III: BACK IN THE SADDLE

FLOATING AWAY

     NORMAN, OKLAHOMA

     JUNE 23RD, 2022

     We drove over to Isaac’s, expecting him to be waiting on us, but when his roommate let us in, it was clear he wasn’t ready. He was dressed and had everything he needed, but he was sitting on his couch sipping some kind of viscous purple concoction. When he offered us some, we had no choice but to accept. He poured me a glass and we kind of just waited around until, seemingly, he was mentally prepared.

     After a long wait and a smoothie, Sam and I drove to the gas station for cigarettes and Isaac insisted we stop into the coffee shop he worked at. I begrudgingly relented and he sipped coffee and chatted up the barista. I was starting to lose my patience. For the past week I’ve been desperately trying to get back on the road and now that the lights were green, I was ITCHING to step on the pedal.

     But no. Any regard for a timetable had been thrown out and I was now forced to embrace a lackadaisical pace to our destination. After what felt like half-an-hour, we were piling into the car again. I had a can opener in my back pocket after realizing that I had forgotten to pack it the day before.

     “Tate, why is there a can opener in your back pocket?”

     “Just in case I need to open up a can of whoop-ass on someone and it’s not a pull-tab.”

     Finally, we were on. I sat at the controls and I was finally home again. I chose the road we took and I decided how fast we would get there. It was my music and my volume, and no one complained. I’m finally here, back where I belong.

     Everything goes back to normal for awhile, but it only stays that way for so long. Life is chaos if you let yourself get wrapped up in it. What was my other option this summer? Work? Sweat my ass off? Get drunk and heartachey because my new romance had gone away? There’s so many better ways to spend time and money. Spend it while you’ve got it, because there’s no guarantee it’ll stay around long. And spend it getting what you WANT. If you want to stay home and piss and moan because you’re so bored it hurts, go for it. But that’s not my idea of a good time. I want to get out. See the world. Get up to drunken hijinx all across the United States with all my friends. And I couldn’t bring them all along for the next leg, but I can take them as far as they’re willing to go.

     We were headed for Tahlequah; Savannah’s home town. I reached out to her mother to ask if I could buy her and Savannah’s sister dinner before I took off. She still hadn’t replied, but I’d built it into my itinerary, so there was kind of a rush to get to the river, float it, then be back to town in time for dinner. So far, nothing was going according to plan and it was only getting worse.

     I took the wrong exit. I’d only been here once before to visit Savannah before she left, so I wasn’t really familiar with the area. Trying to find a place to turn around, we drove parallel to the Arkansas River. We took the off ramp and had a choice: turn left and go back towards the highway leading to Tahlequah, or turn right and see the USS Batfish. I had the book under my seat, but we didn’t have a lot of time on our hands. It was so far up and obscured by trees that I couldn’t even catch a glimpse. We got off the toll road and headed towards the general store and a waiting Tanner.

     Inside, Sam and Tanner loaded up on wine. Isaac loaded up on food. But I was still debating wether we should buy a big raft we could all fit in, or small individual tubes that we could float down alone. We favored the latter. I got a camouflage one as well as a pump to save our cigarette-weary lungs. Sam changed into his trunks in the bathroom, but I had been wearing mine under my jeans all along.

     We piled into my car and we were off. It was a bit of a drive to the countryside, and once we were there I asked if someone could pull up directions to a river launch point. We were so far out that only one of us had service, and it was spotty at best. We flew down an ill-maintained country road, slamming the full weight of the car down onto the asphalt as we drove over hills. We turned around and finally found different businesses that rented rafts and kayaks to other floaters. It was too late in the day and we had already spent the money, so we would have to find our own spot. There was no way they’d let us launch for free off of their docks.

     We found a picnic area with a boat ramp. It had direct access to the river, which was all we were looking for. I followed the river on the map, and the next place we could get off was the Todd Public Access Area. We could float all the way back down to the highway, but that was still to be decided.

     We rushed back to the store to drop Tanner off at his car, then had him follow us to No Head Hollow. Our plan was to park one car at the in-point, then park another car at the out-point so we wouldn’t have to hitch-hike back. We were still trying to decide where we should get off at, but none of us had ever floated the river before and we had no clue how long it would take.

     “Let’s ask those fishermen down by the ramp, they’d know.” Sam said. Tanner and I followed him down as Isaac started unloading our supplies.

     “To float to Todd is about two hours.”

     “Two hours?” I asked, incredulous.

     “River moves pretty slow. Once you’re in, you ain’t gettin’ out for awhile.”

     “What about back to the highway? How long would that take?” Sam asked.

     “Oh, tha’d take you about four.”

     Twice the time. We walked back up the ramp and debated our next move.

     “I think we should stop off at Todd. If it takes a little longer than two hours, we still have a bit of time. If we try to make it all the way to the highway, we could be here until after dark.” I offered.

     “Maybe we should do the short float first, then do a longer float next time, when we have all day.” Sam said.

     Tanner agreed and we met Isaac back at the cars.

     “How long is it gonna take?” Isaac asked.

     “Two hours to Todd. Longer to the highway. We’re probably gonna stop at Todd. So, if someone wants to follow me to the Todd area, I’ll park my car there, then I’ll ride back with you and we’ll get this float trip moving.”

     “Yeah, I’m probably not gonna go.”

     We all looked at Isaac, dumbfounded.

     “That’s a long time, and I don’t want to be that far away from everything.”

     It was a concern I had shared too, but I knew that if I didn’t go, I would regret it. Especially if everyone else is having fun upstream, meanwhile, I’m sitting at some campground just waiting. But for Isaac, waiting is enough.

     We gave the tubes and the pump, and the wines, to Sam and Tanner, then Isaac followed me in Tanner’s car to the “All American Floats” overflow parking lot. I changed out of my boots and into those horrible boat shoes that I had come to rely on after LA. I hid my phone, keys, and wallet in the glovebox, then locked the car and hopped in with Isaac.

     “Really, will you be alright for two hours by yourself?”

     “Yeah, I brought a book with me. And if I get bored, I can always go back into town.”

     “Until you have to come get us.”

     “Right, right.”

     He dropped me off at No Head Hollow. Sam and Tanner had already killed both bottles of wine and it showed. But the tubes were blown up, so who cares?

     “Good lord, did you save any for me?”

     “A little bit. But you’d better drink it now because we can’t bring glass into the river. Only plastic.”

     I emptied a bottle of water and carefully poured the remaining wine in. I took a big sip and Sam burst out laughing.

     “Man, I’m sorry, but that looks straight up like piss.”

     I looked at the bottle and sure enough, the cheap yellow wine looked like dehydrated urine.

     “Well, I sure hope the two don’t taste the same. ‘Cause this is great!”

     With two of us drunk and one of us on the way, we were ready to start. I carried my tube down with nothing more than a can of spray sunscreen, a half bottle of cheap wine, and a canteen. This was enough. We awkwardly tried to fit into our tubes, first standing in the center, then inevitably falling backwards then rolling over on to our stomachs. Sam and Tanner launched and tried to avoid the fishermen’s lines. There was no easy way to do it. I sat the tube in the water and jumped in ass-first. I had just enough force to barely clear the lines, then paddled like hell to catch up with Sam and Tanner.

     Once I made it, we let out a few celebratory whoops and drank more wine. The water underneath us was moving surprisingly fast. I didn’t know its depth, but it was dark enough that I couldn’t see the bottom. The sky above was like blue marble with streaks of white that had a green stubble growing around its edges. I looked at a familiar cliff and recognized it from the last day Savannah and I had spent together before she left for New Mexico: We hiked through the woods to a piece of land that jutted out beyond the trees. I tried to see if any of the rocks I threw would make it into the river while she just watched me. I could still see our figures up there as I basked in the sunny memory. Until Sam pointed out a crane that had flown low over the water and into a nest on the shore. We watched the bird for a minute until I became conscious of a long overdue need.

     “Guys, I hate to be inconvenient, but I gotta pee!” I hollered.

     “Just go in the wine bottle. It already looks like piss!” Sam hollered back.

     “Yeah, but then Tanner would drink it!”

     “Just piss in the river!” Tanner suggested.

     “And get germs up there!? No way!”

     “Yeah, Tate’s got it hard enough! Trying to sleep with prostitutes and all!” Sam yelled.

     We all laughed and paddled furiously for a little island at a bend. I beached my tube and carefully navigated the rocks to to lone bush in the center. Once done, I returned to my tube and we all cast off again. Up ahead, the water rushed over a drop off. We all hyped ourselves up for what we thought would be a rollercoaster, sending us floating down at high speed.

     “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!”

     “Here it comes! Get ready!”

     The water did pick up speed, but not at a significant pace. We treated it just the same as if it had been what we had expected. We spun around and floated rapidly by until the water leveled off and we were moving slowly again. And by that time the laughter had died down, but there was still a positive energy in each tube. Though we had recognized one problem already: the tubes had a tendency to drift pretty far apart.

     We all linked up and tied the line from my tube to Sam’s tube, then from Sam to Tanner. Now we had another problem, the tubes would spin around and the lines would become tangled. But this was preferable to the previous problem. But up ahead lay another obstacle: a tree branch was jutting out of the water, threatening to pop our tubes. We hollered and panickedly tried to paddle away, barely missing it. The river opened up and it was a straight shot to a bend in the distance. It gave us all a chance to lean our heads back and relax. The wine was almost gone. I’d just put on another coat of sunscreen. We were floating towards paradise.

     Getting into the water, I was starting to share Isaac’s fears. What happens if one of us gets hurt? We can’t call for help. We don’t know where we are. We don’t have anything to facilitate an overnight stay. So what could we do?

     Nothing. As soon as I looked back and saw the fishermen were beyond sight, I accepted that there was nothing I could do but enjoy myself. This was the true start of the second leg of the road trip. Sure, I’d be moving away from the familiar and towards the unknown, harboring an uncomfortability in being “away,” but there’s a certain fascination as well. New sights. New experiences. You can’t get them from your couch, but you can be just as comfortable.

     We blissfully floated down, cracking jokes and poking fun at each other. On a bank to our right was an expensive looking camping setup: A lifted Dodge truck with a tent, grill, canopy, the works. Some other wanderer seeking reprieve from the loud and monotonous machinery of the grinding city life.

     “You think them people in that tent are fuckin’?” someone asked.

     “Oh, they’re definitely fuckin’” Tanner replied.

     If I had a setup like that, I’d probably be doing the same thing. But all I had right now was an inflatable tube that took me slowly through the scenic route of Cherokee County. We were rounding a curve underneath a tall stone cliff. The different layers stuck out like plates stacked haphazardly on top of each other, going from gray to white to tan to orange to black on the very top from where water would pour over during the rain. Trees and bushes framed the cliff face, and amateur graffiti artists spraypainted their initials in daring places for all to see on the rocks. The cliffs gave way to a steep grade of trees and bushes shortly after the curve. We followed the water down the straightaway, doing our best to avoid the tree limbs sticking out from under and reaching over the water. The second curve had come up, this one much less dramatic than the last, and we launched into another long, slow straightaway. The water was so shallow in some points that the bottom of my trunks would drag against the smooth rocks before the whole tube grounded itself. I’d have to pick the tube up, then walk to a place deep enough to sit in again before the water became deeper once more. But the flow didn’t pick up. We were still drifting slow and I began to wonder about the time. How long had we been out here? How much longer till the end? I couldn’t embrace the drunken bliss of the ride the way Sam and Tanner were. I kept anticipating the next thing. The next destination. The next move.

     We had untied ourselves from each other awhile ago. I leaned over and paddled furiously, not stopping until Sam and Tanner were nearly out of sight and I was alone. I didn’t feel like I had gotten much further. This isn’t the road. I can’t speed up to 78 when I want to get there as quickly as possible. I can’t choose a more efficient route or fight my way through traffic. I was at the mercy of the Illinois, and I would go as fast as it would let me, and I would go only where it would take me. But the resignment is a good thing. I don’t have any gauges to monitor. I don’t have to stop for gas every three hundred miles. No windows to roll down, no A/C to turn on. Just the tube under my trunks, the shirt on my back, and the shoes on my feet. Not a damned thing else to manage.

     I leaned back and looked at the sky. It was another bright Oklahoma day. Scattered clouds here and there, but none threatening rain, and none moving to block the sun. Sam and Tanner caught up. There was nothing more to talk about, but there was a lot to see. The green water beneath us, the vibrant trees around us, the beaches of white rock on the edges of the water. We navigated narrow points where the water sped up, but at most we got launched a few feet before being brought back into the usual lazy pace of the carefree river. Through the trees, three vultures circled overhead. Something must be dead nearby. Or near dead. On our left, we passed a fallen tree with five or so vultures perched on the jagged, bare branches. One of the foul creatures spread his wings, his feathers like crooked fingers reaching reaching outwards and inviting us in.

     “They’re coming for you Tate.”

     “I don’t think there’s enough of me for them all to share. They might get a bite each, but that’s it!”

     We floated past the buzzards and I glanced back to make sure none were interested. Then we easily cruised through a few more choke points before hitting a small stretch with a short cliff to the left. I recognized the concrete blocks at the top.

     “Look alive, y’all! This is where we get off!”

     We all paddled towards a break in the cliff at the near end of the campgrounds, then walked up to meet Isaac. He was laying on his back reading from his phone, looking just as relaxed as Sam and Tanner had during the float. I asked how long it had been and Isaac told us we’d be on the water for about three hours.

     Three hours. It felt much longer during the journey, but at the end only felt like a few minutes. But with three hours down and only so many to fit dinner in, I was in a rush to get back to my car and back into town. 

     We neglected to bring towels, so I wiped the water off of myself the best I could, then rode with Tanner to my car. The drive was short, but I was eager to see what Savannah’s mom had said while we were out. I unlocked the driver door using the keypad, then immediately checked my phone. She was busy that afternoon. I was relieved that they hadn’t been waiting on me, but also a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be seeing them. Tanner pulled away and I began the drive back to the Todd Public Access Area.

     Just off Highway 62 I ran into two guys carrying fishing poles. I pulled up alongside and hollered out the window.

     “Hey, y’all need a ride?”

     The boys looked at each other and shrugged.

     “We’ll take one, sure.”

     They introduced themselves and I forgot their names immediately. They told me about the curve where a group of teens had gone off and gotten killed and about all the fish they were going to catch that afternoon. I pulled into the Todd access area and told them,

     “This is as far as I can take you.”

     They hopped out, thanked me for the ride and offered me a pipe. I politely declined, remembering last week’s calamity, but Sam and Tanner obliged without second thought. The boys walked away and down the road while I slipped into the sheetmetal hut to change into dry clothes. I emerged as the other guys were loading up the deflated tubes.

     By now we had settled into a sanguine kind of ecstasy. The kind I’d imagine you can only get from morphine or some other medical grade narcotic. But we didn’t need medicine. All we needed was a bottle of wine and the great outdoors. The sun was racing towards the western horizon and it was getting to be time to go.

     I told Tanner how to get to the pizza joint on the main drag. They loaded up their car while I peeled out onto the road leading to the highway. The windows were down and the music was up. I punched the gas just to hear the noise of the modified exhaust. Shaded by leaves, the road was cool and the air was pleasant. Breathe it in. Light a cigarette. This is alright.

     I pulled into a parking space in the plaza nearby. I got a table outside of the restaurant and waited on the guys, ensuring they’d have a tall glass of cool water waiting for them. When they joined me, it became obvious how beat we were. All of us were tired. Not an exhausted tired, but a satisfied tired. A kind of tired earned through achievement. And maybe we hadn’t achieved much, but to us it felt more substantial. We got out there late, lost a member of our party, and were in a rush to get out. But we still made it happen. And that kind of determination is key to a road trip. No matter the obstacle, no matter the delay, find a way to DO IT. Get what you want, and get it while you can, because this era of carefree youthfulness won’t last forever. So it’s best to do it before it’s too late.

