July 27, 1975, in the Palm Springs desert. Sharon B. is bleeding from a broken jaw and a shattered nose, rolled off the road by people who dragged her across the cement. She is a "bloated mess" who has become unemployable, waiting to die at twenty-five. Before the wreckage, she was a runner—a "backpack on my back and see ya" type who chased truth through art schools, New York ad agencies, and a stint as the town drunk near Aspen. She recalls the grit of the 60s: the "just say thanks" generation, the "call of the wild," and the chaos of a life where she once got so smashed with a priest that her father stood aghast in the background.
Now, she is a paradox of consistency. The woman who once "thumbed her nose" at everything now finds security in being a "drop in the bucket" at her Wednesday night meeting. She trades the "truck driver mouth" and the knife fights of New Orleans for a life of service, buying ride tickets for kids at carnivals to clean a slate stained by years of taking. ...
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