natchitoches, louisiana (september 14, 2010)

kendall is sitting in the lobby of the hampton inn when i arrive for breakfast with half my luggage in tow. he stands up and says "do you need any help, ma'am?"

a true gentleman.

he is sitting with a co-worker who never introduces himself, so i'll call him "buddy." between them they have a cup of coffee, a liter of sprite, a plastic jug of seagram's 7 and a twelve-pack of bud light on the table.

"would you like a little 'pick-me-up'?" kendall asks with a wink as i saw through my biscuit with sausage gravy into the styrofoam plate.

i thank him for the offer but say that 9:30 a.m. is a little too early for me, especially when i have a full day of driving ahead. he poo-poos this notion:

"you only have to stay between the lines," he grins.

he is large, bald, and boyishly cute in his brown dickie coveralls permanently stained with grey shadows of sweat and oil. he and buddy are welders on oil rigs. he's from wyoming; buddy from colorado.

"there ain't a hell of a lot to do up there," kendall confirms. "but you sure can see a lot. i got here and i said 'man, can't you put another four or five stories on this hotel so i can get up and see something?'"

"i can't figure out what the hell we're doing all the way down here," says buddy as if he went to bed in colorado and woke up in louisiana. they've been in natchitoches for 35 days. after this, they're moving on to pennsylvania. they don't know where exactly. somewhere near the new york state border. somewhere with oil rigs.

kendall's never been to new orleans. it seems a crime for this guy to have never seen bourbon street; it exists for him.

"if i didn't have to work today i'd say 'fuck it' and go with you right now," he says, killing another beer.