     Not long after they arrived, the plates were clean and the glasses were empty. It was time to go. The walk to my car was quiet. I looked at the dimming western horizon, then back to the guys.

     “Well, I guess this is where we part ways.”

     Tanner and Isaac fist-bumped me and said how good it was hanging out today. Sam hugged me and told me: “take care of yourself, brother.”

     “I’ll do my best.”

     For finally being back on the road, it was a bit of a sad moment. Yes, I’d be rolling across the United States again, just like the week before last. But this time, I was doing it alone. No Sam to analyze the American Real on the miles between here and there. No Isaac to give his random thoughts from the backseat. No Tanner to drink wine and laugh with.

     “Just you and me now, Tucker.”

     All I had was myself and the little plastic sea turtle. I honked at the guys while rolling past them on the way out of town, heading the opposite direction of Norman. I put some music on, but the silence was deafening. It was downright lonely. I drove into the woods on the way to Westville as darkness took over. Crooked trees lined winding turns up and down steep grades. No starlight through the canopy. Just the occasional pair of eyes in the woods and the rare set of headlights in the opposite lane. Siri’s directions ate up my phone’s battery. And once it got to twenty percent, I decided to plug it in. Glancing down a few miles later to see how much farther it was to Westville, I noticed that my phone hadn’t been charging at all. I wiggled the end of the cord leading to my phone, then the end leading into the USB adapter, then pulled the whole adapter and plugged it back in. All the while holding the wheel steady through tight curves and winding straightaways. Still nothing.

     Shit.

     What happens if I hit a deer out here? I can’t call for anyone. I just have to wait until someone finds me, if they ever find me. My car could go off the cliff to my right and disappear into the valley. They’d NEVER find me then! Maybe this is irrational. If I can get to the Casey’s in Westville, I can buy a new phone cord and hope for the best. And if that doesn’t work, then I don’t know what I’ll do. What else could it be?

     I thought back to when I was cleaning the car for this leg of the trip. I stuck a screwdriver into the cigarette lighter socket to hopefully loosen up some of the tobacco flakes that had fallen in after getting stuck on the coils of the lighter. Sparks flew and I heard a pop, but didn’t think much of it. I knew it had gone out when I tried to light a cigarette, but never considered that the cigarette lighter and the accessory port are on the same fuse.

     The road straightened up and flattened out, taking me right to a gas station. I crawled onto the floor and pulled the blown fuse by flashlight. From a kit full of spares in the glovebox, I shoved a new fuse into the socket and heard my phone buzz. It had worked! I pushed the cigarette lighter in and waited for it to spring back out. A few seconds later, it popped back out with a “PING!” Everything worked! I had diagnosed and finished my first repair of this trip on the very first night! I felt a lot more confident in myself after that. Luckily, the issue was as simple as a fuse, but I felt that I could handle anything that came my way. Anything minor like this, at least.

     I didn’t need the directions anymore. I knew where I was going. I had been coming to Westville at least twice a year since 2017, and knew the road to Sam’s land like my own neighborhood. I pulled into the tall grass on the side of the road and got ready for the night. I ran into the woods to piss, then washed my hands, changed out of my contacts, and brushed my teeth. I cracked the windows and tried to sleep. It was hot and humid, just like any other summer night in Oklahoma. Mayflies flew through the window and buzzed around the windshield, looking desperately for escape.

     I was back on the move, looking desperately for escape.

PARADISE CITY

     WESTVILLE, OKLAHOMA

     JUNE 24TH, 2022

     Dawn crept up behind me and poured refreshingly cool air into the car: a pleasant improvement from last night. With light on the horizon, the first day of the second leg had finally begun. I grabbed my medicine box off the dashboard and took inventory of everything inside: Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Deodorant. Glasses case. There were also some loose ear swabs that shook themselves to the bottom that I’d never use.

     I swapped back into my contacts, then brushed my teeth. After that, breakfast. All I had was a few packages of fruit snacks left over from the first leg, but it was better than nothing.

     I turned the key forward and the engine roared to life. The idle leveled off and I completely neglected the morning maintenance routine. It was too cold and I was ready to get on with getting on the road anyway.

     I jacked it into drive and lit the day’s first cigarette. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” commenced the first leg. It would now commence the second.

     First stop: Casey’s. No pump would take my card, so I had to wait in line forever behind some lady who just wouldn’t shut up. When she finally left, I stepped forward with card in hand.

     “Fill ‘er up on eight please… And, hey, there’s something wrong with your pumps.”

     There’s no thing more detestable than having to step foot inside a gas station. Inevitably, there’ll be a line. Which will take valuable time away from driving. Secondly, you’re bound to meet some freaks inside. The cashiers especially.

     Back on, I called my biological father’s wife. The reception was spotty as I rounded the hills of Adair county. I tried to explain to her that I was leaving today and to expect me as soon as tomorrow. She said it would be no issue, but her and my adopted sister would be out of town. It would just be me, and my dad.

     I was too thrilled to be moving again to care. But the potential awkwardness lingered in my mind… I didn’t really talk to him until I met him at eighteen. His family had invited me every other year after that, but we never quite clicked. I never understood him, but I was interested in unlocking the mystery. Maybe this time would be different than the last, and we’d hang out the way “fathers” and “sons” do, but the more time we’d spent together, the more I was aware how different I was from him. Maybe this visit will be different, but I won’t know for another day. I crossed into Arkansas and saw a rest area lot just over the state line.

     “Oh, motherfu-” No, no. Don’t get mad. The middle of the woods is a much safer place to be than a brightly lit parking lot in Siloam Springs. In Arkansas, no less. And it was probably cooler in the hills than it was on the concrete.

     I pushed up the road until the territory was completely unfamiliar. Brand new. The two lane highway took me through a picturesque little town. I admired its main street on this bustling Friday morning, then wondered if the people in Arkansas were as racist as the rest of the states made them out to be. Are the smiling faces driving to work secretly members of the KKK? Outward members of the KKK? Was this a sundown town?

     I sped out as quickly as I could, tailing a slow-moving tanker truck. It forced me to drive the speed limit, to take in the foreign scenery. With a newfound clarity, I started to understand why the people I had met from this gorgeous state held it so close to heart. If only they were willing to share it.

     Out of Arkansas and into Missouri, I quickly found the interstate. I passed sluggish semis on the shoulder of the on-ramp, and opened up to merge on to I-49.

     The roar of the engine sounded GOOOOOD. It hit better than the day’s first cigarette. And the day’s first cigarette always hits good. I’d been waiting all day for this kind of movement. The rear axle pushed me faster than the front end could steer, and pretty soon I was at speed. Seventy-eight miles per hour: good for gas mileage, easy on the engine. I sped through little podunk towns, passing trailer trucks and billboards. I saw one that said whatever town I was in was number two in meth use. I enthusiastically shook my upturned thumb at it.

     “Way to go! Number two! You’ll get that number one spot next year, just try a little harder!”

     Out of the villages and opportunistic, I turned off the interstate for the “George Washington Carver National Monument,” figuring it would be a statue, or a plaque, or a panoramic view of the forest.

     Rolling down a road simply labeled “V,” I followed the signs to a lackluster parking lot bordering a grassy field. What the hell is this? There were no statues, plaques, or anything. Just a parking lot near a meadow.

     I imagined it was the kind of place a whitebread dad who’d bought an RV during his midlife crisis brought his wife and kids. He’d been caught sexting the secretary at his office and pleaded with his wife to stay. “Think of the kids, Barbara!” So he took them to the cheapest attraction in the area and thought it was a worthwhile apology.

     Poor, horny bastard. Leave the kids behind! Drive that rig out to San Francisco and ditch it on the pier. Embrace your failing morals. Find a girl named Shannelle, she’ll take real good care of you, not that I would know…

     There were ominous white trucks labeled “PARK RANGER” at the welcome center and I immediately left. I didn’t feel like explaining why I had used this out-of-the-way tourist attraction to turn around. The reality is that I was disappointed by this so called “National Monument.” But I’d have hurt their feelings had I told them that. I sped away bummed, but I was back on the road.

     I pulled over at a gas station in Joplin to see what was in Kansas City. Mostly art museums and other “high culture” to be avoided by a working class hack like myself. There’s a few history museums, but that’s about it. I pushed the miles and opened up Snapchat. I reached out to friends for album suggestions, and the first reply was for Glass Animals’ “Dreamland.”

     Truthfully, it wasn’t great. Indiepop isn’t at all my thing, but it passed the time and I got to experience something new. There were one or two good tracks, but the album as a whole was diluted and forgettable.

     As I entered the suburbs of Kansas City, a light rain began to fall. Then it started to pour. Traffic was crawling forward, gawking at what had caused the slowdown: A minivan had spun out and crashed. It had only been raining for five minutes. Maybe it’s not just Okies who are sensitive to precipitation, but drivers in all of the midwest instead.

     The highway was hostile and made me nostalgic for Las Vegas and LA. I found my way to the Airline History Museum and shut the engine off for the first time in hours. The air suddenly became silent, but the soft pitter-patter of raindrops still prevailed.

     I found the entrance and paid the small fee of fifteen dollars for entry. The museum’s caretaker and tour guide led me to the entry of the exhibit; a small theater furnished with seats from a 1970’s airliner. The lights went down and the entire history of commercial aviation played out in front of me. Once the screening was over, I proceeded to the next room, which was mostly scale models, documents, pictures, uniforms, and artifacts from a bygone era of air travel. Into the hangar itself, the really fascinating stuff loomed before me. The centerpieces of the cavernous room were two mid-century commercial planes, parked nose to nose. Coming to the back of one, I ascended the rear staircase and inched through the passenger compartment.

     The plush seats sat empty with their clear dust covers. The curtains were drawn open. Every inch of the interior was spotless and well-preserved. Instead of the cramped row-seating we tolerate in today’s jets, there were individual compartments with four chairs surrounding a table. A mosaic map of the world sat above one in the back. To travel by air in the early days of the jet age was a privilege. Travelers would dress up for it. The entire plane was first class. Imagine sinking into a plush chair, sipping a martini, looking out the window and seeing the U.S. in its golden age. Homes were affordable, jobs were plentiful, and aside from the crushing anxiety of nuclear attack, life was easy. So long as you were white and male.

     In contrast, the cockpit was claustrophobic and ominous. A dimly lit mess of dials and switches. Deceptively simple, compared to a modern jet. A stark contrast to the bright and luxurious space behind me. This is where the laborers toiled away, sweating under the two fans, powerless against the heat. They flipped switches, adjusted the throttle, kept the wings level, as frantic eyes continuously scanned the dials that were spinning rapidly as the upper class in the main compartment raised their glasses and laughed carefree.

     Jets were, and perhaps still are, to some, the ultimate way to travel. But I’m glad I’d opted to see the United States from the ground. And there was still plenty left to see. Exiting the museum, I bought a postcard and spoke a bit with the man running it.

     “Look, I’m only gonna be in Kansas City for another hour. What’s the best museum to hit?”

     “Well… There’s art museums, and gardens. Do you like history? Are you a history buff?”

     “Only the interesting parts of history, sure.”

     “You gotta see the World War One Museum. It’s state of the art. The best there is!”

     “Alright… I probably couldn’t see it all in an hour, could I?”

     “Oh, you couldn’t see it all in a day! This thing is massive. And it covers EVERYTHING.”

     “Well… Suppose I have good reason to come back someday. Though, I’d like to get something to eat while I’m here. Is there a place you would recommend?”

     The man recommended a pizza place downtown. Taking a quick peek at the map, I could tell parking was going to be hell. I crossed back over the Missouri and set the Lincoln down in the first lot I could find. I had the space for two hours. I hid my cigarettes under the seat and started walking.

     A modern, glass-faced building stood adjacent to the lot I was in. Hoping to find food, I walked across the street and flanked around to the back side. There were a few people milling about, but for the most part, the sidewalks were empty. One man who looked like a younger version of “The Dude” stood under an awning. We exchanged “howdys” and I almost kept walking, but hesitated.

     “Hey, I hate to bother you, man. There any good place to eat around here?”

     The Dude cast a thoughtful glance off into the distance for a split second, then met my eyes again.

     “No.” he said flatly. His response caught me off guard and I let out an involuntary laugh.

     “There ain’t nothin’ around here worth eating?”

     “Well, I mean, like: What are you looking for? Do you want ramen? Diner food? Southern cookin’?”

     “What’s the local flavor? What does Kansas City taste like?”

     “Kansas City barbeque. For sure.”

     “I mean, really: is it any different from any other barbeque?”

     “Nah. I mean: how many different spins can you put on barbeque? You know? Like, it’s smoked meat and sauce. How do you fuck that up?”

     “That’s quite the point… Anyway, I’ll keep looking. Appreciate your time regardless. Take it easy, now.”

     “Take it easy, dude!”

     The man would have been a better fit at Venice Beach. And maybe he lived there once. But as is typical of almost all of the midwesterners I’ve encountered: they always find their way home.

     Coming to the front of the glass building, I found a food court and a gift shop. There were dozens of children wearing matching shirts forming lines at the counters of the fast food restaurants lining the court. A few obese midwesterners milled about and loitered at small tables. This was some sort of church-sponsored trip, no doubt. But to where? Surely they came for more than just a food court. Into the gift shop, there was a big arrow pointing down a staircase reading “MUSEUM.” The gift shop didn’t have much else to offer aside from overpriced home decor and little keychains with names on it, also overpriced. The museum was overpriced too, but my parking still had two hours and I’d much rather spend that time here rather than in a line for something I could get anywhere.

     I paid the man and descended the stairs. I was met with the bow of a steamboat. A giant wheel was turning behind it, powered by what looked like authentic machinery from the 19th century.

     This museum was showcasing a shipwreck they’d dug up from the bottom of the Missouri River. Fine china, clothes, boots, and all sorts of other things a team of archeologists had carefully restored for YEARS. Meanwhile, I was staring up at the turning of the big wheel, wondering if this was worth the fifteen dollars. To travel in the jet age means SPEED. From one destination directly to the next in a matter of hours. Back in the 1870’s a trip to the next state could take a day, weeks even. I was glad to have the Lincoln. I’m still at the mercy of a set route, but I don’t have to rely on the turning of a giant wheel to push me forward.

     I came out of the museum with a growing hunger and the new knowledge that over four hundred ships had wrecked in the Missouri River. Across the street was a greasy spoon and I figured it was going to be my best bet for good food. I sat alone at a table and watched the news. The rain would be letting up soon and the Supreme Court would be voting on overturning Roe V. Wade. A bunch of older cops and detectives crowded the bar. I watched them nudge each other in the ribs and laugh out loud. My burger came and I put it down as quickly as I could. As I paid, I asked my server if there was a good park nearby, one where I could read and spread out. She named a few places, but the more she talked, the less inclined I was to slow down. I’d sat still for long enough, it was time to move. After a quick drive through downtown Kansas City, with it’s narrow streets and tall buildings, it was time to get back on the road.

     Over a weird looking bridge that was probably an architectural feat, I was back out into the countryside. The clouds were clearing up, but traffic was just as bad as it was in the city. No, it was worse. I’d wait for a stream of cars to pass just to jack over to the left lane and pass whatever semi or slow moving truck I was stuck behind. Then I’d drift back into the right lane just to have to wait for another opportunity to pass another semi. The worst irony of it all was that I’d fought so hard to get ahead, and once I was finally clear of the semis and trailers and RVs, my tank was reading a quarter full. Damn.

     I stopped into a gas station and bitterly filled my tank. Some old man who was probably doing a tour of all the state’s golf courses pulled up in front of me and hopped out of his Dodge with a cigar in his mouth. I almost asked him to put it out, reminding him that this was a GAS station and GAS is FLAMMABLE, but by that point, I was hanging the nozzle back on the pump and reaching for my keys. Who gives a damn if he blows the whole place sky-high? Luckily, the album Colin suggested, Mother Earth’s Plantasia, was soothing. It settled me down enough to get me out of Missouri.

