[My camera was broken here but there wasn't anything to take pictures of anyway.]
Fredericksburg isn't far at a little over fifty miles, but I feel tired. I have a large breakfast of a portobello omelet, rosemary taters, fruit, and giant biscuits with pork gravy. It rules and I talk with the waiter about my syrup consumption from an earlier visit. I run into one of the guys from the night before and say hey, but keep walking. Another guy hollers at me and I realize the friend who had given me food was there too. I walk back and talk with them some. I feel like an asshole for not having done it for the one I was less familiar with.
I get to Fredericksburg and am overly optimistic about finding my scene here. I've been spoiled along this trip. I find the only place I can ask about dive bars. It's a small, semi-trendy thrift shop dealing old nintendo games and t-shirts. I consider myself learned in t-shirt style and lore and think their collection impressive. I imagine the group interested in this town isn't big enough to snatch the choice shirts quick enough. I bemoan my circumstance. In this Shangri-La of shirts I can take nothing from it.
I meet my host, Berricks Grudef. He's a young guy working for the Department of Defense. He diets with nicotine patches. He's a big dude and we talk about rugby over beers. He tells me lurid accounts of the girls he's boned in the room we sit. I don't want to be rude, so we continue talking about it. I don't know if it wasn't entirely sober or just didn't care, but the conversation wasn't that off putting or bizarre to make me uncomfortable. I thought it weird enough to write about, though, so I'm not quite sure how I really do feel about it. Berricks was nice, anyway.