[1]

Borderline Vagabond

An allegorical narrative, expounding on the American Dream

and other such abstractions of modern civilization.

A series of words, intentionally arranged by

Zachary Kyle Elmblad

[2]

SCRIBD EDITION

ISBN PENDING

© 2010-2012 by The New Scum Productions

TheNewScum.ORG

No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, et cetera.

A digital copy can be previewed and purchased at ZachElmblad.com.

Previous Titles by Zachary Elmblad

Whatever Happens Happens

A New Way Home

[3]

SCREW PLAGIARISM

and

FUCK CENSORSHIP

[4]

“We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;—

World-losers and world-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.”

-A. O'Shaughnessy

This book is written for the dreamers.

For those who can't give up.

Those who keep fighting.

The movers and shakers.

Those road worn saints.

The rising Sun in the East,

the setting Sun in the West,

and for those in perpetual waiting,

longing for just one more dance.

[5]

Part One – The HookChapter One – Consternation

Chapter Two – Dialectic

Chapter Three – Cigarettes

Chapter Four – Ubiquity

Part Two – The LineChapter Five – Dreams

Chapter Six – Deliverance

Chapter Seven – Salvation

Chapter Eight – Precursors

Part Three – The SinkerChapter Nine – Arrival

Chapter Ten – Morning

Chapter Eleven – Pancakes

Chapter Twelve – Lucidity

Chapter Thirteen – Ghosts

Chapter Fourteen – Goodbyes

Chapter Fifteen – Truckers

Chapter Sixteen - Mountains

[6]

Friends,

Our mid-twenties were wrought with emotional

upheavals, grave senses of inadequacy, delusions of

immortality, boundless hope for a better tomorrow, and an

insatiable lust for adventure.

For those few short years of our lives, we found

ourselves running madly in search of something we couldn't

ever have hoped to find. A personalized, single-serving

portion of the world that was tailor-made just for us. We were

children in the eyes of the universe. Unabashedly idealistic in

our pursuits of happiness, and brazenly defiant of the people

who expressed any doubt in us.

Privileged halcyon days spent criss-crossing the

continent in a vain quest for the physical embodiment of an

ages-old metaphor. We may have never found the 'American

Dream,' as anyone else would have seen it, but we did find a

world around us that suited our tastes and purpose just fine.

All in all, it's easy to say you know what the dream is.

It's easy to say you've found it, and it's even easier to say you

haven't. For us, the most fun had always been in the pursuit

of things anyhow.

It always made for a better story.

[7]

[8]

Chapter One – Consternation

“Pig fucker!”

Those were the first words I managed to hear

out of what was becoming a long line of obscene

and incessant curses that I could have sworn were

being directed at me.

From whom? For what reason?

I couldn't quite tell if it was a dream, or if it

was really happening.

“Bastard! Prick!”

I heard it again. Where was I? Who was

yelling? How did I get here? When? I got kicked in

[9]

the shin – that, I knew was real. With certainty this

was, indeed, the waking world. I shook my head

and opened my eyes. The room was unfamiliar at

first glance, but I was pretty sure that I recognized

the voice.

“It's Nine P.M.! We should have punched six

whores in the mouth and drunk a gallon of gin

by now! WHY ARE YOU STILL SLEEPING?!”

He was shouting now, jumping up and down

on the floor next to the couch. He was red-faced

and pointing at me with a violently extended index

finger.

“What day is it?” I moaned.

I stuttered when I said 'day.' I was still

waking up. How long had I slept? When did I get

here? Where was here? Why was I here? For what

purpose?

“Tuesday! Friday! Easter! Who cares?! Let's

[10]

get drunk and walk out on our tab! We've got

shit to do and chicks to screw!”

“Fuck it, you're right. Let's do this thing. No

time like the present.”

I peeled myself up off the couch and palmed

the coffee table for my glasses. I was too lazy to

wear contacts, and too poor for LASIK. Complex

and expensive organs, the eyes. I rubbed them

because they felt like they needed to be rubbed. It

didn't really help.

“Get up and take a piss! It's time to fuck

cocaine and snort hookers. Wait. Never mind,

I fucked that up. Whatever. Let's just go

down to the skank shack and throw dollar bills

at titties!”

“What?”

My face must have said to him, 'what the fuck

[11]

is going on?,' and he leaned in close. I could smell

his dogged breath. That pushed me fully in to

consciousness.

“Just. Get. Off. The. Couch. Asshole! JESUS

DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE!”

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes again,

as I thought of a reply.

“God, fuck man, you're insane. A menace to

society! An overall bad seed with no

redeeming qualities whatsoever! Your mother

didn't slap you enough as a child!”

“I'm good people. That's why you're sleeping

on my couch. Now get up and start drinking!

You are a lazy, pathetic, no good puddle of dog

vomit! Rise and shine, shit-for-brains! You're

the one that drove all this way to come party

with das ubermensch!”

[12]

Hooper Felonious. Without hesitation, the

craziest person I have ever met. He was laying low,

so to speak, in some strange neighborhood just

outside Chapel Hill, North Carolina. It had been

nearly a year since I'd seen him last, and times

spent with this gnarled experiment of humanity had

previously consisted of endless tirades of alcohol,

strippers, and sleepless nights.

He'd buy you shots at the bar just to watch

you get too drunk to keep up with him. He'd give

you a brownie and never tell you it's dosed with pot

butter and liquid acid. He would rather just wait for

you to figure it out yourself when your brain starts

feeling melty.

Never accept food from a stranger, as a

general rule, but especially not one with a smile like

his. He has a knowing smile, an anticipatory smile,

a downright wicked and treacherous smile. A smile

you wouldn't forget for the rest of your life.

We had lived together for a stretch, sometime

[13]

in the fog of the past, and had developed a strange

method of communication that mostly involved

limitless use of profanity and offensively diminutive

insults. It seemed to work well for us. It was good

to see my friend again at such long last.

“Fire up the bong, Hoop. I've got a tingle in

my shaft. How about those whores?”

“You're a failure. Always were. You couldn't

even fuck a girl in a brothel with a thousand

dollars!”

“I'd fuck a thousand hookers in an afternoon.

Jesus taught me mind control when we

vacationed in the Czech Republic. I'm secretly

controlling you. You've got no free will,

motherfucker!”

“Mind control, is it? Did you just tell my mind

to get out of the house and proceed directly to

the nearest bar?”

[14]

“Hell yes, I did.”

“Well, damn, man. I guess I'll just have to

trust your judgment! It's good to see you can

maintain moral integrity when utilizing mind

control.”

“Morality? Ethics? You're starting to think

now! I wondered if it'd be possible with that

tiny lizard brain of yours! You're finally

beginning to understand the greater purpose,

man!”

“My greater purpose is to get drunk and get

that lizard wet. We're leaving. I hope you're

ready for this.”

He was a crude person, but not out of

necessity or ignorance. He was a crude person

because he found it utterly hysterical to offend

people. He was sick with the power of words. He'd

call a stranger a pussy to his face, give the guy a

high five, buy him a shot, and somehow get away

[15]

with it. He'd piss off his roommates, cutting up

pizza with a hatchet at four in the morning, because

that's what he does. He'd come to your house and

eat all your food, then show up a week later with a

car full of groceries and wearing a backpack full of

drugs and booze.

He'd buy you a pack of cigarettes to pay back

the square he bummed off you a week ago, but

then he'd just smoke half the pack anyway. He

would read things out loud in other languages that

he didn't actually speak. When this guy was

around, everybody had a good time. He was one of

those rare people, the ones that are so memorable

they couldn't be properly explained in a hundred

pages. The guy you're proud to call a friend, even if

he disgusts everyone else around you. That's why I

drove half way across the country to see him. He

was that cool. Being in the presence of the guy

made you certain that life wasn't a boring sequence

of jobs you hated and friends you pretended to like.

Hooper is one of those people that made life worth

living.

[16]

“I found this new tit bar a couple of miles

away. Get in the truck. Let's go throw money

at chicks.”

“Finally, a good idea! I was wondering when

you'd be over with the formalities; fully

prepared and ready to find the main nerve.”

“Oh, I'm ready.”

We collected keys, wallets, phones, and

sunglasses, each having a glass of Dewar's, and a

fat joint to burn before heading in to the club.

There really was no cocaine. We didn't fuck with

narcotics. Better to play around the edge than to

go over it. It was all jokes, really. We weren't as

audacious as we made ourselves out to be.

Monstrous bark; bite a mere nibble.

We played characters around each other, bold

exaggerations of our true identities. The world can

get boring sometimes, and it's good to know that

[17]

you can count on some folks to make it a bit more

appealing. Throwing some shit in the pot and

stirring it up just to see what comes out at the end.

Things are far more interesting that way. The real

world needs a little fiction in it every once in a

while.

“Light this, fuck stain.”

“Give me a lighter, jizz rag.”

He passed me a lighter and I checked the side

streets for cached cop cruisers before I sparked up

the joint. We passed it between ourselves and

dropped pretense for a brief, but real, moment of

actual conversation.

“So, how's everything been going, dude?”

He didn't yell anymore, it was his normal

speaking voice. He really did want to know. Now,

we were just people being people.

[18]

“Quit my stupid job.”

“They had it coming.”

“Maybe. Still a pretty stupid move on my part,

though. Soon as I get home, I'll be out of cash

with no prospects of employment. Gonna be a

long few months.”

“Aw, come on, it can't be that bad. At least

you've got a house and a car and enough time

and money to come drink with me in the dirty

South!”

“You're right, man, it isn't all that bad, but I

just wish I could get a better lay out of life

every once in a while. All this day to day

drudgery and the bills and these monotonous

pseudo-relationships make me want to eat

paint chips. I think I'm getting soft. Old,

maybe.”

[19]

“Soft as a limp dick! What are you going to

do? Cry?! We'll get ya all cheered up, man.

Don't worry. I'm glad you made it out, and

we're certainly gonna have a good time. No

sense sitting around wishing you were dead.

Get off of it.”

“You're right, man. I know. I'm just over-

emphasizing the negative. There's hot chicks

to look at, booze in the freezer, music on the

iPod, and good times on the calendar. I just

wish the fun never stopped.”

“Fun wouldn't be fun anymore if you didn't

have some bad shit go down between the good

times. You know this, idiot. Stop getting

down on yourself. We're nearly there.”

He pulled a half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo from

underneath his truck seat. He twisted off the cap,

put it to his lips, and suckled a mouthful before

handing it over to me.

[20]

“HA!” He punched the roof of the truck.

“Road Tequila?”

“I've been saving this for a special occasion.

Today is that occasion. I don't usually share

my road booze, but you're a special guest.”

“Thanks for the V.I.P. treatment.” I said, as I

took a good warm gulp for myself.

Ah, free booze. Tequila burns a little bit more

when it's been in a hot car for who knows how long,

but the effect is still the same and I love it. I

reached into the cargo pocket of my shorts for my

pack of smokes, flipped the flap open, and grabbed

one with the corner of my mouth. I fished a lighter

out of the other pocket and sparked up.

“I thought you were quitting, man. Those

little fucking bastards are gonna kill you some

day.”

[21]

“Keeping that fifth of Cuervo under your seat

isn't a very good idea, either, you know. And

besides – quitting is for quitters, isn't that

right?”

“Every good thing comes to an end, man. It

takes a careful balance of fucking yourself up

and then taking the punishment. Wash cycle.

It's only natural.”

“Wash cycle.” I said, blowing a blue cloud of

smoke out of the passenger window.

I couldn't help but reach for the bottle of

tequila again as I sucked down the last of my

cigarette. I flicked the butt out of the window and

narrowly missed a less-than-thrilled pedestrian. We

pulled into the strip club parking lot, which was

surprisingly empty considering how many people

were inside. It was near a few hotels, they must

have walked.

The security in these places can border on the

[22]

excessive, and twenty bucks a head was way too

much for a cover charge. We ponied it up, and

figured we'd be sure to get our money's worth.

After photocopies of our driver's licenses were

taken, we were led through a large black door. As it

opened, the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and

despair filled my nose in a shotgun blast of

sensation. The surroundings were all too familiar to

a man like myself, who's spent a time or two in the

gentleman's clubs of our fair nation.

There were mirrors on the walls and ceilings,

disco balls sending shattered reflections all over the

room, imitation velvet chairs with low arms, UV

carpet, and a long UV bar-top with a UV-skinned

woman behind it who had clearly graduated from

dancer to manager. They call people like her 'lifers.'

We made haste for the bar, looking the

woman in the eyes as we approached. We're no

hooligans, lady, and you no fool. Let us remember

that, and keep face. She put her hands to either

[23]

side, leaning against the bar with an anticipatory

bartender's stance.

“What can I get you, boys?”

Before I could open my mouth, Hooper was

already summoning a plethora of libations.

“Two Irish Car bombs, two shots of Jager, two

Newcastles, and some peanuts if you've got

them. I tip well, lady.”

“Right away, honey.” She said in a Marlboro-

tinged southern accent.

“You're going balls deep on the first thrust,

aren't you, Hoop?”

“No other way. A toast! Say a fucking toast

and let's be on with it. I hunger and thirst for

justice, but mostly I just thirst.”

[24]

My favorite toast, I didn't write. I stole it

from Neil Gaiman's “The Sandman.” The main

character is about make a deal with the devil, and is

offered this toast before he heads on his way:

“To absent friends,

lost loves, old gods,

and the season of mist-

that we may each and

every one of us

give the devil his due.”

“Hail Satan!” Hooper screamed before he pounded

his Irish car bomb and brought it down with a

hollow smack against the bar.

I followed suit, and we quickly moved on to

the Jager shots. Better than to let them get warm,

you know.

“To the New Millennium Jagermeister Christ!”

I yelled at the top of my lungs while I tipped

[25]

back the Jager and poured it on down the hatch.

We laughed for a bit as the bartender stared at us

with a shocked stare and widened eyes.

“Starting a tab?” She said, probably hoping we'd

say 'no.'

“Fuck yeah, we're starting a tab- we're only

getting started! We had to pay twenty bucks

to get in to this place! More drinks!” Hooper

bellowed.

She took his credit card with a nervous grin,

and we gingerly sipped the Newcastle. We had to

hold off on shots for a while, or else we'd be

dragged off by the shirt collars. There were pairs of

very large, and very scary, guards at every door.

They periodically glanced at us over the rims of

their sunglasses, just long enough to let us know we

were being watched. They were ready for us to

make one false move, and they'd be there.

They were practically foaming at the mouth to

[26]

throw us out of that place. We were trouble from

the start. Boisterous and argumentative; free and

proud of it. Sometimes I wonder if we actually

scare people with our general demeanor.

It wouldn't have been the first time we were

dragged from a bar, either. Oh no. We had a

tendency to offend. Although our behavior was

funny to us, it was rarely funny to anyone else-

especially those on the receiving end of our

attempts at stretching the limits of decency. The

awkward silence of the club was broken with the

familiarly irritating voice of the strip club D.J.

“Coming up next, the sexy Sandra struts her

stuff on stage. Meanwhile, two girls for

twenty! Pick your two favorite babes and

retreat to your private paradise in our very

own VIP lounge!” The D.J.'s stereotypical voice

cut over the opening synth lines of “Poker Face” by

Lady Gaga.

Sexy Sandra wasn't so sexy. She was the fat

[27]

chick they kept around for fetish's sake. There's

always the construction worker in the back that

comes up to stick dollars in her fat rolls. Bluffin'

with her muffin, indeed.

She prowled around the stage like she was

looking for a bowl of ice cream, and grabbed the

pole in the middle, untying her top for the big

reveal. I wondered how much it would cost to get

her to keep it on.

She unleashed the fury as the construction

worker yelped and spilled another of many beer

stains to come on his plain white T-shirt. He ran up

to the stage with a dollar bill in his hand and his

legs shook as he slipped it underneath a

watermelon breast she had lifted for him.

He sauntered back to his table with a toothy

grin. Sooner or later, she would have his arm in

hers as she led him to the VIP lounge for a twenty

minute dance with the other big girl, Dionne.

There's a woman for every man and a man for

[28]

every woman. That guy might never forget this

night.

A bellowing came from behind me.

“Christ! Get off the stage and on to a

treadmill!” Hooper wasn't one to sugar coat

things.

She ignored him, and carried on with her

performance. I'd bet she was in her mid twenties,

probably been dancing about three or four years.

She had a product to sell, a specific demographic,

and a willing clientèle. Hooper's caterwauling surely

wouldn't affect her income or success.

Strippers don't strip because they're made to

do it. Strippers strip because they make money

doing it. There's all kinds of women, and they're

equally represented at a strip club. There's Asians,

Blacks, Latinos, Whites, fatties, Anorexics, tattooed,

dread-locked, pierced, and vajazzled. That's a word

now. Explain that one to Grandma. So many

[29]

women, so little time. What a shame. Everybody's

got their penchant, and strip clubs aim to please.

Hooper would find a girl he liked if he waited long

enough.

The next was “Foxy Roxy.” The brunette-

bombshell type. Character aged thirty five, girl

aged twenty six. Bet your bottom dollar. She wore

a collared and starched white shirt tied off in the

front, with thick-framed glasses. She looked mean,

vicious even. Hooper was transfixed. He fished a

dollar out of his pocket and walked slowly up to the

stage.

She dropped down to her knees and opened

the front pocket on her white shirt. Hoop folded the

bill in half, and stuck it in. She wiggled her tits in

his face, and he walked back with a smile. He sat

down on the bar stool and grabbed his beer with a

triumphant swing of his arm.

“Much better,” he said, with a red-faced and

sleazy grin, gingerly nursing his beer.

[30]

Chapter Two – Dialectic

What's the most beautiful girl look

like? That's a hard question to answer. What a

man finds attractive in a woman is more a matter of

personal philosophy than anything else. All women

are beautiful in their own way. No single one is the

most beautiful, but some are better looking than

others, sure.

I saw one of the most beautiful women I have

ever seen, dancing like a goddess in some washed-

out strip club in North Carolina. I didn't know her

name, or at least her real name. Maybe I'll never

see her again, but I sure won't forget her face.

She had dye-orange hair. Not like red-head

orange, but orange like a traffic cone. It was cut

just above her shoulders, so that it swooped past

[31]

her ears and curved in like a scythe ready to reap

her neck. She had gauges in her ears. Nothing too

extreme, just a few captive beads and an industrial

in the left ear. No visible tattoos, but she would

have made a beautiful canvas. It seemed like

maybe she wanted to be able to go back to her

hometown and never have anyone suspect what she

did for a living.

Her eyes, they were the most captivating by

far. Not Grey, not green, not blue, but some

impossibly iridescent blend of the three. No amount

of paint mixing could ever reproduce those eyes.

She was slim, but healthy and well toned. Not

rail-skinny, and nowhere near fat. Not too short,

not too tall. She wore black laced garters and a

black satin thong with a tiny pink rose embroidered

on the front. A matching bra barely covered her

chest underneath a sheer pink top. I looked again

at her eyes. She was dancing to some song by The

Mars Volta, I want to have been 'Drunkship of

Lanterns.'

[32]

Her face had the angelic grace of transcendent

beauty, and the devilish twinge of hedonistic excess.

She looked like she had seen the worst, but still

expected the best. If it was all an act, she was

worthy of a spotlight on Broadway. If it was the

truth, I couldn't have written it any better. She

smiled when we made eye contact.

It wasn't the smile of a saleswoman, nor the

smile of a vixen on the prowl. It was an honest

smile, a 'hey, you looked me in the eyes' smile. The

kind of smile you give someone you just realized

was a real human being, and not some depraved

animal that wanted boobies for a buck.

She didn't dance so much as float around the

stage. I forgot, just for a minute, that I was at a

strip club. Who was this woman? What thoughts

were on her mind? I was entranced, finding myself

wishing to know her outside the context of this

temple of desire and fantasy.

[33]

I couldn't help myself. I didn't even notice as

I grew nearer and nearer the stage. I didn't notice

myself grab a stack of ones from my wallet. She

did. All I saw was her looking at me, and in that

moment there was nothing but her on my mind.

She grabbed my shoulder with her right hand, as I

put a dollar bill underneath the strap of her garter

held out by her left.

She pulled my shoulder closer to her as she

leaned forward.

“What do you want from life?” She whispered

into my ear, with a kind of voice I could have sworn

that I had heard before.

“I want to be famous.” I told her.

It was only half a lie. No one tells the truth in

a strip club. Famous? Sure, that'd be nice. It's a

stock answer for a stock question.

“You look famous to me, babe.”

[34]

Nice comeback, lady.

“What do you want from life?”

I offered her another dollar bill, but she didn't

make a move to take it. She just kind of stood

there like someone had a gun at her head, and she

was trying to figure out what move to make next. I

set it down on the stage. She looked taken off

guard. Stunned. I wonder how many times she'd

used that line without someone holding up a mirror

to it.

“I want to get out of here,”

As she said it, her face dropped from cutely

confident to functionally forlorn. I thought, for a

minute, that she had broken the wall down; that

maybe she was speaking to me out of character and

as a real human being. I had the sudden urge to

ask her if she'd like me to buy her a drink, and I

realized it was the long con. I gave in.

[35]

“We're shooting Jager - you in?”

“When I'm done with my dance, I'll find you.”

“How? It's a big place, you know?”

“I'll remember your face.”

Slowly backing away, looking me straight into

the eyes, she leaned backwards on to the pole in

the center of the stage. Supporting herself initially

with her shoulder, then slowly bringing her arms up

to support her weight, she lifted up her right leg.

She brought the right leg all the way up,

perpendicular to the pole, then raised up the left leg

in the same way so that she was fully extended

upside-down. She brought her legs to her sides,

making right angles. Fluidly and effortlessly, she

lifted her legs back up to wrap around the pole,

twisting her body to be supported by her legs, and

facing me from high above.

[36]

She was good, this one.

She took off her top, still looking me in the

eyes, and I took a seat near the stage and watched

the rest of her dance. She surely was a goddess,

even if only for the five minutes on stage. It was

long enough. No need to have too much of a good

thing, you know, you'll end up taking it for granted.

After her dance, she shot me a wink as she walked

into the dressing room to count her tips.

There's something I just don't quite like about

strip clubs. Something unnerving that I can never

quite put my finger on. Sure, I like strip clubs, but

sometimes I wonder if it's wholly ethical to

participate in such an enterprise. Surely there's no

measurable gain on my end from the ordeal. That

girl was never going to come home with me. She

wasn't going to come over for a drink. That was a

figment of my imagination. I mentally slapped my

own wrist, ashamed at myself. Falling for a stage

act like a plebeian chump. I slumped back into my

seat at the bar.

[37]

I picked up the Newcastle and mindlessly read

the label, periodically glancing up at the bar mirror

in hopes that I'd see that orange hair behind me.

That has to be why those mirrors are there. At

first, you think it's to make it look like there's more

booze on the shelves than there really is, but that's

not why those mirrors are there. They're there so

that you can check people out in an indirect way.

Also, so you can see the stage while belly-up to the

bar.

“You found yourself a fine piece, man.”

He looked at me, lifting his glass as if in a

toast.

“Piece? You are such a crude mongrel,

Hooper, you devil. It's a shame you haven't

been shot to death by a woman scorned.”

“Likewise.”

[38]

I offered him a high-five in reply, but he was

busy double-fisting apple martinis. He lifted them

both up, gave me a fucked up look before glancing

back and forth at each, finally taking a drink from

the one in his right hand. He had just finished

buying drinks for himself and Foxy Roxy, the

naughty schoolgirl . I was ready to rack up another

twenty bucks worth of drinks. Money burns easy

when you've got a bunch of it in your pocket, and it

burns even easier when there's liquor and naked

breasts involved. What's a savings account for,

again?

“I want to introduce you to my newest friend,

Roxy. She's awesome. I want to touch her

butt. Are you gonna buy orange hair babe a

shot?”

“I expressed that intent. Keep your fucking

ape hands off of her, I'm going to rescue her.”

His face seemed to be indicating that I was

being rediculous.

[39]

“Rescue her?! From what? All the money she's

making? Did you see how many guys were

putting bills on that stage? She must have

scored a hundred bucks with that five minute

dance! What a fucking succubus!”

I seemed to have forgotten - or hadn't noticed

at all – how many guys there actually were in there.

Hooper was probably right, but I had to get a stab

in likewise.

“Doesn't that just mean she's good at her job?

What's the story on plaid skirt over there,

Hoop? Are you trying to re-live the bygone

years of youth?”

“I always wanted to fuck a teacher, dude,” he

said, sheepishly looking at the floor.

I finished the last foamy gulp of beer from the

bottle, and pushed it to the back of the bar. That's

how you get their attention, you know. It's a

[40]

politely non-verbal way of saying, 'hey, this beer is

empty and I probably want another one so get the

fuck over here and stop sexting your boyfriend.'

“Need another one, doll?”

Alert the internet! We've got a genius!

“Make it a Guinness. Four shots of Jager, too,

if you'd be so kind.”

“I would be so kind. Who might the fourth be

for? Jasmine? I saw her giving you the eye as

you walked back to the bar. We don't get guys

like you two in here often. It seems like

Roxy's taken a fancy to your loudmouthed

friend over there, as well.”

She pointed at Hooper and Roxy, who hadn't

broken eye contact since they sat down.

“It would seem so, yes. What do you mean

when you say, 'guys like us?'”

[41]

She put her hands on her hips and looked at

me with one partially closed eye, as if to say that

she saw right through my bullshit, and that she

wanted no part of it.

“I mean guys that can afford to buy shots of

Jager for people they don't even know, and

didn't get the money from robbing a

convenience store.”

I smiled, and said “Who says we didn't just rob

a convenience store? And, by the way, what

did you say her name was? Jasmine?”

“You didn't rob no damn store, and you know

it. Yeah. Jasmine. So stunned you forgot to

ask, weren't you? I might say that isn't the

first time that has happened.”

“I know the ways of these temptresses, and I

won't be taken off for some expensive groping

session I can't reciprocate. I'm not in the

[42]

mood for fool's errands today. I just want to

get drunk”

“Fool's errand? She's already got you buying a

shot for her!”

“This is a gift. Thanks for her choice of music,

and nothing more. I know better. Your girls

work hard, you all deserve your tips and your

respect. You'll get that much from me, but I'm

not shelling out the big bucks for anything but

liquor, because I know that will do something

for me in the end.”