     Over the border into Iowa, I was headed for Des Moines. For no other reason than that Kerouac had mentioned it and Neal Cassidy said this is where all the pretty girls lived. Naturally, I had to see it.

     The sun was shining on the green, rolling pastures of the Iowa countryside. Big clouds moved listlessly overhead, but I miraculously never found myself in the shadow of one.

     I had finally reached city limits, but I didn’t know where to go. I pulled off the highway and called Savannah in a park by a lake. As it was ringing, I could only think of how nice it would be to take a dip in the water.

     When she picked up, she asked me if I saw the news.

     “No, what happened?”

     “They fucking re-banned abortion!”

     “What!? Those fucking fascists. We’ll get them for this.”

     “It was legal for over forty years! Why are they calling it into question now?”

     “It’s because of that one Christo-fascist, what’s-her-ass… I’m not blaming Bader-Ginsburg, but she picked a really inopportune time to die… Fuck!”

     We talked out our anger and what she’s been up to and what I’ve been up to and how I couldn’t buy her mom or sister dinner, but I saw two people she might’ve gone to highschool with, if only I could remember their names. We talked each other to exhaustion then I promised to call her as soon as I could, though it wouldn’t be for a few days. Maybe not until Denver.

     Back on the streets, I routed myself to a dive bar across town: the Fremont. I parked on the side of the building and looked at the time. Fuck, it’s six o’clock! Isn’t it a little to early for this sort of place? But time does not exist in the dive bar. It’s always midnight in a place like this, even if the sun is shining.

     I strolled up to the counter and plopped myself down on the seat. This place feels a lot like the Buccaneer, but darker. The bartender asked, “what’ll it be?” but the words came out slurred and smeared together. The man’s apparent drunkenness took me aback and I hesitated. He offered me a “pee bee and jay,” which is a tallboy of PBR and a shot of Jameson. I told him it was just what the doctor ordered.

     The shot went down quick and the beer chased lazily after. Talking with the bartender more, I found that he wasn’t drunk. This was just his demeanor. He’s been sober for two years. Two guys at the end of the bar wanted to talk and one of them whipped me in foosball. He offered to play again, but I said I couldn’t stand to lose any more than I already had. My drunk was peaking and I excused myself to a table to write in my journal about everything that had happened up to this point. Back at the bar, there was a lady two stools over. She looked like she used to be the hottest thing from whatever one-light town she grew up in, but she got tired and worn out somewhere along the way. And now she’s here hiding behind mirrored aviators. I don’t quite remember how I ended up in the barstool next to hers, or how I cracked her stone exterior, but I’d worked the conversation long enough that it was necessary to swap introductions. Her name was Darcy. I offered her a cigarette and invited her outside. She followed me and offered her vape. We talked about her truck and how I’d seen her pop the curb on my last smoke break, then she talked about everything that had happened in her life up until now. It was the typical country song sob story with the husband running off and leaving her with the kids, but I felt genuinely sympathetic with the way she told it. She said she was heading downtown to the beer tents, while I was heading to whatever other bar I could find. The bartender, Dale was throwing pop-its on the ground as I said goodbye and she promised to let me know the next time she was in Oklahoma. I walked back out to the car and wondered if she could find me a place to sleep tonight. But by her attitude, she’d be out much later than I was, so I forgot about the whole thing and drove to the next destination: Black Sheep. I had a hell of a time finding parking, but finally found a free space on the bridge over the Des Moines River. I went down a street bordered by what looked like old warehouses and machine shops. Am I in the right place? Across a muddy parking lot and around the corner, there was a black door covered in various stickers. Oh, yeah. I’m home. I descended the staircase into a dimly lit room bordered by old dark planks and chicken wire: the basement of a barn. I took my seat at the bar and ordered another tallboy. The bartenders were GORGEOUS. May it have been the truth, the influence of Kerouac, or just the PBR, the girls inside were so flawless I was almost ashamed to look at them. She’d ask me how I was doing and I’d turn my head and blush. The brunette was by far the best. Fit in all the right places with long brown hair and perfect red lips contrasting skin that was light but not without color. The blonde was a bit thinner, but a bit younger too. Still, her smile was warm and her blue eyes were as cool as the Pacific.

     I retreated back upstairs for a cigarette, encountering a well-dressed couple that seemed lost. They went through the black door, then re-emerged seconds later. I chuckled to myself and stubbed my Spirit against the bottom of my boot. Descending back into the darkness, I retook my stool and started chatting up the blonde. I asked her about the two crosses made out of a single tube of neon. She explained that it’s interpretive art. Some experiment by a guy back in the day to see how people found it. Any perversion of the cross is automatically Satanic, so people didn’t take it well. It had me fooled for a minute too. But no, this isn’t some sort of dungeon of sin or cult hangout. It’s an art experiment. And art was inscribed all over the bar.

     “What’s with all the carvings in the bar?”

     “We let people carve into the bar here. So long as it’s not anything inappropriate or racist, or, you know…”

     “No, yeah, I get the idea… Well, tell you what, let me find a bit of real estate and I’ll start carving my own design.”

     I moved to the opposite end of the bar, which felt much darker under the glow of a single red lamp. I took my keys out, favoring them over my switchblade, and started etching a design to be immortalized against all the beer and drunken heads that would inevitably come to rest on this bar. The blonde watched patiently until I was nearly finished.

     “What is that?”

     “It’s a broken hourglass.”

     “Why?”

     “Because time is running out.”

     “Interesting. What inspired this?”

     “It’s a bit of a long and heartachey story…”

     BECKHAM COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

     APRIL 5TH, 2022

     A bright orange sun begins to fall below the horizon. “Wicked Game” plays on the radio. Her body feels warm against mine. Savannah and I are parked on the side of a gravel road north of Carter. We’ve been dating for two weeks now. Not long, but our flame is burning bright. Brighter than any other flame before. The breeze has died and the country air is still, but my heart is about to jump out of my chest.

     She’s going away for the summer. We haven’t known each other long, but I’d hate to lose her so soon. And just like the sun creeping down, I can’t help but feel that our time is running out. Like an hourglass with a broken bottom. The sand just falls through.

     Isn’t that life? Each moment, no matter how significant or special, passes. Collecting nowhere. The moment will end and the next one will begin. But one day, there will be no more sand in the hourglass. So make the most of what you have while you have it. May it be something as long and complex as a weeks-long road trip, or something as simple and serene as a sunset.

     DES MOINES, IOWA

     JUNE 24TH, 2022

     The sun is well below the horizon now. After immortalizing my mark on the bar top, I spoke with a group of women regarding where to eat. They couldn’t tell me where to go, but they vehemently warned me to avoid Zombie Burger. And now I’m back on the streets. The place nearest by was a brewery. Surely they’d have something good.

     After a water and a short wait, I had a package of egg rolls to-go. I strolled nervously past the police station hoping they wouldn’t smell the beer on my breath that I was so desperately trying to cover up with my dinner. I plopped down into the front seat and bit into the first one. It was underwhelming. I stuffed it down, then set out for the next stop: a rest area along I-80. On the highway, my eyes were begging to close. Nothing is more exhausting than sitting on your ass and drinking beer.

     I washed my hands in the rest area bathroom, then retreated back to my car to take out my contacts and brush my teeth. I tried to suffer through another egg roll, but I couldn’t finish it. I hadn’t had a decent meal since Kansas City, but I wasn’t hungry. Come to think of it, I don’t think I was hungry when I ordered it. I was mad at myself for wasting money, but knew I had to put food on my stomach otherwise I’d wake up starving.

     I crawled into the backseat, reached up to lock the doors, then pulled the blanket folded in the back window over myself. I wrote in my journal by the light of my phone, then tucked my switchblade under my ribs and shut my eyes.

     I could hear gentle raindrops hitting the roof and windows as late night traffic sped by on the highway. It was soothing but melancholy. Just like the night before, I was all alone. It was just me out here. No company aside from Tucker. The cars parked next to me inevitably had sleeping passengers beyond their dark windows, but these people were strangers. All the people I had talked to today were strangers. I only remember two of their names. And tomorrow, after the sun rises, I’ll be headed to meet more strange people, in another strange place. 

STRANGER

     I-80 REST STOP, IOWA

     JUNE 25TH, 2022

     After waking up, I changed clothes in the rest stop bathroom. For the first time in about 33 hours, I peeled off my boots and changed my socks. Nothing feels quite as good as fresh socks. Especially after wearing a pair for so long that they’re flat and sweat-logged. I came back to put my contacts in, brush my teeth, and check off on the oil and coolant levels. After the first leg, this had become ritual.

     I ate a granola bar for breakfast, then lit up a cigarette. Onto the highway. Back on the road. Today’s destination was Chicago. How long I spent there was entirely up to me, but influenced by my second family’s timetable. I didn’t know when they’d be ready, so I had no idea how long I’d be in Chicago. I could stay all night if I wanted to, but I had to get there first.

     It was a straight shot east through the rainy countryside, just five hours. My friends were still sending me music, so it should move quickly. The first half of the drive was easy. I only had to stop for gas once, but aside from that, I was making good time. The second half was a slow drag. As soon as I crossed over the Mighty Mississippi, the great flow of water dividing East from West, Zoee recommended “Grief’s Infernal Flower.” A sludge album. And each song got slower, longer, and heavier. Out to the right was a field saturated by the relentless rain. I felt as if I were slogging through the mud of that field and not speeding down the highway. Up to my knees in dark, wet earth, pulling my Lincoln behind me. A bolt of lightning reached for the ground some miles off, and the rain seeping in through the pores of my skin replaced my blood as my life became nothing more than water and movement. Regardless of how miserable the miles became, I slogged on. Down soaked highway dividing open, muddy fields, which eventually gave way to the suburbs of Joliet, Grief’s Infernal Flower withered into silence.

     From the fog of Lake Michigan emerged the gray silhouette of the Chicago skyline. I raced towards it, assuming that’s where the fun was. I turned onto Lake Shore Drive and pulled into the first parking garage I could find. The Lincoln was still glistening with rain when I parked her. The rain had lightened up by the time I made it streetside.

     I didn’t know the first thing about Chicago. To my right was some kind of park, and to my left was an art museum. Beyond it, there was a sunken switchyard. I lit a cigarette and walked in the rain, taking in the heavy atmosphere of the city. Steam rose from vents as people hurried down glistening sidewalks and cars rushed past. You could hear car horns in the distance and the occasional rumbling of the train overhead. Everywhere you looked there was movement, every place you went, there was noise. This wasn’t like the wilds at all.

     Camping out that night in Arizona, I remember a distinct silence. The only noise was from a lone insect out off in the distance. But had it not been there, it would’ve been quiet enough to make my tinnitus act up. I was hyper-aware of my own isolation, aside from the bug and Sam. Way out here in the woods, it was only me. The only indication of other human life was the occasional rumble of truck tires on the road nearby. And now I was surrounded by human life. The whole city buzzed with activity. People flowed down the streets like rainwater in a gutter. They drove in honking taxis and rode in the “L” overhead. And above that, every window of every skyscraper had someone behind it, quietly working away while the rain fell softly.

     But now I was more alone than ever. No one knew me here. This wasn’t like Norman, where I ran the risk of running into an old classmate or friend every time I stepped out the door. This wasn’t Santa Fe, Vegas, or San Francisco. I had no party to meet and I had no friend to accompany me. I was alone. It was only me.

     The isolation was liberating. I didn’t have a place to be or a time to be there. I didn’t have to seek someone out, or follow someone, or lead anyone else. It was only me! But… Then again… It was only me. If I get lost, I’m the only one who knows my way back to the car. If I get hurt, I’m the only one who can help me. If I get sick, there’s no one who can carry me back and take me home.

     It was all overwhelming and my nerves were getting to me. I ducked into a fast food restaurant and ate my meal on the go, further losing myself in the massive city. How easy it could be to get lost here. Not in a physically disorienting sense, but in a much more personal sense. You could blend in with the crowds and disappear. No one would be able to find you and you could live out the rest of your life completely alone, surrounded by chaos and car horns. As I let myself be enveloped by the city, a man locked eyes with me and cried out:

     “Oooh-woo! I like that outfit, soldier!”

     “Thank ya!” I knew he was putting on the charm, but for what, I didn’t know just yet.

     “Where’ya from?”

     “From out in Oklahoma. Been around here long?”

     “All my life man. I’ll tell you what, I love people from the country. They’re always so kind.”

     “We try to be.”

     “Look, man, I hate to ask this, but could you buy me some Newports? I asked that couple there, but they just wouldn’t. Can you help me?”

     “Of course I can, give me just a minute and I’ll get you hooked up.” I walked into the convenience store figuring a pack of Newports was nine or ten bucks. My total came out to eighteen dollars, but I didn’t have any other choice. I’d never been in a situation like his, and I figured a pack of cigarettes would keep his spirits up for the rest of the day. I handed the man his Newports and talked to him a bit. He confided in me his real name and told me just how harsh the situation is for homeless folks up here.

     “And when the winter comes? People lose limbs. I’m serious! Fingers, toes, but nobody gives a damn about us! And what are we supposed to do? Where can we go? We can’t get out! There’s no escape!”

     “It sounds like a sorry situation, but I really should be getting on. Is there anything I should see while I’m here?”

     “Come back around here after dark. These two blocks go WILD! I’ll be here man, come see me!”

     Then he walked off into the midday chaos, never to be seen again. I found a bar on the corner to kill time in while I thought about what to do. I ordered a PBR and the frog of a man behind the counter handed me a bottle. What the fuck is this? PBR comes in cans where I’m from. It went down all the same, but it hit strangely. A pride parade passed by a few streets over. The other tourists turned their heads and gawked at the spectacle. I looked over for a bit, but couldn’t see anything with my limited view. I took another swig and the noise amplified. There’s something wrong with my drink. It was making me sickly and paranoid. I found my way into the bathroom and convinced myself that someone was going to crawl out from underneath the stall and do God-knows-what they do to Hayseeds in the big city. I pissed and washed my hands in record time. I was thankful I’d kept my switch closeby. I closed my tab and hit the streets yet again. This time in direction of a bookstore.

     A homeless man stopped me to show me a magic trick with two quarters. I don’t think he wanted any money, I think he just wanted to show me the trick he’d learned. Another old lady approached me for a cigarette. She asked if I had a dollar and I told her that if I found anything in the bookstore, I’d come out with some change for her. I descended the staircase with a mission. But in the low-ceilinged room I found none of the authors on my list. I emerged back out, but the lady was gone.

     Empty-handed, I was free to stroll around downtown Chicago. I took an elevated walkway to Pioneer Court, where an open plaza formed the foreboding front steps of a nondescript, looming building. To the left was an ornate art deco tower reaching up twenty or thirty floors. To the right, a modest, modern, single story Apple store. Glass walls surrounded it on all sides, giving it the illusion of being futuristic. Tables filled with expensive phones, watches, tablets, headphones, and other status-symbol accessories lined the shelves and tables in the sunken chamber below. The future lay buried in shades of white and black, in the shadows of the past, towering above in ornate facades of bronze and gold. I left them both behind and kept walking.

     I found my way back to the garage and found that I was parked underneath “Cloud Gate.” I retrieved my book from the car and sat on the ground, away from the crowds. I tried to read, but the crowd before me was too distracting. I couldn’t focus on anyone in particular. Everyone seemed interesting. Where had these tourists of the world come from? What are the locals doing here on a day like today? They were all taking pictures in front of the bean-shaped reflective mass. I knew I wasn’t any better and propped my phone against a fence to get a picture for myself. I returned to my spot to watch on as umbrellas and ballcaps bobbed towards the center of the installment, huddling underneath like a swarm of bees. Impossible to focus on anything that far out, so I started to look nearby.

     There was a woman in a headwrap sitting on a bench to my right. I was tempted to go over and talk to her. Not in a flirtatious sense, God knows I’ve learned my lesson there, but in a genuinely curious sense. What does she think of Chicago? Is she from here? Is she visiting? What does she want out of this place? But she had her nose in a book. The universal sign of “don’t bother me.” So I left her alone. The compulsion ate at me, but it was too late. She stood up and left.

