Hank Williams sang a lonesome tune on my radio as I turned off the highway.

My truck's headlights brushing across, uncut Wyoming grass.

The Teton Mountains loomed somewhere in the dark behind me.

Their presence at once unseen and indelible in the dark.

As I drove down the dirt road with Hank Williams singing his ghostly tune,

I wondered what his last moments on this earth had been like. To die at 29 years old seemed like

such a cruelty, especially for one with so much to give the world. But in my current state,

I couldn't decide if getting old was a blessing

or not. At nearly two and a half times older than Williams was when he died, each day seemed

like it was getting longer and more painful. And I had long ago come to terms with the fact

that I had very little to give the world. Arresting drunks and

playing politics wasn't anyone's idea of a fruitful life. Now, as the rich folks seemed to spread out

from Jackson Hole, invading small towns like mine, I was increasingly expected to serve

as their own personal security force. It was like these people, I was increasingly expected to serve as their own personal security force.

It was like these people thought I was their own personal customer service representative.

They wasted my time with the most mundane problems anyone could imagine.

A minor dispute at the grocery store, call the sheriff.

A 10-year-old car driving through their neighborhood?

It was probably someone up to no good.

Called the sheriff.

A landowner refusing to sell their place

so some rich couple could expand their property?

...