“You sound like you've got a story. What do

you do for a living?”

Before I could answer honestly, I was

interrupted by a blur of orange hair and a set of

arms around my shoulders.

“He's famous. A musician, maybe. Look at

him. You can tell.”

[43]

I smiled.

“Famous, she says! Maybe to her, maybe to

you. I'll settle for borderline vagabond.”

The bartender dried a glass with her trusty white

terrycloth towel, and said “Famous is only a state

of mind, honey, but I do like that... borderline

vagabond... not quite sure where, but headed

there in a hurry, eh?”

“Listen to her, she knows everything,” cooed

Jasmine interrupted, taking a seat next to me at the

bar.

“I hear your name is Jasmine. I'm the

Vagabond. Sure is a pleasure.”

I offered her my hand to shake hers, but she

grabbed it and pushed her hand to my mouth like a

princess or something. I mimicked the charade,

following suit, and kissed her lightly just above the

knuckles.

[44]

She dropped out of the graceful royalty act

after I handed her the shot glass full of Jager. For a

moment, her true colors shone through. It was the

long con. I knew it.

“Oh, Sweet nectar!” she proclaimed, as she

tossed it back. She was well practiced, and it was

easy to see. Given the chance, I could probably

drink with her until well into the evening.

“To the New Millennium Jagermeister Christ!”

Is it considered a social faux pas to use the

same toast twice in the same night, even if it was

with two different people? I haven't been keeping

up on my studies of etiquette. Who cares, right?

I'll just keep to my stock responses. It keeps things

simple.

“Interesting toast, Mister.”

[45]

“Don't call me Mister, please, for the love of

fuck! Do I look that old?”

“You look like a mister.”

She pouted.

“This motherfucker is no man, she-devil!”

Hooper seemed to chime in at the most inopportune

times. It's almost tragic.

“He looks man enough to me! More of a man

than you!” She looked at him disdainfully, from

under an outstretched brow.

She was already defending me against

Hooper's playful verbal abuse, and playing along to

boot. Things were getting dire, and the vibrations

were developing into a heightened crescendo. This

girl was shopping for a lap dance, and she wasn't

going to get me to buy one. I didn't go there to

spend money on lap dances. I was there to drink

and look at tits. Better to show face, though. You

[46]

can't look a gift horse in the mouth. I was offered

an opening, and I took it.

“Oh, I'm man enough. Probably too much of a

man for you.” I was playing along with her, now.

Two can play this game.

“Are you? How about I take you back to the

V.I.P. lounge and we can find out?”

There it was, that long con. That price tag on

the dream. It was no big shock. The bait had been

cast, waiting for a bite on the hook to sink the

lunker.

“I saw that coming from a mile away, Babe.

It's always the long con. You are a beautiful

woman, and you deserve every dance you sell-

but I am only here to drink, I'm sorry. Let's go

have a cigarette. Do you smoke? Where do

you guys smoke? Out back? When are you on

break?”

[47]

“Alright, vagabond. We'll have that smoke.”

She glanced at the clock on the wall behind me.

“I'm on break in twenty minutes. I gotta go

make some money, though.”

“Give 'em a good time, kid. Come find me

when you're ready for nicotine. We'll see if we

can't find you a way out of here, huh? I'm

gonna rescue you.”

“That's the real con.”

I watched her as she walked away and across

the stage, with the lights on the ceiling coloring her

ass like a double-arched rainbow. I could have paid

for it to be rubbed in my face, and I surely would

have enjoyed it, but I just couldn't stomach it that

day. I didn't feel like monetizing my sexual desire.

I jut wanted to get drunk and hang out with my

friend.

I had too much on my mind, I guess. There

was a purpose for this visit. I stared at my

[48]

Guinness pint, and I thought of all the bars I had

sat behind all across the country. Guinness pints

and Jager shots all over America. From New York to

Portland; and from Jackson Hole to Amarillo. This

was another dusty side-road on the American

Interstate. Some town in the middle of North

Carolina, just another stop along the road. A

wretched den of sin, a house of ill-repute. A place I

surely belonged in.

Where was I going? Why? On the road to

where? Nowhere? Anywhere? Why were we at this

strip club? How many drinks had I drunk? Where

were my cigarettes?

I wandered into the bathroom to take a piss,

and bought some gum from the concierge. You

gotta love places like this, tipping the guy that turns

on the water for you. Why is he there? Is it really

that difficult to turn on the water? Is he there to

make sure you're not snorting coke or hitting a

chillum in the stall? Is he there to make the place

seem fancy? What's fancy about a weird guy in a

[49]

suit watching you pee? I want privacy in the

bathroom. When they offer the paper towels, I just

say 'fuck off' and flick water at them. I guess I

probably shouldn't do that. It isn't very nice.

[50]

Chapter Three – Cigarettes

“Got a light?”

Hands in her purse, cigarette in the corner of

her mouth; she rummaged through bottles of

hairspray and spare, dry, underwear. I reached out

with the trusty Bic, and she leaned in to light her

smoke.

“How long have you been in town, Jasmine?”

“Three years.”

“How do you like it? How's business?”

“It isn't too bad, really. I have bigger dreams

than this, though.”

[51]

She took a slow drag on her cigarette, staring

at the ground. She kicked at a piece of garbage

near the curb. We had made our way out the back

after convincing the the bouncer, Brock, that I

wasn't a threat. All it took was a friendly and

vigorous handshake. We were, after all, just going

out for a smoke.

She led me through the dressing room, and

out back to the fenced-in smoking area. A few

years had passed since my last time in the dressing

room of a strip club, but it was good to see that

things had not changed. Women in various stages

of undress, openly ingesting all manner of foul

substances, and speaking casually and frankly about

their clients and boyfriends. Pungent smells of

underarm sweat and body spray coupled with rancid

burritos still in the garbage from last week. Thongs

hanging from the mirrors, and threats made with

arm-length dildos.

“New squeeze, Jazz? After hours show?”

[52]

We ignored the cat calls, and shut the door

behind us. We sat at the picnic table around the

corner, across the walkway from the garbage cans.

“How was the private dance?”

“He licked my face, and I had to call in Brock

to peel him off of me after that.”

“Sick fucks, these animals. There's no civility

left in the world.”

“Why do you say that? What's got your heart

in pieces all of a sudden?”

“I'm not heartbroken, I'm just trying to keep it

real. There's no civility in this world. You

should know that best yourself, you know,

getting your face licked and all. Who does

that kind of thing?!”

[53]

“Yeah, I guess you're right. You want to lick

my face, though, and you know it!” She tried to

hide behind a playful grin, but I could see right

through it.

Another slow drag on the cigarette. She was

from Boston. Moved down South to go to college,

making a good deal of money dancing at night and

shooting films in the morning between classes.

Cheap films, but a constant and steady income that

she could rely on.

She told me she had an apartment in Durham.

I'm sure that was a hint, but I never pressed the

issue. At the rate I was going tonight, I was going

to be so hammered I was just hoping I could make

it back to Hooper's place. I was in no condition to

court a stripper. These people are professional-level

galavanters.

“What's on your mind? You look troubled.”

[54]

“Troubled, you say? Yeah, I suppose. You can

drop the act, you know. Let's be real people

smoking cigarettes.”

“Why are you in town? I can tell you're not

from around here. You're a Yank like me.”

“I write books. I'm on the road trying to find

my own version of the American Dream. My

friend Hooper seems to have found something

for himself down here, so I thought I might

come check out the scene.”

“Did you find anything yet?”

“I don't know. It's hard to tell. What does the

dream mean to you?”

“When I first came down here, I thought it

was a husband, a house, and a dog. Now I'm

not so sure.”

“That can't be all there is too it.”

[55]

“I hope you're right,” she said it with the

smallest hint of a sigh.

Me too, Jasmine, me too.

I was the one playing the long con now. This

girl was one of the strippers that does it because it's

easy money and she was smart enough to know it.

She wasn't there to get drinks bought for her, she

could buy them herself. She wasn't there to prove

herself to anyone, she didn't have to. She was

there because she was a goddess and she knew it.

She still believed in love. She used her beautiful

body as a tool to make men fork up hundreds of

dollars a night to watch her do nothing but prance

around the stage to some spaced out Mars Volta

song. Hell, it had even worked on me while I knew

it was happening. She was very confident in herself

and her ability. It wouldn't be long before I was

fully assured of that fact.

[56]

“So tell me, vagabond, what is the American

Dream?” She sat down next to me and started

rubbing my shoulders.

“That's a hard question, you know. I can't tell

you what it is, because I think it's different for

everybody. It isn't something that you can

just spell out.”

“I know. You seem like you might be hot on

the trail, though.”

“Do you want the short answer, or the long

one?”

“Let's start with the short one.”

“Freedom. The dream is freedom. Escape.

The endless possibility of the sunrise. The

hope for a better tomorrow. An unexpected

outcome, a sense of adventure. A new way

home.”

[57]

“Do you really believe that?”

“I'm still trying to figure that part out, I'm a

little short on faith these days.”

“Let me help you.”

She sat on my lap, with her arms over my

shoulders and her legs around my waist. She ran

her fingers through my hair, and she kissed me

lightly on the cheek.

“I'll show you the American Dream. You don't

even have to pay for it.”

“The dream, or the dance?”

“Watch out, now, or you'll see how quick it

gets taken away from you.”

I smiled. I couldn't help it. The dance of

metaphors ended when she brought her mouth to

mine, and we shared an ashtray kiss on a picnic

[58]

table outside a run-down strip club in North Carolina

I didn't even want to go to. Sometimes, Hooper's

ideas don't make sense unless seen in retrospect

and as a part of a broader context.

She ground her thighs into my sides as we

kissed. She grabbed my hands and pulled them up

in the air, outstretched, and then between us and

onto her breasts. I slid my hands down the side of

her stomach, on to her thighs, and around to her

ass, which was rising and falling on my lap in time

with the music wafting out from the club walls.

She was a pro, after all. She took her face away

from mine and looked me in the eyes again,

grabbing my shoulders and arching her back like a

gymnast.

“There's your American Dream. Write a book

about that.”

“I just might. What's your real name? Off the

record, of course.”

[59]

“What's in a name?” She said.

She looked off into the distance, through the

chain-link fence, and into the endless sea of city

lights blending into the starry skies. With a quick

motion, she flicked her cigarette over the fence and

onto the pavement beyond.

“Oh, come on. Did you really just say that to

me?”

She laughed, and backed off my lap. She

grabbed two more cigarettes from her pack, lit them

both at once, and passed me the second. She laid

on the picnic table seat, with her head resting on

my leg.

“What are you doing tonight?” She took a short

drag before saying it, exhaling smoke to visualize

her words.

“I was planning on sleeping in my car outside

my buddy's apartment.”

[60]

“In your car? I thought you were famous!”

“To some, baby, just not to everybody yet.

Right now, as it stands, I'm only famous to the

U.S. Interstate system. Besides, the car is

better than his dumb couch. I've got a bed

made up in the back.”

“It takes time, you know. You'll get there if

you keep it up.”

“I know. This story might even help a bit,

too.”

“I always wanted to be in a book,” she said.

“It's not the first time I've heard that line, you

know.”

“Listen to mister hot shot here, making out

with a stripper, but he's still gotta have more.”

[61]

“It sounds so bad when you say it out loud.”

I laughed again, and she climbed back up into

my lap; curling up sideways like a cat. We finished

our cigarettes in silence, staring out at the city from

the picnic table. We sent out plumes of smoke into

the night.

“You really gonna find me a way out of here,

vagabond?”

“I don't make promises I can't keep.”

“How about I rescue you instead?”

“Who says I'm the one that needs to be

rescued?”

“Poor little baby, sleeping all alone in his car

outside his crazy buddy's house while he

ravages Roxy. Out here, searching for the

American Dream without being prepared to

find it. I will rescue you, lamb.”

[62]

What had I gotten myself into?

[63]

Chapter Four – Ubiquity

“Drink with me!”

Hooper was steadily increasing his already

sizable bar tab when I got back from my adventure

out back with Jasmine. This time, he was drinking a

Gin Gimlet. He waved it back and forth at arms

length, eying it suspiciously, like the glass was

trying to get away from him. Classic Hooper style.

The bartender waved hello with a knowing smile

and half a wink. I shot her a glance and a smirk

when I asked to close my tab.

“Where'd plaid skirt go?” I asked Hooper.

“Private dance. I think I'm gonna buy the

next one. Where's flame-top?”

[64]

“Cleaning up. She's off for the night. Mind if I

give you a call for a ride in the morning?”

“Are you fucking serious right now, dude?” he

said with a devilish grin.

“Yeah, man. For reals.”

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Find out if

the curtains match the drapes.”

I heard her voice behind me all of a sudden.

“Don't worry, he won't, and... they don't.”

She came up behind me, and crossed her

arms around my chest. She kissed the back of my

head. The temptress! I watched Hooper's eyes get

really big as he saw it.

“Oh. My. God. No way. You're way too hot for

him. Leave here at once!”

[65]

She laughed, making her pouty-face at

Hooper. For a second, I thought she might stick out

her tongue.

“What's the matter? It's OK If I borrow him

for a night, isn't it? Gonna cry?”

Hooper was surprisingly and unusually

speechless. Of all the ways that night could have

ended, this was probably the least likely. I'm sure

his vision of the night's end involved the both of us

fighting over the toilet to puke in. That wasn't far

off from what how I was thinking it might turn out,

either.

“A shot for the road, then?” She said with a

sadistic grin.

“This is my last drink.” Said Hooper with the

slightest hint of a depressed and jealous frown.

“Early to bed, early to rise, Hooper. It makes

[66]

a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Didn't your

mother ever tell you that?”

As I said it, I knew I shouldn't have. I had

driven all this way to see him, and he had requested

time off of work to hang out with me. He got that

far away 'I just got dissed by my friend' look, and I

thought for a moment that I might just tell the girl

I'd call her later. Foolish thoughts. What would we

have done? Taken a few more shots of Dewar's and

passed out at the dining room table? Yelled more

insults at each other while playing cards?

Why was I even thinking about telling this girl

I wasn't coming home with her? What was wrong

with me? Was it my conscience that made me do

these mental gymnastics? Some aspect of

psychology I had no way of understanding without

an advanced degree?

“You look like you have to take a nutty shit.

Wipe that stupid look off your face before I

stab you in the throat with a soldering iron.”

[67]

Leave it to Hooper to effectively and

immediately expose the brevity of any situation. He

knew which of the two of them I wanted to spend

the evening in the company of.

“I'd like to see you try it; maybe you'll get to

see how fast I can gouge out your eye with my

thumbnail.”

I shot a glance at Jasmine after I said it, to

see how she would react.

“Plus, you'll have to go through me” She added,

crossing her arms and attempting a threatening

gaze.

“Oh, fuck, wow! I'm definitely scared of you,

munchkin. Fuckin' 'eh, you better fucking suck

his dick for free. He doesn't have any fucking

money.”

There he goes again.

[68]

“I'll do a whole lot more than suck his dick,

little man. At least he's got one to suck.”

She ran her tongue across her teeth. This girl

was going to fit right in. She reached into her bag

for some lip gloss, and just stared at him with a grin

while he fumbled for words.

“Jesus, whore, you've got a set of balls on you.

You'd choke to death on my salami. Careful,

dude, she'll cut your dick off in the night if you

don't keep an eye on her.”

“I'll bite it off,” she said.

She mimed a chomping motion, like she was

biting a banana. She put her arm around me again,

as she said it, and we all had a good laugh.

“Let's get breakfast in the morning, huh?

Good luck with Foxy Roxy.” I said.

[69]

“He doesn't need any luck with her, she's a

fucking slut”

“YES!” Hooper's smile grew, and he added,

“I knew it!”

I wondered how Hooper might approach this.

He was a pro, after all. Maybe he'd just pound

drinks with her until they got a room at the hotel

across the street. He had money to burn like that.

Maybe they'd split early and go back to his place.

Maybe she'd play him, and her pimp would show up

and break his legs.

This part of our evening was the exact point

where things could dramatically change. You can

always tell. You may not see it coming at first, but

you always know when the night starts going your

way. A change in the mood, a shift in the general

atmosphere. A tingle in the shaft. You can see

possibility rolling out like the open road.

Hooper felt it, too, it was certain. He knew

[70]

time. He knew the rhythm of the road, the way of

the adventure-seeker. We were looking for the

American Dream. It wasn't a goal, it was a way of

life. The Dream, we later found out, was nothing

but a state of mind. It wasn't a thing, it was a

concept.

“Let's stay a while, this guy seems cool.”

I was glad she had said it, in a way. We could

get a bit more drunk, and Hooper and I could

together take hold of the evening's reigns.

“That's the spirit! We need more drinks!”

Hooper said before he slammed the last of his

gimlet, nearly falling out of his seat as a result of

the exaggerated gesture.

“Let's find a table and get a pitcher. There's

no sense taking shots to the head if we want

to have a sensible conversation.”

Were we to continue at such pace, we would

[71]

surely be thrown out of the bar and vomiting in the

gutter. We had to maintain for the rest of the

evening, and that meant beer. Beer takes longer to

drink, and takes up more space in the stomach. It's

easier to pace yourself when you're drinking beer.

We grabbed two pitchers of Miller Lite, and

found an out of the way table near the bathroom

door. The table had stencil-painted stars and

moons that glowed under the black light suspended

just out of reach.

“ROXY!” Jasmine squealed.

“What, babe?” Roxy had just rounded the corner.

“Come drink with us!”

“I'm up again in ten.”

“Fuck you, slut, come drink!”

“Fine, I'll have one.”

[72]

She took a seat, and eyed her beer.

“You're here visiting Hooper, right?” she said.

“Yup, I'm here to find the American Dream,

shoot it in the neck, and hang it up to dry.”

“What does that mean?”

Hooper laughed.

“Nothing. Don't listen to him, he's insane.

The American Dream is a convertible in the

driveway, a white picket fence, a straight

marriage in a church, two kids with good

grades, and a job that doesn't make you want

to shoot yourself in the head.”

I started to answer, but Jasmine beat me to it.

“I think it's a great journey that only ends

when you're dead and buried. It's a dream,

[73]

but one that you can just barely reach. It's

what keeps you reaching higher when you're

down on your luck.”

“Right,” I added, “The need to go the next mile,

the endless pursuit of the next best thing.

What's in front of you, and not what's in the

rear view mirror.”

“Unless it's the cops,” said Roxy.

“Ha!,” Hooper nearly choked on his drink.

“I gotta get ready.” she got out of her chair, and

turned to leave.

“Want to take me to the lounge when you're

done?” Hooper cocked his head to the side and

grinned.

“Sure, babe, I'll find you.”

“I'll be waiting.”

[74]

She walked to the dressing room, and later

emerged wearing a nurse's outfit. Hooper looked

mildly disappointed. He must have really liked that

schoolgirl getup. She was still a, what did he say?

A fine piece? Yeah, that's it. He'd ravage her, or

she'd ravage him; however you want to imagine it.

There usually isn't much supervision in the

VIP lounge. Maybe they'd just fuck there, too

impatient to wait. He was good like that, he could

talk anyone into anything. Hell, he had woken me

up and convinced me to go to a strip club with a

twenty dollar cover! He just had a way with people.

He was really convincing.

“You about ready?” Jasmine asked me.

“I'm always ready.” I said.

“Good, my car's out back.”

“I'll hit you up in the morning, don't lose your

[75]

fucking phone. My keys are at your place.” I

Said to Hooper.

“Get out of here, I hate your face.” Hooper

laughed, and watched Roxy get on stage.

“Breakfast.” I said as I walked away.

“Go away!”

Jasmine put her arm around my shoulder, and

I grabbed her waist. We shifted and bobbed out of

the bar, playfully trying to knock each other over.

Brock smiled and nodded my way as we walked out

the door.

As we walked out into the humid summer

night, I saw a line of storm clouds on the horizon

glowing in the vibrant pinks and purples of the

setting sun. The ubiquity of the dream was all

around me, even hanging off of my shoulder. I saw

the main nerve.

[76]

I was sure I was right. I was sure that's what

it was. It had to be. I was banking my life on it.

The great main nerve of the universe was

everywhere, sending out lines, waiting for me to

take hold of one.

I got into Jasmine's car, and she turned on the

radio. More Lady Gaga.

“I love this record, baby,

but I can't see straight anymore.”

“I love this song!” She reached down and turned

it up.

Her car speakers were blown, they sounded

terrible. I wondered if Lady Gaga had found the

American Dream. Just dance, right? It'll be OK.

There's truth in there, right?

Why is it that you can hear a song on the

radio, every once in a great while, and it seems like

[77]

some cosmic DJ in a higher dimension put it there

just for you. It's the power of music, I guess. The

mystique that drives us all to shell out our cash to

see these people, buy their records, and have a

piece of them – to own, that's all ours. Your own

memories of the first time you heard that song, and

all the times you heard it after that. Just hearing a

line or two can bring it all back like it was only

yesterday.

Music is a part of the American Dream. Ever

onward, always changing, adapting to new ideas

and technologies, but always keeping a piece of the

past. Capturing moments for people, as a trigger

for memories they wouldn't otherwise keep on top

of their minds.

I like to listen to the radio when I'm on the

road. It's our culture, the voices of our people, the

music that defines our moment in time. The radio

captures the dream in a strange way, dictated both

by culture and by the market. Music is one of the

few commodities we invest both emotion and

[78]

money into.

“Where to, Captain Jasmine?”

“Anywhere but here.”

“I like the sound of that.”

She drove West, towards the wall of storm

clouds. The pink and purple faded to the ashen

greys and moon shadow blacks of a stormy night.

Raindrops began to fall on the windshield, a gentle

and steady drizzle. There was no lightning, no

thunder. It was a peaceful rain, not a violent one.

A calming, refreshing rain. We silently listened to

the radio and smoked cigarettes in the dark, as we

drove off to the next adventure.

[79]

[80]

Chapter Five – Dreams

It was only one year ago that our roles

were reversed. Hooper was the one sleeping

crashing at my place, and I was the one housing the

borderline vagabond. We were just as drunk back

then, too, and just as vulgar. Some things take

longer to change than others.

“I've assembled a list of actionable items, and

I'm on the verge of knowing true freedom.

Can you taste the sweet air?!”

He was pacing around my living room, the old

Michigan hardwood floors creaking, adding

emphasis to every step. He always had that list of

actionable items. It was a little notebook he carried

with him that contained a long-running list of things

he was supposed to be doing and thinking about.

[81]

He was always writing things in it and crossing them

out. He didn't go anywhere without his list of

actionable items. A tangible part of his life was in

that book.

“Actionable items, huh? Sounds professional.

Where does 'whack my pud' fit in amidst all

the drinking and womanizing?”

He stopped and looked at me for a second,

raised his arm, and pointed.

“If you were half of the professional I am,

you'd have your own list of actionable items

that consisted of more than bong rips and

vodka fifths.”

I laughed. He got me!

“So, where's the main nerve? Are you now a

fugitive at large? Am I now an unwilling

accessory? Where's the body? Are you

infested with any incurable diseases?”

[82]

I had received a frantic phone call, nearing

three the morning before, after a long string of

texts that grew less and less intelligible as time

went on. I was working, so I couldn't answer the

phone. I listened to the voice mail as soon as I

locked the front door.

“Hey, it's Hooper. Pack up the bong and

buy more booze, I've discovered the main

nerve. I'll be in the mitt by five tomorrow. Be

prepared. The circumstances look dire.”

We called Michigan 'The Mitten.' Not just us,

you know, a whole lot of people call it that. If you

can't figure out why, look at a map. After that, if

you still don't understand; shoot yourself. He had

been out East, lost somewhere in Virginia, sucking

the 'Go Green' cash cow for all it would deliver.

He worked for a private contractor, designing

and building overpriced sustainable housing. It was

a seller's market. Demand for the 'back to the

[83]

Earth but close to the city' lifestyle among the East

Coast elite was growing, and the supply of

applicable contractors in the area was low. That

meant Hoop was getting fat paid; while at the same

time no less full of anxiety for the future.

He'd found himself trying to clear his sour

state of mind, driving North to Washington, D.C. for

a weekend away from plundering the vapid young

money elite of their trust fund dollars.

We maintained frequent communication

despite our geographical disparity. E-mail and

instant messaging had made it so we could keep

tabs on each other's pursuit of the American Dream

twenty four hours a day. He had told me earlier in

the week that he was heading to the District to clear

his mind, hoping he would find a clean hotel with a

well stocked bar. He found the bar, sure enough,

but soon got thrust into contemporary polemics with

a good natured and diabolically corrupt G.O.P 'Yes

Man,' as he called him.

[84]

“He called me a R.I.N.O. when I called Sarah

Palin a cunt muffin with ugly hair.” Said Hooper,

loudly taking a bite of an apple.

“Jesus! What'd you do?”

“I told him if he ever called me a Republican

again I'd cut out his eyes with a can opener.”

“Did you get security called on you?”

“No, man! He said, 'I've never met a

Democrat with a spine before!'”

“What'd you say to that?”

“I told him if he ever called me a Democrat

again, I'd cut out his eyes with a can opener.”

“Nice!”

“Shit, man, that guy was a cool motherfucker.

We drank till the bar closed!”

[85]

“Who the fuck was he?”

“Some lobbyist, I think, a boot licker making

moves for some up and comer from some

dumb State. Reagan's name was dropped at

one point.”

“Apparently he licked enough boots to pay for

your prodigious consumption of alcohol.”

“That's not all he paid for!”

“Do tell.”

He paused for a second, as if he was re-living

the events in his brain before he told me the story.

“Well, I got pretty drunk, and that's when I

started texting you the other day.”

“I remember.”

[86]

“He grabbed the phone out of my hand, looked

at it, and said 'You're texting a fucking dude?

What's up with that? We need whores!' I

agreed wholeheartedly.”

“So what'd he do, buy you a whore?”

“Not just any whore! A top-quality, only

services the suites at the Four Seasons,

whore. An escort. Champagne bottles. All on

the G.O.P. dime.”

“Why aren't you still balls deep in the lap of

luxury? You fucked an A-Grade prostitute in a

suite at the Four Seasons only to come twelve

hours away and pass out on my couch?!”