     The rain started up again. I covered my book the best I could with my jacket and walked down into the garage. I helped a man selling chips move his cart in from the rain and thought about how disappointed I was to miss the opportunity for a Chicago dog. Darcy told me I had to get one, but as the skies darkened, the situation looked more and more bleak.

     I opened the trunk and took my green army jacket off. A toddler told me my car was cool, validating all the effort I’d put in to make her unique. I threw my book in the driver’s seat and slipped on my patch jacket. Coming back topside, there was a protest march across the street. With my updated threads, I stitched myself in at the back of their ranks and introduced myself to someone who looked like an organizer. We marched down to the park where the Pride festival was, then turned around and walked the other direction.

     The rain fell harder. The chants grew louder. My jacket began to soak through and my hair fell into my face. I could feel the water streaming down my cheeks, burning with resentment at the bike cops surrounding the march. Police vans blocked off streets as we crossed intersections. We didn’t need them. Why were they here? I let my anger out through my mouth, screaming “FUCK-YOU-SCOTUS!” when prompted, as well as “get in the streets, stay in the streets,” and “her body, her choice!” Well dressed tourists turned towards us. Some pulling their phones out and cheering. Others sneering. A kid with his head wrapped in green bandanas handed me the bullhorn. For the next three blocks, I screamed “RISE UP FOR ABORTION RIGHTS, FOR ABORTION RIGHTS RISE UP!”

     “Rise up!” the crowd would reply. I was honored that they’d let me, an outsider hold the bullhorn, but I don’t think it was on the merit of me being a fellow midwesterner as much as it was that I was just good at screaming. I screamed so much, I nearly lost my voice.

     The kid took the bullhorn back and we gathered at a plaza to listen to different speakers. Mostly old women who remembered when Roe V. Wade was first passed and younger girls who didn’t regret their abortions, but there was also a Ukrainian refugee who was stranded in Chicago after the war broke out. She said she felt bad for us and our draconian laws, which was especially embarrassing coming from someone whose country had been dragged into war by an ex-world power. To look at the barbarism and horror of the situation just east of Kiev, and say “I’m sorry that y’all also have it bad” is shameful. The extremists in the supreme court are no better than any of the fiends in Moscow, they just know how to wage war in a more dignified way, and who to target first. But I could take solace in the fact that I could be there to respond. There was an old punk in a patch jacket, a self-proclaimed “rockabilly greaser” that allegedly knew voudou who attached himself to me. We didn’t speak for long before I huddled around a group of more radical looking people. The people I knew would back me in a fight if it ever came to violence. And with how quickly our rights are being stripped away, it very well may.

     Another old lady spoke and started encouraging people to vote. A counterpoint from the audience was that we did vote. Yet we’re still getting fucked. The debate turned to argument and I turned to leave. I talked with one of the men on the way back to the park. He was an interesting fellow, a standup comedian. He said he’d seen these kinds of devolvements before and I was in awe of neoliberalism’s incompetence being a universal, but also discouraged because of the way neolibs poison the movements trying to fight against the system, rendering them ineffective and confused, turning them amongst themselves.

     By now the rain had cleared and the sun would be coming out for the day. I got the text and I was clear to leave for Indiana.

     I was in no rush to leave. My new friend unceremoniously turned for the “L” and I trudged back to my car. I pulled out of the garage and fought my way into traffic, being honked at by a speeding Honda. I flipped the bastard the bird and pulled onto Lake Shore Drive. Getting out of Illinois was a stop-and-go kind of hell. Once in Indiana, the traffic had cleared up, but I wasn’t moving any faster.

     I was secretly dreading Indiana. I didn’t know much about my biological father or his family beyond the fact that they were borderline religious extremists and conspiracy nuts. And with the religious/political climate right now, I couldn’t have come at a worse time. It was nothing but ironic that I’d be coming from an abortion rights protest. A sort of melancholy hung over me. I’d found a somber song to fall in love with and was listening to it on loop. Sure, I didn’t really understand or know these people, but maybe this visit would be different. Maybe I could learn something from “my old man.”

     But I knew better than to expect anything good or bad. This would simply be a family visit. Right? Once I’m on the other side of this door, we’ll see.

KOOL AID STAINS

     GOSHEN, INDIANA

     JUNE 27TH, 2022

     I checked off on the oil and water as my would-be parents watched helplessly. I tried not to act cold. I was more excited to be back on the move than anything else. I bid them farewell and depressed the cigarette lighter into its socket. Turning the corner, I was sucking in smoke like it was the only thing keeping me alive.

     I felt like screaming, but it would do me no good. Stressing out about it wasn’t going to help me either. Maybe the best course of action is to forget about the whole thing. Leave it behind…

     No. This is unavoidable. What the fuck? I just lost forty-eight hours listening to nonsense and nodding along complicitly. The vaccines, the transpocolypse, the satanic cabal. I hid my vaccination card in my toilet kit, feeling like a Jew carrying his yamaka in nazi Germany. I had to hide my nail polish too. I’d left my nails unpainted since Oklahoma, lest I be accused of being gay or something else.

     What a waste. Think of all the miles I could have covered over the past two days. Think of what a good time I would have had if I had just stayed in Chicago, witnessing the depravity and chaos of those two infamous blocks mentioned by the homeless man. But no, it’s too late. I’m on my way to see my grandmother in Michigan, then I’m heading to Denver to try and forget everything I had just heard.

     The first five minutes started out as awkward as any meeting with distant relatives does. “How are you? How was the drive? How is your girlfriend?” I’m great, it was long, and she’s fine. And then the conversation took a dark turn towards conspiracy theories and ancient biblical secrets. Fuck, this was about to end up just like the last visit. Inundated with useless ideas for hours on end, trying to stay awake and not wince at the proposterity of it all. And it was inescapable, so there was no use in resisting.

     The only way to engage with someone of this enlightened mindset is to encourage them. When they say the sky is green, ask them what shade. So I played the game, poking and prodding each theory, which would just open up another theory and so on until it all became so convoluted and hard to follow that I’d have to get a corkboard the size of a movie screen and two thousand yards of red yarn to keep track of everything.

     But while I was lost in this mix of delirium, I occasionally got to ask thoughtful questions about my biological father’s personal history, his life story, his childhood. And the answers were interesting, and provided some clues to his mystique , but they would always tie back to a prophecy that was spelled out on his first car’s license plate or the initials of his mom’s landlord.

     I think the most disappointing thing was that I never got asked any questions. Nobody knew that I toured a WWII liberty ship. Nobody cared that I slept in my car in Albuquerque. No one asked about the short film I shot in April. Everything had to focus on the great evil power that controls the world from the shadows.

     Why aren’t we talking about the evil powers that work in the light? There’s no need to create theories as to how the Combine is working against us with radio waves and chem trails, concealing their sins through lies and deception. They’re killing us in broad daylight! And they’re so bold and unstoppable that they don’t NEED to hide it because they’ve already cowed the American population into complicity. When SCOTUS revoked abortion rights, what did we do? We marched and we chanted and we fought each other but neither of us know what the solution is to keep them from stripping more rights away. One says voting, the other says violence. What have we tried? How has it worked? When do we say “enough is enough!” and lash out? And how many of us are willing to sacrifice ourselves before we get the change we need?

     Maybe there’s another solution. One that’s never been considered because it’s never been conceived. Someone somewhere is clued in on to what we should do. But it sure as hell isn’t me. I’m just counting the minutes until I let myself have another cigarette.

     I’ve been dosing them out at a half per hour. I finished my last at one thirty-six. And now it’s two twenty-nine. Just seven more minutes. Hang on, you’re almost there.

     I burned down country roads on the way to my grandma’s place. Inside her cool and sterile trailer, I felt a little more at home. She had all kinds of questions, but she didn’t know what to ask. I talked about myself the most I could, but I didn’t think her little heart could take some of the stories I’d made over the summer. Getting wasted in Vegas, accidentally soliciting a prostitute in San Fran. How do I give context to rescuing Jonathan from the strip club?

     She pointed at my “Lucky Strike” patch and asked me if I smoked. I sheepishly replied that I did while driving, to stay awake and stave off hunger. She related whole-heartedly. She said she’d buy the long ones so the smoke would last longer. But she’d only get so much of it because she’d talk so long, it would go out.

     We probably could have talked for the whole night, had I loosened up and let myself go on the way I usually do, and part of me wishes I did, but I’d been still for too long and it was time to get back on the road. I knew there was more to say, but I had a place I needed to be. She offered to let me stay the night and leave early in the morning, but I’d slept in a bed for the last two nights. I missed the backseat. I had to get back on. I had to GO.

     I pulled onto the highway and took off. Not long after getting on the highway, my stomach started to growl. The roadside sign said there was a “Big Boy” in Clio, and I’d never had it before, so why not? I took a seat in a booth and a high school-aged girl came by to take my order. There was an equally young lady working the register and I started to wonder if the whole restaurant was run by schoolgirls.

     “Do you know what you’d like to order?”

     I put on the thickest drawl I could muster.

     “Well, no. Look, I’m not really from around here. What’s popular? What’s the “thing” people come here for?”

     She recommended a cheeseburger that had nothing special about it aside from the “Famous Sauce” it came topped with. Trying the burger, the sauce wasn’t remarkable, but it was good enough I considered buying a bottle to bring with me. What I’d use it on, I had no clue. The waitress was quick and I was in and out in less than half an hour. Maybe I could’ve spent this time dining with Granny who kept offering to order a pizza or cook or anything to get me to stay. But my mind was still fried from Indiana. And the juxtaposition of her loving company just reminded me of how cold my second family’s house had been. I had to keep moving. Put some miles between it and myself and get away from all of THAT. Tomorrow I’ll be west of Indiana and inching closer towards Denver. I’m ready to see Savannah. But I’m not ready to talk to her. Not about THAT.

     I walked out with a full stomach and a big chocolate chip cookie wrapped in cellophane. I merged back onto the highway to an Ohio Express song and drove on for another two and a half hours. I set the brakes in a rest area near the border of Illinois and went through the motions of the new routine: wash up, take out contacts, brush teeth, journal, then stare at Savannah’s picture until my eyes would no longer stay open.

RIDE LIKE THE WIND

     WATERVLIET REST AREA, MICHIGAN

     JUNE 28TH, 2022

    After checking off on the oil and coolant, I lit a cigarette and nosed the Lincoln towards the on-ramp. “Eyes Like the Sky” was on the radio. The song opened up as I crawled through the rest area, and when the guitars kicked in and the song REALLY started, I put the pedal all the way down. I tore ass through the first of what would be a one thousand mile drive. A little over a thousand, actually. Skirting Chicago was no great hassle, but approaching the edge of Des Moines, the traffic became stop-go and my brakes took a lot of punishment rolling into town.

     Curiosity had gotten the better of me, and against the advice of the friends I had made the last time I was in town, I was compelled to try Zombie Burger. I found a parking garage and smoked a cigarette on the way to the restaurant. At the bar, I ordered a cheese croquette burger and a chocolate shake. They had an alcoholic version and I wanted a drink more than nothing else. Anything to get back to a sane headspace. Indiana was still too close.

     The server warned me to puncture the croquette with my fork, otherwise all the cheese with shoot into my mouth on the first bite. I avoided the nasty imagery and ate as quickly as I could. The burger wasn’t extraordinary, but my chocolate cake batter shake was worth the stop on its own. I sipped it and smoked as I strolled down the street, laughing about the “BUTTS FOREVER” graffiti I saw in the bathroom. The laughter stopped pretty abruptly when I saw a pool of oil near my driver-rear tire. Surely this was here before. I just backed into it and didn’t notice. I wiped my finger along the inside of the wheel well and examined. Wet. The acrid oil contaminated with black dust inched down toward my palm.

     “Fuck.”

     I wiped it on my jeans and thought for a minute. It’s just brake fluid. Worst case scenario, my rear brake goes out. Good thing I have three others. And the front ones do most of the braking anyway. I’ll keep an eye on the fluid until I get to Eugene. Once there, I can get it serviced and not have to pay for a hotel if the repair takes forever.

     How disappointing. These brakes have stood up to Las Vegas, LA, Frisco, and Chicago. But they couldn’t take the interstate outside of Des Moines. I paid for my parking and my stomach turned. Was it the situation at hand? Or were my friends right about Zombie Burger?

     I rolled back onto the highway to the tune of “I’m Not Your Stepping Stone.” I rode with Paul Revere and the Raiders, eventually switching to Strawberry Alarm Clock after stopping for gas in De Soto. The miles went by under clear skies and endless sunshine until the wind began to pick up near the border of Nebraska. I pulled in to a Casey’s to check on the brake fluid. It was a little low, but not worrisome. Yet.

     Lining up with the on-ramp, I looked out towards the horizon. A brown haze covered the distance between me and Omaha as the wind kicked up dust and grit into the air and across the windshield. I kept the windows up and the wheel straight. Everything in Indiana was behind me now. All that was over. My sweetheart would be meeting me in Colorado. I was driving towards now. Not away. The tires rolled rapidly as the miles ticked down. Every inch covered was an inch closer to being with her again. All I have to do is get there. Keep driving, and I’ll get there.

     Here I was, the modern day cowboy. Riding alone in his new black boots and his new black belt with rose buckle. Seated upon +210 horses condensed into a 4.6L V8 block. Its whinnies were growls. Its stomping was burning rubber. Its oats were hi-octane gasoline. Cigarettes at sunrise. A place in the shade at sunset. Just me, my car, and a switchblade. All alone, crossing the American countryside.

     I felt pretty damned in-tune, but what music could capture the desolation and heartache of rolling down I-80 in Nebraska? I found an indie country playlist and didn’t think much of it until hearing Tyler Childers’ “Nose On the Grindstone.” This song paired with Holy Moly’s “Cocaine” set a perfect tone for the soundtrack of the next four hellish hours. Each song I heard was about loves lost and loneliness and the more I heard, the worse I felt. But I couldn’t pull myself out of it. It was cathartic, in a way. But it made me confront a lot of feelings I had been trying desperately to avoid.

     No one rides alone. After a certain amount of time on your own, your ghosts will start to keep you company. They lounged in the passenger seat, sat in the middle seat, and crammed themselves into the backseat. In the cars that passed, they stared at me with heartbroken eyes from the windows and sat in the driver’s seats of the cars I passed. Seeing my own reflection in the rearview mirror, they stared back at me from my own pupils and once I heard their ghostly sobs from the A/C vents I knew it was too late. Even if I did change the music, I couldn’t change my thinking.

     I was haunted.

     The faces of lost romances moved past as if I was on a carousel of failure. There’s the first heart I ever broke. She hated me after I was seen with another girl after we went on a break. Then the woman who took my leaving with dignity after she adored me to no end. Then the heart I broke over and over and over for six years. Maybe when I see her in Oregon I’ll have a chance to apologize.

     The faces moved past in a blur at first. Then slowly enough that I could see their faces reflecting all that we shared. Some still smiling. Like the one who I thought I liked, but found I wasn’t ready. Or the other one, who found that SHE wasn’t ready. I’d lost two girlfriends with them, but made two friends. But then there’s one face, red lips twisted in agony and green eyes pouring tears. She wrote me a letter every month telling me how much I meant to her. I don’t even remember the words now. She gave her heart to me completely, but, just as with every lover, there was always someone else. Someone I already knew. Someone I wanted to know. What stories were lying behind the eyes of the girl in the big yellow dress? What secrets lived in the heart of the girl I met behind the bar? What was the girl who shared a cigarette with me hiding underneath all those clothes?

     A new story. A new body. And for years, I’d treated these girls’ hearts like a glass of whisky. Once I drank it all and knew the flavor, I’d toss it away, shattering it into a million pieces. Then I’d order the next one.

