When Stegz finishes descending the mountain, he enters the car and says sarcastically: “Oh, what a funny joke that was, leaving me up on the snowy peak like you did.”
So we get back on the road and drive for many hours until we reach Pittsburgh. Now we’re in need of some rest.
“I’m sick of sleeping in this car,” says Stegz; “I wanna sleep in a bed.”
So we find a youth hostel and stop there. This is a place that provides cheap temporary lodgings, sort of like a motel or brothel: For seven dollars, one gets a cot and a candle, plus all the ginger beer and gumbo that one can tolerate. There are twenty-nine people per berthing unit (that’s what they call the bedrooms here). It’s a little too crowded for me and Stegz, so we decide to go out and have a smoke.
“By God’s hooks, all my cigarettes are wet from going snorkeling in Miami,” Stegz complains.
“No problem,” I say; “we can use my glass tube skeleton-face bong to smoke our tobacco.”
Then, while lighting up, we notice our friends Chris and Mickey are occupying a raft that is floating toward us on the Mississippi River. (So I was wrong to say that they died on the volcano in Wyoming.) We invite them to share our room.
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