status

Outside, smoking a cigar, contemplating the sky, I spot Reed Thompson, who emerges from the Puck Building with his entourage—Jamie Conway, Kevin Wynn, Marcus Halberstam, no babes—and invites me along to dinner; and though I suspect they have drugs, I have misgivings about spending the evening with them and decide not to trek up to that Salvadorian bistro, especially since they don't have reservations and aren't guaranteed a table.

I also mention, after pouring them another drink, that I went to Harvard, and then I ask, after a pause, "Ever hear of it?"

"But don't you find it boring to wear only two colors?" "Not at all. I find it liberating. I believe my life has value, and I don't want to waste it thinking about clothing," Malcolm said. "I don't want to think about what I will wear in the morning. Truly, can you imagine anything more boring than fashion? Professional sports, perhaps. Grown men swatting little balls, while the rest of the world pays money to applaud. But, on the whole, I find fashion even more tedious than sports."

When red-headed people are above a certain social grade their hair is auburn.

"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile."

"Customs, morals—is there a difference? Woman, here, by the grace of God and an inside straight, we have a personality untouched by the psychotic taboos of our tribe—and you want to turn him into a copy of every fourth-rate conformist in this frightened land! Why not go whole hog? Get him a briefcase."

I ran into Massingale again at the cash terminals. "I've never seen you off campus, Jack. You look different without your glasses and gown. Where did you get that sweater? Is that a Turkish army sweater? Mail order, right?" He looked me over, felt the material of the water-repellent jacket I was carrying draped across my arm. Then he backed up, altering his perspective, nodding a little, his grin beginning to take on a self-satisfied look, reflecting some inner calculation. "I think I know those shoes," he said. What did he mean, he knew these shoes? "You're a different person altogether." "Different in what way, Eric?" "You won't take offense?" he said, the grin turning lascivious, rich with secret meaning. "Of course not. Why would I?" "Promise you won't take offense." "I won't take offense." "You look so harmless, Jack. A big, harmless, aging, indistinct sort of guy." "Why would I take offense?" I said, paying for my rope and hurrying out the door. The encounter put me in the mood to shop.

Doc and Llama are on their second thru-hike of the AT. They did the PCT the same year as Ken and Marcia. They are in the small sect of thru-hikers that could be dubbed "career hikers." During the off-season, Doc does landscape work and Llama waits tables. These aren't jobs with "a future" they're jobs that will fund their next adventure. People living normal lives are ruffled by folks like Doc and Llama. Nonconformity is an affront to those in the mainstream. Our impulse is to dismiss this lifestyle, create reasons why it can't work, why it doesn't even warrant consideration. Why not? Living outdoors is cheap and can be afforded by a half year of marginal employment. They can't buy things that most of us have, but what they lose in possessions, they gain in freedom.