     How would Savannah be any different? Could I ever change my ways? She was meant to be sipped, not shot. Too much of her at one time was dangerous. Taking her slow, she went down smooth and sweet. But by the time I’d put the glass back on the bar, my lips craved more.

     But now I’ve fucked up and the bottom of the glass has little left but a taste inside. I’m going to tell her about San Francisco and it’s going to break her heart. And then her face would be among the others that lived behind my eyelids and I’d wake up hearing her cries fade into the night. No. Don’t ruin her birthday. Have the time of your life with her because you know time is almost up. The hourglass is almost out. You might as well take that last sip fast. This may very well be our last weekend together if I shatter her heart like I’ve done with all the ones before.

     But not ALL the ones before. I’ve had quite a few break up with ME. Like the one who told me flat out that she was going back to her ex, or the ones with enough dignity to tell me their honest feelings. But then there were the others who just vanished. Disappeared with the night wind, leaving me alone in the shadow of love, cast in shades of heartbreak.

     They were the ones who bothered me the most. It made me wonder if it was my fault. What was I doing wrong? How did I chase them off? But then again, it was only assumption that it was because of me. And it was only assumption that these girls bore any kind of scar I might have left on their hearts. They’re probably fine now. I can say they’re all the better off without me. But now, three years later, I can still hear the sobs of that one. And even to break one heart is a terrible thing. She’ll pick up the pieces and her heart will beat on, but it leaves me to wonder, how long did it take for her to recover?

     How long will it take me to recover? Savannah stands out like none of the girls before, and if she were to break my heart, it would be karma for every girl who came before her. Maybe it’s time to slow down. Time to straighten up. Time to end this cycle of ecstasy and misery for good and give my heart to someone who’ll trust me with theirs in return.

     But is she ready for that?

     We shared that time together in Santa Fe, but I never got a solid answer as to whether or not she was mine. And Sam was right; I should’ve found out whether or not I was hers before flirting with someone else. The whole situation is a mess and maybe that’s why I’m feeling so low.

     And I’d continue to feel low until another Tyler Childers song came on that picked my spirits up significantly: “Whitehouse Road.” When I first heard it, I played it on loop. I dragged down another half cigarette and forgot all about the girls I’d left behind. Sure, I felt bad, but it never stopped me completely. Here I am, chasing another heartache. I’ll break her heart and she’ll leave me, but I’m heading for it at top speed anyway. Maybe this is how life was meant to be lived. I’ll never get what I want, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t pursue it anyway.

     I’d had enough country. I changed the music back to a sixties playlist and took the exit for I-76. Over the border of Colorado and into the great brown nothing. Prairie grass, dirt, and telephone poles for miles, stretching all the way to the distant mountains. I took a call from Lydia and talked about some drama back in Norman. After that, the distance to Denver shrank with the falling sun. I stopped in Fort Morgan for gas at a little station right off the highway. There was a Taco Bell across the street and I started to wonder about dinner. I hadn’t eaten anything since Des Moines, aside from the occasional candy or pack of chips, but I wasn’t hungry. I had plenty of time to grab a meal: the sun had just now set and I was twenty minutes away from the nearest rest stop. Another hour and I can dine in Denver. I really should’ve eaten with Granny Anne. Now I don’t want to eat at all.

     The lights of the rest area came on and I did the normal end-of-day ritual, letting Savannah’s face be the last thing I see before closing my eyes for the night. I’ll be with her tomorrow. Just twenty more hours. How many of them will I spend asleep?

A MILE HIGH

     WIGGINS, COLORADO

     JUNE 29TH, 2022

     I was stirred out of my sleep by a chill in the air. It wasn’t what I would call “cold,” but it was enough to call for an extra layer. It was just after dawn, but the day had already started. I got myself ready, ate a can of cold peaches for breakfast, then jacked the car up to look at the leaking brake. The tire and wheel were absolutely soaked, along with the wheel well and the brake caliper. I inspected it thoroughly, but found no obvious cuts or breaks in the lines. The caliper didn’t seem to be leaking. Maybe this was just a one-time thing. Some old fluid thinned out and leaked past the piston. It’s an old car, it’s possible. It’s still worth having it checked out, but I think it can maintain until Eugene.

     I put the wheel back on and drove the remaining forty-five minutes to Denver. The road was open until I hit city limits. Bumper to bumper traffic inched forward at a snail’s pace. Glad to see nothing had changed since the last time I had driven through. I took my exit, then followed the convoluted route to my hotel.

     I thought I had booked a Holiday Inn near downtown. Looking up at the thirteen or so floors towering above me, I realized that I had mistakenly booked a room at the Hilton Garden Inn. I ignored my financial mistake and drove on. I passed a garage not far from the hotel. I thought it might be worth it to drop the car off and see if they could diagnose it, but with how long it takes to get parts, I could be stuck in Denver for over a week. And my hotel is only for two days. I’ll limp it to Eugene and get it fixed there. If the repair takes longer than I week I can probably bribe Lydia into letting me stay longer.

     I found hourly parking off Bannock Street behind the Denver Art Museum. I hid my things and covered my water jug to keep it cool. I grabbed my cigarettes, cracked the windows, and stepped out. I first started North. I passed an important looking building that seemed to be setting up a stage. I thought about asking one of the security guards what was going on, but thought better of voluntarily talking to the law. I kept walking and smoking until finding Larimer Street. It was blocked off from traffic and workers were setting up picnic tables outside for some event later today. All of the brick buildings were old and packed tightly together. Nothing reached above four floors. This was the old Denver that Kerouac had written about and Neal Cassidy yearned for.

     It was the only block of its kind left. The rest of Denver had become glass facades, parking lots, and high-rises. It wasn’t a complete urban hell though: I crossed over streetcar tracks on multiple streets and even without public transportation, I found it was easy to get everywhere by sidewalk. There were many plazas and green spaces scattered about, and I found one to rest in while I tried to find the bookstore/coffeeshop Savannah had mentioned. My phone was dying and I wasn’t having any luck finding anything. I walked back in the general direction of my car, but I was in no place to retrace my steps. I walked a narrow pedestrian lane to Broadway, then crossed Colfax into a big open park. Droves of homeless people loitered at the bus stop nearby. Others walked determinedly through the park. None of them came up to me for cigarettes or money like in Chicago.

     I finally found the lot my car was in and charged my phone while writing in my journal. It was starting to get hot. I sealed up the windows and ran the A/C. Once I had cooled off and my phone had enough charge, I grabbed “Desert Oracle” and headed for a breakfast joint.

     On the front steps, I found that it was closed. But another place down the street was open. I took my place at the bar and read silently while waiting on my breakfast burrito and sugar cookie. I listened to the conversation of the people next to me, and the shouted orders of the kitchen. My breakfast burrito finally came out and I could hardly finish it. Satisfied, I returned my book and half of the cookie to the car, then walked across the street to take a picture in front of “The Big Sweep.” I framed it the same way I did with Cloud Gate in Chicago. I still had four hours to kill, and the most notable attraction nearby was the History Colorado Center.

     I spent hours in there, but the time went by quickly. The first floor had an exhibit celebrating Colorado’s gay movements, detailing all the progress and setbacks the gay community had been experiencing since the fifties.

     Thank God so much has changed.

     Onto the second floor, I stepped into a mock-up town of an antique rural community, complete with schoolhouse, general store, and barn. The black Model T in the center of the room was fascinating. I climbed in and worked the clutch, gas, brake, steering wheel, handbrake, shifter, and anything else that moved in the jalopy’s interior.

     Compare it to the relative luxury of my Lincoln Town Car: There’s no A/C, high-beams, turn signals, radio, cruise control, cigarette lighter, airbag, power steering, power brakes, automatic transmission, anti-theft system, automatic windows, power-adjust mirrors, power-adjust seats, ECM, or any other expensive crap that will inevitably go out in a Model T.

     Whereas there’s thousands of dollars of planned obsolescence in the modern consumer vehicle.

     But my nineties luxury car does have one commonality with its ancient relative: and that’s the lack of anti-lock brakes. Anti-lock brakes had never even been heard of when the last of the Model Ts had rolled off the assembly line in 1927. But they had been around for almost twenty years when my Town Car was bought in the late nineties. Between then and now, one of the owners had cut the wires to the ABS module and left an annoying light on the dash. Along with a potential danger should I ever have to slam the brakes unexpectedly.

     The Model T, with a max speed of 45 miles per hour, probably wouldn’t have to utilize anti-lock brakes often. But with some interstate speeds reaching as high as eighty miles per hour, paired with declining driver intelligence, anti-lock brakes are a must today.

     I hopped out of the ancient jalopy and stepped into a mine. Silver, or coal. I don’t remember. It was claustrophobic and dark. I didn’t care much for mining.

     Emerging from the exit, there was a territorial fort to my left, then a green bunkhouse to my right. In the fort was the Sand Creek Massacre. In the bunkhouse was Japanese internment. I could have stayed in the dark of the cave. But stagnation gets you nowhere. Progress is necessary.

     Unfortunately, history isn’t pretty. But there’s plenty of ways to learn from it to ensure it doesn’t happen again. You can hold your breath and pinch your nose, but the fumes of injustice will burn your eyes all the same. I came out of both exhibits a little ashamed. Not for myself, of course: I had never massacred anyone, nor forced anyone into a camp. But I felt ashamed for my country. When the founding principles of this nation were established in the constitution, we had advertised ourselves as a bastion for democracy and freedom. It was hardly worth the paper it was drafted on. Slavery persisted for almost one hundred more years. Women’s suffrage for one hundred and fifty. The Civil Rights Act wasn’t passed until a year after my mother was born. I was almost old enough to vote when gay marriage was legalized!

     It’s been a slow crawl in the fight for freedom. And every inch was hard-earned. But with the overturning of Roe V. Wade, I wonder: are we backsliding?

     Will every success in the pursuit for liberty soon be reversed? If they came for Roe, what’s next? WHO’S next? Will gay marriage always be recognized? Will women always have the right to vote? Will immigrants always be eligible for U.S. citizenship? Will Black people stay free instead of slaves??

     Part of me thinks that the political atmosphere is in decline. The circus in Washington is run by corruption, greed. But then again, it’s always been this way. There’s always been shysters, hucksters, cheats, liars, con men, gluttons, and profiteers. And somehow, the worst of our society always finds its way into public office, like a snake burying itself under a rock: Much like these shameful animals want to bury the sins of the nation’s past.

     But the mistakes we’ve made as a nation are piled too high to count. We’ll never forget them. Nor will our victims. The only way to prevent repeating these mistakes is to learn from them. And a museum like this is the perfect place to do it: preserving our sins without glorifying them.

     The rest of the museum was less intense. I was particularly interested in the scale model of early Denver, and the 100 items of Colorado history. One of my final stops was an “immersive” dust bowl experience.

     I stepped into a mockup of a depression-era shack. A picture of FDR hung on the wall. A kerosine lamp sat on an antique table. The doors closed and I had the room to myself. A small window sat opposite me. A dim lightbulb hung overhead. Suddenly, the window got dark and the light started to flicker. It died with a static buzz as the floor started to vibrate.

     And then, all Hell broke loose.

     The ground shuttered and a deafening roar filled the silent room. Picture frames rattled against the walls. Dishes clattered in the sink. The wind howled and the ground quaked. It was easy to see how such a thing could make people think that it was the end of the world; Judgment Day. As a black cloud of dust descended on your community and blocked out the sun for hours at a time. Your nostrils would clog. Your throat would dry out. Dust and dirt would stick to your clothes and tear at your skin. You’d find a building to duck into, but it was little use. Dust would still find its way inside. You’d wait it out until the storm was over, but even then, the irritating dust hung around and threatened to get into your lungs, making you afraid to breathe.

     Recent history echoes with ancient history. Government incompetence leading to disaster. Too bad we never had an FDR to lead us out of COVID.

     The dust settled and a recording of a fireside chat played. The president hearing the cries of the working man, taking responsibility. Promising a solution. And for a brief, golden period in the United States, a president was good for more than just hot air.

     The door opened and I was back in the bleak despair of the modern age. The rest of my museum visit was quiet. Seemingly, the other patrons had disappeared. The summer sun beyond the giant windows had been dimmed by approaching clouds. The empty rooms echoed with my bootsteps and I felt a sense of urgency to leave. It can’t be that late, can it?

     It was nearing three o’clock. Almost time to check in.

     I had seen it all and done it all in the History Colorado Center, so I stepped back onto the gray streets of Denver, satisfied. A light rain had started up as I lit my half-cigarette. Just like in Chicago, I was smoking and wandering around a town where no one knew me and no one cared. But I had left that anxiety in Illinois and embraced the anonymity. Now it felt good to be alone. Though pretty soon I wouldn’t be. It was still early afternoon and Savannah wouldn’t be on her way for another hour. How would I pass the time?

     I walked to a nearby liquor store and browsed the selection. I didn’t recognize any of the rums, save for a comparatively inexpensive bottle of Kraken on the bottom shelf. I thought about picking up a case of PBR too, but felt that the rum would be plenty. I cradled the paper bag all the way to my car, then took the long way to the hotel.

     I was behind a line of cars that took forever to move forward. New Cadillacs and Lexuses. My Lincoln pulled up dripping brake fluid from the wheel well and missing a curb feeler. The dust and grit from the open plains of Nebraska clung to the white paint and the whitewalls had become gray with brake dust. I walked into the lobby in an equally desperate-looking condition. My army jacket was damp with rainwater and my black wifebeater was saturated with sweat and nicotine. My black jeans had ash stains at the pockets, but my boots were still shiny. The lady behind the counter couldn’t see them. She glared at me once and asked me my name.

     “Tate… Davis. I was told I could check in at three?”

     “Yes, we have a room ready for you… Room eleven-oh-three. Can I see your ID?”

     I handed her my driver’s license and my debit card. She read the charges and clarified that they wouldn’t go through until after my stay had concluded.

     “Is parking covered in those charges? I drove here and I’ve got a friend driving here. How much for two parking passes?”

     “I can find out for you. You’ll both need to display these to use the garage.”

     She handed me two little orange placards reading “PARKING PASS” that felt official as I hung it around the mirror, but really I think something this generic could get me anywhere. Eighty dollars to park in the hotel garage was robbery. This by far had been the most expensive part of this leg of the trip compared to sleeping for free all the nights previous. But, this is a special occasion and a good excuse to splurge. So I ignored the personal financial crisis that this hotel was going to cause and resigned myself to enjoying my stay.

     I idled up the drive and waited for a line of cars to clear out of the way before I could make the right turn up to the automatic gate. I stuck my keycard in the slot and waited. It flashed red. Shit, maybe the card hasn’t been activated yet. A big white Escalade boxed me in and now I was trapped. I had no choice but to keep trying the keycard. I’d put it in and the light would flash red. How much longer until the driver behind me starts to get impatient? He’ll start honking and I’ll fumble the card and have to ask a whole line of cars to back up so I can get out of the way. Ugh, again! Declined! What the fuck is wrong with this card anyway? They’ve sabotaged me and given me some kind of- oh, wait it’s upside down.

     The light flashed green and the gate rose to the ceiling. I pushed up the ramp and took the first spot I saw, backing in at the corner of the garage so I could pull forward, around the corner, and out the gate when it came time to leave. I stuffed the rum into my duffle bag and started for the elevator. I was joined by an older woman. I put on the twang and gave a friendly “Howdy.”

     “Hi.”

     “What brings y’all to Denver?”

     “I’m a nurse, I’m here for a conference.”

     “Far from home?”

     “I’m from Houston, so, kinda far. Where are you from?”

     “I’m from Norman, Oklahoma. You gonna have fun while you’re here?”

     “I don’t know. I just got out of the conference and I’m already tired.”

     She laughed and started to tell me about her life in Houston and how she didn’t know how people had time for anything other than work. I’d like to know too. The only reason I was able to take this vacation was because of time, money, and ability. I took a month-and-a-half long leave of absence from work because I had enough money: Unknowingly, I’d been saving for this trip for years. Ability was little more than a working vehicle with a backseat. It’s a place to stay and it’s a means to go. It was a long ride up, but I didn’t have enough time to tell her all this.

