protested that all 'true' running shoes have. Those shoes were not well suited to the rocks and sand. I never wear them, except when I go running, which generally happens when pissed off at midday or exhausted at midnight. I can't remember another time I wore those shoes when I wasn't on a jog, which made me more comfortable wearing them there despite feeling overly calisthenic for the group.

I didn't stay gone for long. I picked up a small washer, among nuts and bolts littering the wide roads among tidy warehouses back to the Caltrain. Found my way back too, though I was getting tired fast. The girl punk hitchhiker who hit us up on the drive had laughed at my exhausted face after my first effort to sleep. Honey, whatever you're good for, it's not that face.

The call for more work finally came a few weeks later. Some details. It would be better if you were here. Meet with me. The pay would barely cover transportation, and the risk was almost inevitable. I'd call the playboy from my previous group the moment I was within 50 miles. Give me a woman-eater any day- that kind makes you pay to be yourself. That's easier than a guy who'll offer anything for an effort to be a fantasy. I'd wind up back in the arms of a man who's only real spoken words included 'I don't understand what you are saying. Would you like to go to bed?' and 'do you want to have children?' Painful words to a single, fire breathing, minimally employed woman, but I was drinking hard and angry those days. I was hitting the earth for what I wanted. Good offers only come when you are busy. So I went back again.

The truth is, I was ready to go back. There are moments of vulnerability, like when an oven is left too long and the pilot light gets blown out, except rather than one strong breath the flame is picked away at with little sips. That is my experience with socializing with women, anyway. There were women on both sides of the trip for some unfriendly reason. But they take very tiny sips at first.