Pink Shirt Blues

Each day, I wake before sunrise. My alarm rings at 5:45 and I shuffle in the dark to the bathroom. I pull on a pink chambray shirt and jeans that smell like fryer oil. My uniform: the symbol of my failure.

Snow squeaks beneath my boots as I walk outside to my truck. The sluggish engine shudders to life in sub-zero air. Burrowing my chin in my jacket, I brush snow off the windows and do jumping jacks while the engine warms. Up-canyon I can see Rendezvous, a dark silhouette beneath a net of stars. In a couple of hours, first light will wash the peak pink, but I won’t be there to see it.

Instead I’ll be in a café on Victor, Idaho’s main drag, watching the world wake. I’ll be brewing pots of coffee and asking a steady stream of questions. Bacon or sausage? Scrambled or fried? Sourdough or wheat? Through the window I might catch glimpses of the