     I stepped off the elevator and my room was right there. Eleven-oh-three. I pressed my keycard into the slot, then pushed the handle down as the light turned green. Pushing open the door was like revealing Oz. A full bathroom, a big bed with SHEETS! Carpet, drapes, furniture. It felt foreign. I had spent the past two nights sleeping in the back seat, whereas this was another world.

     I threw my bag on the bed, placed my book on the nightstand, then walked around the room in a stupor, eating the rest of my stale sugar cookie from earlier. Out the window was another high-rise. And beyond that was the mountains. I still couldn’t believe that I would sleep in a bed again. A nice bed! I dug the room. This place was swank! Savannah was on her way by now, but wouldn’t be here for a few more hours. I stripped down and looked in the bathroom mirror. My face was red and my hair was messy. My arms had a sheen of sweat and grime. I was weather-worn and road beaten. I looked like shit.

     I stepped into the warm stream of water and let it soak me completely. I didn’t have my own soap, so I had to use the bar that the hotel provided, which tends to leave a sticky feeling on my skin, but it beats the dirt and sweat, and probably smelled better too. I wrung the cigarette smoke out of my hair and scrubbed the grime off my arms and chest. The last shower I took was two or three days ago. Nothing compared to the three days I went without before showering in Santa Fe. But this one was better, by far.

     Out of the shower with razor in hand, I went to work shaving away all the little hairs poking out of my neck and used a trimmer to manage my facial hair that had become scraggly and unruly. My hair was still wet, but my skin was shiny and clean. Savannah’s arrival was definitely going to be the highlight of the night, but there was another thing I had been craving since Indiana. I pulled the rum out of the bag and poured myself half a shot. I mixed it with sink water and sat at the desk with my journal, nail polish, and a paper ad I picked up a few hundred miles ago.

     I pressed the waxy paper cup to my lips, and: SANITY. REPRIEVE. I hadn’t had a drink since Chicago. I hadn’t been drunk since Des Moines. And after all the shit I’d heard in Indiana, this is just what the doctor had ordered. There’s a certain kind of pathetic drunk that you can only be when alone in a hotel room. And I embodied it fully. I sipped my rum and painted my nails for the first time in what felt like too long. I looked like myself. I was me again. Everything behind me was done with. From this point on, I was me.

     I put on the clothes for my date: black jeans and my western shirt with the roses, then went down to the car to charge my phone and smoke another cigarette. In the heat of the garage, I felt euphoric. I went back up to the room to kill the remaining hour or so by reading and journaling. The rum settled in nicely, but there was always a need for more. The cup never stayed empty and it never stayed full. I pulled a chair up to the window and put my boots up on the sill. I couldn’t see much of Denver aside from a few cranes and building tops, but the mountains in the background complemented the sky well. The white sun bashfully peeked out from behind different clouds as they lumbered past. I took the scene in and listened to more sad country, trying to ignore the echoes of Indiana and the lingering toil of I-80.

     Just after seven. She’s finally here. I took the elevator straight down. I buzzed with drunken nervousness and wondered what she would think of this penthouse I had gotten us on the top floor. Descending down and down and down, the elevator finally dinged and I went out to the street. I waved her down and hopped in. No time for greetings, this is how you get inside. I took her up to the room and our reunion felt similar to when we first saw each other in New Mexico. A few disorganized thoughts here and there, but the conversation was overall unproductive. She’d dyed her hair blue and got a tan. She made her skirt herself. Neither of us had been up to much, but both of us had seen more in the past two weeks than could be described without the proper tools. But I only had rum and she was a gin type of girl. She took a sip anyway and we talked a little more, edging closer and closer until we got down to what we had been working towards all along.

     “I’ve missed you…”

     “I’ve missed you too.”

     I leaned in and she took me by the lips.

     We put ourselves back together and took her car to the Crypt. I specifically asked that we take hers because of the mystery leak from my own. She gladly obliged and ferried me towards more liquor. More rum. Denver night air. The dimly lit chasm of a room was buzzing at a low frequency. Our drinks were in hand and we were LOOSE. I’m wearing eyeliner in public for the first time. I ignore the self-conscious feeling and go with it. “Bloodstains” came on. We sang together like we had the room to ourselves. We might have, actually. The conversation opened up slowly and we wandered outside for cigarettes. I left my Strikes in the car and all she had was some “nasty” menthols. Lydia called me and Savannah insisted I answer just to see how the cats were doing. Lydia was shocked that I was wearing eyeliner. She said I looked like someone else. I asked who it was and both girls seemed appalled at my ignorance. I don’t know who Girard Way is. I didn’t before and I sure as hell don’t now. The cigarette and the rum were working together exquisitely. Savannah went inside for another drink and I’d hung up by the time she got back. Some bastard in there flirted with her at the bar. We went back inside. More drinks. Too much liquid. I stepped into the bathroom and admired the graffiti. “GOD LOVES SLUTS.” There’s salvation for me afterall. I couldn’t tell her though. Not yet.

     I couldn’t see straight or stand still without weaving. This is a good time to cut myself off. I went to the bar and paid for the two or three or four tallboys I downed. When I returned to the table, some old creep was standing by Savannah. I sat down and stared at the man, waiting for him to get the message and fuck off. He was speaking slurred spanish to her. He turned to me and asked me something.

     “Que?”

     He repeated himself.

     “Yo no tengo español. Lo siento.”

     I reached across the table and took Savannah’s hand. The man still wouldn’t leave.

     Take. The fucking. Hint.

     He kept speaking nonsense. I felt in my pocket for my switchblade, just to feel the sense of security that it was there. The same way you’d do with your keys and phone and wallet before leaving the house. I edged the lock down, pulled it from my pocket, swung the blade out and pinned his hand to the table, all in one motion, watching the fingers reach outward from the palm and the blood trickle out of the bottom of the puncture.

     Wait. No I didn’t. But I badly wanted to. And maybe I should have. Instead, I tried something polite and nonviolent.

     “Can I get you a shot?”

     In clear english: “sure!”

     We walked to the bar and I tried to be quick. The sooner I can get this bastard away from her the better.

     “What do you like?”

     “Whiskey.”

     “Two shots of Jameson, please. Unless you have anything finer.”

     The bartender put two shots on the counter and brought forth a gin and tonic. I took the shot slowly and smiled at my new adversary. 

     He laughed and shook my hand. He squeezed the hell out of it. Was he trying to prove something? Or just drunk? This finally got the point across and he left to harass another young woman. Savannah and I retook our seats but didn’t sit long. Next thing I know, I’m in the passenger seat. Lights blaze out of the big plate glass windows of a 7-Eleven and the streetlights move above in a haze. I sit in silence and let go. Don’t worry about if we’re sober. Don’t worry about how she’s driving. Just enjoy the ride. She plays Depeche Mode.

     “I’m… taking a ride. With my best friend” from over the radio. It’s loud. She bumbles through the labyrinthian Denver streets. I’m rambling. She cuts me off:

     “...yeah, why did you buy that guy a shot?”

     “To get him to leave.”

     “How is buying him a shot going to get him to leave?”

     “I bought him a shot of Jameson, as well as one for myself. I wanted to show him that you were taken care of and that there’s nothing he could do for you that I wasn’t doing already… Unless you were wooed by his Spanish.”

     “No!” she burst out laughing. I continue rambling until we pull into the hotel parking garage. It’s completely full. We try another parking garage up the street and the situation isn’t looking good here either.

     “There’s one!” She slams the car into the spot and we’re back on our feet.

     “Alright, remember where this garage is, so we don’t wake up and spend half the day looking for it tomorrow.”

     We stumbled out and up the alley to the hotel. Back inside and it’s just us. Sleep came, but it had to wait.

HOME, AWAY FROM HOME

     DENVER, COLORADO

     JUNE 30TH, 2022

     The curtains were still drawn from the night before. Light escaped through the gaps, bringing just enough light to see by into the room. She was still fast asleep. Breathing heavy, but lying still. I was wide awake, but not ready to leave the warmth and safety of the blanket covering us. I put my arm around her and closed my eyes.

     I thought back to last night. Holding her just like this as we caught our breath. The dim, orange light of the nightstand lamp glowing like a candle, burning like a furnace. Outside, an azure sky of clouds and creeping stars cast all of downtown in shades of blue. A sea of people and cars moved as a directionless current eleven floors down. The snow-topped mountains loomed in the distance, and the hard, cold concrete of the skyscrapers surrounded us in a claustrophobic maze.

     But with her, I was at home. The harsh, frigid, alienating world outside could never penetrate the warmth we had created together within. It was just her and I feeding the fires of passion together. I didn’t know anyone else here. All I had was her. But the thing I did in San Francisco could bring everything we had built together to ashes. But it’s not a good time to tell her. Not yet.

     She woke up about an hour later. She turned, kissed me, and we continued to lie there in a delirious bliss until she was ready to start the day. I stayed in bed while she showered, thinking again of the night before and then that night in Santa Fe. It was both too late and too early to worry about it now.

     Once I was out of bed, clean, and dressed, we descended to the lobby and walked in the direction of the parking garage. We slipped down the same alley from the night before, avoiding families clad in hockey jerseys and generic sports shirts. We paid for parking, then we were free to roam. I looked up coffee shops, but none sounded attractive. I directed us to the one nearest by, and the parking was non-existent. She had me direct her to another shop on Broadway: Mutiny. We navigated past closed roads and police barricades until finding curbside parking a block up from the address.

     Sitting beyond the open door was a little black cat: their professional greeter. In the dimly-lit room, the coffee counter lay straight ahead, with a little area for tables and chairs just before. To the left was the checkout counter, with an Antifascist Action flag hanging proudly above. We were in the right place.

     I walked to the counter and ordered an “abortion” as well as a fruit juice, a muffin, and a sticker to put on my ammo box. After Savannah got her coffee, we sat at a table by the window. Low, gray clouds passed slowly outside. Occasionally, a car would speed by. Aside from that, the streets were empty. The cat meandered around, weaving between our legs before disappearing entirely. Savannah wandered into the narrow spaces between the tall bookshelves to browse the records and books and comics and tapes, while I found a quiet spot in the back.

     A man was playing piano on the other side of a bookcase. A soft, sweet, and low tune. I listened, hidden from the lone player. The little black cat joined me and played with my fingers as I drummed on the leg of the chair. Caffeine was starting to polarize my cells and reactivated all the residual alcohol and nicotine left over from the night before. It wasn’t a frantic, electric kind of high, but rather, a mellow, blissful feeling. I felt that if I were to die right then and there, I’d be at peace. Maybe I did die. I fell asleep and drove off a bridge, or got hit by an oncoming truck on I-80. It didn’t matter now. I’m with her, so I must be in Heaven.

     My angel reappeared and reached out her hand. I took it and she pulled me upwards. We snaked through the bookshelves as the melody faded into silence and all we were left with were the creaks beneath our feet. She’d pick up a book, flip through it, then put it back. I hunted for a few titles, but left the store empty-handed.

     She stowed her purchases in the car and led me up the street. Not much to see aside from closed signs and vacant porches. Through the few open doors, we could hear a cacophony of jovial voices and the clinking of plates being stacked, but none drew us in. Aside from these relative safe havens of liquor and laughter, the street was quiet. A corner store owner threw out a rowdy patron. The latter let out a long stream of unintelligible threats and curses, then the owner threw up his arms.

     “Bleh!” we heard him grumble.

     “Bleh!” Savannah said to me.

     “Bleh!” I echoed back.

     We walked back in the direction of her car. But instead of stopping, we continued down to a consignment store that had absolutely nothing of interest, except for the owner. She complimented Savannah’s outfit and gave her a lead on another store across town. She bid us goodbye and we went a few doors down to a vintage thrift store. It was situated in a long, high-ceilinged room with racks upon racks of clothing. Plenty of boots, hats, and jackets, but nothing I could afford. So I followed Savannah around as she picked out different black garments to hold up and examine. An “ooooh, this is nice!” meant it passed. A silent look of disappointment meant that it failed. We ended up at a bargain bin full of halloween costumes and wigs. She picked out a blue troll wig and held it up for me to see.

     “We could be matching” she said.

     “I don’t think blue is really my color.”

     “Why not? Don’t you wanna try black instead?” she asked, holding up a Beatles wig.

     I threw the wig back in the bin and followed her out the door. We had one more store we wanted to try. This one with a more solid western identity, selling succulents, cacti, jean jackets, and of course, Levi’s. It was in a much smaller room, but it had a much better selection. Similar to the last store, everything was too expensive.

     We’d exhausted this street and the darkening skies said it was time to head back. We sped down Speer boulevard until getting stuck in traffic just before Stout. To our right was the Bellco theater and a big metal coil.

     “What do you think that is?” I asked.

     “Oh, I have no idea. Just a coil of wire, I guess.”

     “To me, it looks like a giant pube.”

     “Ew, gross!” she laughed.

     But this giant coil, resembling more closely a type of fence barb, was much more than an oversized pubic hair. The sculpture is titled “Indeterminate Line,” and is dramatically different from the artist’s previous works. Before, Venet had made mathematically precise arches and curves, but this work was not measured or calculated in the same way at all. It represented chaos and spontaneity; to just make something. The tarnished metal was ugly in both color and texture. As well as the jagged end of the wire and the unevenness with which it twisted. But the grace of the loop and the curve of the ends of the wire conveyed some kind of beauty. If you were to ride the wire like a rollercoaster, you’d come down a gentle curve then up into the coil, looping three or four times before coming out at the top and falling before taking another sharp curve before the line abruptly ends. The motion of the ends implies this is only one small part of a much longer track. Much like one night of chaos is only one in series of weeks, months, years of pandemonium. The empty circle created by the coil became a looking-glass: I chose this life, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything else.

     Sporadic raindrops fell on the glass tops of her Suzuki. We pulled under the awning of the convention center, but didn’t go anywhere fast. We’d inch forward slowly just for the light ahead to turn red again and the traffic to come to a standstill. The hockey fans on the sidewalk rushed right past us effortlessly. Finally back to the hotel, we changed clothes and started to get ready for the night that lie ahead. I put the Mutiny sticker on my ammo can, and Savannah dug through her purse and handed me another sticker. It was of a cheery pink elephant waving a flag reading “SHUT UP EVERYONE.” No clue where it came from or how it came into her possession, but it fit in perfect with the nonsensical theme and discordant placement of all the stickers I had collected so far.

     When we emerged from our hotel room, it was almost time for dinner. I opted to take my car, ignoring the leaking brake, and drove us through a construction zone to an Indian food place. It was built out of an old house- some old victorian mansion that the city never got around to demolishing. Walking through the front door and into the living room was a full bar. Empty beer bottles lined the top shelf, advertising brands from Denver to Denmark. The greeter saw our outfits and knew that we had to be kept far away from the public eye. He led us to an empty room in the back and sat us at a table big enough to sit eight. We talked idly and I let her suggest my order. I’m no expert on Indian food. The last decent meal I had was a breakfast burrito, and before that, a burger from Big Boy.

     When you’re trying to get to where you’re going, there’s little time to stop and sit down at a restaurant and order a three course meal complete with desert and complimentary mint. It’s strictly a forager’s diet. What chips are left over from the care package my mom sent with us from the last trip? What snack can I eat that doesn’t require two hands? My favorite is applesauce. If you peel the foil top back just enough, you can suck out the thick nectar and lick the cup clean. But the meal before me wasn’t applesauce or fruit snacks or protein bars or anything else. It was a big plate of lamb, curry, and rice. It tasted as good as it smelled. Starved, I stuffed down as much as I could. I’m a shade or two lighter than my date, but I couldn’t perpetuate the stereotype. I ordered the “spicy” option. Mind you, that was the option right after “no spice.” It burned the hell out of my tongue and settled hard on my empty stomach. The more I ate, the hotter it got. And the worse I felt. After finishing the meal and taking our leftovers to the car, we drove to a thrift store to browse their clothing selection.