“It just isn't right, man. Your taxes just paid

for my sticky dick! I haven't even washed it!”

“Well, when you put it that way, it does kind of

piss me off. Who cares, though, right? You've

found the main nerve!”

[87]

“That's the issue. Fucking G.O.P. hookers isn't

my American Dream; it's a story for the back

of a porno. If that was me hitting the main

nerve, what if I never find it again? Could that

have been my only chance?”

“Is that what this is about? You need to set

your goals higher, man! Free hooker after a

night of free drinking in a ritzy hotel room that

you left in a huff. That's just a good story,

man- it's not the main nerve.”

“I quit my job. I saved up enough money to

live for a while, I think I'm just going to hit

the road. There's no coming back from this.

I'm just gonna live in my truck for a while and

take it as it comes.”

“All of this over some free hookers?”

I was having a hard time understanding the

correlation between the hookers and his insanity.

[88]

“IT'S NOT ABOUT THE FUCKING HOOKERS,

MAN! It's about the fact that I just topped out

on my potential. I'm damn near thirty,

balding, and working for peanuts with a

private contractor. I'll never get a taste of

pussy that expensive again in my life if I don't

start getting proactive! I need advanced

degrees, I need capital, networks, I need to

quit digging holes in the country for rich

hipsters!”

He sat down on the couch with his head in his

hands. He wasn't crying or anything like that. He

was just so frustrated. You could feel it in the air.

It was like a pressure cooker in there. He was on

the verge of discovering something huge about

himself, about to take a new turn down the great

road of life. A new exit, a new set of directions,

maybe even a new destination entirely. I was just

glad I could lend a spare couch and a shot of

whiskey to a friend in need.

[89]

Who hasn't felt like that before? Where the

world seemed like it was crushing you from the

weight on your shoulders, but suddenly it's all gone

in a single breath. That's how you know you've

found it. The main nerve. The living, breathing,

serpent of cultural ubiquity. I just wanted to

scream:

“Get it! Find the fucking thing, man! Grab

hold and don't let go! You're gonna make it

through this!”

If you have the right eyes, you can see the

main nerve in the rolling hills of the Dakotas,

floating along the Mississippi, climbing the Rockies,

surfing the coasts, and in the knowing smile of

every person that finally figured out the dance. On

the train stations and subway platforms, and in the

buses and airplanes. In the factories and corner

stores. Sometimes it's obscured by the filth and

monotony, but you can always find it if you look

close enough.

[90]

It's a great big world out there, filled with

potential and opportunity. You just have to reach

out and take it sometimes. You have to make the

dream a reality, and nobody wants to do it for you.

Your sacrifice, your reward.

Hooper found the great wide-open arms of the

American Dream staring at him from behind the

eyes of a three thousand dollar a night politician's

escort. His dream was perverse and likely illegal,

but it was a dream none the less. Part of a dream

that we're all dreaming when we roam the streets,

when we get in our cars and go to work, and when

we come home to the lives we've built up around

us. Maybe it isn't a dream as much as it is a

promise we make to each other. A promise that

we're all in this together, and that we know it. That

no matter what happens, we still have another day

to look forward to; another opportunity for us to get

closer to what we all really want.

[91]

It's refreshing to see that in the eyes of

another human being. Knowing full well they've

seen what you've seen, heard what you've heard,

dreamed the same dreams, thought the same

thoughts, and cried the same tears. Knowing that

you aren't the only one who feels like giving up

sometimes. That when you stare up to the stars at

night; there's a million people all over Earth just

looking right up there with you, wondering what it

all means.

In that moment, I kind of wanted to punch

him in the face.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, though, I

wondered if he could use a hug. He was obviously

upset. Hell, so was I.

[92]

Chapter Six – Deliverance

I drove East on I-90 through Northern Ohio,

towards the heart of the sunrise. B.B.C. accents

talked dry politics on late-night N.P.R. I watched

the road meet the horizon in the blue-grey glow of

an early Spring's moon. White lines materialized

and disappeared in the muted-yellow reach of the

headlights. I was alone with the road, a lowly

passenger on a great ship; an ant on a castle. The

cloudless, star-filled sky shifted from endless black

to lighter and lighter shades of cerulean. It was the

moment before the change. The Ennui, the satori.

The culmination and the beginning. The serpent

was eating its tail again.

At the horizon, the road began to meet an

amber haze that set the sky on fire. And then, as if

from nowhere, it happened. The Sun. A new day.

[93]

Tomorrow came. It's as if time might have stood

perfectly still in that moment, yet the great

clockwork of the sky ticked on without me ever

noticing.

Thwack!

A large insect met its end on my windshield,

directly in the center of my vision. A sign, a

reminder. The imperfection of beauty; the cycle of

day and night, of Sun and sky, and of life and

death. I stared at it, almost through it, at the dot

on my windshield superimposed over the rising Sun.

I guess you could say I was in a weird mood.

The first morning you wake up after you quit

your job is like the morning after you break up with

your girlfriend. Things seem both empty and

hopeful at the same time. You've got no income

source, but you've got your life back for a while.

Same thing as breaking up – you're alone in your

bed for the first time, but you've got that twinge in

your shaft that says “hell, I can fuck anyone I want

[94]

tonight!” There aren't many times where you can

both smile and be so lonely at the same time.

You go down paths in life, sometimes, that

you can only question afterwards. Frost talked

about two roads diverging in a wood, and that's a

weak way to put it. There's no need to speak in

metaphor when you're talking about your own life.

It's a clear choice you're making when you pick a

path. You can't predict the future, but you sure do

have a whole lot to do with how it turns out in the

end. The path you take makes little difference

compared to the destination.

The first thing I did after I quit my job was

call Hooper to tell him I would be emptying my

savings account and driving straight to his

apartment in North Carolina. Hell, that's what he'd

done to me; I figured it was only reasonable that it

was his turn to quarter the vagabond.

When I got there, I would be the road worn

saint. It would be me that found the main nerve

[95]

and ran away like a frightened puppy that had stuck

its nose in a hornet's nest. First, I had to quit my

job, which was something I had been meaning to do

for quite some time. You grow comfortable in your

ways, worming your existence through a rut. I

needed to break the cycle, I guess. Or at least quit

pushing cash register buttons and dealing with

assholes for a while.

I was one of the restaurant industry lifers.

Every service sector has its lifers. I had spent

nearly a decade managing restaurants when I

walked out that evening, and wanted no part of it

any longer. When you're a salaried manager at a

restaurant, all you have to look forward to is twenty

hours of unpaid overtime a week, crew members

not showing up, food outages, and angry

customers.

I walked into a whirlwind of a shift. The place

was a mess, the server wasn't eighteen and couldn't

serve booze to the line of customers at the bar, the

cooks were behind and out of most of what it took

[96]

to complete the tickets, the delivery driver was

washing dishes, and all three phone lines were on

hold.

The thought first crossed my mind to flee

when the sixteen year old girl came up to me before

I could take off my coat and said,

“Can I go on break? I have to call my

boyfriend.”

The fury was only beginning to rise when the

delivery driver handed me the phone.

“Here ya go, man, this guy's pissed!”

He's pissed?! This was my fifth straight day

of this, and I had only been there fifteen minutes of

a thirteen hour shift! I still hadn't even taken off

my jacket.

“Thanks for holding, what can I do for you

today?”

[97]

“I'll tell ya what you can do, you can get me

the fucking food I ordered half an hour ago.

I'm just up the road, what the fuck is taking so

long?”

“Honestly, sir, I've just walked in. I have no

idea why your food isn't done, when did you

place the order?”

“Four thirty, dumb fuck! I thought they said

you were the manager! You should be on top

of this shit!”

Another dumb mistake by the morning staff.

Deliveries don't start until five, they should have

told him that.

“I'm sorry, sir, I don't know why they took

your order at four thirty when the driver

wasn't scheduled in until five”

[98]

“I don't give a fuck when your driver comes in,

I want the food I ordered! I'm hungry!”

“Well, sir, it's now ten after five and it looks

like my driver has just left with your food. He

should be there in just a minute. Like you

said, you're only up the road.”

“I could have walked down there and gotten it

myself by now. I'm not paying.”

That was almost the straw that broke the

camel's back. Not quite, but nearly enough. He

could have fucking walked to the restaurant. The

lazy piece of shit was paying two extra dollars to

have his food driven less than two blocks. This

situation is emblematic of the plague of laziness

wrought by our convenience culture.

“You're more than welcome to do that in the

future, sir, and my driver will be right with

you. I can always write a credit, but I can't

refund you. I'm sorry.”

[99]

“Thanks for nothing,” he says, before adding

“and, by the way, you're a shitty manager if

you don't know what's going on in your store.

It doesn't matter if you just walked in. If you

can't do your job, then fucking quit.”

There. Right there.

That's where I had enough. It only took a

split second for the change to come. Four years of

hard work were forgotten in an instant.

Zang.

“Ha! You're right, shit dick! I shouldn't be

managing this dumb fucking restaurant,

dealing with dumb fucking people like you! I

hope the driver drops your food, you miserable

pile of dog vomit! How about you walk two

blocks down the road instead of sitting in your

apartment? Go straight to fucking hell, sir, I'll

kick your ass when I get there!”

[100]

I slammed the phone to pieces on the counter,

and looked up to the packed dining room.

Everybody's eyes were on me. I sure was famous

then. I stopped for a moment, smiling, and looked

at every single one of them – right in the fucking

eyes. I grabbed my backpack, took a bow, and left,

still wearing my jacket.

That's how you quit a job you hate.

Consequences be damned, a person just can't be

asked to deal with things like that for very long.

Everybody in the place – employees and customers

alike - dumping their problems on you because

you're the only one smart enough to do something

about it. Fuck them. Let them solve their own

bullshit problems.

I would never rag on someone for trying to

get their job done, in public or private, even if I

knew them. Things don't always run smoothly.

Mistakes are made and people forget things. It

happens. There's no reason to get miserably irate

[101]

with someone because your food is a few minutes

late. A call? Sure. Why not? It couldn't hurt to let

us know when there's a problem. Never yelling.

That does not help. I promise.

“Fuck it. Who cares? Enough thought about

that. History. Nothing more. I need more

cigarettes.”

Sometimes I talk out loud to myself when I'm

driving alone. It's kind of like praying, only

someone is actually listening. Another way to put it

would be that I was telling my story to the road.

The road will always listen. If you lean in close,

keep a close eye on the horizon, and turn the radio

off; you can hear the road whispering it's eternal

reply:

“Keep on ahead, round the bend, just over

the next hill. Keep pushing forward.”

“Toledo. Sounds good.”

[102]

I pulled in to a gas station on the side of the

turnpike. After I fueled up and bought a pack of

cigarettes, I parked the car to eat a sandwich and

listen to some music before getting back on the

road.

I caught a glance from a group of Amish as

they got out of a bus. I couldn't figure out why they

were all looking at me until I realized I was the only

other person in the parking lot, and that I was

listening to the Devin Townsend Project at

considerable volume with the windows down.

Devy is a little much for the Amish, I fear.

They may still be scared of me to this day, and they

never even knew who I was. Much less did they

bother to ask. I don't want to offend the Amish;

I'm not really even that scary.

What might it be like for them, on the way to

the “city” on the Ohio turnpike; watching me smoke

cigarettes in the early morning fog? Them,

watching me watch them. Which of us is the wiser?

[103]

Why are the Amish driving across Ohio in a bus?

Isn't that a faux pas? Against their religion or some

strange anachronistic fear of machinery? Maybe

they can get inside of it, they just can't operate it. I

don't know. Who cares about the Amish, anyway?

I caught the gaze of a suburban-looking

woman in her late forties, wearing a tracksuit. She

paced in front of the entrance, gabbing away on her

phone and smoking a cigarette, presumably waiting

to visit the washroom. Had she seen the Amish?

Had she seen me hit my bowl?

She gave me a look that said to me both,

'weird fucking Amish, huh?' and 'I saw what you

just did!” It was time to leave, I figured, and I left

the rest stop in a huff. I didn't even take the time

to finish my bowl, or my sandwich.

[104]

Chapter Seven – Salvation

We turned into Jasmine's apartment

complex, and parked the car in her carport. She

grabbed her bag out of the back seat, pressing the

lock button on her key fob. A tinny honk came from

underneath the car hood, and the puny sound did

little to help the already sad looking machine.

We walked up to the door, and she put her key

in the lock. There's always the lonely hollow click of

a key going into an apartment lock in the dark of

the night. It echoes through the hallway, signaling

to the whole building that you're home.

I imagined the rest of the people in the

apartment thinking about us.

[105]

“There's that stripper girl coming home again,

and another set of steps! She's brought one of her

gutter slug men home with her to keep us up all

night again, lord have mercy on her soul!”

Maybe it was because I'm narcissistic that I

thought everyone in the apartment building was

thinking about me, but more than likely, it was

Jasmine screaming down the hallway as we walked:

“Rah-Rah Ah-Ah-Ah

Ro-Ma Ro-Ma-Ma

Ga Ga Ooh La La!”

I figured I might as well join in. I knew the

damn words. Everybody did, and you did too.

From somewhere in one of the apartments we were

walking past, I heard the wasted cries of a college

girl drunk off way too much cheap tequila:

“Want your bad romance!!! AAH! I LOVE LADY

GAGA!”

[106]

You couldn't walk into a bar in the whole

country without hearing Lady GaGa that summer. If

you didn't like her, you either had to stay home or

learn how to deal with it. Had I been a few years

younger, and a little more steadfast in my ways, I

would have never listened to Lady GaGa. After a

while, though, it got to the point that some of my

best summer memories were remembered to the

tune of a Lady GaGa track. No matter where I went

in the United States of America, Lady GaGa was

there bluffin' the speakers with her muffin.

I may lose a bit of credibility with my

metalhead friends, but I wish I could have written

as good of a pop hit as Lady GaGa in the later part

of the twenty-aughts. Going from night clubs in

New York to headlining an arena tour in a few short

years is no small feat. You gotta start somewhere,

though. Just like that bartender had said. Famous

is only a state of mind.

“Here we are!” she said.

[107]

She unlocked the door and set her bags on

the dining room table. It was a normal college town

apartment. Boring white walls and trim, tiled

kitchen floor, beige carpet, and recessed lighting. A

single bedroom, but not a studio. It was spacious,

but there was nothing particularly special about it.

It's crazy how we've standardized our housing to

such an extent that a new apartment anywhere in

the country feels like your girlfriend's place.

I followed her into the kitchen, and she

grabbed two champagne glasses out of the cabinet

above the refrigerator.

“I've been saving this for a special guest, and

It ended up being you.”

“Thanks for the V.I.P. Treatment.”

I think I really should give up on the stock

responses. I don't know why I feel stupid saying

the same thing twice to two different people, but it

just bothers me.

[108]

“It's not every day you party with someone on

the hunt for the American Dream. When you

say it out loud, doesn't it sound like

Champagne needs to be involved?”

“That's every day for me! Someday I might

find it, and then what will I do?”

“You're going to kill it and hang it up to dry,

isn't that what you said you'd do? That's why

you're gonna be famous! You actually know

what you want out of life. The rest of us don't.

We have to look up to you guys to tell us what

to want.”

“Whoa. Give yourself more credit!”

I choked on the words a little bit, unable to

conjure up a cogent response. I'm just a

demographic, too, baby. We're all nothing but a

fucking statistic. Selling our bullshit to each other

until we're rotting in the ground. That's why we

[109]

drink every day, isn't it? The really famous people

only sell big after they're dead and gone.

She popped the cork on the champagne

bottle, smiling, and poured us each a glass. She

picked them up and walked through the living room

towards the sliding door that led to the balcony.

She stopped short and turned slightly, motioning

with her head for me to follow her.

“Let's go watch the storm!”

I was kind of, maybe, just a little, definitely

falling for this girl. The roadside temptress on the

great Interstate of life. Which of us was the lamb,

and which the wolf? There was no way for me to

find out except to let the night run its course. I had

to play my cards very carefully, though, and I knew

it. I was in the company of a professional heart

breaker, and I needed to keep that in mind.

I followed her out the door, sliding it shut

behind me as I walked out. She sat down on a white

[110]

wicker love seat with a purple cushion.

“Have a seat, vagabond.”

She patted the seat beside her, and I sat

down next to her. She pulled up a matching wicker

coffee table with purple trim around the sides, and

we put up our feet. We sipped champagne in the

night, and looked out over the park across the

street.

“I like to pretend it's Central Park.”

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Why Central Park?”

“Because I wish I was in a big city, with all the

lights and the bums and the subway and the

money.”

“I can definitely relate to that.”

I raised my champagne glass in a toast.

[111]

“When I was a kid, my friend's older brother

asked me what I wanted to be when I grew

up.”

She held the glass with both hands staring

straight ahead as she spoke.

“What'd you tell him?”

“I said I wanted to be a dancer. He told me I

wouldn't make it because it was too hard.”

“You should have kneed him in the junk.”

“I know. I was still a little girl, though, and I

was devastated. Boot-stomped dreams.”

“That's a sad story. At least you're a dancer,

now, though.”

“Yeah, kind of. Dancer. Whatever.” She said it

with such disgust, it almost made me cringe. She

was bitterly sarcastic.

[112]

“You're a good dancer. Who cares if you have

to show your tits? You're a goddess, what are

you doing right now? Doubting yourself? Stop

it!”

“How about you, does the vagabond have any

sad stories?”

That was a good question with a long answer.

This time, it was me staring off into space and

grabbing the drink with both hands.

“I've got plenty of sad stories. Why do you

want to hear sad stories?”

“Sad stories inspire my dances. That's what I

think about when I'm up there. That's how I

cope.”

“It seems to work well.”

“It's an art.”

[113]

She smiled.

“OK, I'll bite. I spent some time in Egypt a

few years ago...”

She grabbed my arm, eyes widening.

“You went to EGYPT?! That's so cool!”

“I know, I know. It was a long time ago,

though, and I was really high the whole time.

It seems more like a dream to me now than a

memory.”

“Yeah, sorry. I always wished I could go to

Egypt. Maybe you can tell me that story some

day.”

“I've got plenty of stories.”

“OK, so what happened in Egypt?”

[114]

“I was with a friend visiting his buddy, Moe. I

had never met him before, but he was a really

nice guy and we were having a really good

time smoking hash and going to the pyramids

and all that...”

“The pyramids! Oh my god! So cool!”

“I'm telling ya, Jazz, I've seen some shit you

wouldn't believe.”

“Sounds like it.”

“So this guy got a call one day when we were

in a place called Sharm el Sheik.”

“I think I heard about that place once.”

“It was the most beautiful place that I've ever

seen.”

She moved a little closer to me on the wicker

seat, and it squeaked when she shifted her weight.

[115]

I continued the story.

“We had just gotten stoned to shit off of some

of the best hash I have ever smoked in my life,

we're walking down the beach, and he's

talking on the cell phone. All of a sudden, he

stops dead in his tracks and starts shouting in

Arabic. He drops to his knees, and starts

crying on the beach in the summer sun.”

“Why was he crying? Who was he talking to?”

She was listening intently.

“His brother had been killed in a suicide

bombing in Israel. Moe went to school in

Cairo, and his brother was up there. His

parents lived in Jordan. Fucking tragic. The

poor guy just said 'We're getting high. We're

gonna smoke so much hash and get so drunk

that my little brother can feel it up in heaven.'

He kissed his hands and blew it up to the sky.”

[116]

“That's awful! Imagine how his parents feel,

not even being in the same country!”

“Well, you gotta remember that Jordan isn't

very far away from Israel. The story gets

worse, though, you know. No sad story ends

with the first tragedy.”

“Oh my god, what could be worse?”

“About a week after I got home, sure as fuck,

the poor bastard got killed in front of his

fucking apartment. The same damn apartment

I stayed in for a couple weeks.”

“No way! How?”

“Some psycho was speeding down the alley in

reverse and didn't see him, I guess. There

was some weird rumblings about murder, but

I think it was just politicized bullshit. Can you

imagine how terrible it must have been for

their parents to lose both children in such

[117]

senseless ways in the same month? No one

deserves to lose two children in the same

month. Nobody. That shit is fucking

ridiculous. Absurd. Things like that really

bother me.”

“That really was a sad story. Did you ever talk

to his parents?”

“No, they didn't speak English. I told my

buddy to mention my thoughts in whatever

way was customary for them. I didn't want to

press the issue, you know. Nothing but

respect for the dead, and even more for the

bereaved. I've been through that shit too

many times to try to press things on people in

that state of grief.”

“Yeah, me too. My best friend died when I

was really young. She drowned in the pool at

a mutual friend's birthday party. We all saw

her there, floating, blue and lifeless. Her hair

was the worst, though. The way her hair

[118]

floated around her head. I still can't forget it,

Christ it must have been damn near twenty

years ago.”

“Ah, man, that's horrible. I hate hearing

about kids dying, dude. It really bums me out.

Always has. There's nothing worse than the

look on the face of a mother burying her own

child.”

I really wasn't in the mood to do the old back

and forth with the sob stories. I was on the road to

find the future, not re-live the past.

“You look like you're thinking. You make a

face when you're thinking.”

“A face? What do you mean, a face?”

She laughed and pointed at me. She moved

back dramatically, towards the other end of the

seat. The wicker squeaked loudly this time, and it

sounded like it might tear apart.

[119]

“That face! The one you're making right now!

You look like you're staring into another

universe!”

I blushed a little, I think. Probably. I couldn't

see myself, obviously, but I felt the rush of heat in

my cheeks.

“Aw! Cute! You're embarrassed! Don't worry,

I won't make fun of you too much.”

A bright flash interrupted her heckling,

followed closely by a loud clap of thunder. She

jumped a little, immediately curling up against me

on the wicker seat.

“I love storms, but the thunder always scares

me!”

I always wondered if girls pulled that stuff as

an excuse to get closer to you. Well, I guess I

always knew it was an excuse, I just wondered if

[120]

there was any legitimate fear; or just what they

said. Like when something scary happens at the

movies and they curl up next to you. It's like a pre-

programmed reaction. The thunder stopped, and

she didn't back away. I put my arm around her, like

I figured I was supposed to.

We didn't say anything for a while. It was

nearing four or five A.M., and I was starting to get a

little tired. I could tell she was, too. Her breathing

was slower, and she rested her head on my

shoulder. I thought she was asleep, but suddenly

she said,

“Let's go to bed, I'm tired.”

She yawned, arching her back, and stretching

her arms out behind her.

“Yeah, me too.”

“How about one last cigarette?” She said,

picking her pack up off of the table.

[121]

“Sounds like a plan. Wait one second,

though,” I put up my right index finger in that 'one

second' pose I hate so much, and I fished my pack

of cigarettes from my shorts pocket. “I've been

holding on to this guy for a while.”

“What?”

“A joint. I was gonna smoke it with Hooper on

the way home from the club...”

“But then you met me and we're gonna smoke

it now.”

She grabbed it from my hand and lit it, taking

the first few draws and passing it to me. She laid

her head back down on my shoulder and exhaled.

“What a day,” I said, because that's what I always

say when I don't know what to say.

“Yeah, it was. I had a big fight with my boss

[122]

today. I don't know if I'll be working there

much longer.”

“What's it about?”

“Some dumb shit. I got caught smoking weed

out back by one of the born again shit head

bouncers. Brock tried to talk him into keeping

his mouth shut, but Jesus doesn't want him to

lie and all that.”

“Damn, all that over smoking a joint at a strip

club?”

“Yeah, he goes to the same church as the

owner, if you can believe it.”

“A church-going strip club owner?”

“He doesn't own the club, he owns the

conglomerate that owns the club. He stops by

every once in a while to make sure it isn't

'Sodom and Gomorrah,' as he calls it.”

[123]

“What a prick!”

“You have no idea how much a prick that bible

thumping cocksucker is. He'd fire us all if he

wasn't making so much money.”

She took the last hit off of the joint, and

snuffed it out in the ashtray. She stood up, and

opened the sliding glass door to walk back into the

living room.

“Come on, let's have a nightcap.”

“Alright, what do you have?”

“You like tequila?”

“If it has alcohol in it, I like it.”

“Well, let's do a shot of Cabo then.”

“Sounds good!”

[124]

She walked into the kitchen, and picked up a

blue bottle of Cabo Wabo from the cabinet

bulkhead. She poured two shots, and took two

slices of lime from the refrigerator. She smoked

good bud, and drank good booze. Maybe the

American dream really could be in North Carolina.

“Training wheels?” She said?

“I'll pass on the salt, but I can go for a lime.”

“Good man.” She raised her glass.

“A toast, then?” I said.

“To a new tomorrow!” She said with a grin.

“And to a greasy breakfast at the Waffle

House!”

We took our shots, and set the glasses in the

sink. I watched her there, for a second. She got

[125]

that look on her face like she was gonna puke, and

she braced herself on the kitchen sink.

“One too many?” I was the one with the grin this

time.

“Ooh yeah.” She ran to the bathroom and shut the

door behind her.

I've sure been there before, and I'd be willing

to bet that you have, too. You don't know it's your

last shot until you take it, and then you know for

sure. You always know when you've had too much.

Drinking often without drinking too much from time

to time is a difficult thing to do. After a few nights

out, you learn your tolerance. You can press the

limits some nights, but only once or twice a week.

Obviously, the smart choice is to quit drinking.

There's no fun in that, though. I always figured,

'well shit, I'm gonna die anyway, I might as well

have a good time.' Who cares if your liver is a little

worse for wear? Don't drive a car, and know your

[126]

limits.

For those of us that know that we won't stop

drinking anytime soon, here's my advice. Drink by

yourself every once in a while. Figure out how

many shots it takes over six hours to get drunk

enough to be drunk and not go over the line. You

have to know yourself if you're going to do this

right.

She was a pro, and I think we were just over-

celebrating. After a long series of moans and

splashes from the bathroom, I heard the next series

of sounds you hear after someone pukes. There's

the toilet flush, the wiping off of the speckles and

splashies accumulated on the seat and rim, the face

wash, the brushing of teeth, and the extra rinse

with mouthwash to get the back of your mouth.

The taste will not go away until morning, no matter

what you do.

