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Office Space Somewhere in Chicago, Illinois. Winter 2000. Art likes to draw. He draws interesting things we see on the road, and he gives the pictures to his children. He told me that, he explained, because I had previously shared with him my joy for writing songs for and about my own children. In the by-laws of adult men, this gave him unspoken permission to share something personal about himself. No longer would we have to restrict our discussions to work and hunting and sports. Whenever I’m getting to know someone, I always enjoy this part of the relationship. I remember it as the relationship progresses, referring to it in my mind if ever I feel the openness begin to fade. I would later find that Art enjoyed this openness much like me. We were driving partners who took turns at the helm of an 18-wheeler. While one person drove, the other one slept. At least, that’s what we were told to write in our D.O.T. driving logs. To anyone who passed us on the road, we were road-pros. But in reality, we were a couple of newbies. New to the truck, new to the road, new to Chicago, and maybe scariest of all, new to each other. Even though Art was quite a bit older than me, he relied on me to drive us to the v