I-49

SOMECOUNTRYFUCKTOWN, Mo.—I did not plan to exercise Sunday, but fifty miles south of Kansas City, Kan, on U.S. I-49, my Crown Vic ran out of gas at about 10 a.m. I walked and jogged for a total of 37:18 to a long-closed gas station and then back to my car, maybe half a mile south of exit 153. Somewhere around eight minutes from my car, I remembered something a North Little Rock policeman told me a year or so ago about the nearly infinite attributes of 911. I dialed it, right there walking south on a busy freeway, and within twenty minutes, a Missouri state trooper named Carl Smith handed me a one-gallon plastic gas can, drove me to a station about four miles away, and then back to my car. He was born and raised in St. Louis, so we talked Cardinals baseball right up until I was on my way again. I got to Rodney and Mary Gordon's house with about a half-hour to spare.
The Packers beat the Chiefs, 31-24.