Then, after that, you lift up the toilet seat

again because you're not quite sure it's over. You

[127]

sit there for a while, hem and haw, and then decide

you've purged what needed to be purged. It's now

time for bed. If you're lucky enough to be in your

own home, you'll probably have the clothes you

slept in last night nearby. You'll change into those

next, and hope they're comfortable. At least they

don't smell like vodka sweat and bar food puke.

I heard the door creak. She turned out the

light as she walked out of the doorway. She had

changed her clothes. I knew it. She was wearing

plaid boxers and a tight-fitting white t-shirt with the

collar cut off that said “Buck Fush.” I guess she had

been holding on to that one for a while. She was

pulling her hair back, tying it off with a puffy zebra

print ponytail holder.

“Feeling better?” I said.

“Yeah, but it's definitely time for bed.”

I didn't quite know what to do at that

moment. I was really tired, I just wanted to pass

[128]

out. Would she invite me to the room? I made an

awkward move toward the couch, and I set my hat

and phone on the coffee table. She grabbed two

glasses of water from the kitchen, handed one to

me, and sat down next to me.

“Here, drink this, you'll need it.”

“Thanks, Jazz.” I said, and I knew she was right.

She seemed to like me calling her that.

Maybe she had forgotten that I didn't know her real

name. Either that, or she knew damn well and just

enjoyed being called by her stage name. Maybe her

name was something traditional like Jessica or

Emily, and she secretly wished it was something

exotic and stripper-sounding like Jasmine.

“Let's go to bed, vagabond.”

She stood up, reached over, and grabbed my

arm. We walked into the bedroom, which I hadn't

seen yet. It was your standard twenty-something

[129]

girl's bedroom. Pictures of high school prom dates

and volleyball teams. Boyfriends and friend boys

and girlfriends and pose shots. She must be one of

those girls that brings her camera everywhere. I

wonder how many of those kind of pictures I'm in.

With social media, now, you get to see a lot of

them. For years and years I've been in drunk

pictures with people. I hardly ever see them, but I

know they're out there somewhere, regrettable

memories from another in a long string of college

parties.

You can always tell you're in a chick's room.

Everything is meticulously arranged and looks

breakable. A blundering drunk like myself may

stumble and knock over a lamp, or set down a

ceramic turtle too hard and break it. You really

have to watch yourself in a girl's room. One false

step and you could ruin a cherished trinket from the

past. That means you're going back to the couch.

Tiptoe and don't touch anything. That's the rule,

and you have to stick to it lest you foul your

ambiance. Oh yeah, and never yell at the dog – if

[130]

there is one. Just don't do it.

She was fiddling with things on the dresser,

plugging in her phone, and thumbing her iPod. She

plugged it into the stereo on her bookshelf, and

turned around. I found myself looking at that little

part on her neck where it looks like there's a stick

under the skin revealed by the shirt with the collar

cut off. I don't know why, that's just what I

remember looking at.

“What do you want to listen to?” She said.

That's the question, isn't it? It's hard enough

to find girls that sleep with music on, but they

always have to ask you what to listen to. It's a test.

These chicks and their tests, man, I'll tell ya. I just

hoped I would pass. I crossed my fingers, and said

the first thing that came to mind that wasn't

Strapping Young Lad:

“You were dancing to the Mars Volta earlier,

right? Want to get down on some De-

[131]

Loused?”

She crumpled her face a little, and I thought I

might have blown it. She probably didn't want to

think about work, or something like that. I don't

know. She just smiled and shook her head.

“Nah, that'll give me nightmares.”

Fair enough. What should I ask her to play?

It's a test because I've never looked at her iPod, yet

I'm supposed to know what kind of music she

listens to. I just know she dances to the Mars Volta

and loves... oh... that's it!

“GaGa?”

“OOOH! Yeah! Good idea! I can't believe you

like Lady GaGa! All of the boys that I know

hate her.”

Ha! I passed!

[132]

She turned it up loud enough to hear it from

across the room, but quiet enough so we could hear

each other talking. The room was rectangular, with

the bed on one end and the dresser on the other.

The door was in the middle of the long wall, and the

bookshelf ran along the middle of the other long

wall. The walls were sea foam green, and the

bedspread matched them. A psychedelic tapestry

hung from the ceiling above the bed, and one of

those Ugly dolls between the pillows. She sat down

on the left side, and patted the bedspread next to

her.

“Have a seat.” She said.

I sat down next to her on the bed.

“You sleeping in your clothes, or do you wanna

borrow some shorts or something? I want to

see you in one of my skirts.” She laughed,

probably at the mental image of me in a skirt, which

would certainly look awkward.

[133]

“I'll be fine as I am. No skirts.”

“Take off your pants, boy!”

“Damn! Demanding today, aren't we?”

“I just want you to be comfortable. You seem

overly polite. Stop it.”

I got up, and I took off my shorts and my t-

shirt. I folded them and set them on the floor in

front of her dresser, and put my socks on top of the

pile. I sleep in boxer shorts, usually. I used to

sleep naked, but you never know when something is

going to happen and you've got to jump out of bed

ready to go. You can't awkwardly walk around

holding your junk when your girlfriend's mom is

over to grab that vacuum you borrowed, you know?

Better to be prepared.

When I turned around, she was under the

covers on the right side. I tried to turn off one of

the weird-shaped lamps, but I couldn't find a

[134]

switch.

“It's on the cord. Thanks Babe!”

I turned the switch, and I got into the left side

of the bed. So many things are whispered in

bedrooms, things that are never said out loud in

public. Things that never leave that bed unless

some asshole writes a book about it. Sometimes

the words are vile, and you'd be red-faced if you

said them in public. Other times, they're just too

honest to be spoken out loud.

“Can we cuddle?” She said almost in a whisper

before adding, “I've been feeling kind of lonely

lately, it's nice to have a friend.”

I was expecting to hear the bit about

cuddling, but I wasn't expecting that second part.

Truth is, I was feeling the same way. I put my arm

around her, and she grabbed it to pull me closer to

her. It might have been thirty seconds that went by

before her breathing slowed and her shoulders

[135]

relaxed into my chest. She had taken the t-shirt

off, I could feel the skin of her back on my chest. I

wish I was able to fall asleep that fast.

I'm one of those people that has a million

thoughts go through their head at night. Some of

us just can't turn off the machine. I laid there, and

I thought about how the day had started. From a

couch to a stripper's bedroom. Was this the main

nerve I'd found? Lady GaGa continued to play on

the stereo, and the next song I heard was

“Summerboy.”

“Ca-Ca-Ca Crazy!

Get your ass in my bed!”

Sure, why not? I tried to relax, but my

heartburn was flaring up. I started to wonder if I'd

even be able to go to sleep. I adjusted myself in

the bed, a little, trying to get more comfortable. I

put my left arm under her pillow just above her

head, and she woke up when I laid back. Just for a

second, though. I kind of felt bad, but she had such

[136]

a funny look on her face. All squinty and 'I just fell

asleep'-looking.

“Hmm? What?” She mumbled.

She hadn't even finished the words before she

turned around facing me and put her left arm over

me, resting her head on my chest. I was trapped

now, there was no getting out of this. I looked at

her face for a while. She looked really peaceful. I

guess everyone looks like that when they sleep.

She looked innocent. Serene. Beautiful. I

closed my eyes, and tried to calm down and relax a

little. I silently listened to the rest of the play list,

and I think I finally passed out sometime during

“Retro.Dance.Freak.” It's much more comfortable

to sleep with a warm body next to you. Maybe she

thought the same way, maybe she didn't. You don't

talk about those things, you just feel them.

It was the clock that got me through the

night. She had a clock on the nightstand, and I

[137]

could see it with my glasses off. Whenever I woke

up, I looked at the clock and realized it wasn't time

to get up yet. That got me comfortable enough to

sleep through the heartburn. Acid reflux is a

fucking bitch, man. Don't forget to take your pills,

and never adventure without backup antacid.

For both of us, that night, I think we just

needed someone to be close to. Maybe me more

than her, maybe not. I didn't know much about her

or her life, but I knew damn well I could use a warm

body in the bed. It wasn't so much about sex as it

was about not feeling alone in a world that feels so

empty sometimes. It's good to find someone you

feel comfortable around, and it's a nice feeling not

to go to sleep alone.

We were just two people, after all. We barely

even knew each other. Two people lost in a too-big

world, we passed out drunk in the night; neither

one of us the wolf, nor the lamb.

[138]

Chapter Eight – Precursors

I remember when Hooper and I first started

searching for the American Dream. We had been

friends for quite a long time, and kept in near

constant communication. Hooper is a person that

can't stay in one place for too long, he doesn't like

to plant roots. He prefers to keep on the move

when he can, and he doesn't like being bored.

He's lived all over the place. Parks, cars,

trucks, girlfriend's houses, ex-girlfriend's houses,

spare couches, rest stops, hotels, and casino floors.

For Hooper, home is wherever he happens to be at

the time. It takes a certain kind of person to live a

nomadic lifestyle, and Hooper is that exactly that

kind of person. He would feel as comfortable with a

six figure income in the suburbs as he would

subsisting on wild berries and rolled oats

[139]

somewhere far off in the Ozarks.

He's ready for whatever comes his way, and

that's probably why I always looked up to him so

much. He was always ready to go at a moment's

notice, and all I ever did was talk about going.

Hooper was a man of continuous action, and I a

man of limitless determination. The combination

was a personality tornado that wrought havoc

wherever it showed its wicked face.

He was in town to complete another page in

his list of actionable items that he had labeled

“Operation Michigan Liberation.” He had business in

the several areas of the State that he had lived in.

Bills unpaid, years old parking tickets, old

roommates storing his possessions, and family to

visit. Any time he found his way back to Michigan,

he would find the time to stop by my place as well.

We walked to a party not too far away from

my house, where a few of our mutual friends were

celebrating the first nice day of spring. There were

[140]

a few kegs, a pot-luck buffet, a pair of beat up

guitars, and a yard full of camp chairs. As we grew

further and further on in our inebriation, we decided

that Kalamazoo was beginning to feel a bit

claustrophobic. Nothing but the same people

running along the same ruts, all wishing they could

make a change; too afraid to manifest it. We

walked back to my house, and tried to figure out

what we could do to calm the storm rising within us.

Within an hour, we were packing up what we

deemed necessary to find the dream into the back

of my car, and howling down the highway at top

speed. We brought an acoustic guitar, three packs

of cigarettes, a quarter ounce of grass, a large jar

full of change for tolls and vending machines, a

hand-held recorder I never bothered to turn on, and

a change of clothes each.

We headed West from Kalamazoo, on I-94

towards Chicago, thinking we might find something

there. We didn't really know what we were looking

for, where we were going, or even why we had left.

[141]

We just felt strongly that we needed to go

somewhere that night, and so we did. We were the

type of people that did those sorts of things. The

things you always talked about doing and never did.

Sometimes it isn't enough just to dream things, so

you have to reach out and make them a reality.

When you go out looking for the dream, it finds you.

They tell you to reach for the stars. You have to

take the star from the sky and make it your own.

As we drove, we held conversation in our

normal manner. To most, the thought would never

occur that we would be friends. All we ever did was

insult and and demean each other, all while

screaming and making frantic gestures. Truth is,

though, Hooper and I were indeed very good

friends. That's just how we spoke to each other.

It's fun to yell, and finding intelligent and diabolical

ways to insult each other shows that you know

enough about your friends to hit them where it

hurts.

Our primary objective was determined nearing

[142]

Gary, Indiana.

“Fuck, man, Gary looks worse every time I see

it. You should live there, then people couldn't

smell you. Take a shower, hippie!” He said,

putting his arm out the window to let it fly in the

wind. Good 'ol Bernoulli.

“The American Dream must have left this place

for greener pastures. Maybe it was China.” I

said.

“Fuck the American Dream.”

“Why do you say that?” I swerved the car a bit,

reacting honestly.

“The American Dream was a fucking billboard,

man, a fantasy. Fool's gold. Some dumb play

on words. Great experiment, my ass. Look

around you. How many potholes have you

hit?”

[143]

I swerved to miss a serendipitous pothole.

“So the American Dream is dead just because

there's potholes? Great Experiment?! Isn't

that what this is supposed to be?! How can

you say it's a bad thing?”

“Do you want to be part of an experiment?”

“I am! I'm part of my own experiment, Hoop!

My own great dream. It started when I was

born and continues to my death. So are you!

Life is a social experiment!”

“Fuck you, your life is a failed experiment.

They should have shot you in the fucking lab.

They'll regret it soon enough. You don't

understand the big picture. You don't

understand that they're selling you this white

picket fence crap. You're falling for it hook,

line, and sinker!”

“White picket fence crap?! So maybe your

[144]

dream doesn't have a fenced acre. The white

picket fence thing is the metaphor, stupid. It

represents well-defined borders and security.

Surely the American dream hasn't fallen so far

from your sight, you drunken idiot!”

“Fallen?! You're the one that's defending an

antiquated notion of manifest destiny that you

and I both know miserably failed.”

“We're still the fucking Hegemon.”

“China's nipping at our heels.”

“Fuck China. There's room for us both.

Hegemony is an antiquated notion. No one's

gotta be the best. There's only one Earth,

man. We're all stuck here whether we like it

or not.”

“Fuck China?! They own all of your debt! All

of your credit cards, your auto loan, man, even

my fucking student loans. It's all going to be

[145]

in Yuan in ten years.”

“You've lost your mind, Hooper! You say 'look

around,' and I say it right back to you. So this

is Gary. This is where Industry used to be.

This may not be the future, but it's still a huge

part of our past. It's still the dream, just an

old dream that refuses to die. So it's not

yours, and it isn't mine either, but that doesn't

mean it wasn't someone's at some time. Who

are you to shit on someone else's dreams?”

“Who dreams of waking up in this fuck-nest of

misery and loathing?”

“Someone does, man. You wake up under

park benches sometimes, hell, we've both

seen the darker side of the fuck-nest. I'm sure

some people would take issue with living the

way we find comfortable.”

“That's a good point, ass hole.”

[146]

“No problem, dick hat.”

The topic had turned to the American dream.

What is it? Or, maybe, what was it? How many

times have you heard that phrase uttered in your

life as a citizen? Thousands? What does it mean?

Who first said it? Hooper was on top of things, as

usual. He didn't even know I was thinking about it

when he said,

“But still, listen- James Truslow Adams was a

W.A.S.P. East-coast elitist douche bag.”

“So were all the founding fathers, and pretty

much anybody in our American History books

until like 1850, man. Remember? It's the

American Dream! Back then, America wasn't

anything except the East coast. We tweak the

dream as it suits our purpose. It's the

cumulative dream of everybody that lives here

now, and has ever lived here before. We make

our dreams the reality man, that's what this is

all about!”

[147]

“There is no fucking way that you are going to

convince me that holding on to some stupid

fantasy of a ladder to self-propagated success

is going to pan out for you in the long run.”

“Do you have any other choice than to believe

in it, Hooper? Isn't that what you want from

life? Don't you want to be better off five years

from now? Aren't you getting sick of sleeping

in your truck and trying to find a job wherever

you move to? Don't you wish you could just

pack up and leave whenever you wanted and

know that anywhere in America there were

jobs to be had, friends to be made, and good

times to be had?”

“Isn't that already the case?”

“Why don't you tell me? How long did it take

you to get that gig in Virginia? Three months?

How many places did you have to apply to and

interview with in order to finally land that one

[148]

job?”

“Yeah, so what? I still found one, didn't I? I

know how to take care of myself, I didn't

dream about learning how, I did it!”

“We're not talking about physical things, here,

Hooper. We're talking about a concept, an

idea, a potential. We're talking about fucking

the breath of life in the blow hole. We're

talking about the potential for greatness in

every new idea. Individual greatness,

collective greatness, technological greatness,

and maybe even humanitarian greatness.”

“Now you're really dreaming, dude. You're a

stupid Utopian idealist. You're just going to

disappoint yourself if you keep thinking about

that sort of dream. You're not Willy Wonka,

man. You talk about metaphors, you can take

them and throw them in your Charlie Bucket.”

“I'm not saying we live in it now, I'm not

[149]

saying we're ever going to find it. I'm saying

it's the search for the ideal that we have to

value. It's the fucking meat of the experience,

man. The ideals and the pursuit of a better

tomorrow. That's why I get up in the morning,

Hooper, that's why I put my pants on and

brush my teeth and walk around the

neighborhood. This world is so fucking big,

it's so complex, and it's so god damn beautiful.

I can't imagine not wanting to maximize the

experience. I'm not a pessimist, man, I'm not

a realist, I'm not an optimist, and I'm not a

fucking dreamer. I just know I want a better

tomorrow to finally come, some day, even just

once. No matter how hard I have to work for

it. And when the fucking sun shines brightest

on me, that's where we'll know I've found it!”

We pulled up to a toll booth in Portage,

Indiana to get on the skyway going into Chicago.

Before I could count the quarters I had grabbed in a

handful from the jar, Hooper was leaning over me

and yelling at the toll booth operator.

[150]

“Lady! Hey lady! Lady! Hey! Hey lady!”

“What?” She said, with the least interest possible.

“Listen, me and my buddy here are looking for

the American Dream. Do you know where we

might be able to find it?”

She never broke face, but you could see a

faraway twinkle in that eye. She knew the dream.

She knew what we were talking about. She might

not be dreaming it anymore, or maybe she's

dreaming it now more than ever. She knew what

we were talking about, she KNEW.

“It isn't here. Seventy-five cents.”

Cop-out.

I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh at the

robot, or cry with the forlorn. Had she given up?

Was it a lost cause after all? Was Hooper right?

[151]

Was the dream some sort of vicious delusion I was

only starting to tear the curtain away from?

We turned off the highway just South of the

Loop, parking the car at a gas station to refuel and

acquire heavily caffeinated drinks. We walked into

the place, with the fluorescent lighting that made

everything seem like we were on a movie set. We

selected our beverages, and went to pay the

cashier.

“Mister, I have a question for you.” Hooper said

to the bearded man behind the counter.

“Oh yeah?” The man did not seem pleased.

“My friend and I, here, are looking for the

American Dream. Can you tell me, is it around

here anywhere?”

“Hell no.”

“Well, you seem to have some sort of grip on

[152]

what it is, sir, don't you?”

“Yeah, and it ain't here. I know that much.

Ten eighteen. Got any gas?”

Damn. He had gotten me again. Two in a

row. Maybe the American Dream was dead. We

couldn't know for sure, not yet. We had to continue

on, through the night, through the city. We had to

go on until someone, anyone, could tell us where it

was. Hooper was intent on proving me stupid, I

was intent on proving that hope for a better

tomorrow wasn't lost on an entire country. Big

dreams in the lonely city.

We bought our energy drinks and we gassed

up and we continued North through the city,

eventually getting back on the Highway and

continuing to the Wisconsin State line.

We stopped, again, for a bathroom break. I

kept insisting that we needed to 'take a careful

inventory' in order to 'maximize our potential.' You

[153]

have to keep in mind that we had been drinking all

day. Even though we stopped in time enough to

drive, we were still in that after-drunk haze of

structured insanity.

We had entered a different State of the union,

and a different state of consciousness by the time

we reached Milwaukee. We stopped again for a

bathroom break, and we asked the clerk at this gas

station the same question. I was becoming bold

enough, and I asked this time.

“Excuse me, Miss. My friend and I here have

driven all the way from Kalamazoo, Michigan

to ask you a question.”

“Me?” She said.

“Sure, why not? Are you ready?”

“If you drove all this way, sure, I guess. Go

ahead, shoot.”

[154]

“Do you know what the American Dream is?”

When she didn't immediately answer, I knew I

had found our prize. She had the look.

“It's the hope for a better tomorrow!”

I turned to Hooper.

“You see! We've found it after all! It isn't a

thing you have, or a place you go, it's a State

of mind, right?”

I looked at her name tag. Carol. Then I

looked at her face.

“Right Carol?”

I kind of wanted to hug her in her stained

cashier's vest, and plant a kiss right on old, lonely,

Carol's cheek.

“Sure, I mean yes, I mean... yeah. YES. You're

[155]

right! It's a state of mind!”

She seemed proud of herself. She smiled

after she spoke. As if she had conquered her own

self-doubt in that moment. It was a confident

smile. She had passed a test.

“Have you found the American Dream at this

gas station in Milwaukee, Carol?” Said Hooper

with astonishing disdain.

“No, but I'm always dreaming it! I'll find it

some day!” She looked at Hooper like he was

trying to tear her heart from her chest.

I wanted to say something to balance

Hooper's gnarled sense of humor, so I said

“Keep your dreams alive, Carol- never give up

hope! There's a great big world out there for

all of us, we just have to make it happen.”

I was satisfied. We could turn back now. We

[156]

had found what we needed to find. We just wanted

to hear someone else say it in order to know that

we hadn't lost touch completely. We had to hear a

stranger tell us what we wanted to hear. We had to

know that there were other people living lives far

away from us, lives that were just as full of joy and

pain as ours were. Just as full of tumult, and

change, of longing and of regret. Of missed

opportunities, and of false starts. Someone who

dreamed the dreams of fame and fortune while

sucking the minimum-wage gas station runt cow.

That is the American Dream.

We drove home, less anxious and upset about

the assumed lack of opportunities in our hometown.

We drove home confident that the dream was out

there, and we drove home with a new determination

to find it.

We surely didn't know what we'd do when we

found it, but we needed to make the dream a

reality. We wanted to find satisfaction, we wanted

to find a sense of purpose. We needed a mission in

[157]

life. Growing old and dying wasn't going to be

enough for us. We had to do something. Anything

but sit around and complain about our lives without

doing anything to change them.

I would have driven all the way to California

asking random people about the dream until I heard

someone say it, you can be damn sure of that. I

couldn't stand to just sit idly by and try to legitimize

the idiots around me succumbing to this moronic

plague of lost hope. People all over the country

were growing belligerently frustrated with their

lives. Instead of trying to do something about it,

they relegated it to fate and disavowed themselves

from the pursuit of happiness.

I needed to hear someone tell me they hadn't

given up on the Dream. I wanted to believe in it.

We had to look hard to find it out there, because so

many find it easier to give up hope than to keep

dreaming. But if you look hard enough, if you keep

turning the next corner and going the extra mile,

you'll find the dream alive just the same. It's a

[158]

great big world out there, and those of us who

know; we know all it takes is a dream, a passion,

and boundless determination.

[159]

[160]

Chapter Nine – Arrival

Our world exists twenty four hours a

day, three hundred sixty five point two five days a

year in a state of perpetual movement and change.

The feeling of being a part of that power is

overwhelming and exhilarating. Knowing that

you're a part of something much, much bigger than

yourself. The inter-connectedness of consciousness,

and the collective identity of thousands of years of

human history culminating and condensing into

what finally became you.

Talk is cheap, they say, and lies are

expensive. The problem with these metaphors, and

with metaphors in general, is that most people just

don't understand them. You may think they do, but

they don't. Not like you wish they did. I could

never figure out why artists insisted on hiding their

[161]

message and intent behind a veil of metaphor and

speculative allusion.

Some artists hide their message in a cloud of

abstraction, and then they get even more upset

when no one has a fucking clue what they were

trying to say in the first place. Being intentionally

ambiguous, hinting at things you want to talk about

without saying them for what they are, and then

being surprised when no one understands what

you're trying to say.

Name the feeling. Name the thought. Name

the experience. SAY WHAT IT IS THAT YOU WANT

TO SAY. Art is about symbolic meaning, of course,

but increasing the layers of abstraction only

decreases the chances of people understanding the

intent.

We want a weekend read with a good twist,

we want a three minute radio hit with a catchy

hook, and we want a pretty picture on a wall of a

place we've never been. We want a song to dance

[162]

to. We want other people to dance with us. We

want genres, we want styles, we want beauty, and

we want variety. We want the new, the old, the

trendy, the underground, and the never-before-

seen. We want exciting, and we want state-of-the-

art, but that doesn't mean we've lost respect of

what came before, either.

These cravings don't come about because

we're spoon-fed or stupid, it's because we've

demanded choice and subsequently received it.

Beggars can't be choosers, no matter how much

they try. The only choosers in this life are the

artists. Those unabashedly fearless in describing

exactly what we should want and feel.

This is the world we asked for, and this is the

world we've received. Technology worship and

idiocy aside, looking past the famine and nuclear

proliferation, and ignoring the debt crises and

plastic oceans; at least we're still trying to make

things beautiful.

[163]

Some of us don't want to hear about the fear

and the violence; some of us take relief knowing

that we're not the only ones suffering. We want

feelings we can relate to, new ideas, greater

prospects, and a value to place on our personal

experiences. We want something we can digest;

understand. Something we can talk about with our

friends and say, 'did you see this?' Our attention

span lasts minutes, seconds even, but it's our

attention nonetheless. If you want it, you have to

come and get it.

We are the transient generation. The

vagabonds, off to 'find ourselves.' Our lives are our

forms of art. We want to belong, but we don't know

what to belong to. We want to work hard, but we

don't know what to work for. We want to love, but

we don't know how to love anyone but ourselves.

We want to fight, but we don't want to fight with

each other. We want to struggle, to anguish, to toil

and to sacrifice like those that came before us. We

want to soar high, to make dreams reality, and to

rid the world of whatever injustices we see. We

[164]

have the will, the commitment, the perseverance,

and the sparkle in our eyes. We want to take

control, but we don't even know what we're taking

control of. We want to reach for the stars, even

though we know the stars are light-years away. We

want to reach past the moon, because the moon is

what our grand parents reached for.

We are the dissolute, those without a

constant, the progeny of the past's good fortune.

We are the privileged, the sunrise, the dawn of a

new era. We are the future. We want you to listen

to us, we want to show you what we know, we want

you to be ready to receive us. We want to change

the world you left us with, because it isn't yours

anymore.

Art is our answer. The word possesses as

many definitions as there are grains of sand in the

desert. Arbitrary and contrived as it may be at

times, we all must appreciate it to some extent.

Life would be boring and depressing without art.

[165]

Walking through museums and galleries all

over the country, you'll see the same fundamental

concepts re-iterating themselves throughout the

centuries. Love lost, love gained, life lost,

knowledge gained, oppression from those above you

on the ladder, and indignation from those below.

