It was May in Casper, Wyoming, and my old college buddy Steve Pachella had stopped by for a visit on his way from New York to Salt Lake City. I hadn’t seen him since the summer of 1993, when we’d both worked as waiters at a Pizza Hut. After an awkward bear hug he darted downstairs to use the bathroom in my basement, then reemerged holding two crisp twenties.
“Dude, I broke your toilet seat,” he said.
No big deal, I told him. My house was kind of a mess anyway. There was laundry everywhere and a half-packed bag of clothes and toiletries by the door, in case Shaye called and wanted me to come see her in Jackson Hole. Shaye was my girlfriend of sorts, an art-gallery owner, workout enthusiast, and diehard nutritionist who never ate processed foods. Compared to Shaye, I looked like an abandoned oil rig. As soon as I met her, I began a diet of protein shakes and egg whites.