     Just one look and I could tell: this was a thrift store meant for “the poors.” Not like the curated racks of expensive jeans and vintage shirts downtown. This was what came from your dead aunt’s closet that your mom insisted you donate. In the men’s section were nondescript polos, athletic shirts with the brand logo plastered across the front, and “walk to end Alzheimer’s” or liver cancer, or some other charity walk that they handed out free tee shirts for and you just couldn’t help yourself but take one. All I know is that they didn’t have any good leather jackets.

     In the women’s section, I was totally lost.

     “It’s a good think I only wear black. It makes it a lot easier to shop for clothes” she said.

     But even then, my goth girl would pick out a garment and immediately put it back. I had no idea what she had expected to find here. She produced one shirt and covered her mouth, laughing.

     “Well, what’s so funny? Show me.”

     She held up an “LMFAO” tee shirt from a tour back when they were still relevant.

     “The last time I heard them was at my middle school dance. You mean to tell me that no one has picked this up yet?”

     I took a picture of the shirt and gave it over to Snapchat. Cop? Or Drop? We moved on to the home goods section. A coffee mug from your dead relative’s trip to Paris. A worn out pair of skis. Lightly used dressers and obscure 90’s tech. All BS. All worthless. A framed picture of a cat sticking its tongue out, with “You tell him THIS for him and his rush jobs!” inscribed on the bottom. Savannah and I looked at each other.

     “What?”

     “What??”

     Neither of us understood. And we’ll never understand. It’s well past time to leave. Let’s get the hell outta here.

     Away from that shit shop we headed towards the venue: Red Rocks. An outdoor amphitheater nestled between, you guessed it: the red rocks at the base of the mountains on the west border of Denver. But it was too early. I drove us down the road, weaving the weighty Lincoln around tight turns and switchbacks, forgetting all about the leaking brake. Savannah slid over and inched herself back into the passenger seat. For the first time since we had started dating, I saw her put her seatbelt on, making some mumbled remark about how it might come in handy while speeding down these curvy roads. I turned around and took us to a gas station where I bought us two packs of American Spirits. There was no restroom inside, forcing us to use the blue outhouses on the side of the building. Mine stunk. I did what I needed to do and got out of there quickly. I waited around a minute more and could only image what acrid agony she had experienced inside.

     We pulled back into the little town of Morrison. We had an hour to kill, so plenty of time for a drink. I hunted the back streets for an open spot, but no luck. On the main drag, I found a place right before the “no parking” sign. What incredible luck. We crossed the street and walked a timber sidewalk bordering the creek. She led me to a bar and I paid for her drinks. For myself, I had ordered a water.

     “You’re not gonna get anything?”

     “I’ve got a water. Besides, I’ve gotta drive us to Red Rocks. Better to stay sober.”

     I didn’t believe it and neither did she. All they had was wine and she downed her first glass quick. While she retreated inside for her next glass, all I could do was think about how sick I was feeling. And it made me anxious. I started to feel high. Was I coming up on something? I didn’t want to be high. I wondered if the people at the Indian restaurant had laced my food. They snuck acid, or tainted heroin, or fentanyl into my lamb curry. I was only on the comeup. In just a few minutes I would be totally out of control. A passenger, screaming as my eyes witnessed the world before me. But I didn’t want to take the backseat. I wanted to be in control. I wished I was back in the coffee shop. I wished I was home.

     My nervous habits had become obvious because when she returned, she asked me what was wrong. I don’t remember my answer. I was too busy counting the bricks beneath our feet. And focusing on the dog at the next table over.

     Stick it out, dammit. Get a GRIP. You can’t bail out. You’re an hour away from the hotel room. You’re eight hours away from your bed at home. No one but yourself can help you now. I wanted so badly to tell her that I was getting sick. To drive back to the hotel and sleep it off. But she had already paid for my ticket. And she was expecting that I’d join her for her show. It’s too late to back out now. Don’t ruin her birthday. There’s already the thing you haven’t told her, and- FUCK! The burning pit in my stomach sank lower. My head was buzzing almost as bad as it was at the strip club. What was the cause of all this? Why was I feeling so anxious? Was last night’s hangover catching up with me? Was the elevation change getting to me? Did the Indian food hit me harder than expected?

     Get a grip. Maintain. If you can get through the experience at the strip club, you can get through this. Don’t freak her out. I listened as she sipped wine and talked idly through the silence. The high started to pass and it was time to leave. With an uneasy confidence, I walked us to the car. The sun was getting low. It was time.

     A parking attendant led us right to a spot. I slammed it in park and grabbed a blanket from the back: the same blanket I had slept under at the rest stops in Iowa and Michigan.

     “You ready?” she asked.

     She snubbed her cigarette and hopped out the door. I followed hopelessly after to the long line that led up even longer concrete stairs. We waited a long time, inching higher and higher. Closer and closer. I held tightly to the blanket as a breeze cut through my rose-embroidered shirt. Finally at check-in, she showed the person our tickets and we were in. Just one more metal detector between us and the amphitheater. Good thing I left my switch in the car. She led us to our seats and I put the blanket down. It wasn’t much cushion against the cold wooden plank beneath our butts. She picked out different band tee shirts on people walking by. Goth bands and nu-wave bands that I had never even heard of. People moved in all different directions. Some carrying purses, blankets, beers, joints. The distinct smell of weed wafted down the benches, but I was feeling remarkably sober now.

     Savannah left to get a beer. She offered me one, but I was afraid that if I drank, the anxiety would come back and I would get sick, ruining our night before it had even began.

     The wind rushed down the seats and cut right through my clothes. She came back with a tallboy in hand and asked:

     “Are you cold?”

     “A little bit. But I’ll be alright.”

     She hugged me for a minute, then her focus went right back to the stage. After an hour of waiting, the lights went down. As one unified movement, the crowd moved forward, filling the empty seats. We were only two rows closer, but she seemed two rows happier.

     Four elderly men took their spots at their podiums on the stage. No doubt some complicated panel of knobs, buttons, and sliders stood before them. The crowd lost their fucking minds. One of the men announced themselves as Kraftwerk and the whole stadium erupted in an explosive cheer, Savannah included. They played the first note and the cheers grew to a peak.

     I sat there, freezing. Blanket wrapped around me, but doing nothing against the wind. She stood excitedly with only a skirt and a tanktop. To this day I don’t know how she did it. The first song played and I put on my glasses, similar to those useless spectacles they handed out at Meow Wolf. They were meant to “enhance” the laser show and whatever images were projected onto the screen. There was probably enough acid, ecstacy, and coke here that the glasses were obsolete. But not to me. I put on the glasses and watched the video play behind the ancient krauts.

     And thank God for those videos. There’s not much thrill to be found in four old men operating keyboards at a stage three hundred feet away. But the audience and Savannah saw something that I had missed. At the end of a song, she’d sit down. But as soon as the next one came on, she’d hammer my shoulder with her open palm and stand right back up.

     “Oh my God, it’s- AHHH!”

     The songs were fairly easy to discern, considering they only had one lyric repeated over and over. Radioactive. Autobahn. It wasn’t my kind of music. But I was here for her. And the videos were entertaining enough. The whole experience wasn’t entirely insufferable; the only thing that got to me was the cold.

     It was getting to Kraftwerk too. They announced that they would be taking a break and ducked back into the greenroom. I imagined what drugs the children of ex-Nazi Germany were doing in between songs while the wind grew more ferocious.

     They re-emerged fifteen minutes later. And again, the crowd cheered loud enough to cause an avalanche. They played a few more songs and then it was all over. As soon as it became obvious they wouldn’t be doing an encore, Savannah stood up and dragged me along behind her. We rushed down the stairs, sprinted for the car, and peeled out of there. I looked through the rear window and saw all of the cars behind us rumble to life and amble towards the gate.

     We did it. We beat the traffic! I cranked the heater and pointed us in the direction of Denver. Rolling down empty freeway, we were all alone. She slid into the middle seat and wrapped her arms around me; us alone under the stars accompanied only by the breeze. The heater was running at full blast. Still, she was warmer.

     “Thank you for coming with me. You weren’t bored, were you?”

     She’d asked me that multiple times throughout the show. Each time, I uttered through chattered teeth:

     “No! I like trying new things!”

     And it’s true. I do. I may not understand Kraftwerk or electronic music in general, but the show was worth it just to be with her. To look up and see her smiling wide at these old men operating keyboards at plain black podiums. She was enjoying her birthday gift to herself, and I was enjoying being with her.

     We arrived at the hotel, but neither of us were ready to sleep. She wasn’t ready to take off her outfit, so I put on my jacket. We took her car to Hi-Dive and parked right by the door. I was feeling much better now, and was ready for a beer. I ordered a tallboy and dug the scene: The long bar was filled with people dressed in black hoodies and dark denim. A few punks milled about as the band that had just broken set moved their equipment outside. In the room adjacent was a small stage and a dancefloor. Vacant now, but I could only imagine what the pit looked like just a few minutes before.

     At high altitude, the drink work fast. It didn’t take much for us to be fairly close to gone. We talked about our days as activists, long before we knew each other, and the conversation took a dark turn. We’d each had too many close calls. We’d seen the brutal violence that only man is capable of. She was glad to have left those days behind and I was glad to be done with my own. That summer was two years behind us now, but sometimes the shouting and chanting echoes today. I stepped out for a cigarette and to take in the night air: clear my head and forget. Let it go.

     But everyday, I see the perverse juxtaposition of a world that could never be. A world we had tried so desperately to create. But ultimately, we had failed. We employed the same strategy that they had in the sixties, but where did we end up?

     We did everything that we were supposed to do. We got in the streets and stayed in the streets. But we didn’t stay long enough, evidently.

     I thought back to Chicago, a day after the overturning of Roe V. Wade. We marched and chanted and our cries fell silent. Like ashes doused by rain, ending up in the gutter along with all the other ambitious expeditions we’d had into “political change.” We were ignorant fools. Washington feeds off of our anger. So long as we sit-in, and die-in, and march for the rights of those who need it most, the decrepit oligarchs that run this country will laugh and point at how fruitless our efforts are.

     Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was a younger man, with a lot less to lose. But the stakes that I was playing with didn’t wager out to jail or detainment. No. A failure in my line of work meant death. I was lucky enough to see that picketing and protesting never worked from early on. I was involved in direct action. On more than one occasion, I went out armed. And arms are only met with other arms. Violent gunfire, bleeding, and the final trauma of knowing that everything you fought and eventually died for would never meet your eyes. And now that I’m still living, drunk off my ass outside of some bar in Denver, I see what lies ahead, and it leaves no room for hope.

     I wonder if it would have been different had I died. In my final moments, as the life bleeds from me and I choke against the creeping death, I could be satisfied with the ignorant thought that it would mean something. After my passing, things would get better. People would see the destruction hate brings. The world would realign itself and leave behind these draconian discriminatory policies of the past. But here I am. And the only change I see is for the worse.

     I gave it up. I quit. I was a lot older and thought I had a lot more to lose. A stable household with a steady job. I was on my way to becoming something, fulfilling a lifelong dream that had been imparted upon me at birth: “You can be somebody. You can change the world.” I had my opportunity and I blew it. For what? Three bedrooms, two cats, and a girlfriend? At just twenty-three years old, I was already forty-six, living out the rest of my life exactly the way I imagined I would. But life doesn’t work that way. It’s a long saga of chaos that you dig deep and try to find meaning in. Like digging on the beach for sand dollars, but you’re at an inland lake.

     My comrades were not so lucky. They’d paid the ultimate price for seemingly no reason. I remember the day Heather Hayer died. I decided right then and there that I would be just as dedicated. I’d lay down my life in front of the fascists if it meant some kind of meaningful change later on. My sacrifice a blessing onto the next generation. But no. I lived. I got cowardly. Afraid. Who’s going to feed the cats if I’m six feet in the ground? The un-inevitable progression of human history was, for one desperate and confused moment, less important than my own satisfaction. My own moment to lie comfortably in my bed after a hot meal, while thousands starved on the streets. Millions became victimized by greed. Billions were put in jeopardy for the sake of the continuation for a failing system that was trying desperately to hang on. But I was getting mine, so how bad can it be?

     Pathetic.

     It made me sad to think about how greatly we had failed. For one summer the streets were alive with angry young voices. Then in the fall, they all went back home. Something had changed in them that had not changed in me. I wish I could understand. I wish I could see the world from their perspective and deceive myself into believing that everything was going to be alright, hoisting a false flag of victory before patting myself on the back and going home until the next temporary outrage. But this is not the case. I will forever be burdened with the knowledge that so long as the American political machine is running, there will be someone, somewhere, crying for help.

     And I was helpless now. I couldn’t hardly see straight, let alone hold a conversation. She asked me a question and then led me over to her car. Damn you, Denver night air. Why would you do this to me? Why would you reduce me to a broken heap of a would-be martyr? Damned to live on as a failure, taking each day as a cruel gift. A reminder that I had failed. It was getting close to time to leave. The ride back to the hotel was a melancholic blur. But upstairs she took my mind off the past and I wasn’t so sad anymore, despite knowing that it would be our last night together in Denver.

ONWARD

     DENVER, COLORADO

     JULY 1ST, 2022

     Sunlight. Too much sunlight. Good God, how long were we out? It’s ten o’clock. One hour until checkout. One hour until housekeeping busts in and forcefully evicts us and throws our luggage and clothes into the elevator shaft.

     “Hey, we probably aught to get up soon. We’ve got to check out in an hour.”

     She stirred and lazily gathered her things. As for me, I rushed around the room in a panic to stuff all of my belongings back into my bag, being careful not to forget the bottle of rum. I looked over the hotel room one final time as she fixed her makeup, checking the drawers and under the bed for any items that we might have hidden from ourselves. All I found was a lone black sock, and I couldn’t even be sure it was hers.

     We descended the elevator into the parking garage. She threw her bag in the passenger seat and tried to start the car. It cranked once then clicked dead. Shit. She’d left her lights on all night.

     “Alright, one minute. I can jump you, I’ve got cables. Pop your hood for me.”

     I looked underneath and saw that the battery was on the passenger side. So was mine. Would the cables reach?

     “I’m gonna push you out, then push you into that spot to jump you. All you have to do is turn the wheel.”

     I pushed the bumper of the X90 until the car was in the middle of the lane.

     “Now I’m gonna push you up! Try to aim for that spot there!”

     I pushed with all my might, but the little car slowly rolled backwards down the sloped drive of the garage.

     “Shit, this isn’t working. Okay, hang tight!”

     I ran to my car and threw my duffle bag in the backseat. I started it and nosed up to her bumper. I had to work quick. We were right in the middle of the drive lane!

     I shut the Lincoln off and pulled the cables from the trunk. Red on dead to red donor. Black dead to- wait. Is that right? I started my car and yelled for her to start hers. The Suzuki’s engine cranked slowly, then sprang to life. I hopped out and disconnected the cables.

     “Alright, pull into that spot there and idle for a minute. I’ll park my car, turn the keys in, and meet you back here.”

     I put the car into a spot right by the elevator and ran inside. Another elevator ride alone. One floor down. It was taking forever. I approached the counter and handed the keys to the first lady I saw.

     “Were there any extra charges? How much was parking?”

     I feared the worst. Eighty, or one hundred and sixty, or three hundred dollars for the little paper tags that didn’t even guarantee a space. The woman stared into the screen for a minute, then looked up pleasantly.

     “Nope. It says your parking was covered!”

     I silently rejoiced and looked at the elevator. I’m not fool enough to get into that claustrophobic little box just to go up one floor. I’ll find my own way.

     I exited through the glass doors and walked around the corner to the rolling gates. I texted Savannah to pull through, then ducked under the exit gate as it lifted to let her car out.

     “Find a spot for breakfast and send me your location, I’ll see you there.”