Frustration alleviated, wickedness vanquished, and

longing requited. Vain sacrifice admonished or

beguiled. Metaphor twisted and changed, gnarled

and misguided. Misunderstood equivocation, and

obfuscation amidst layers of abstraction.

We explore the meaning of historical allegories

like mythic heroes, endless wars, winner's histories,

and loser's defeats. We express our opinions on the

past, present, and future. We establish moods and

conjure emotions. Through cycles of deliverance

and subjugation comes the distillation of new

creative ideas.

Anything can be art. View an Andy Warhol

exhibit. Watch a Kubrick film. Listen to John Cage,

hell, or even Merzbow. Good luck getting your

[166]

grandparents to listen to that stuff for more than

thirty seconds. Once, when I was in Washington

D.C., there was an artist who installed a Polar bear

in a suit pushing a shopping cart in the middle of

the National Mall, and there was a bomb squad sent

to assess the threat level. I couldn't decide what

the better photo op was: the polar bear with a

shopping cart, or a federal agent pointing an assault

rifle at it. Every day across the country, kids with

paint markers and spray cans create art on our city

streets and get arrested for it. Art is controversial.

Art stretches our boundaries. Art makes our lives

exciting. Art gives us a reason to live that exciting

life without fearing the hollow abandon it may

expose.

I see Art on the highway. In the way the

buildings appear on the horizon when you're coming

into a city. The subtle patterns used on overpass

bridges, or on the walls that block the droning

sound of the black snake of commerce. The

personal touches of the surveyors and city planners.

The cars we drive, they're works of art. The colors,

[167]

the shapes, the contours, the machinery, the

design. The billboards are art, the light poles, the

very things that we take for granted are art.

Architecture is art, infrastructure is art, the ships

and the subways, the trains and the taxis, the

furniture, the food we eat, and the drinking

fountains on the street corners – all art. Some

overly bland and utilitarian, but art nonetheless.

There's thousands of years of wisdom and tradition

in the things we build around ourselves.

I see art in the smiles of passersby that

haven't lost the thrill of being alive. Art in dancing

at the piano bars and nightclubs. I, we, see art all

around us; doomed forever to find the answers we

seek just out of reach. True art cannot be contained

or typified, just like true freedom. Not all of it

belongs in a museum, either. Not all Art can be put

on a wall and just looked at.

Thoughts, feelings, experiences, memories, all

captured in a fleeting moment by an artist's mind;

transposed to fit the tune of your own personal

[168]

moment with the piece. Some of that immortal

star-stuff transmuted into an experience that

transcends reality and affects us on an emotional

level.

We owe as much to the people that came

before us as we do to ourselves. We are the

progeny of history, the new iteration, and the new

ideal. For every crippling shortfall of society, there

exists another triumph. Our art is our pursuit of

life, liberty, and happiness. Our pursuits of truth

and justice; we're on a road to our own future. We

may never get it perfect, but we'll be damned if

that'll keep us from pining towards that very

unattainable goal.

Try as we might to dissuade one another from

ideas and opinions we find questionable, there is

always someone there to tear down the stage

curtain and show things how they really are. These

are the people that have found the main nerve.

Those who see something beyond the horizon,

those who greet a new day with zeal; ready for the

[169]

newest challenge.

It's our artists that make our lives worth

living, those people among us who endeavor to find

a new vision. They embark on an endless quest for

truth and beauty, manipulating and challenging the

timeless and shapeless concepts to which we assign

value and meaning. These people can take what we

know, what we're familiar with, and distort it and

shape it to make it their own new reality. A new

reality that becomes our reality. Our collective

interpretation of the world changes, ever so slightly,

with every new idea.

We may offer our opinions, as well as our

personal commendations, but art is produced and

created from things that already existed. The

struggle with art, now, is that we have pushed the

concept to such extremes that original ideas are at

a premium. You can't create something new

without using tools, resources, and knowledge that

you get from someone else. That's what makes art

such a culturally-significant enterprise. We place

[170]

our own value on the artistic output of our culture.

Our art defines us, it makes us who we are.

Sick of pretending you're something you're

not? Stop it. Sick of wishing your life was better?

Make it better. Wish you could make that change,

but don't know how? Maybe it's time to figure it out

once and for all. Sick of being told what to do?

Stop listening. Shake your fist, and make some

noise! Take a stand for once, and stop letting

things get to you. We've all got once chance to live,

one chance to make it, and one chance to live

forever. There's no reason you can't start today.

Get up off of your ass, figure out what you want to

do with your life, and get out there.

We say these things to ourselves, everyday, in

the back of our minds; sometimes even out loud.

We need to remind ourselves that we shouldn't be

afraid. That we do have the strength to persevere.

That we do have what it takes to survive.

I guess you could say that's why I was on the

[171]

road that Spring. I was there to see Hooper, of

course, but there was so much more going on in my

mind than that. Since I had quit my job shortly

before I left, I was looking for a sign as to what the

next step might be. I needed to get away from my

nest of familiarity at home in order to put myself

inside the larger framework of the world.

While in transit, you become intertwined with

the push and pull of time and space. I needed that

feeling of movement; to be able to look at myself

from an outside perspective. When you go on to

make a big change in life, there's always that

moment of anxiety before the change comes.

There's another moment, though, just after the

change is made. The time where you're waiting for

the engines to rev up, or for the cake batter to

coalesce. That 'up in the air' time is what it's like to

be on 'the road.'

When people say they're 'on the road,' they

mean so much more than just driving. When you're

'on the road,' that means you're going somewhere.

[172]

Maybe you're in a band on the road, a trucker on

the road to make a living, a family on the road to

Yellowstone, or just someone with a lot of time on

their hands. Maybe you're on the road to escape for

a while, or maybe you have an important meeting

with someone. Maybe you've gone on the next

great journey; maybe it's the last. Hard to tell

while you're out there. When you're on the road

you aren't really anywhere. You just are. The road

is separate from our reality, distinct from our time

and space.

***

We went on the road to find the American

Dream, and we found a crisp shred of hope in a pile

of rotting lettuce. Only a short short time later, it

seemed that Hooper had found his version of the

American Dream in North Carolina.

My phone rang in my pocket, one day, several

months after our journey to Milwaukee.

[173]

“I just bear maced some fuckin' guy.”

“What? Why?”

“Pulled a gun on me. Fuck 'em.”

“What did you do in order to get a gun pulled

on you?”

“The bastard tailgated me for miles and then

cut me off, so I flipped him off, rode on his

bumper, and screamed 'redneck shit-dick

bastard fuck head!' out of the window at the

next red light. He slammed it in park and got

out of his truck in a rage.”

“Holy shit, so you bear-maced him when he

came out? Why did you have bear mace?”

“You never know what type of wretched

scumbag you'll run into in my line of work

these days; all sorts of mongrels roaming the

streets. It's best to be prepared. Bear mace

[174]

doesn't kill, it incapacitates from a safe

distance. He started coming at me waving his

gun like some fucking gangster, so I gave him

a dose of my spray-can reason.”

“Oh yeah, because that's completely rational,

Hooper. Blasting dudes in the face with

fucking bear mace? What the fuck?”

“He had it coming. Better than me with a

redneck bullet in my face. I was only

subverting the power structure of the

situation. Cheaters always win.”

“You're lucky you didn't get shot, you fucking

animal.”

“He was being chased by the police! I

assisted the pigs!”

“So, you pulled an assist by bear macing an

assailant you provoked. Surely, you deserve a

fucking Nobel prize. A medal of honor, even.”

[175]

“I'd settle for being on T.V. Maybe I'll just

start patrolling the city streets with my

vigilante can of bear mace, taking out muggers

and rapists in lieu of the police state's obvious

inadequacies.”

“Fuck, man. I'm jealous. I wish I bear maced

some poor bastard today, I'm in that kind of

mood.”

“It was a hell of a good time, watching that

poor bastard cough away defeated!”

“Damn.”

I didn't know what else to say. These are the

types of stories heard from Hooper Felonious,

patron saint of running amok.

“I'm gonna go fuck this bitch without a

rubber, and never tell her I nearly choked a

man to death with a cloud of noxious gas.”

[176]

“Don't get the HIV.”

“Fuck bitches. Talk to you soon.”

“What did you want?”

“Just wanted to tell ya I bear-maced some

fuckin' guy. I'm busy. Fuck off.”

I tried to respond, but the line had gone dead.

He had hung up.

Hooper Felonious was a true work of art. His

character was carefully constructed over the years.

He was the alter-ego of an otherwise rational

person. Coupled with my character, the borderline

vagabond, we were in the state of mind to create a

fantasy world for ourselves to live in. Even if the

dream would only last a weekend, it would still be

the dream. We would make it ours, play it by ear.

[177]

That's how I found him when I finally made it

down to North Carolina for a visit. An overnight

romp through Ohio and West Virginia to the sounds

of late-night pop radio and BBC chatterings. He was

drinking coffee and walking his dog, fresh in from a

morning jog.

I wondered if he was still Hooper. In that

morning glimpse, it seemed like his mystique had

dissipated. His aura of brilliant chaos had turned to

a pedestrian stumble of bills and gym memberships.

He was just another guy, another face in the crowd

dressed in running shorts and a white t-shirt. Had

he drunk the kool-aide of some sick fantasy he

himself denied the appeal of not so long ago?

“Why the fuck are you here? Go back to

Michigan. You're not good enough for this

place. This place is for achievers and all you

do is complain.”

He was still Hooper, after all!

[178]

“Why the fuck did they let you in, then?” I

yelled across the parking lot, walking toward him.

“Are you the fucking grounds keeper? The

Janitor? Did you threaten the management

with fucking bear mace or compound joint

fracture?”

“Some day I'll tell you that story. You're not

too far off.”

We shook hands vigorously.

“Hooper, it is a pleasure to see you again, my

friend.”

“Likewise. Let's eat biscuits and drink sweet

tea. This place has a nice balcony.”

We drove to some tiny biscuit hut down the

road from his Apartment. The menu was hand-

written on a piece of poster board.

“I grow plants.”

[179]

“Hooper, you've gone hippie on me, you

savage dog!”

“I want to eat plants that I grow, and I want

to watch them grow. Fuck you.”

“Nothing you grow will ever bear fruit.”

“I'm a pro gardener, motherfucker! I'm going

to win a fucking prize with these fucking

tomatoes!”

“Show me the fuckin' ribbon when you get it.”

“Oh I will. I grow shit, motherfucker, I'm

going to be so much better off than you when

the zombie apocalypse comes!”

“Hooper, you are a strange and terrifying

human being.”

“I grow shit.”

[180]

He had to work at Ten A.M., and that's when I

went to sleep on his couch. I'm generally not a

sleep-anywhere kind of guy, but if I'm tired enough,

I can make do with what I've got. I had been

sleeping in my car for the whole drive down, and it

was kind of nice to stretch out. I slept without

dreams, waking up to being called a pig fucker. I

had no premonitions whatsoever as to what the

next forty-eight hours would entail.

[181]

Chapter Ten – Morning

When I woke up in that sleeping

beauty's bed, and the first thing I saw was her face,

I knew I was staring at the Main Nerve. I was

cuddled in a hungover death-trap of bad decisions.

I was the borderline vagabond, the road-worn saint,

the antithesis of permanence; she the great rock

snagging the net. I was a temporary passerby on

the road; she a lofty dream superimposed over the

waking world. A carrot in the eye of the work

horse. The main nerve, seething, sending out its

sparking tendrils for those with the right eyes to see

and grab hold.

She opened her eyes.

“Good morning, vagabond!”

[182]

“Good morning, angel.”

She smiled, devilishly, looking at me over the

bridge of her nose with her head cocked to the side.

“An angel, am I? Some may disagree.”

“You sure do look the part, though.”

She smiled again, coyly this time, with her

neck sunken into her shoulders.

“I wondered if you'd still be here when I woke

up.”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Did she know she was right to wonder? Did

she know I had debated fleeing into the stormy

night? How? A woman's premonition? A long

history of heartbreak? Did I tell her? Was I so

drunk last night I couldn't remember?

[183]

“You're the vagabond.”

Women have the most uncanny ability to say

something you'd never expect.

“Ha! I guess I am. Truth be told, though, I

was trapped. Couldn't have left without

waking you up.”

I looked around the room. Things usually

seem so different in the light of the day. It still felt

like we were inside some catalog. The surroundings

seemed so superficial and impermanent, like we

were on the set of a prime time sitcom.

I rubbed my eyes.

“So, I hope you find some humor in this, but

where the fuck am I?” I moaned.

“My apartment.” She smiled sarcastically.

“Ha!” I sat up as I laughed, and said, “I know

[184]

that, Jasmine, I just mean what city? Where

in relation to Chapel Hill?”

“Oh, haha, yeah. OK. You're in Durham. Do

you know where that is?”

“Yeah, alright. Fair enough. Just wondering.”

“I'm going to start some coffee.”

She got out of bed, and the light shone in

through the window and on to the side of her body.

In that moment, she looked like a live model in an

art class. Shadow and light danced and twisted

around her curves. The Sun would peek in through

the blinds, rays of light superimposing a

topographical map of her every feature.

She was almost too beautiful to look at so

early in the morning.

She opened the blinds on one of the windows,

to allow full light to enter the room. As she walked

[185]

back toward me, the Sun shone in from behind her,

casting an almost perfect corona behind her. The

sun was giving her it's power, and I wanted to know

how she managed to do that. The sun's power is

awfully hard to harness, you know.

“You've got that look like you're thinking

again.”

She stood there, glowing like the sun in front

of the window looking at me.

“Has anyone ever told you that you're so

beautiful you can draw attention away from

the Sun?”

“People tell me I'm beautiful, but only when

I'm on a stage.”

“All the world's a stage, Jazz. You've always

gotta shine like the fucking Sun.”

“What's the point of all of that? It's too

[186]

fucking depressing. I can get up in the

morning, and play my part – do the hair, the

nails, the makeup. I rise up to challenges I'm

not even expected to rise to.”

“That's why you do it, though, isn't it? Don't

you do those things to get what you want?

Why can't you value your own life? It belongs

to you, and whatever you do with it is

sacrosanct. It's yours.”

“I value my own life, doesn't everybody?”

“Do they?”

“Of course they do. Why wouldn't they?”

“Have you always felt like you were putting on

a show when you went out in public?”

Now she had a look on her face like she was

thinking. She grabbed a pair of sweat pants and a

hooded sweatshirt from the corner near the bed,

[187]

and put them on.

“Well, when I was growing up, yeah.” She

pause for a second to put on the hoodie. “That's

what all the girls do. We're trying to get you

boys to pay attention to us, and it works.”

“If you've got it, flaunt it, right?”

“That only works for so long. The guys that

are only into looks treat you like shit when you

wake up in the morning without your make-up

on. There's always another girl that's

prettier.”

“You don't have to paint your face and dress

up to impress me.”

“That's because guys don't have to spend

three hours every morning figuring out how to

dress yourself to present the best possible

image. You just walk out the fucking door.

You don't have to worry about what other

[188]

people say.”

“That's not true, I think about what other

people say. I'm a writer, Jazz, I write books.

What's more self-aggrandizing than that? I

expect people to want to hear what I have to

say. Isn't that just as bad?”

“No!” She climbed back into bed, sitting up against

the wall like I was. “At least you're giving

something back. I just get stared at and

wished for. All I get is money, nothing else.

These people don't want to love me, they

fantasize over a costume and a mask.”

“I'm here sleeping in my car outside my

buddy's apartment. I'm no hero, I give

something back that nobody wants. I came

out here looking for something better.”

“Yeah, so did I. A college education and a

chance to grab a hold of the American Dream.”

[189]

“No, it's not the Dream you hold on to. That's

the main nerve.”

“The main nerve?”

“You can never have the whole Dream. That's

what it is – a dream. You can only find the

main nerve and grab hold for a ride.”

“So all this searching for the American Dream

comes up bust? I wish I would have known.”

“Yeah, that's what I used to think. It doesn't

come up bust, though. That's the most special

and tantalizing thing about it. It's always

there, looming just out of sight. You can

always reach; but you'll never grab a hold of it

for real. You can only take its hand and go as

far as it will take you.”

“Then what happens?”

“You live, you learn. You give up, or you keep

[190]

fighting for another chance to grab hold. I

figure if you can grab a hold for long enough,

or find it enough times, it will eventually help

you get to where you want to go.”

“But what if I don't know where it is that I

want to go?”

“Then you just have to find it! There's a whole

world out there for us to explore, but mostly

we just kick it around our comfort zones, too

scared to give ourselves the chance to get any

more out of life. You just have to get out

there and deal with it. Searching for the

dream comes up boom and bust, fifty fifty, all

in the same. You can't strike it rich with every

plot, but if you keep searching long enough;

eventually you'll find the mother lode. You

can't take it all, only what you can carry back.

You may never find the place again, but you

can always strike up another search.”

“So is that why you're the borderline

[191]

vagabond? You only wander until you've

found something, and then you leave it there

once you've found it?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. At the

moment, I'm just along for a ride. I wouldn't

say I just leave the main nerve where it is,

though, because you never step in the same

river twice. I'll find it again soon, I'm sure.”

“Got any good leads?” She said with a smile.

This. This was my chance.

“I've got a few.”

I put my arm around her shoulders, and

kissed her on the forehead. If only I could find the

right words to tell her how many times I thought

those thoughts that were running through her head.

How many times I wondered what the point to all of

this was. The people, what they say, what they

think, what they do. We don't really know anyone

[192]

but ourselves. Sad, but true. You can spend hours

talking to somebody and think you know exactly

what they meant; then come to find out you weren't

really listening in the first place.

We're stuck on a sad and lonely Earth,

trudging along without cause or direction. We make

little games for ourselves. Fluid, ever-changing

'goals' to get the next promotion, or to pass the

next test. We try to represent ourselves through

our goals, but the goals are given to us by the

people we look up to. We want to be like them, we

want to know what they know. And when the road

finally leads us there, we don't know what to do

next.

We cop out, we act crazy, we get emotional.

We lock up, we can't keep going. We only know in

retrospect what we could have done or said to make

our dreams come true. The saddest part about a

dream is that it is not reality. It is a vision of what

reality could have been. A memory of something

that isn't wholly true, but only based on a true

[193]

story.

She looked up at me, with those eyes, those

eyes that I could have sworn were crying out to me.

The depth of her stare made me wonder if she

understood me more than I knew.

“What do you want out of life?” She said, but

with a different look and intent than she had the

night before.

“That's a good question without a good

answer. I want to be happy, I guess, is the

easiest way to put it.”

“What makes you happy?”

”Freedom to wander, being around people I

love, supporting myself, being well-liked, and

being successful in my pursuits of life, liberty,

and happiness.”

“Isn't that a circular definition?” She almost

[194]

sounded upset. “Being good at being happy

makes you happy? That doesn't make any

sense!”

“Have you ever studied philosophy, Jazz?”

“Not really, no.”

“Eventually, in every philosophical argument,

you have to realize that you can't win. There's

no such thing as winning. People have

opinions, and they change too often to nail 'em

down. There's multiple sides to every

argument, and that makes it so that nobody

ever wins in philosophy; there's only ever a

full set of sore losers getting down on

themselves for not being perfect.”

“What does that have to do with being

happy?”

“What it takes to make me happy changes all

the time, just like the world around me, and

[195]

just like philosophy. Sometimes there really

isn't an answer, and I'm comfortable with

that. We grow, we learn, we experience, and

we use that to gauge what makes us happy. I

can tell ya right now, what made me happy

when I was an eighteen year old kid was a

whole lot different than what does now.

Ultimately, you just have to 'be.' There isn't

happy or unhappy, there is only what happens

and how you choose to deal with it.”

“I don't want to grow up. I wish we were all

still kids. Things were so much easier back

then.”

“I know what you mean, but do you really

think that? Are you sure you aren't just

wishing that things weren't so hard to deal

with?”

“No-”

I interrupted her, even though I hate it when

[196]

people do that. I was on a roll.

“Hold on. We're talking about equivalent

exchange here. Remember, the only thoughts

you can ever know are your own. You can't

think for other people. You know how much

things have changed over the years. Did you

think that other people hadn't? People don't

stay the same, Jazz. Even if you want them to

stay just as they are. They can't, they won't.

You won't either. Time changes us like the

seasons. We all grow old and we all die. All of

us. That's what we do. The whole fucking

world is our playground. We've got nothing

but time on our hands and lives to lead the

way we want to lead them. That's what makes

me happy. The fact that I know that

everybody else is just as fucked, and just as

blessed as I am.”

“Damn.” Her eyes widened.

We shared a silence. Not an awkward silence,

[197]

not a sad silence, not a comfortable silence, not

even a difficult silence. No, we were just silent

because there wasn't much else to be said.

“I think I'll go make that coffee now.”

She got out of bed, and walked out the door

into the kitchen. Sometimes the truth hurts.

Sometimes telling the truth hurts even more.

I can never just say what it is that I want to

say. I don't get the chance, or something comes

up, or the time doesn't seem right. I just can't get

it out; no matter how important it might be. If I

could have been perfectly transparent, and if I was

good on the spot, I would have said:

“Listen. I wish I could tell you how well I

know the frustrating feeling of not getting what you

wanted. For a long time, I thought I never would

either. I thought that the world was torturing me

through existence in some perverse way that I

couldn't see leading anywhere. I swear to god, or

[198]

to the sun, or to whatever it takes to make some

sort of change; I know exactly how you feel. The

only thing I want right now is to just sit here with

you, not saying anything. I just want to feel the

presence of another human being who has gone to

the edge of sanity only to crawl back on their

fucking knees, scraping their fingernails into the

mud and cursing the sky. I want to be with you,

right here, for ill or good. I want to keep feeling

like this. I want to stay here for as long as I

possibly can, and enjoy every minute just for what

it is.”

The morning had come, and the storm had

passed. The world seems a bit greener and a bit

more alive in the springtime. Throughout the

summer, the world around you lives out its seasonal

existence to maturity. In the fall, as the birds leave

and the trees die so beautifully, we take stock of

what we've found and what we've lost; and we

spend winter only trying to survive.

[199]

We are part of that same clockwork, that

fantastic machination of the cosmos. And in the

same moment that everything can be so grandiose,

so seemingly fluid, time flowing incrementally, with

the smallest changes from day to day. Things

changing so often that we take it for granted.

Gradually, over time, or in the flash of an instant.

Sometimes even too quickly for us to notice.

Sitting in that bed was one of those memories

I'll never quite be able to shake from my brain. I

wanted to tell her I loved her, but I didn't even

know what that meant to people anymore. To me,

it meant that I felt a strong urge to be around her.

It wasn't just because she was attractive, or

because she seemed honestly intelligent and

inquisitive. It wasn't because I could get lost the

color of her eyes. It wasn't because of her flowing

traffic cone hair, or her personality. It was all of

those things.

My feelings could not be generalized into

aphorisms. I was pulled toward her by an act of

[200]

gravity. It was a natural inclination to pursue

another few minutes of interaction which, in turn,

could potentially muster a few more days and

eventually turn into weeks and months and years.

The main nerve was running through her

Durham apartment that morning, and all I could do

was grab hold and not let go until this was all over

with. This wouldn't last, it couldn't. She was so far

away from me, from my home, from my reality.

She was a pit-stop on the long road home. I

couldn't have her, as much as I might have wanted

to. I didn't belong here. This was not my dream,

this was not my place.

I've made a good many mistakes, you know.

I'm sure you can sympathize. We may try, but we

can never be perfect. The sad truth is, I'd never

really known how to 'have' someone. I never knew

what it took to break through that barrier, to love

for what love was. I have a talent for wishing

things into my life that I know I can never really

have. She was on an altar, a higher place. Even if

[201]

it was only because I put her on it. I could look at

her, feel her touch, but I could never really have

her. She was just as lost as I was.

“I'm back!” she said, carrying two brown plastic

coffee cups. “Come on into the living room.”

She had no idea what I was thinking. Maybe I

took some comfort in that. More accurately, I

wished I knew how to say it out loud. I just wanted

to scream, 'I've been looking for you for so long,

where have you been?'

I just rubbed my eyes, and I stood up to

follow her. She turned around, and walked back out

the doorway. I took a last glance around her

bedroom. I find myself doing that when I want to

remember things that are important to me. Times

in my life where a fundamental change has

occurred, but I don't fully understand the context. I

wanted to be able to think of this day where I found

the main nerve again. The day when 'the road'

finally took me somewhere.

[202]

“I hope you like your coffee black”

“Fine by me, Jazz, thanks.”

She giggled, probably still finding amusement

from my not knowing her real name. It was

becoming a game to her. Was she playing a

character? Was I? Does anyone do otherwise?

What was the point of this exchange? Where would

it lead me? What was my lesson to learn? What

was I here for?

“What do you want out of life, Jasmine?”

I just kind of blurted it out.

She sat, pensive, for a moment.

“I want to find my road.”

“Ha! Now you're starting to sound like me”

[203]

“What do you mean?”

“I've been obsessed with the idea of 'the road'

for years now. What do you mean when you

say 'my road?'”

“I mean the right path to take. The solution

key. I want to find a way to do what I want,

and to balance that with what other people

want from me.”

“No man is an island.”

“Or woman,” she added.

“Right. Or woman. No person is an island.

What do other people want from you?”

“Sometimes I think I know, but I'm not always

so sure. I have things to give, you know? I'm

what I want to call a good person. I just don't

know why so many other people seem so

happy, when I can't find anything I want.”

[204]

“I wish I knew how to tell you how well I

know that feeling, Jasmine. Sometimes I

wonder if the people I see are really as happy

as they seem. Don't we all reserve a measure

of loathing for this existence? Don't we all

have bad times with the good? I mean, I like

to think of myself as a good person, too. Some

others may not agree with me, but as long as I

keep fighting for what I believe in, I can only

hope that I'm doing what's right.”

“Yeah, I just can't figure out a way to tell if

what I'm doing is right. I don't know what to

compare it to. How do you tell?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't know. That's where I'm

stuck, too. I'm starting to wonder if there

even is such a thing. I mean, I don't believe in

god, so I don't think that there's a moral code

for existence. There is no justice, there is no

truth, there is no suffering. Just reality, what

we have in front of us. Nothing else.”

