But I couldn’t sit on the side of the road and cry helplessly for the rest of the night. Nor could I sleep in the Avalanche. I drove seven more miles down West Ridge Road in search of an old friend and his bread and breakfast, which I hoped would offer me a bed for the rest of the night. If that failed, I could always drive into Tulsa and find a Holiday Inn or wake up Mike Bollard, tell him my story, and spend the night under his roof, enmeshing him into my drama, where he didn’t really need to be.
Luck was on my side, though, since a vibrant red Vacancy sign stared at me like a smile at Tucker’s Bed and Breakfast. The place was a small ranch that offered gay or straight newlyweds a Midwestern cowboy experience.