Dave's Fiction Warehouse

I walk a lot, so I encounter a fair number of beggars. I used to think Jacksonville, Fla., was bad in that respect. There, it’s a rare stroll where I don’t get accosted at least once. But Missoula takes it to a whole other level. This time of year, you can’t go a single block without encountering at least a cardboard sign and semi-aggressive pitch from the holder. Unlike Jax, the beggars here are mostly young and lean. They have nose jewelry and complicated hair. They are not what you’d call down on their luck. I suppose that’s at least partly because the Rainbow Family of Living Light had another of their gatherings in southwestern Montana earlier this month. The Rainbows are a lot like the bikers of Sturgis, bound together mostly by wardrobe and a misplaced sense of nonconformity. They gather for the big party, then take weeks to disperse to other climes. In the meantime, despite their philosophical rejection of conventional culture, they could really use some conventional cash. It h...

T oday we went out early to watch the Missoula Marathon. Tess, who has run a couple of half-marathons herself, takes great joy in cheering on the runners. I do too, although I take special interest in people who look as if they have no business on the course: the overweight, the elderly, the very young, the halt and the lame. Let’s just say I admire their moxie. Just as I hope somebody might admire mine in the unlikely event I decide my running days are not truly over. There’s something inspirational about watching ordinary people put themselves to the test. Standing on the sidelines, clapping and shouting out the cliches of encouragement, I did kind of wish I was among them. I know how bad you can feel at the end of a long race, but I also know the euphoria near the finish. An 86-year-old man trotted by somewhat stiffly, and the crowd went wild. No doubt they were thinking what I was: If he can do it, what the hell am I doing on the sidelines?

T his morning we were out walking past the University of Montana and came upon a large group of pretty girls practicing cheerleading moves. The amplified voice of the instructor, also a pretty girl, carried across the open lawn: “One, two, three and four; five six seven eight… don’t flex your hands.” The girls moved with a charming lack of unison; maybe it was early in the course. I should have taken a picture. But sometimes a man my age, taking pictures of girls their age, can have his intentions misconstrued. Even if (or especially if) the man my age is with his wife. So we walked on, our pace somehow matching perfectly with the called cadence. They were still at it on the return leg of the walk. It was one of those little moments I’ll remember. Not sure why. All that youthful power concentrated on something so inconsequential. Pretty girls are welcome everywhere, forgiven everything and denied nothing. And this is how they wield it: learning to generate pep for a football squad. It’...

W e have arrived in Missoula, Mont., after trekking 2,600 miles or so across this great nation of ours in a red Nissan Altima. The car is slightly worse for the wear; yesterday a chunk of wood detached itself from a logging truck on I-90 and knocked out the passenger-side mirror. So at least part of Day One in the Coolest City in the West will be spent tracking down some replacement parts. One thing about Missoula: It’s not a town where auto repair is the first thing that comes to mind. Everybody is biking and paddle-boarding and sipping high-end coffee and checking themselves out in the store windows on Higgins Avenue. Middle of the day in the middle of the week, and nobody’s working. Like Portlandia, Missoula does seem like a place where young people go to retire. I’m not young anymore, but I am sort of retired. So I will pose as an artsy type, a novelist of some sort, and should fit right in. The condo will help. It is very chic and minimalist, with floors of bamboo and cork and sli...