[205]

She grabbed my hands, as I stood in the

doorway of her bedroom. There was pain in her

grip. Sadness in her face. Pain I could only level

with, and never truly understand. A pain that was

hers to feel, a pain that made life seem like it

wasn't taking its giant shit on me alone.

We shared a silent moment, hand in hand,

staring at the wall of her living room from the

doorway. What's the point of fighting? Wasn't I

where I wanted to be? Wasn't she? If tomorrow

were to never come, couldn't we both say we had

gotten what we wanted from this whole exchange?

Before I could say anything else, our moment

of silence was broken by the sound of my phone

loudly vibrating across the living room coffee table.

It was Hooper, naturally. I picked up the phone and

slid the touch-bar to 'answer.' Phones don't have

buttons for me to press angrily anymore.

“Speak.” I said, flatly.

[206]

“Fuck you! Where are you?”

“Jasmine's apartment, somewhere in

Durham.”

“Good. Durham. You aren't that far away. I

have to do some shit, so give me about an

hour and head to the Waffle House on Main in

Chapel Hill.”

“Cool, we'll head out in about an hour then.”

“Did you fuck her?”

Do I lie to prove my 'manhood' to my friend?

Do I tell him the truth, and make it seem like I

really couldn't get laid in a brothel with a grand? I

paused, but only for a second. Things may have

been complicated, but I had an image to uphold.

“Of course I did, what did you think I was

gonna do? Fucking play cards?”

[207]

I lied, even with her sitting right next to me.

Fuck it. I happened a glance at her face, which was

attentive but unreadable. I imagined her laughing

as I said it, knowing the truth, and watching me lie

to him right in front of her. We all play our parts.

It had been quite a while since I'd found the

inclination to get in a bed with a chick, and I

couldn't even bring up the concept of fucking her. I

didn't know how. I couldn't remember. When I was

younger, everything seemed so easy. Say the right

things, bring the flowers, and you're good. Things

aren't that simple with adults. The smart ones,

anyhow. We aren't giving up the fuck to whoever

walks by. We aren't gonna dedicate ourselves to

someone for a night of joy.

Our hearts have been broken too many times.

Some of us are simply too cynical to love others.

Our childhood innocence is gone forever the

moment our heart is first broken. There's a small

piece of you that disappears with every person you

[208]

start a relationship with, a piece you never quite get

back. They take it with them, even if they just

throw it away. You can never replace that piece, no

matter how hard you try.

Our adult lives are infested with

disappointment, tainted with sadness, to the point

where we sometimes forget there's even a good

side to life. We try, sometimes not hard enough, to

live day to day; forgiving yesterday's transgressions

and trying ever so hard not to regret what we've

done wrong, all the while adding more mistakes to

the list.

To those who've seen the other side of the

bridge, the silent confidence of a life fully

actualized, we; we do not see our time as

something we can just give away. We do not see

our spare time as anything but valuable increments

reserved for those we hold most high. We don't

take things for granted, because we know what it

feels like not to have them. We don't push anyone

as hard as we push ourselves, because we

[209]

understand that we are also human. We want the

bar to be raised.

On the other hand, we don't always need to

explain everything to each other. Sometimes you

can just solve everything by asking the right

question.

“Did he ask you if we fucked?” Said Jasmine,

abruptly, the second I set the phone back on the

table.

I nearly spit out my mouthful of coffee.

“Yup.” I said, trying to hide my awkward surprise.

“Why'd you say yes?”

“Because Hooper is an animal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because it's easier to lie and say 'yes' than it

[210]

is to provide the explanation behind 'no.' It's

what I'd like to try to call a noble lie.”

“What is the explanation behind no?”

“Well, that makes things awkward in a hurry.”

Nothing is getting past this chick.

“Well?” She said, like she was picking at a scab.

“Why didn't we fuck?” I asked, awkwardly

scratching at the back of my neck.

“Yeah, why didn't we fuck? I haven't had a

man in my bed without fucking his brains out

for a long, long time. How did you do that?

Was there something wrong? Don't you like

me?”

“Of course I like you! Are you out of your

mind? Why don't you tell me why we didn't

fuck?”

[211]

“This has been bugging me since we woke up.

Does your dick work?”

I can only imagine what kind of look I might

have had on my face when she said that.

“I just thought you might appreciate a little

tact is all.”

“I'll show you tact.”

She jumped on me, straddling my waist like

she had outside the club. We kissed, briefly.

“Ha!” I said out loud, when she took her mouth

away from mine for a moment.

“What?” She said, looking at me in the eyes, only

a few inches from my face.

“Long con.”

[212]

She smiled, and we kissed again. She held

me closer than she had before, tighter, and she

scraped her tongue along my lips. There's no need

to make this into some back-of-the-porno letter to

the smut editor. I'll allow you to imagine what

happened next, and you'd probably be right.

We had somehow managed to stop

intellectualizing ourselves, whatever was happening

between us, and even the whole world around us;

reverting instead to raw emotion and feeling. We

made love in a violently cathartic fashion, caught up

in the frantic nature of what people tend to call

“living in the moment,” and what I like to call

“pursuing happiness.”

[213]

Chapter Eleven – Pancakes

We Got Dressed, had the

perfunctory post-coital cigarettes, flopped into my

car, and drove towards Chapel Hill to meet up with

Hooper and Roxy for a greasy breakfast. It wasn't

very far away from his apartment, actually. I

started to recognize streets from our reckless drives

around town in past visits.

I figured we'd probably beat him there, even

though we had left nearly an hour after I told him

we'd leave. That's just how Hooper operates. He'd

done this to me a thousand times. There was no

real way to know when he'd show up anywhere.

He could already be sitting there, of course,

but he had probably loafed around watching

television for a while before getting up and around;

[214]

a bewildering routine of setting down and picking up

his keys, wallet, phone, sunglasses, and any thing

else he was trying to gather up from around the

house in a blur of spills and curses.

He lives in his own bubble of time. A few

minutes becomes an hour, an hour becomes a day,

a day becomes a week, and 'soon' becomes 'never'

before you even know it. You can't blame him, he's

got a lot of projects up in the air, too many things

on his mind, a lot of actionable items to check off.

Right now, though, the actionable item was

'meet up for breakfast.' When I saw the sign on the

side of the road in the distance, I was suddenly very

hungry for bacon and eggs.

The place was your standard grease-ball

breakfast affair. These types of places are

ubiquitous. Mediocre pancakes, overcooked eggs,

and shitty coffee. If you've been to one of them,

you've been to all of them. The food is cooked to

order on a gigantic flat grill just behind the counter.

[215]

You could watch, if you wanted to, your food being

slathered in oil and incessantly poked and flipped

and prodded by some ex-con in a stupid paper hat.

All manner of plans are hatched at these

roadside diners. Ill-conceived plans to change, big

plans to move on, small plans to meet up; plans to

actualize, and plans to ignore. Places made for

casual talk, for coming, and for going. Plans have

been, are, and will be made and broken, all over the

country, in the fluorescent glow of a Twenty-Four

hour roadside breakfast joint.

You could say that those on the other side of

the counter have seen it all, and you'd be right.

These people are the true representatives of our

culture. Keeping us fat and happy, diligently

trucking along in their cream cheese-smeared

aprons. Silently and patiently waiting for their

lunch break to catch a cigarette and a reminder that

there's a big world out there waiting for them to

take a piece of, someday, after serving the last

asshole his bacon and eggs.

[216]

The smell is a foul mixture of fried onions,

body sweat, burned toast, cheap air freshener, and

oven cleaner. The buildup of grime on the tile wall

casts a dusty glow into the dining room that makes

it seem almost smoky. A general haze that you

notice in passing and never think of again.

Casual places, where we exist as humans in a

plainly common type of way, are our true public

spaces. Not those stuffy metropolitan museums,

the austere national monuments, or the vapid state

park discovery centers.

'Oh look, honey! This is where an Indian

you've never heard of signed a treaty that got

trampled all over! Let's wander around aimlessly

and read some plaques!'

Our spaces. Those created to be occupied by

anyone, at any time, with no sense of attachment or

meaning to the surroundings. A place for people to

gather in groups, or alone, and abandon as quickly

[217]

as they came. A place to forget faces, or maybe to

see them in a different light. A place for the young

and old, rich and poor, lost and found, familiar and

strange. A place for any body, any where, to gather

any time and to feel at home. A true public place.

“Party of two?”, said the perky hostess.

She looked like a high schooler, wearing a

thick layer of gaudy makeup, the dark roots

showing on hair that wasn't bleached quite long

enough to be blond because it 'burned so bad,' and

those black, tight-fitting yoga pants. You know

which ones I'm talking about. Her name tag was

decorated with tiny pink star stickers, and read

'Misty,' in silver glitter puff paint.

“I'm meeting someone here.” I said.

“When will the rest of your party be arriving?”

“Soon, hell, he could be here already.”

[218]

She stopped and stared up at me for a

moment before speaking, with very glassy, very

doe-ish, eyes. She appeared to be calculating the

risk of saying something to me.

“So.” she said, flatly “are you that guy's

friends?”

“Yeah, probably.” I let loose the slightest hint of

an incriminating grin.

“You late-showing ass hole! Where the fuck

have you been?!”

I heard him yelling at us from across the

restaurant. Yeah, there were kids there. Mortified

grandparents, giggling high schoolers, scowling

socio-Luddites, and plenty of other oblivious or

otherwise ambivalent groups of nobodies. They

would all forget about it soon enough, retreating

back to their soulless banter and syrup-dripping

pancakes.

[219]

We followed little yoga pants down the aisle,

past the cheap art-deco stools, and toward the

booth that Hooper was sitting in. Jasmine excused

herself to the restroom, and I took a seat across

from Hooper.

“It's about fucking time! I've been here for

twenty minutes!” he said, looking down and

thumbing his phone.

“You said to be here an hour ago.”

“I've been waiting an hour!”

“You just said you'd only been here twenty

minutes.”

“Fuck you.”

He looked at the hostess, angrily stabbing his

index finger through the air in her general direction.

“And fuck you, too.”

[220]

He maintained eye contact with her for what

seemed like forever.

She kind of looked like she was about to cry

when a guy in his mid-twenties came up and put his

hand on her shoulder.

“I've got it, Misty, it's OK, don't worry.” He

whispered into the girl's ear. She was visibly

reassured, exhaling deeply and sinking her

shoulders as he said it.

She walked away, sulking, and went back to

her hostess' podium as Hooper laughed deeply.

She'd probably wonder what she had done for the

rest of the day. She wouldn't be able to understand

the humor, nor would she realize he said it for no

reason other than that he saw her standing there

looking like a mark.

We had not gotten off to a good start in this

place, but no one sitting in those booths adjacent

[221]

could have possibly imagined what circumstances

had transpired the night before in order to have led

us to this point in our lives. We were only the foul

mouthed twenty-somethings at the breakfast joint

that everybody tried to ignore.

“Dead pig, eggs, and potatoes.” I said,

sarcastically, to the waiter, expecting him to be a

rube like the poor little girl.

“OK, OK, before we get too hasty, let's start

this out right. I'm Chad,” he smirked, hand on

his name tag, ”I'll be your waiter, it's nice to

meet you, formality, formality, et cetera, et

cetera. Would you like your coffee cup half

full, half empty, full to the brim, or not full at

all? Would you like your dead pig sliced or

ground? Will the tubers be diced or shredded?

Care for some partially-burned bread?”

Jasmine quietly applauded, taking a seat next

to me, across from the empty seat next to Hooper.

[222]

“Full with room to breathe, sliced, and

shredded. I'll pass on the toast.”

“Cool, no up sell.”

“Nice. I like this guy,” Jasmine said.

“Yeah, he's cool,” said Hooper, “they know me

here.”

“Yes,” Chad interjected, gesturing with his book of

guest checks, “your friend here likes to

intimidate the naiveté out of our innocent and

unsuspecting youth. “ He turned toward Hooper,

“I'm assuming you'll be having the Denver

scramble, as per usual.”

“DENVER SCRAMBLE!” Hooper yelled through his

teeth, hitting the table with his fist and causing the

glass jars of condiments to shake and rattle, “And

some fucking GRITS, too!”

“Grits.” Chad scribbled in his notebook as he said

[223]

it, and pivoted on one foot to face Jasmine. “And

for the lady this morning?” he asked, skillfully

ignoring Hooper's outbursts.

“Pancakes.”

“No pig? No egg?”

“Pancakes.”

“Any kind of pancakes in particular?”

“Dealer's choice. I just want some pancakes.”

“I'll get ya something special, Miss, and I'll

assume you'll be treating the Lady to

breakfast this morning, sir?”

He looked at me, with a cocky grin.

“Naturally” I said.

“No way! I'm paying for myself. I always do.”

[224]

said Jasmine, tucking her chin down toward her

neck and looking at me villainously.

“Neither one of you is paying for this.

Corporate AMEX trump card. Fuck you.” He

leaned forward, over the table, with his card

extended from the very tips of his middle and ring

fingers. “We are conducting business here. I

said it, and that makes it true. The other chick

said she wants biscuits and gravy. Hot tea.”

“Coming right up, folks, anything else I can

get ya?”

“A bucket of fucking coffee. I still haven't

slept.” Hooper growled.

“One carafe, coming right up for mister

corporate AMEX.”

Chad walked away, tapping his pen against his

black notebook, and waving at the regular

customers seated at the bar, casually sipping their

[225]

cups of coffee and clearly staring in our direction.

We must have been like aliens to some of those

people. Sure, we were in a college town, but even

college towns reserve some decency during the

breakfast hours. A collectively reverent hangover, if

nothing else.

I kind of liked Chad, even though we had only

just met. He seemed intelligent, but not in that

lofty academic sort of way. It would be best

described as 'genuinity.' He seemed like he had

been around the 'real world' for a while. He reeked

of experience in making bad decisions. Did some

traveling overseas, maybe, or sniffed a few lines of

adulterated cocaine; played a few punk covers in a

seedy bar. It doesn't really matter what it was that

had turned him out. He seemed like he might have

had a good story. He had the look.

The booth next to us had a foreign couple,

speaking a very inflected Spanish. My best guess

was that they were from deep in the mountains of

somewhere in South America. I was trying to pick

[226]

out what they were saying to no avail when Roxy

walked up and took the empty space in the booth

next to Hooper. She was wearing a hooded

sweatshirt from her high school volleyball days. Her

hair looked like it had been frazzled from a night of

reckless abandon, then straightened up in a

restaurant bathroom. They'd probably been up all

night doing god knows what. I really wasn't as

surprised as I might have led on.

“Did you order for me, baby?” she cooed, batting

her eyelashes at Hooper.

“Yeah.” He replied flatly, putting his arms behind

his head and leaning back on the booth, knocking

the poor woman behind him with his elbow.

“Did you remember my-”

“Yes, for fuck's sake,” he interrupted her, “I

remembered the hot tea. You repeated

yourself enough to make a fucking bird

remember it.”

[227]

“Don't get angry, puppy.”

She pouted dramatically and batted her eyes

at him.

“Don't fucking call me puppy! I told you!”

They both burst into laughter. As they

chattered on, arguing playfully, I turned to Jasmine.

“They seem to be getting along swimmingly,

wouldn't you say?”

“Yeah, it's kind of gross, actually. Did she just

call him puppy?” She made a gagging motion,

pretending to stick her finger down her throat.

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure that just happened. No

good can come of this.”

“I don't know if I really like these greasy

breakfast places so much, to be honest.” She

[228]

said, visibly disgusted upon examining the place.

“What do you guys think about this economic

meltdown bullshit?” Hooper said, out of the blue,

thrusting us into an engaged conversation.

“Nothing too terrifying will come of it, I don't

think.” I said, tapping the table top with my fingers

along to the Big Bopper on the piped radio.

“What about the crazy unemployment rates?

The rising gas prices? Peak Oil? World

Government? What about Globalization, and

all that 'the World is flat' shit?” Said Jasmine.

“Damn, girl, you've been doing your

homework. I just don't want to get scared is

all. I just don't think that this type of thing is

beyond our capability. As a cumulative history

of people living on Earth, I'd say we've been

pretty good at figuring out solutions to our

problems.” I said.

[229]

“We haven't figured out any of our problems!”

Roxy interrupted, “we've only created new

ones!”

It's hard to talk about these things some

times. We're all trying to pay attention to the world

around us, to a certain extent. There's a lot to pay

attention to. World problems surely can't be solved

around a breakfast table in North Carolina, but it's

better to talk about these things rather than say

nothing at all. Or, much worse, talk about whatever

is happening on television.

“Isn't that the spirit of a good challenge? Can

you ever just know everything? No. Can you

solve all the problems at once? No. But what

you can do is work hard to fix what's wrong

instead of complaining about it all the time.” I

said, trying to fight for the 'conscious, pragmatic,

and hopeful' angle.

“What about our crumbling social structure?

The inner cities falling apart as the suburbs go

[230]

up only to declare bankruptcy? The widening

gap between rich and poor, or the destruction

of the middle class?” Roxy was visibly irritated.

“I'm going to school for urban engineering, I

know something of the infrastructure of the

United States, and we're completely fucked!

Soon enough, no suburban families will have

enough money to pay for gas to put into their

lawn mowers, let alone their S.U.V.'s. Can you

imagine walking ten miles to the nearest

grocery store with a little red wagon? These

areas of our country are going to become

ghost towns!”

“Says who? You're an urban engineer, why

don't you think of a way? Why can't we fix it

instead of stubbornly proclaiming its

inefficacies? How about developing

sustainable communities? That's what I want

to see. I don't see disasters in the choices

we've made as a society. I see challenges,

sure, but I don't want to think of that as a bad

thing.”

[231]

“Do you have any kids?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, I'm sure you have friends who do. Do

you fear for their children? What kind of world

do you think they'll inherit?”

“One that's better than it is now, if we can

give it to them.”

It was around this time that we began to draw

the attention of the general public surrounding us.

People were now more intrigued than they were

terrified, and some even wanted to take part in the

conversation.

Sitting at the table across the way were a

clean-cut young couple with an infant in tow. A

man, nearing thirty, doughy, with a receding

hairline. He was wearing an olive polo with khaki

shorts, a healthy spray-on tan, and a speaking-

[232]

louder-than-words-at-the-moment cross hanging on

his around his neck. I made accidental eye contact,

and he spoke:

“Let me tell you kids something, and you'll be

smart to listen. I've heard a bit of your

conversation, and I don't like what I hear.”

I saw Hooper's brow begin to quake. This was

a malleable moment in time, one that could turn out

in many unpredictable ways.

“Lay it on us,” said Jasmine, sensing the tension.

“If you would only trust in the lo-”

Hooper Felonious nearly spat coffee all over

the table in front of him, gulping it down quickly,

not wanting to waste the second of time before

becoming unglued on the poor man.

“Of all the preposterous things you could

possibly say, you start off with THAT?”

[233]

“Uh-eh- Excuse me?”

I don't think that's what he was the response

that he was expecting.

“Trust in the lord? To what? To make

everything better? To wipe that syrup off your

chin? If he could, and you'd better believe I

want to kick myself in the ass for even giving

this topic a single breath, then why the hell

doesn't he?” Hooper was cracking his knuckles

and staring directly at him.

“Well, the lord works-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, in mysterious ways, blah

blah blah. How many times have we heard

that one? Why don't you say that out loud to

yourself a time or two. 'My boss forgot my

payroll review again this year. Perhaps he

works in mysterious ways.' Yes. Or, maybe

he doesn't want to pay you any more money

[234]

because you're a worthless fuck that doesn't

deserve it. How about that? Or, maybe, he

doesn't exist. How about you mind your own

fucking business?”

“What's your name, man?” I was trying to

bridge the gap, preserving the semblance of a

structured conversation.

“Frank.” He said, coldly, without emotion – no

empathy, anger, nor curiosity.

“Well, Frank, let's not argue ourselves down

dead end paths. We're all non-Christians here,

right?” I looked at Hooper, Jazz, and Roxy

individually for some sort of look of confirmation

before continuing, “We'll have to establish that

before we talk about religion. If that makes

you uncomfortable, we'll never be able to talk

about this without making you very upset.”

“I appreciate that.”

[235]

His body language said that he was beginning

to calm down and listen.

“Now, what is it you wanted to say before you

were so rudely interrupted by my well-

meaning but foul-mouthed friend here?”

“If folks would just trust in the lord, all of our

problems will be solved.”

“Do you really think that's true?”

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“Because the bible says so.”

“Does it?” I looked him in the eyes. “Where?”

“Well, not specifically...”

He was beginning to get nervous.

[236]

“I get where you're going with this. God's

plan and all that. No matter what kind of

horrible shit goes down on Earth, we'll all be

OK in heaven, right?”

“Basically, yes. I trust in the lord to make

things better.”

“Has he?”

“Well, yeah, I mean we have wonderful

technology and doctors and colleges and all of

that.”

“And what does any of that have to do with

God?”

“Well, he created us!”

“So? What did he do after that? Wreck up the

place? Flood it? Get pissed off? Send off his

boy to get killed? If he made us in his image,

[237]

aren't we just doing what we've always been

doing? Won't he?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does god care what we do?”

“I thought you said you don't believe in god.”

Don't they teach debate in high school? This

man has children! Does he have any experience

whatsoever in the open exchange of ideas?

“I can say it for the sake of argument. I went

through all of this already, sir. God is not a

thing, but a word. A literary device, a

metaphorical abstraction on the possibilities of

infinity. I've had to answer all of these

questions for myself.”

“Well we know he cares because of his

unconditional love for us.”

[238]

“So wouldn't that mean that no matter how

bad we fuck up down here on Earth, we have a

chance to be saved in heaven? Isn't that what

unconditional means?”

“Yes.”

“So why would he care what we do? What

does it matter if he even exists when we won't

find out until we're dead, and he'll forgive us

anyway? We're just trying to live out our

lives, sir. We mean no harm. If you know

more about the world and the nature of the

divine than we do, then by all means let us

know about it. I'm sorry if our language

offends you, but they are only words, and this

is a public place. Can I be comfortable to

speak freely in public?”

The man was speechless. He looked at his

wife, shrugged, and took a bite of his pancakes. A

few chews later, he muttered,

[239]

“Just try to keep it down, OK? I'm trying to

eat with my family.”

I looked around the table, again, at the other

three around me, glancing at Roxy a little longer.

“So, what brings you here this morning? I

have to say that I didn't really expect to see

you here.”

“I like Hooper, he's my little puppy,” she said,

smiling.

“I told you not to call me puppy!” said Hooper,

pointing angrily again.

“So, Roxy, you said you were studying Urban

Engineering. What are you planning on doing

with that degree?”

“Oh, I don't really know. Hooper and I were

talking last night about sustainable housing,

[240]

I've been kind of interested in that. My family

in Virginia just bought a new house that's self-

sustaining.”

I looked at Hooper, who caught my glance and

flashed me a knowing smile.

“What do you think about the

Suburbanization?”

“Ugh. The worst idea ever. Just another

reason for the car companies and utilities to

get rich selling us commutes and power lines.”

“What about re-urbanization and

gentrification? Light rail?”

“Too slow, too unpredictable. Besides, it just

relocates the low-income families and

indigents to another area. It doesn't actually

solve the problem. Even shovel-ready light

rail projects are decades in the making.”

[241]

“Fair enough. What do you think we can do to

make a change?”

“Ugh, I don't even know...”

She let out a long sigh and looked off into the

distance.

“I'll tell ya what we need to do,” said Hooper.

“We all need to get to work on solving our

problems rather than sitting around and idly

chatting about them.”

“Preach it, brother,” shouted a grungy looking

man from the bar, raising a fist in the air.

“But how do we do that? Where do we start?

Who do we call? How do we raise money and

invest it? Where do we invest it? How do we

measure success?”

No one had any answers.

[242]

This was the first lull in our conversation,

where no one had dared to change the topic, or to

elaborate further on fixing 'our problems.' The truth

is that no one even knew what 'our problems' were.

This time in history, like all, was a strange

one. For a bit of historical context, this was about

ten years into the second millennium of the

common era. We lived in the United States of

America, where the citizens were constantly at each

other's throats on moral issues while losing sight of

being trapped on a rock in space and the fact that

we're all gonna die anyway.

We were the generation coming of age in this

strange world of exponential technological

advancement ballooning into potentially dangerous

manifestations of Orwellian dreadfulness and levels

of human idiocy and fear that Orwell himself could

have never predicted. The economy was in a

tailspin, and civil rights were being threatened by

the very high technology that advanced our abilities

to reach out to each other in the first place.

[243]

Maybe we felt like something wasn't right on

Earth, and we were sure that others felt the same

way. We had been led into this modern lifestyle

without really coming to grips with the implications

of, or understanding the full cost of some of the

processes we relied on so heavily to maintain our

progress. We didn't really expect god to do

anything about it anymore, and we all sort of

figured it was time to start putting our heads

together to make a better life for all people, and not

just a few of them.

“Alright, alright, here we go.” said Chad,

coming up to the table with a platter of food. I

don't think any of us had noticed him approaching.

“Fuck yeah, Denver scramble!” said Hooper,

staring at the platter and rubbing his hands

together.

“Denver scramble,” said Chad, barely setting

down the plate before Hooper began devouring it.

[244]

“and some biscuits and gravy for you, my

dear.”

“Oh, thank you, Honey” cooed Roxy.

“My pleasure. And here ya go, man.”

He set down my food in front of me.

“Thanks, dude.”

“Pancakes. Just pancakes. Chocolate chip.

Figured you'd like that.”

Jasmine giggled when he set them down in

front of her, clapping her hands together quietly,

with wide eyes.

“Yay! Chocolate chips!”

“Spot of tea for one, coffee for the rest. I'll be

back in a bit to check on ya. Try not to upset

the natives, OK? Some folks around here are

[245]

just trying to eat, not get a religious

dissertation, OK?”

“Fuck 'em,” said Hooper, with grits falling from the

corners of his mouth.

“We'll try to keep it down. Thanks, Chad.” I

said, trying to be upstanding.

We all sat gorging ourselves for a moment

before we slipped back into conversation.

“That Chad guy kind of reminds me of you

back in your foodie days.” said Hooper, pointing

at me with his fork.

“Oh yeah? How so?” I responded, as if to an

accusation.

“Look at him. He's so good at his job he has to

make it interesting by challenging himself.

He's busing the tables twice as fast as the

busboy – look!”

