Jim was on the train at night going to see his cousin Erin who worked as a waitress at a truck stop out on highway 9, a lonesome stretch of road between Duluth and Red Falls where in winter it was so cold that the truckers wouldn’t shut off their rigs even if they stopped for the night at the motel there for fear of their engines freezing and not starting the next morning. He lived in Hibbing, home of Bob Dylan, out on the Mesabi Range where, as Dylan reminisced, “the winds blow heavy on the borderline.” “Yeah, they sure do, Bob,” thought Jim as he looked at the window at the night and the stars and the moon. He had come a long way since he left California, and, like F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “his dream was so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it.” At least he thought that was it. How could Jim know that it was still back in San Luis Obispo, with Pedro and Anthony and all that he’d left behind.