Finally

 As Joe flew down Interstate 25 in Wyoming at 80 mph, headed towards Wheatland (population 3,509), he raised the bottle of Jack to his lips and took an appreciative swallow. Capped the bottle and set it down on the passenger seat beside him and cranked the radio up a couple more notches. The Allman Brothers Band. Capturing the very spirit in song Joe had waited his whole life to live.

He lived in New Hampshire for most of his adult life. Such a vapid, disingenuous place. Everybody walking around with "Live Free or Die" on their lips, their t-shirts. and their tattoos as they gossiped in the latest trendy wine bar. Even the fools who went out of their way to flaunt the freedom of living in a permitless carry state, with their guns exposed for all to see, were frauds. They had no feel for what it really means to own a gun, no sense of awe or history. Just a bunch of pantywaists trying to look tough.

New Hampshire talked tough, but the truth was not intimidating.

Joe moved to Wyoming at the age of 70. Jesus, talk about wasted time. Because as soon as he set foot in Wyoming, he knew he was home. He fit. And Wheatland was perfect. A picture book small western town with exactly the right attitude to heal Joe's battered soul.

It did not take him long to make the Commodore Bar his homebase. He had only lived in Wheatland for six months but everybody in town knew who Joe was. Because Wyoming cut through his stage act, perfected for 37 years in New Hampshire, and allowed his soul to shine for the first fucking time in his life. And people in Wheatland responded to that. These people were straight shooters, no bullshit, and they appreciated honesty of character.

Instant connection.

For 37 years Joe had lapsed into the typical coma most people succumb to when every detail of their life bores and numbs them. But now he was alive and living life with a vengeance. He never knew life could feel so alive, but he was taking full advantage of this newfound knowledge.

Driving fast on open roads, beer and whiskey, speaking his mind, singing with the band on the small stage in the corner of The Commodore. Spending time with women, tough guys, small town philosophers, young hopefuls, and elderly sages. Enjoying quiet conversation, arguments, and live music.

Joe was grinning like an idiot as he slowed to make the turn into Wheatland. Five minutes later he pulled into the parking lot of the Commodore Bar. Five cars in the parking lot - four pickups, one SUV. He was singing High Cost of Low Living to himself as he walked confidently towards the door.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he returned the greetings of everyone in the bar. Joe clapped his hand on Larry's shoulder, his 80 year old buddy sitting at the end of the bar wearing his dirty, beat up truckers hat. Larry grinned back at him. He gave Janet a quick kiss on the cheek, sitting in a booth taking her break. He high fived Bobby as he walked by the group of six younguns.

When he got to the bar, there was a PBR and a double shot of Crown waiting for him. He thanked Lucy and settled in for a night of live music - could be country, could be rock, could be blues. It didn't matter.

Joe was where he was supposed to be.

Finally.