[246]

He pointed at the busboy across the room,

whose pants were sagging below his ass cheeks.

He was waddling slowly around the dining room,

picking up plates one by one and walking them to

the bus station individually.

Chad was the only server in the place, from

what I could tell, which gave him thirty or so tables,

depending on how you counted the bar seats. He

was practically running circles around the kid, on

top of doing his own job – which was probably the

job of at least two people.

“You used to do that shit, too. I remember

sitting back there and watching you handle

groups of twenty people, from cash register to

cooking to the bar. You called the polo shirts

'sir,' and you hit on chicks for good tips

without breaking a sweat.”

“It's all true.”

[247]

“He's got one foot out the door, just like you

did. That guy is way too smart to be working

in this shitty place.”

“Let's ask him.” I said.

“That's a good idea.”

Hooper stood up at once, and looked around

the room for Chad.

“Chad! Yo! Come over here for a second.” He

bellowed, over every one else's conversations.

He held up a finger at us, without looking

back, as he finished up the order he was taking at

another table.

“What's up? Everything tasting OK?”

“You gonna work here for the rest of your

life?”

[248]

“Heh.”

I knew that laugh.

“I went to UNC for a while, studied History and

got fed up with the bureaucracy.”

“Think you'll go back?” said Hooper.

“Fuck no, man. It's a racket. I'd rather just

work here and focus on my music.”

“A musician!” I butted in. “I should have

known! Keep on fighting the good fight, dude.

We'll let you get back to work. Sorry to bug

ya.”

“No sweat, wish I could stick around and chat

a bit, but there's work to be done and dollars

to be made.” Chad said, impatiently tapping his

notepad with his pen.

“Fuck them, let them wait. We're much cooler.

[249]

I think we're done here. You should run my

tab now.”

“Will do. Be right back.”

He trotted off to another table that had just

been seated.

“So, what's next?” said Hooper. “I've got to get

out to a job site today, what are you guys

doing? How much longer will you be in town?”

“I figured I'd leave tomorrow afternoon, what

do you have going on after work?”

“I'm going to take a long nap, then watch

some T.V. And scratch my nuts for a while.

Then, I'll probably go back to bed.”

“I'll drop by your place before I take off, for

sure. I think I might kick it around Durham

with Jazz for a while today. I'll catch up with

you in the morning.”

[250]

“Sounds like fun.”

Chad came around and dropped off the check

without a word. Hooper signed his receipt, left a

large tip, got up, and left, as he so often does. I sat

at the table with Jasmine and Roxy.

“Well, what are y'all gonna do with your day?”

She said, chomping on gum and twirling her hair

with her finger.

I looked at Jasmine, waiting for her to make

the first move.

“I don't know. What's your plan?”

She looked as if she might have had a great

deal on her mind.

[251]

Chapter Twelve - Lucidity

“So, what is this? What do you want

from me? Where do we go from here?” she

said, as we walked out of the Pancake house.

“I don't want anything from you.” I said, facing

forward. I said it calmly and honestly. Maybe I

thought I was being cool. Sometimes I don't know

why I say certain things. The scene could play out

like a trashy made-for-television movie. Dramatic

camera angles and wide pans from my face to hers

as I continued to say stupid things.

“Oh.”

She seemed let down. She exhaled deeply,

put her hands in her pockets, and stared at the

ground. I thought it had been the right thing to

say. I'm never good at these things. In this movie,

[252]

I was supposed to be the mysterious vagabond, the

man that left as quickly as he had arrived.

I was just happy to be inside the moment,

taking hold of the main nerve. It was all symbolic

to me, all about living life and nothing about real-

world consequences, much less the feelings of other

people. I just always had to assume that if I was

having a good time, so was everyone else. We're all

in this together, but we can't read other people's

minds.

She broke the silence.

“I don't know how you could say something

like that,” she mocked me, “I don't want

anything from you. Are you a human being?”

“I, wha-?” My face fell and I fouled all pretense of

being the mysterious stranger. I should have never

been acting like someone else in the first place.

“What do you do, just go around stomping on

[253]

people's feelings all day? Fuck them and

leave? Is it nothing but insults and cold

indifference with you?” She hunched over and

pointed at me, accusingly. 'Jesus,' I thought, here

comes the inevitable sadness.

“Where is this coming from? I didn't mean to

be cold. I just mean that I don't want

anything from you. I'm just happy to be here,

no requirements. I don't mean any offense, I

think you may have misunderstood me.” I put

up my arms in protest.

“No requirements? How can you say that, the

man with such big ideals and goals? Not going

to ask me out for drinks? Your buddy is going

home to sleep off a long night, what are you

going to do before you head home? You said

you have another day, right?”

Oh. I'd been had.

I smiled.

[254]

“Where to, Jazz?”

“Anywhere that has booze.”

“Want to get some liquor and bum around

town, maybe hit the bar and make fun of

people watching football?”

“Your call.”

“I feel like drinking a pint of whiskey and

putting my feet in some water. Know a good

place?”

“I know a perfect place. Let's get some booze

and head out. I'll give you directions as we

go.”

We got in the car and headed to a liquor store

to find a cheap pint of whiskey and some ginger ale.

Jasmine led us to a small picnic area on a stream

outside Durham, and we mixed some drinks in

[255]

water bottles.

“I like to come down here and think

sometimes.” Jasmine said, getting out of the car.

She stretched as she spoke, bringing her arms out

to her sides and throwing her head back, letting her

orange hair fall free and gently float in the wind.

She really was beautiful. I still couldn't quite

believe all of this was happening. When life takes

its strange turns, all you can do is stare at the

surroundings and try to remember everything you

can – you never know what might be important

some other time.

“Seems like a good place to think,” I said,

taking a small sip of the whiskey and walking in the

general direction of the stream.

“Let's go for a walk!” she caught up with me and

grabbed my hand, matching my pace and slowly

swinging her arm.

[256]

“Sounds nice.”

We walked down a path into the woods,

following the small stream leading to a lake. There

was a green painted wrought-iron bench near the

bank off the stream, and we sat down on it.

“I love nature,” she said, “The birds and the

water and the trees and stuff. I wish I did this

kind of thing more often.”

“Yeah, me too. I've done a fair share of Eco-

tourism in my day. There's a lot of good

looking land around here.”

“It sounds like you've done an awful lot. I

kind of wish I had done more than just move

here and go to college.”

“We write our own stories, you know. My life

hasn't been as glamorous as I make it out to

be. I mean, I've done everything I said I've

done, but there's always really shitty parts

[257]

between the awesome parts. I try to only talk

about the awesome parts.”

“What do you mean by shitty?”

“All the shitty stuff that's a part of life, you

know? Being broke, getting rejected by chicks

and literary agents, puking in stranger's

toilets, friends dying, struggles with addiction,

depression, health issues, all of it. I just try

not to dwell on it. I try to remain in constant

forward progression.”

“Yeah, I guess nobody's life is perfect.”

She sat down on a picnic table near the edge

of the water. She grabbed her legs, pulling them

close to her body. She rested her chin on her

knees, staring out at the lake. I sat down behind

her on the table, resting my hands on her

shoulders. The sky was exceptionally clear that

day. Everything just seemed so vibrant and alive.

[258]

The way we see and interpret the world

around us is affected by our mood. When

everything around you seems to be crashing down

all the time, it's hard to look up and see anything

but a shit storm on the horizon.

That day, everything seemed so inspiring.

The blue of the sky was so deep and expansive, the

clouds so perfectly rounded and randomly

distributed like tiny little cotton balls glued up there

by a toddler at summer camp. The sun hung like an

ornament, perspective diminishing its raging nuclear

fury to a paltry drop of lemon meringue among the

cotton.

I rubbed her shoulders, slowly, and she laid

her head on to my leg. I wanted to leave with this

moment forever etched in my memory, like many I

had experienced on this trip South. I could have

stayed there in North Carolina, easily, at that

moment in my life. I could have found a job like

Chad's, and I could have crashed at Hooper's place

until I got my feet on the ground. I could have

[259]

carved out a new path through life with Jasmine, in

a new place far away from the Mitt and the

snowstorms and the past. I could find new friends

and start everything over. I could save up some

cash and break my lease, and sell all of my music

equipment back home. Bring it all to a pawn shop

and get a check for a quarter of what it was all

worth.

“What are you thinking about?” she said.

Maybe it was obvious that I was thinking big

thoughts, weighing the causes and effects, and

putting myself face first into a hundred different

possible futures.

“All sorts of stuff. About everything.”

“Be more specific.”

“About you, about Hooper, about breakfast,

about last night. About where I'm going and

why. About the American Dream, about what

[260]

I want to do from this moment forward, and

about why I want to do it.”

“That's a lot to think about on such a beautiful

day.”

“I can't really help it, I guess. I've always got

my head in the clouds.”

“No you don't,” she laid her head on my lap,

pointing upwards and smiling, “the clouds are

way up there!”

We sat at the edge of the lake, talking about

the things that people talk about when they're

falling for each other and they both know they

shouldn't be. We talked about life, about loves lost,

about personal conquests, and about our hopes and

dreams. We went home just after nightfall, and

passed out in a warm heap.

The crickets might have been chirping, the

owls may have hollered, but I never would have

[261]

known. We slept like children in the humid southern

night.

[262]

Chapter Thirteen - Ghosts

I Left Jasmine's house the next

morning with mixed feelings. I felt like I would

never again be able to reconstruct the

circumstances that led up to this crazy moment in

time. I thought that maybe I had just used up the

last of my magic on conjuring this road trip fantasy.

What if I could find a way to re-live the past?

To change it? Would I really ever want to? Hadn't

the whole point been about the pursuit of

happiness? What would I do now that I'd found

some? Why would I stop and settle down at the

mere sight of a place to do it? Was the pursuit of

happiness more engaging to me than the catch?

We have to reassure ourselves that we're on

the right track. It's easy enough to get distracted,

and I'm sure I could have distracted myself for a

[263]

good long time down there in North Carolina. I

couldn't shake the feeling that I didn't belong there,

and that I had to keep on moving if I was going to

find a purpose to this madness. I was far beyond

the point of no return, and any road back was a new

road forward.

I had built a life for myself back in the Mitt. A

journey that, even though I complained about it,

was mine alone to chart and navigate. An

experience that it was up to me to cultivate and

interpret. A life that I wanted to continue living to

its organic conclusion. My purpose was not to stay

here in North Carolina, but to visit and leave.

Our lives become so convoluted and

disorganized over time. We make friends and lose

touch with them, we love and never remember to

say it outright, we get into fights and do things that

we don't understand, we labor for goals and achieve

them and then move on completely, and we

sometimes sloppily swim about the vast seas of life

without proper navigation or charts.

[264]

We get lost in the movements of time, of

identity, of success, and of the view from our own

corner of reality. We forget that we're parts of other

peoples lives as much as they are parts of ours. It's

that common link between humans that some of us

refer to as 'collective consciousness.' The idea that

we're all metaphysically connected in some

imperceivable way. Some of us are more aware of

it than others, and some of us ignore the connection

completely and insist that other people have no

influence on us whatsoever.

Maybe I was the problem. Maybe it was my

own inability to choose or decide a particular path

that was holding me back. Whatever inability I

might have previously had to find the main nerve

could have just been attributed to my own lack of

vision or experience.

If you want to walk somewhere, but you never

pick a path, you'll never get anywhere. Life as the

vagabond could have eliminated all of my ties to

[265]

work, relationships, home, and reality in general.

Was that really so appealing? Why would I abandon

everything I cared about? As much as we might

like to pretend that the world is all adventures and

hunts for metaphorical dreamlands, it's nice to drop

by your folks' place every once in a while and have

a chat over tea about Aunt Myrtice's cataracts.

My life had become a manifestation of some

Greek Myth where I was destined to travel around

forever, seeking what I perceived as a higher

evolution of self-identity, but was doomed to find it

forever out of reach. Or maybe it was like the hunt

for El Dorado, Atlantis, The Fountain of Youth or

Lemuria. Pick your poison.

Those Mythological aspects of our heritage are

supposed to remind us that some things aren't

meant to be pursued, and that human beings aren't

always creatures of perfection and higher ideals.

We have to be humbled to reality. We have to

remember that we eat, shit, and die like the rest.

[266]

Those times after the show is over, when the

set is being taken down and the wigs are all crated

up. After the crowds go home. After the bar

closes, when the floors are swept and the vomit

mopped. After the party is over, when the drunk

model shits the bed. After the inaugural address,

when the trash of three million fat Americans is

cleaned up by the downtrodden municipal workers

that will never see the fruition of campaign

promises. The crying toddler that just realized

cartoon characters aren't real. The guy that gets

passed over for the promotion. The caller right

after the person that won the tickets.

On the rarest of occasion, if we press on far

enough, just around that next bend, we prevail. We

get the prize. We win the championship. We fight

the cancer into remission. We overcome our

demons. We live to fight another day. We lose the

battle and win the war. We stand up on our own

two feet, we grab destiny by the throat, and we

overcome the impossible to forge ahead into the

unknown.

[267]

These conquests don't come without a price.

The sacrifices we make to become who we are can

sometimes be innumerable. The most difficult part

of seeking impermanence is the denial of chances to

come back down to ground-level.

My heart goes out to those that can find

silence in the noise. To those who can settle, who

can take what they have and be happy with it. To

those who can live vicariously through others. To

those who can let the years melt by like it's no big

thing, like it was meant to be that way. To those

who can ignore the gross injustices in our society, to

those who can just 'let it all happen' without even

giving 'it' a second thought. To those who don't

wake up every day with the urge to change the

world around them, and to those who are happy to

just 'stay where they are,' 'go with the flow,' or

'leave it up to fate.'

My heart goes out to them, and I feel sorry for

them. They don't know the thrill of being wrong

[268]

and then finding out a new way. They don't know

the thrill of pursuing an impossible goal – and then

making impossible possible. They don't know what

it's like to be hurt so bad you'd be willing to sacrifice

everything you have just to feel whole again – and

then feeling whole again by the strength of their

own will, no sacrifice necessary. They don't get to

learn from those 'terrible' experiences that you look

back upon with a transcendent understanding.

They don't get to progress through the

metamorphosis of seeker to finder. They don't get

to find their own road, they just take whatever one

looks nice and easy. They never stop, and so they

miss everything along the way.

[269]

Chapter 14 - Goodbyes

I walked into Hooper's apartment with

some biscuits and sweet tea from up the road, and

we sat at the dining room table for some straight-

talk.

“You just gonna leave that chick here? She's

clearly into you.”

“I've got to get back home, dude. I don't

belong here. That shit never lasts anyway.

We're all on different paths.”

“You belong wherever you are, dude. Aren't

you out here looking for the Dream? This

could be it.” He sipped his tea and looked me in

the eye.

“I live the dream every day, dude. I'm not out

[270]

here looking to stay, I'm looking to find

meaning in my life for once.”

“Your life has been full of meaning, you

privileged little whining fucking twat.”

“Whoa.” The truth hits kind of hard sometimes.

“We're so blessed by the last few thousand

years of history, and you're the one that

should know it best. You've been studying it

your whole life. You should be happy you

have the time to think about – and process -

how bad you're getting fucked. You could be

stuck in a third world country drinking shit

water and trying to grow food in the fucking

desert and still finding enough time to teach

your kids how to do the same thing when you

don't really even know it yourself. All this

carrying on and moaning about the meaning of

life has really gotten old. A hundred years

ago, average life expectancy was like fifty.

That would put us well into adulthood.”

[271]

“What's your point?” I was wondering where he

was going to take this.

“Point? Point, you fucking prick? My point is

that we – meaning you and I - like to sit

around and talk up a bunch of bullshit about

how we're going to take hold of our main

nerves and dream our dreams, but when it

comes down to it – most of those nerves have

already been grabbed and the dreams have

been dreamed. Those are just words. We're

just gonna grow old and die, man. We're not

gonna conquer the stupid world. It can't be

done!

We're just gonna be dudes. Nothing

special to anybody but the people who know

us personally. That's good enough for me. I

don't need fame or fortune, or eight fucking

houses. I don't need a fucking yacht, and I

don't feel like fucking around with the stock

market all day like a shitty religion that costs

[272]

too much money.

We have to dream our own dreams and

live our own lives within the framework we've

constructed. It's time to stop thinking and

start doing, dude. It's time for us to stop

talking about how bad we want the things

we're totally capable of getting for ourselves.

I want a family. A chick to fuck without a

rubber, and snot-nosed little brats to feed. I

want to create little humans. I want to feed

them food and watch them grow like smart

little house pets. I want to teach them how to

fuck with people and get their money. I want

to have a garden, I want to own a house. I

want to raise my family in my house. I want a

job that I can do for the rest of my life without

worrying about whether or not it's going to

pay the bills. I want to save my money for

when I get even older and my kids are all

grown up. I want to through-hike the

Appalachian trail. I want to go to Italy.

[273]

I have dreams, dude, and they're as

attainable as any metaphor could ever put it.

I still grab a hold on the main nerve, but I

don't want to take any more than I can give

back. I want other people to live their dreams,

too. We can sit and whine all day about how

bad we have it, and how loathsome it is to be

surrounded by stupid people all day, and how

awful the over-commercialization of our

society is. We can get drunk and womanize

and party and have a good time, but we're still

going to be held accountable for our actions.

We still have to get old and die. We still

have to work jobs and eat food. We have to be

around idiots we can't stand, but we also get

the rare chance to find friends in what seems

like a sea of people who don't understand us.

We're fucking blessed just to be alive. To be a

part of this. To be human beings, and to have

been a part of this world. So what if you don't

become famous? So what if you don't get

[274]

rich? So what if you never go on the road

again? Who cares if you never find the main

nerve, or the dream, ever again? Who cares if

you just left it in some Durham apartment?

Who gives a shit?

I'll tell you what. I'm your fucking

friend. I care about you. I want you to

succeed. I'm not going to turn my back on you

if you don't become a famous author. If your

band never goes on tour, I'm not going to

make fun of you for it. I'm going to be pissed

off at whoever blocked your path, even if it's

you. I'm still going to be your friend, because

that's what fucking matters to me. It's about

sharing our life experiences with each other,

and scheming up new adventures. We could

both die tomorrow, and none of this will have

mattered even the slightest bit. Why the fuck

are you so worried about the future when your

past has been great, and the present isn't even

that bad despite your stupid squabbling over

philosophy and 'the good life.'”

[275]

“Wow. That's pretty fucking profound,

Hooper, I've gotta say.”

This is why I hang out with this guy. The

truth flows from him in a fountain of 'fucks' and

worldly insight.

“I just feel like you're making a big deal about

nothing, man. You've got a lot to be thankful

for, don't forget it.”

He sipped his tea again, looking at me over

the rim of the cup and waiting for a response.

“I'll never forget it, Hoop, but it won't stop me

from dreaming bigger and bigger. I'm glad

that you know what you want out of life, and I

hope that you get it. I don't think I can settle

down into a situation like yours. That isn't my

goal. I don't want children. I don't want a

wife. I don't want to work at the same job for

my entire life, or even for an extended period

[276]

of time. My interests change daily. I want to

experience a wide range of possibilities.

I don't want to live in a house in the

suburbs, or on a stupid farm. I just want to

keep a house somewhere for my stuff to be

safe in while I'm out on the hunt for

adventure. I want to buy food at a grocery

store, I don't want to grow it. I don't want to

go to church, I don't want to re-live the eight-

hundred-billionth iteration of 'Dude on Earth.'

I want to be with the people who stood out far

enough to get a few to follow them off the

beaten path. I want to set new ideas into

motion, I want to change the world around

me, and I want to influence other people to

make their own changes. I want to see what

they see, and I want to help them make their

visions into reality.

I have things to say, and I want to stand

up and scream them out loud in a crowded

public space. I want to get angry. I want to

[277]

be wrong and be able to change my mind. I

want to broadcast my feelings and my beliefs

because I value them. I want to keep my

friends and make more. I want my friends to

see me as a successful person who does what

he says he's going to do. I want to make my

parents proud to have created me. I want to

make the world proud for having had me be a

part of it. I want people to remember my

name because I made a difference. I want to

live forever, dude.”

We were both standing, now, pacing back and

forth around his kitchen like we always did when

things were starting to get real.

“I know you do, and I wish you the best of

luck. I hope you achieve every goal on that

list with time to spare for new ones. I just

don't want you to place the value of your

existence on the way other people see you. It

just isn't worth it. If I ever teach you a

fucking thing, I want this to be it: What other

[278]

people think doesn't matter at all. They are

shit. Lie to them, steal from them, treat them

like the stupid fucks they are. If they get in

your way, stomp on their faces as you climb to

the top. You're going to do everything you

want to do, dude, you're doing it right now.

Don't worry about a fucking thing. None of

this matters. It's all in what you make of it.”

“You're right, Hoop, in your own crazy little

way. I don't need to lie, cheat, or steal to get

what I want, but I see where you're going

with this. I have to leave at once. I have to

get home to where I belong. I have to stop

complaining, stop fantasizing, stop dreaming.

It isn't about the dream. Dreaming happens

while you're asleep and waiting. Living is

about actualizing your dreams. It's about

what you're transmuting into existence with

the tools and the material you've been given.

Someone has to be around to stretch the

limits, and to look at things in a different way.

I have to go home and get to work making my

[279]

dreams come true.”

“That's what I'm talking about, dude. I finally

got it through your dumb fucking skull. You

spend some time dreaming, and then you act.”

He was right, and I knew it. We would surely

see each other again, but our halcyon days were

over. We were adults now, fully engaged in the

worlds we spent so much effort creating around

ourselves. If we were to wander, it would be for a

purpose of mission.

Hooper was destined to hang up his character,

to settle down and live a quiet life of personal

conquest and familial satisfaction. I was destined to

march ever onward in search of a new thrill,

tomorrow's sunrise, and the next adventure.

[280]

Chapter Fifteen- Truckers

“I had a girl, I had a girl.” I said out loud,

slowly shaking my head. To the silence, maybe to

the road. I missed Jasmine, which is what I didn't

want to have happen. I wasn't even sure if that

was her real name. I tried not to think about it. I

had to press on. Constant forward progression.

The last thing I had said to her was:

“Maybe we'll see each other again some sunny

day”

Nice and melodramatic.

A misty rain began to obscure the horizon as I

carved my way through the United Sates, home to

the Mitt. I couldn't help but let my mind wander

toward what lay in wait for me there. I had quit my

job just prior to this crazed expedition, which left a

[281]

laundry list of actionable items for me to complete.

Finding work was obviously something that needed

to happen, but I wasn't so worried about it. I just

didn't see a purpose in worrying about such

ultimately trivial things. Sure, I'd find another job.

I was a skilled and able employee. I'd work there

and eventually leave that one, too. No big deal, life

goes on. I was beginning to think, more and more,

that small details weren't really as important as the

entire picture. Like these gorgeous mountains -

why focus on the fact that it's raining? Does the

sun have to be shining on the mountains for them

to beautiful?

Life was going to remain dynamic. Things

would inevitably change again and keep right on

changing. There were books to finish writing, books

to start writing, bills to be paid, and a long stretch

of time where I, rest assured, would not be on the

road – either literally or metaphorically. My car was

beat up from the tens of thousands of miles I put on

it in my roaming over the years, and my bank

account was drained from a long few weeks of

[282]

shopping at truck stops and buying gasoline. Then,

of course, there were the frivolous alcohol and drug

purchases, the chain-smoked cigarettes, the energy

drinks, and the expenses of eating at restaurants

several times daily. All things I should not have

been doing considering that all of my money was

going out, and none was coming back in.

I had turned off the radio driving into West

Virginia, and I was enjoying the sound of the tires

rubbing the pavement at high speed as I exhaled

my cigarette smoke from the cracked window and

stared blankly ahead at, and sometimes through,

the gathering mists.

Was I running away from something? Was I

trying to find a road that had never crossed my

path? What was I doing out there, wandering

around the country, aimlessly searching for some

abstract concept that no one seemed to be able to

pin down? Had I found it? If so, how could I have

had the hubris to find it and run away? To ask the

gods for something, and then to back away from it

[283]

at the last second? Had my answer been the girl,

the experience, both, or neither?

At this time in my life, I had repeated this

scene a thousand times. Always chasing some girl

or some crazy adventure. I would come to some

'realization' that life wasn't so bad, or that tomorrow

would bring a new hope. This time, however, I felt

empty and hollow. The road seemed to stretch on

forever, and instead of seeing opportunity in that

road on the horizon, all I saw was the long stretch I

still had to travel. The trip had turned from

idealistic pursuit to a sad homeward retreat.

My only realization was that I probably wasn't

going to live a life of endless pleasure, but one with

an equal portion of painful sadness. Things would

never be like they were before, and things around

me would remain in a constant state of change until

I was dead. You never step in the same river twice.

I pulled into a truck stop on the side of the

road, sort of wishing I had gotten more distance

[284]

before my first stop. I had only been on the road a

few hours. I needed to take a piss, get a cup of

coffee, fill up the gas tank, and settle my nerves. I

opted to take a seat in the restaurant, at a stool

near the counter. I idly listened to the chatter of

the waitresses.

“... s'all gone to hell 'round here anyway,

Sheila, what with the T.A. gone in up across

the way and taking over all our business.”

“People think they can come in here and walk

out payin' nothin'! It ain't right! Not gonna

happen on my watch, shug!”

There was tension in the air. From what I

could gather, someone had just tried to leave

without paying. Old Sheila, here, had stepped in

the man's way and confronted him. He had argued

with her, saying he could have gotten the same

breakfast at the T.A. for a dollar less. Some dumb

jackass trying to get something for free. They come

in all shapes and sizes.

[285]

“He can drive himself up there tomorrow and

get himself a breakfast if he wants to. To hell

with him!”

The daily monotonous routine of trash-talking

customers. I knew it well. They must have been

having one of 'those' days. Bound to happen. I

tried my best to make it really easy on the poor

lady, considering I'd been in her shoes too many

times to count.

“Mornin', Shug, 'kin I gitcha?”

“Mornin'. Coffee. Black as night, bitter as my

ex. How's your gravy today?”

“Nice'n fresh. Ol' Howard done cooked it up

just a few minutes ago. He makes it the best.”

