Carl says, “When I was in Antarctica...,” and I’m so surprised I miss the rest of the story.
“Why were you in Antarctica?” I ask.
“Oh, you know. I’d seen it on TV. There was a job. I wasn’t doing anything else. You think this place is quiet at night.”
I look out the front windows across the empty blacktop, glistening like snow crystals where shinier stones are mixed into the tar. We’ve got the endless nights without days but could use a few penguins or maybe a blizzard to liven it up.
“You should go,” Carl says. “I can see you there.”
“I’ve been to Australia,” I say.
“You were so close. You almost made it, son. Why didn’t you just keep going?”
“I get that kind of a lot.”