“Perfect. I'll go for half an order of biscuits

and gravy and some rye toast with butter, if

you've got it. If you don't have rye, whatever

[286]

else you have will suit me just fine.”

“Rye it is. Anything else?”

“No, ma'am, that'll do it.”

She walked back towards the busing station to

sort out a few fresh piles of used dishes, dropping

off my ticket in the cook's window as she walked

past it. She was performing flawlessly. You could

tell she'd been at this for years. There's a good

chance that old Sheila had been working at this

restaurant since before I was born. Who knows

what she might have seen in that time.

I was staring blankly through the window on

the far side of the room, watching the Interstate

traffic buzz past in the distance. I thought about

how many people there were in all those cars,

trucks, and buses. Hundreds of them every few

minutes, I'm sure. All of them off to somewhere,

each one a different place. Maybe one of them was

just like me.

[287]

“You look like you've got a story, buddy.”

I heard a voice from behind me just in time to

feel the heavy smack of a man's hand on my

shoulder and hear the sound of a large stack of

paper being dropped on the counter to my right.

“You could say that.” I said, over my coffee cup,

not turning around.

“Nice 'n melodramatic, too, I see.”

I laughed. It was funny. I wasn't really in the

mood for conversation, but this guy didn't seem like

he was going to waste my time with pleasantries. I

offered my hand.

“I'm Zach. What's your name?”

“Don the Trucker, Don for short,” he snickered

with a deep, throaty laugh of fifty years' tar.

[288]

Anyone could have guessed that he was a

trucker. He had the stereotype down to a near

science. Rose-tinted gold-frame glasses that looked

like they were purchased in the eighties, a canvas

ten gallon hat, a black vinyl vest over a long-sleeve

red flannel shirt with a bulge in the chest pocket

and a worn ring in the shape of a Skoal can, a long

handlebar mustache, and the wretched stink of a

thousand gallons of gin. Oh yeah, and foul coffee

breath.

I suppose he buys clothes at truck stops and

wears them until they're utterly destroyed. Maybe

he'd wash the set on the rare occasion he visited his

home, wherever it was. His world was the tractor-

trailer and the open road, neither of which care if

you stink like the dead.

He was an alright guy, despite his pungent

aroma. One you knew wasn't going to give you a

line of shit, at least.

“What are you here for, Zach, Business or

[289]

Pleasure? Coming or going?”

“Sounds rehearsed.”

“It is. Don't be cynical, I'm friendly folk.”

“Fair enough. All of the above, you could say.

Headed away from Chapel Hill, I know that

much. Headed home to a fucknest of misery in

the State of Michigan, eventually, but have

plenty of time to get there. I came down

mostly for pleasure, which, as far as the

present is considered, is my business.”

“I hate Michigan. Fuckin' roads are shit.”

“You're telling me, man, I lost track of how

many ruined tires I've had from those fucking

pot holes.”

“What were you doing in Chapel Hill? Got

yourself a college girl? Nice tight piece of

ass?”

[290]

“In town to see my buddy. Met a girl, too.

Had to leave her, though. I don't belong here.

I need to figure some shit out.”

“My opinion, and you can take it for what it's

worth, would be to stay where the pussy is.”

“I'd say that's a solid opinion, Don, and I'd

normally agree with you. Michigan pussy is

remarkably similar to North Carolina pussy,

though, and I've got to get home.”

“Ah, big dreams back home in the... what'd

you call it? Fucknest of misery?”

“Well, I suppose that's a bit of an over-

generalization.”

“I would have never guessed.”

“I sometimes forget that I exaggerate some

things and that people don't understand I'm

[291]

exaggerating them to make an example and

further illustrate my point.”

“That'll happen.”

“Sure will. What'cha haulin'?”

“Socks.” He said it flatly, without emotion, and

took a short sip of his coffee.

“At least you're getting paid.”

“I don't do gratís, cabrón.”

“Hablas Españól?”

“Hablo fuckin' Mexican.”

“Spend a bit of time south of the border, did

ya?”

“Sure did.”

[292]

“Haulin'?”

“It's the vida.”

“How do ya like it? Hauling, I mean. Not

Mexico. I've kind of heard mixed reports

about the gig.”

“You'll hear mixed reports about both.

Hauling seems to suit me just fine, but I can

see how it might not cut the mustard for some

folks. It takes a certain kind of beast to do

this job properly and not lose yer mind. Much

like any job, I guess. Some people are better

at it than others.”

“I can imagine. Whole lot of idiots on the

road, man. Shitty weather, long periods of

time spend alone in silence. That could render

some folks insane, I reckon.”

I slipped into the accent for just a second

there. I never say reckon, but I'd spent a few days

[293]

in the South and had started to absorb the

vernacular. Kind of like when I get drunk with

Mexicans and start speaking Spanglish.

“Maybe not insane, but you have to have a bit

of a crazy streak in you to make a living at

this. Gotta be able to deal with a whole lot of

bureaucracy, too.”

“Plenty of red tape, sure. That kind of shit is

everywhere. Gotta take scheduled breaks and

all of that dumb shit, too?”

“Oh yeah. You bet'cha. I can only be on the

road fourteen hours a day, and that includes

time spent queued up at the weigh-ins and the

breaks. Damn near cut what I can make in

half. Back in the eighties, man, I'd pull down a

few twenty-four hour days in a long week and

make bank. That shit never happens these

days. Bunch'a pussies complaining about a

few long days. There's no room left in this

world for a real man; only thieves, liars, and

[294]

suckers.”

“You don't have to tell me that, Don, I'm of the

opinion that humanity has reduced itself into a

mass of spoon-fed idiot debt slaves. Myself

included.”

“Yeah, same here. Gotta include ourselves in

that awful generalization, too. I'd say we're

both part of humanity – every savage bone in

our bodies. Just like the rest of 'em.”

“I had a buddy of mine that I worked with,

used to point at hot chicks when he was drunk

and say 'that chick's hot, huh? Betch'ya

wanna fuck her, too. But guess what, dude-

somebody, somewhere, is totally sick of her

bullshit. Everybody's an asshole in some

fucking way. Don't forget it.' I didn't. I agree

with him more every day.”

Sheila snuck up on us while we were sitting

there talking. I nearly knocked the carafe out of

[295]

her hand, and I would have if she wasn't so

responsive. I was frantically gesticulating,

mimicking my friend telling me those words with a

wildly pointed finger waving in a way that only a

man drunk on half a bottle of Ketel One can point.

She expertly backed up on her heels, my hand

missing the carafe by fractions of an inch.

“Whoa, there! Calm down a second! I'm

trying to get'choo boys some coffee!”

“He don't mean no harm,” said Don.

“Oh, I know it, Shug. Spooked me a bit, is all.

I won't be taken down so easily.”

“Sorry, Sheila.” I really was sorry. I have a

tendency move as I speak, and gesticulation is

frantic and haphazard. It sort of fucks things up

sometimes.

“No problem, kid. Here's your half'a biscuits,

and some rye toast. 'Kin I gitcha, Donny?”

[296]

“Bacon and eggs, Dearie, sunny side up.”

“Toast?”

“English Muffin. Why don't ya just go ahead

and top off my coffee up while you're here,

too, sweetie.”

“Limey biscuit. Comin' right up.” She scribbled

on her pad of guest checks, and dropped it off to

the cooks.

“Damn, that's archaic.”

“Not down here. This is the bible belt, son. If

your skin isn't white, or you don't pray to

Jesus every night, you'll get nowhere with

some of these folks.”

“I say that's a god damned shame.”

“True, but you can't change it. You can't get

[297]

through to some people. You can't fix stupid,

only show it how to get smarter on its own.”

“I know.” I looked down at my cup again, turning

it in circles between my hands.

“So, tell me, how do you make yourself a

living, Mister Zach?” Don said, turning toward

me after blatantly watching Sheila's old wrinkly ass

as she walked back toward the bus cart. That kind

of grossed me out a little, but I guess old people

think other old people are attractive. I shook it off.

“That's a bit of a loaded question these days,

I'm afraid.”

“How so? Runnin' something? I won't tell

nobody. Gotta do what'cha gotta do. Can't

say my past is free of it.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. My drug use is

mostly relegated to infrequent dabblings these

days. Lost its fun a while ago.”

[298]

“So what's the score, then?”

“Well, I'm an author as it stands, but the

money is shit. Couldn't possibly live on the

few bucks I've made doing that.”

“What's the plan then? What did you do

before that?”

“I've worked full time since I was eighteen.

Hit the ground running. Dropped out of

college at twenty, tired of the irony in being

surrounded by worldly ineptitude in the

academic environment. Probably not going

back. I've kinda been driving around on my

spare time the last few years, trying to figure

out exactly what it was I wanted to do with

myself.”

“Find anything?”

“Only more questions, really.”

[299]

“That's how it goes. Coulda just stayed at

home! Once you get what you want, then

what do you do? Where do you go from

there?”

“On to the next adventure, I guess.”

“So where was the last one?”

“I've been a restaurant man by trade. Not so

sure if that's gonna be my life's work, though,

you know? My dreams are so much bigger

than customer service. I drained my savings

account when I came down here. Word has it

my unemployment claim might go through, but

it's hard to say. I don't like to count my

chickens before they hatch. The guilt of

Unemployment Insurance will definitely eat at

me until I find something to do. This kind of

uncertainty is weird for me. I've never had it

before. It was always 'do work' and 'get paid'

for me. Always depending on someone else to

[300]

stamp a signature on a paycheck. I don't want

my life to be like that anymore. I don't want

to live for other people. I want to make

money for myself, doing things I'm good at.

I've made other people hundreds of thousands

of dollars, at the same time only tens of

thousands for myself. I don't like that. The

money was made on my back, my leadership,

my ability. I know what I've run away from,

but I don't know what the next step is.”

“What is it you want to do? You can't find

anything that you aren't looking for, you

know.”

“I have no idea what I'm looking for, Don. I

always used to just take it as it comes, to keep

on trucking, but I'm starting to feel a bit old. I

want to find something to do for the rest of my

life and be proud of. I don't want to wander

around aimlessly anymore. I want to wander

around for a purpose.”

[301]

“You've gotta figure out what it is you want

before you can go out and get it. You'll find it

soon, don't worry. Sounds like you've got the

heart for it.”

He was right, I would find it soon. I had to.

The whole damn purpose of this trip had been to

find the American Dream, and it all connected right

there over coffee with Don the trucker. Plainly

speaking, I was searching for something that didn't

exist. Not that I thought that the American Dream

was a farce, but more of a hypothetical kind of thing

that people only wished for.

It's a tired message, but it's still true: Rags to

riches takes a lot more work than riches to rags.

There are no free rides. No free lunches. Nobody

can spare much more than a dime, and they don't

even want to give you that much. No matter what

you get, it's never enough. There's never any

capital for your wild ideas unless you work hard and

make it for yourself. People want things that sell.

Ideas that intrigue. Until you prove you have what

[302]

it takes to come up with those ideas, no one will

pay attention to you. There's plenty of livestock at

the market, it's all in how good the lipstick makes

the pig look.

The American Dream is just another dumb

metaphor for hipster poets to jack off onto a page.

Some cheap phrase to knock about at parties and

bars as if you know something that someone else

doesn't. You don't. How had I decided that 'finding

myself' by wandering around aimlessly for years on

end was a good idea? It almost seemed childish, in

this context, sitting among my elders. Both of them

sure were working a lot harder than I was at the

time. Sheila was slaving away at the restaurant

game well into her sixties, Don had to have been

my father's age, both of them still working their

asses off, just like I'd be in another twenty-five

years. I just wanted to be slaving away at

something I enjoyed, even if only passively.

All that time I spent wandering around, and I

could have been like Don the trucker. He wanted to

[303]

drive around and see the sights, like me; so he did,

like me. The thing he did differently, though, was

the really good idea that had never dawned on me.

He got paid to do it. That's the problem. I wasn't

getting paid to empty my savings account and fuck

off to North Carolina on some fruitless holy roller

quest to find an intangible concept. I should have

been at home working hard to make my dreams

come true. I wasn't going to find my dreams on the

side of some rutted out patch of mountain road in

the rain.

“You're right, Don, I will. I know it. I have to

figure out what it is I really want out of life

before I can expect to get it. That might be

some of the best advice I've ever gotten.”

“See, now you're thinking. Maybe a few of you

dumb fuck kids can learn, after all.”

“Don't get me started on my peers, man.”

“Heh-heh-hugah-cagh” He was laughing so hard

[304]

he nearly choked himself “EEEE-HEE-HEE

HEEEEEEOW. “ He punched his chest a few times.

“Yeah. We thought stickin' daisies in rifles and

growing out our hair was rebellious. You

damn kids gotta go off hanging yourselves

and cutting your wrists because your single

mother worked two jobs and 'wasn't around'

to keep your ungrateful ass in check. Rebel

rebel.”

“Watch out, dude, my mother is a fucking

saint.”

“Oh, you know I'm not saying shit about your

mom. She obviously did a fine job.”

“Damn right she did.”

“It's easy to teach people how to do things,

but it isn't easy to teach them how to think.”

“I never want children.”

[305]

“You will.”

“Doubt it.”

“You will.”

We had our first silent moment in quite a

while, both of us watching the steam rise from our

coffee cups.

We parted ways, as people so often do, not

too long after breakfast. I had to get home to

figure out what the hell I was going to do with

myself, and Don the Trucker had to keep on

truckin'. I had liberated myself from the job I had

hated, and I set out to find the American Dream.

Had I found it? All I was sure of was that I had

found myself in hot-blooded pursuit of what I had

casually referred to as the main nerve, which had

manifested itself in an electric little fantasy girl that

reminded me a little too much of what I didn't want.

I was now headed home to find a way to make

sense of it all.

[306]

What was next?

[307]

Chapter Sixteen – Mountains

As I grew further into my twenties, and the

long weekends of staying out and partying started

to take heavier and heavier tolls, the shotgun blast

of life was beginning to lose its momentum. Things

in my own pocket of the universe were starting to

slow down, and yet life in the world around me

seemed to increase speed at an ever more frantic

pace. Every year seemed to fly by faster and faster,

spinning further and further out of control. I

wanted to hit rock bottom with my feet on the

ground.

Realistically, the least-wise thing I could have

done upon losing my job was pack up and leave

town. Any sane person would have recommended

that I stock up on food and supplies for the coming

hardships, but I drew on experience. Some people

[308]

spend their whole lives preparing for hard times

that never come. Hard times came to me early in

my life, and never seemed to be far off the horizon.

I maintained a firm and constant grip on a vision of

a better tomorrow, even if I did acknowledge a

chance of failure.

I can do hard times. I've had no shortage of

them. Times of eating oatmeal and hot dogs, times

of saying 'no, guys, I can't go out tonight. I've got

to save my money.' I never had a problem

pinching pennies, and entertaining yourself is never

really that difficult. In fact, my intellect seems to

thrive when I'm experiencing hard times. The

immediate need to deliver yourself from point A to

point B can be a strong motivator. It's only once

you've hit rock bottom that you can begin to plan

your climb out of the hole. You'll always find a way

to get by if you try hard enough, keep your

discipline focused and ready for change, and set

your sights on the horizon.

With every mile I grew closer to my little

[309]

corner of the Mitt, the more I understood that

things would never be the same. I wasn't headed

back home to go to work, and I had no immediate

prospects of finding any when I got there.

For some reason, I didn't really care. I had

worked so hard for so many years, I had forgotten

how to just live. Maybe Hooper was right. I was

just a dude on Earth. Maybe, in the great scheme

of things, none of this really does matter. Maybe I'll

never amount to a fucking thing.

I actually had a high school teacher that told

me that, once. I can't remember why, or the

context, but I remember the scene vividly. She sat

at her desk, correcting papers, and I was standing

in front of her, handing in an assignment. She

asked if I planned on going to college.

“I don't know. Maybe. I was going to go on

tour, but I quit the band. I'll figure something

out. It's just on to the next adventure.”

[310]

“You're not going to amount to anything if you

don't go to college.”

“What? Excuse me?”

“You don't have a chance.”

“I disagree.”

“Disagree all you want.”

“I will.”

I've always held a pointless grudge against

her for saying that to me, unprovoked. Who knows

what was crammed up her crusty ass, but she had it

out for me that morning. You shouldn't walk around

for the rest of your life trying to prove wrong all the

naysayers you encounter along your path to

greatness. When someone is trying to bring you

down, it means you're miles above them. Let the

doubters dig their own graves.

[311]

I drove North, through Ohio and into

Michigan, for the lonesome and familiar drive West

along Interstate 94, home, to Kalamazoo. There, I

would come back to all that I had left behind. As

far away from what I perceived as 'the road,' 'the

dream,' 'the vagabond,' and 'the main nerve' as

could possibly be.

I had to find a way to stop associating the

concept of 'home' with the negative feelings I felt

toward 'the familiar and unchanging.' There had to

be other people I knew that had this same kind of

hope that I did. Hope for building a new way of life

for themselves. A hope that we could rise above

this recurring nightmare of twelve hour shifts and

rising prices with wage stagnation. Maybe we could

work together.

I had been there for four years without a

raise, watching the cost of living rising ever higher

and never seeing my wages move a bit. Working

tirelessly to create new ways of doing business, new

products, new services, new infrastructure, new

[312]

financial approaches, and new everything. The

improvements and profits continued, along with the

raising of prices, and the increases of responsibility.

Where was my piece of the pie? What was my

effort going to support? The precedent had been

set for my job to require ever-increasing growth,

with no defined reward structure whatsoever.

“I don't believe in raises,” the guy told me, once.

“I hire people to do a job, and they do it.

Their job doesn't change, whether profits go

up or down.”

Somehow, at the time, I failed to realize that I

was part of that group of people he was talking

about. He forgot that the people worked harder to

make him more money with the expectation that if

they worked harder, they would be rewarded in

some way. If they weren't rewarded, everything

regressed into reckless and dissolute repetition as

they trudged along, waiting for it to be time to go

home. They saw the futility in going the extra mile,

[313]

towing the line until they found another job, never

having the desire to improve. It only seemed

logical.

Rewards and incentives don't even need to be

direct infusions of cash. They can be a few extra

vacation days, a trip to a ball game, or maybe a

new employee discount. Different things work for

different people. It's about knowing your

employees. If a reward was given, it shouldn't be

given as a display of power, but as a token of

gratitude. Not just to one favored person, either,

but to everyone who deserves it with equal

consideration.

He relied on us to make him his money, why

shouldn't that effort be rewarded in some tangible

way? He was expected to progress, while we were

expected to stay the same forever. We all busted

ass to get the job done, we all deserved a bit of the

gain. I'm not talking socialism here, I'm talking

about rewarding honest effort. If we don't reward

those who perform above our level of expectation,

[314]

what's the motivation to do better in the future?

There's no reason for us to do anything but tow the

line.

“I want to start my own business.” I said it

almost out of frustration. “I want to make

money for myself.”

“You can't start a business just to make

money, you know.”

“What?”

“It's about meeting new people and doing

good in the world. It's not about making

money.”

That's easy to say for someone who has

always relied on other people to support their lives.

The true hypocrisy was that he expected himself to

improve forever, and everyone around him to stay

the same.

[315]

“What do you mean? Businesses are designed

to make money. You provide a good or service

in exchange for money. That is exactly what's

happening. You make money through

business. There's no other reason to start a

business other than to make money. All

mission statements and concepts are

secondary.”

As I move forward in life, this story has

become a polarizing topic of conversation. I own a

business now. I started it to make money.

Granted, I do something I love to make that money,

but the fact remains the same: I started the

business to make money. Business, to me, exists

as a conduit for the exchange of assets, currency,

goods, and services between humans. This has

been going on for thousands of years.

I had to get home, sort out my affairs,

calculate my needs, organize my wants, and

assemble my lists of actionable items. I needed a

reassessment of my goals. I needed to figure out

[316]

what it was that I really wanted. I had always been

thinking too narrowly, too immediately, or too

specifically. I was looking for a route without ever

seeing the map as a whole.

I was in West Virginia, headed North on

Interstate 77. I would travel through the obnoxious

flatlands of Ohio for the hundredth time, and across

the beaten patches of Interstates 80, 90, 75, and

94 from Cleveland to Toledo to Detroit to

Kalamazoo.

Ultimately, the goal was to get home. I would

pass through a hundred or more cities on my way

through. I could make the distance seem less

daunting by making secondary goals in line with my

primary goal. It would seem less time consuming if

I focused on how the minor goals added up to the

major one. There were a thousand different routes

to take, but I chose the most direct. I wanted two

things: to get home, and to do it as quickly as

possible.

[317]

Sure, I was worried about not getting a job.

Obviously, it was a legitimate fear. If I had gone

home and sat in my room thinking about not having

a job, I would have never found one. I needed to

get out and find work.

It was like getting from Charleston to

Marietta on the way home from Hooper's. It was

only a leg of my larger journey. The ultimate goal,

of course, was and still is to make a living for myself

doing things that I enjoy. Just like that stretch of I-

77 through the top of West Virginia was only a small

step on the road back to the Mitt, so was getting

that first job I got after finding the Dream. It was

the first rung on my ladder to the top. The first

stone on the river crossing. However you want to

put it, that's what needed to be done.

If I wanted to find gainful employment to

finance the execution of my actionable items, I had

to get out there and find it. If I wanted to get

somewhere in life, I had to take the first few steps.

I had to make it so. I had to establish secondary

[318]

goals that further progressed the primary ones.

The new found satisfaction of knowing exactly

what I wanted to do was enough to keep me going.

Perhaps some minor frustrations along the way, and

another shitty job or two, but nothing so horrid as

the existential dread of going to the place that

provides you with the means of supporting a life you

can't enjoy.

After a long stretch of hard work and

concentration, we can begin to regain our strength

and footing. We can begin construction of our own

personal empires. We cast away the burdens of the

sins from our misguided youth. We shrug off our

grudges and aggressions. We can forgive those

who have wronged us. We can become better

people by learning from our mistakes, and by taking

advantage of what we have going for us.

It was these thoughts of business, of the

future, and of 'bigger and better things' that

occupied my mind on this lonely drive home

[319]

through the mountains. A drive I'd come to

recognize, where time starts to blur as I move

through the mists. Is it the first time I've been

here, the sixth, or the twelfth? In these mountains,

I can see time. I can see myself existing at

different points in my life, growing from boy to man

as the mountains stay the same.

In transit, with the feeling of momentum in

my gut, is when I feel most alive and in control.

Like I could grab the reigns of destiny itself. The

raw feeling of forward progression through space

and time; with velocity manifest in both figurative

and literal aspects.

If the American Dream could be described as

a thing, it's a television set. Not the machine that

you look at, but the temporary room in the back lot

of some Los Angeles studio. You assemble the

props: the couch, the lamp, the shitty art, the

Berber carpet. You assemble the cast: the dude,

the chick, the dog, the best friend. You assemble a

plot: We're living out our dreams!

[320]

You assemble the lighting rig, the scenery.

It's late summer, early fall, who knows. Maybe

some sunny spring day. It's any body's dream any

how. We are the directors of this show. We are the

stage techs, the camera operators. We are the

editors and the cameras. We're watching the world

we create as it manifests around us.

We can change the set, and the actors may

come and go, but the show must always go on. The

budget must be followed, the demographics

pandered to. The audience is waiting for the next

episode, and they expect to be pleased. The

greatest of the dreamers can transmute their vision

into reality. Some inevitable day, though, they'll

come to cancel the show and strike the set. No

matter how much fun everyone is having, and even

though the show must go on, it must also one day

come to an end.

In our youth, we feel as if we'll never be held

accountable for our actions. Bad things eventually

[321]

happen to bad people, and the good guys always

win. As we progress, we feel as if we'll be able to

turn the tides of karma and that we're the only ones

that won't have to be held accountable for our

actions. Like we've somehow found a way to cheat

the system.

There is no good or bad, we imagine, only

moral choices inside the larger framework of a

culture. In a cold and lonely universe, there is no

great measuring stick with which to determine what

was good, what was bad, why, and whether or not

anybody cared.

There is the one inevitable day where you will

feel all of the burdens of your past hanging off of

you like a leech that won't let go. Every lie, every

misdeed, every false witness; all sucking the pride

right out of you. All the people you've wronged will

come back to haunt you in the most miserable of

ways, and all the bad intent you've had along your

path will one day be reflected back to you in the

actions of another person.

[322]

We have to learn to treat other human beings

the way they deserve to be treated before we can

expect to be considered one of them. How are we

supposed to live together peacefully on this rock in

space without settling our grudges, accepting each

other, and finding ways to compromise? By working

together. That's the culmination of 5,000 years of

religious and cultural traditions.

I've had a table since my first apartment. It

started out as trash on the side of the road, until

my dad and I found it and sawed the legs to make it

a coffee table. Some years later, I painted it with

chalkboard paint and began carving things into it

with a linoleum knife. One night, shortly after

Hooper abandoned his Republican hookers in

Washington, D.C., while he was crashing on my

couch, he drunkenly carved a phrase with his knife.

This is how I know that we went through the

same struggle. On my way home, I couldn't think

about anything else. It took a year's time to

[323]

understand what he had meant. It was the only

phrase on my mind. A new mantra for a new

generation:

And so are we all, friends,

so are we all.

[324]

After stories have been told,

and the actors all grown old,

so do we, too, wither away

with wisdom learned on the road.

May those with the light

shine brighter than the sun,

and those with darkness hide

in shadows whence they come.

Precious children of Earth,

the ever aloof and mislead.

We, ever inquisitive

with thoughts inside our heads.

We are the music makers,

the movers and shakers,

creators and destroyers of worlds,

pinions driving the gears of time.

[325]

And I, dearest friends,

I am the vagabond.

He who sought, and found,

that he was both wolf and lamb.

The Beginning

[326]

Zachary Kyle Elmblad

Zach got off the road at the end of 2010, and began keeping a long

list of actionable items which included writing and finishing this book. For all

intents and purposes, the stories are true. Some sections are exaggerated for

dramatic effect, leaving it up to the reader to decide what was real and what

was only 'a dream.' Think critically about what you want to do with your life.

You only get one chance, so you might as well shoot for prolonged and

exciting experiences that make the journey worthwhile. Be ready for what's

coming next, and want it. Even if you're not sure what it is.

[327]