She smiled and rolled away as I walked up the ramp. I got into my own car and twisted the key forward. The engine roared, then settled into a steady growl. I rolled the windows down and pressed the cigarette lighter in. I loaded a Lucky Strike into the filter and waited for the lighter to spring back. PING! I tapped the glowing metal coil against the end of the Lucky. Puff. Inhale. Exhale: It’s lit.

     The day’s first cigarette always hits. On an empty stomach it rushes straight to your head, tickling your brain and giving you a euphoric, ecstatic feeling. Everything looks better and everything feels GOOD.

     She texted me that she had found a place and pinned her location. I routed myself to the breakfast joint and began one of the most beautiful drives of my life.

     I spun the tires. I took corners hard. I dogged the gas. Why not? It was a beautiful Friday morning in super-urban Denver and I was on the final day of a getaway trip with the only person I wanted to be with. The cigarette felt good and the music sounded even better. I turned it all the way up. I pulled up to a light and spied “Sam’s 3” on the corner. The light turned green and I smashed the gas. Savannah’s horrified face, among the other horrified faces, turned to look at just what the hell was making that awful sound. The tires squealed. The engine roared. The weight of the car shifted to the rear axle and the front tires nearly lifted off the ground. Damn the brake and everything else. I feel FINE.

     I slammed into a parking spot just a block up from the restaurant. I sniped the rest of the cigarette and walked down the street. The line was out the door. I pushed past a crowd of people until I spied her at the lunch counter, an empty stool next to her. I took my rightful place and looked over the menu.

     Sixteen pages of eggs, bacon, and waffles. I don’t have time to read all this shit. They’ve got mimosas and other brunch concoctions. But it’s too early. I end up ordering chicken and waffles, knowing damn well that I can’t finish it all.

     The food takes forever. We try to talk, but the noise of the room is peaking and any hope for conversation just went into the trash with someone’s half-eaten omelet. Some nerds chat next to us in hawaiian shirts, talking about superheroes. There must be a dork convention in town: good thing this is my last day.

     Savannah dismisses herself to the restroom and I follow her with my eyes. My gaze is broken by art for sale on the wall in the back. I can’t see the prices, but I know I can’t afford any of it. None of it appeals to me, but how pretentious would I sound explaining to guests, “oh, this piece was found in DENVER, by a DENVER artist. I bought it on my trip to DENVER where I went to see Kraftwerk on my Big Road Trip. I had such a good time in DENVER.”

     I’d sound like such a dick. But I’ve got enough financial obligations. I’ve got to make it to the west coast after this! I forget about the art and eat as much as I can. It might be my last solid meal before Oregon. Savannah gives me a lift to my car and I tell her to meet me in the Santa Fe arts district.

     I take off and light another cigarette. It’s not worth it. I’m too full. I snub it and keep driving. I snake up an alley into a parking lot. Paid. We hop out and meet each other at the pay station. I punch in my plates and pay a ridiculous fee. She says she’s going to risk it. What’s the worst that could happen? They ticket her?

     We make it halfway up the block before she remembers her cowboy hat. We go back to her car to retrieve it, then check into an antique store. Most of it was overpriced mid-century and faux-victorian junk. All ashtrays, and glasses, and other items that your grandma never threw away. But I spent a lot of time at a rack full of stickers and patches. Nothing interesting, disappointingly, so I move on.

     A backroom done up like a tiki lounge, and another resembling a 1900s greenhouse. Giant birdcages and planters. Nothing I wanted or needed.

     Across the street was a smoke shop. Would they have them? COULD they have them? I figured that it was worth a shot and we went inside. The stoners behind the counter had never even heard of unfiltered Strikes. Fuck!

     I’d be hitting up every store from here to Oregon asking about Strikes. And they wouldn’t have a damned thing to offer. We walked out the door and I swallowed my fate: American Spirits from here on out.

     “Ooh, do you want to stop in there?” Savannah teased.

     I looked beyond the glass windows into an empty room, painted in black and white lines creeping to a point in the corner. Like an under-budgeted Meow Wolf installment. It was a selfie store. You go in, take pictures of yourself, and post them online for all of your friends to glance at and maybe if you’re lucky, “like.”

     Narcissism. This was the kind of shop sorority girls go to when the bars aren’t open yet, but they can’t sleep any longer. I didn’t want anything to do with this sort of vapid and wasteful experience and followed her into the next store:

     A thrift store of sorts. But instead of clothes, it was all fabric and art supplies. The front room was filled with old paint, brushes, and ink stamps. The back was a mess of fabric and material. Up the stairs were the work rooms of local artists. Some curtains open, revealing the works-in-progress of the creative minds of Denver. Some curtains closed, concealing masterpieces that were not yet ready for the public eye.

     We spent a long time inside. She was fascinated by all the black patterns and materials. But I was getting bored. I offered to carry the roll of navy wool she’d picked out and followed her around the store. Every single piece of dark fabric, including those in the chaos of the bargain bin, absolutely had to be examined. No doubt she’d make something special out of whatever she picked. But I’d much rather see the end result rather than the raw material.

     We left and returned to the cars. I half expected her to have a ticket. In my experience, the parking authority anywhere is a predatory and spiteful entity, lying in wait for someone to slip up. But to both our surprise, her windshield was clean. I told her to follow me to the next store and hopped in my car. I felt like a sucker for paying. That was twenty dollars gone. Twenty dollars that could have been well spent somewhere else.

     I pulled onto the highway and led us to a western wear/record store: just up her alley. But pulling into the parking lot, I found that it no longer existed. Shit.

     What now?

     I pulled into a spot and hopped into her car.

     “I think it’s closed. Permanently.”

     “Well, what do you want to do now?”

     “One of my friends wants the LMFAO tee shirt. So, back to the thrift store?”

     “I have to get gas first.”

     “Alright, I’ll follow you to the station.”

     We gassed up and continued on to the thrift shop from yesterday. We made the World’s Quickest Run inside and emerged with the outdated garment. I threw it in the trunk and hopped into her car. She took off and we were on our way to the last stop of the trip: Meow Wolf’s Convergence Station.

     Traffic was unkind to us as we struggled down the highway. I sat in silence and watched her as she continuously shifted gears and weaved lanes. Finally there, we walked from the center of the parking lot to the long line that was forming outside the doors.

     I paid for her ticket on my phone as we inched towards a spot in the shade. I jammed my hands in my pockets and felt the cold metal and wood of my switchblade. I ran back out to her car, hid it under the seat, and returned to where I had left her, but she was nowhere to be found. I texted her and waited, looking around and wondering where she had disappeared off to.

     “Hey, come on!” I heard from behind me.

     She had found the line for our entry time and pulled me over. In just a few minutes we were through security and inside. The lobby resembled an airport in a different dimension. A bored looking usher scanned our tickets and directed us to a door. Then, we were in.

     It wasn’t the same as Santa Fe, but I was glad to have done it with her. I don’t remember any of it, except for the time we spent together.

     We walked through the exit door and into a food court. She picked up some snacks for the road, as well as a drink. She knocked it back too quick and spilled a little down her chin.

     “Haha, it looks like somebody has… a drinking problem!” I annoyingly nudged her with my elbow.

     “That is ENOUGH” she laughed.

     I eyed the gift shop and the “no food or drink” sign next to it.

     “Do you want to go in? I can wait out here.”

     “No, there’s nothing in there I need. I’d just be furthering consumerism. Besides, I’d hate to go anywhere without you.”

     She smiled and we walked back out into the sunlight. I grabbed my knife from under the seat and buckled up for the ride.

     We cruised back down the highway towards my car. Neither of us said a word. The music was playing, but I couldn’t hear anything. I knew that this was it. Our high-speed weekend had come to an end. What lies ahead is a day and-a-half of driving followed by hanging out with my ex. I still hadn’t said what I needed to, but I felt like right now it wouldn’t be appropriate.

     We pulled off the highway and into the parking lot. I popped the hood and checked my oil. Low. The brake fluid is fine, surprisingly. I could only hope it lasts until Oregon. I filled up my oil while she checked on hers, then we slammed our hoods shut and that was it.

     “Well, I hope you enjoyed your birthday.”

     I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I got the impression she’d had a good time. We got everything we wanted out of Denver, and everything we’d needed from each other. Except for that One Little Thing. But that would have to wait.

     I pulled a pack of American Spirits from my car and handed it to her.

     “Happy birthday. Twenty-three is a fun age. Enjoy it.”

     “Are you sure? You didn’t have to do that.”

     “Didn’t have to do what? All you got was a pack of cigarettes and a few days with me… What a shitty gift!”

     “No, no! I had a good time! I’m glad you came.”

     We leaned on our cars and stared at each other through our sunglasses.

     “Well, I guess this is goodbye” she said.

     “For now. I’ll stop back by through Cimarron in a week. It won’t be long.”

     We held each other one final time and shared one more kiss. And then, I was off. No drama like last time. Just a sterile goodbye, leaving behind all the warmth of the hotel room for the cold hills of Wyoming, and then Oregon.

     Traffic lasted well into the countryside, almost to my exit. I backtracked through backroads that Sam and I had already covered just a few weeks ago. Clouds started to form and before I knew it, I was back in Wyoming.

     Now, I was all alone. The fast-paced ecstasy of Denver was one hundred miles behind me now. All that was left was a long, slow drive back to the west coast. Not slow in the sense of speed, not by any means. I set the cruise control at the top speed the car could go comfortably. At least, before the engine started to strain. I mean slow in the sense of a day-long drive. Wherever I end up tonight is my launch point for tomorrow. So I have to push to get a head start.

     And all the way, it would be only me. No Sam to spark the odd philosophical conversation. No Savannah to tell me what I wanted to hear. Just me, a pack of Spirits, music, and the road.

     I’d already listened to the road trip playlist so many damned times, I could whistle every song, beat for beat. The lyrics had become meaningless and the instruments were just noise. I’d tune out and come to, realizing that the playlist had looped seven times over and I was hundreds of miles down the road. I tried Lost Highway, but it was just too sad: too late for that now.

     I was living out Kerouac’s dream of being “on the road.” The whine of the highway was all I had, while I dosed out my cigarettes and tried to find music to keep me awake.

     Tomorrow would inevitably be worse. It was a road that I had already traveled before, one year prior. I would be hitting all of America’s great backwaters. Salt Lake City, Boise, and then hundreds of miles of open road until Bend. That was the last place, really. Then I would be going up and down the mountains of central Oregon; hugging curves and taking switchbacks at high speed. Then I’d coast peacefully into Eugene. The stars would be coming out and I’d finally be able to get some rest. No more insanity. Just my cats, the quiet, and a little relaxation. After that, a long drop down the 101.

     I could imagine it now: cruising into San Francisco as the sun fizzled out into the Pacific to the west. A cool breeze comes through the open windows, and the Lucky Strike tastes just right. I’d have figured out the perfect music, and the ride would be pure bliss. Gorgeous views, all the way. With minimal traffic. God, I can’t wait to be there now.

     But it was a long ways off. A week at least. Just keep your eyes on the road ahead. And watch the coolant.

     It was a familiar road by now. There’s the windbreaks. There’s the refinery. There’s “Little America.” The scenery hasn’t changed, but it’s still just as beautiful in the dwindling light. Storm clouds grow dark and I drive through a light rain. I follow a long, empty highway and get lost in my thoughts.

     The skies were growing dark and the mood was growing somber. How would she feel about all of this when I finally broke the news to her? All the memories she’d made had been tainted by the carefree heart of her unfaithful romance.

     No time for that now. You’re headed for the coast! I stopped for gas and washed the windshield. Another important note for long-haul driving is to always wash your windshield. Each time you gas up, scrub it down. Because if it gets dirty in the daylight, it’ll get completely filthy at night.

     I stepped inside to use the restroom and buy dinner. My only options were the sub chain or a pre-made sandwich. I’ll take my chances with the sub, thank you.

     The girl behind the counter was my age. Not attractive, but more than you’d expect from southern Wyoming. I imagined what her life was like, living in the middle of nowhere. If it were me in her shoes, I’d be fighting like hell to get out. She gave me my sandwich and disappeared back into the kitchen. It’s too late now, man. She’ll never catch a ride out to the coast. She’s gonna be stuck here forever. I could have asked her: “hey, you wanna go to Oregon?” and we’d keep each other company until I had to let her off at some intersection in Eugene.

     I bought an energy drink and got back on the road. Just a few miles ahead was the rest area. But I wasn’t tired yet, and the sun was still blazing just below the horizon. The next rest area was in one hundred miles. Could I make it that far?

     If I drank the energy drink right now, I’d be up all night. And when the caffeine wore off, I’d come down hard. There might not be a rest area for another TWO hundred miles, and then I’d really be screwed. I decided to risk it and drive without aid.

     The first fifty miles was easy. The sun was still out, barely, and I felt no need to sleep. The next twenty-five was a bit tougher. I felt myself dragging, but the promise of the rest area ahead kept me going. The last twenty-five was miserable. My tiredness hit me all at once. My eyes kept crossing. I was back in Nevada, New Mexico, all the other stretches of interstate where I should have stopped, but I had to KEEP GOING.

     The exit for the rest area. Finally. It was a Godsend. I hit the brakes and heard a grinding noise coming from the rear axle. My problems were getting worse. Was it the brake fluid getting trapped between the pad and the rotor? Or was this a new problem entirely? So long as it doesn’t happen when the brakes aren’t applied, I’m in the clear.

     I eased the gas at the stop sign, and the faster I drove, the more pronounced the noise became.

     Alright, so it is a problem. Let’s rest for the night and assess it in the morning. Don’t worry about it now. It’s too late to do anything anyway. I found a space and set the car in, picking up on the all-too-familiar routine: bathroom, contacts, toothbrush, backseat, journal, picture, sleep. I had new pictures from Meow Wolf. I stared at them for a long time. Her eyes seemed to stare back. Her smile put me in a narcotic trance and I was out as soon as my eyes were closed.

DEAD IN MY TRACKS

     LYMAN, WYOMING

     JULY 2ND, 2022

     I woke up at sunrise and immediately started getting ready. I had to eat my breakfast fast. I figured I could make it to Oregon by ten Pacific Time if I left now. I torqued down the lug nuts on the driver-rear wheel one more time, then set off. The wheel was still grinding, but I had no time to stop.

     Salt Lake City was just over the border. I had expected traffic to set me back by at least half an hour, so I had to get there early. I slipped through a little crack in the mountains to the east of the mormon metropolis, then rolled through the smog and haze of the morning. The freeway was surprisingly empty in Ogden. Perhaps the residents were already in church by now.

     In another hour, I’d be over the border of Idaho. Right before I crossed, I stopped for gas in Snowville. As soon as I opened the door, I could smell the fluid burning off of the injured wheel. The whitewall was soaked in a nasty fluid and grime was trailing thick down the driver rear quarter panel. I checked on the brake fluid and the reservoir was still full. Maybe the line had been crushed somewhere, and what was leaking out was all that was left in the brake cylinder. Just ten more hours and I’d be in a place to get it fixed. I just had to get there first.

     This drive was shaping up to be just like every other long haul before it. Sunlight streaming in, directly onto my dark-wash jeans, burning my legs. Onto my phone, overheating it. I’d have to jam one end into the A/C vent and balance the other on the shift handle to cool it off. A jug of water by my side, a pack of cigarettes in my shirt pocket. Until nightfall, I’d have the pedal down and the music up.

     Instead of sending an album, Lydia sent a playlist. I listened to the first song as I sped through a “high wind area.” I remembered it from the last time I drove this way. Ahead was a long, straight stretch of brown desert grass, mint-colored sage, and dark green juniper. I looked in the side mirror to see how the wheel was doing. The fluid is hitting the wheel and turning into mist, but so far, it hasn’t been a problem. So why would it be a problem now?

     The next song was “Light My Love.” The tune was so pleasant and mellow. And the drab scenery had given way to gorgeous hills of green. Little white clouds dotted the sky above, and the morning air was still cool. I rolled both windows down. It was pure bliss. THIS is what the drive could be like. I could do this for twelve more hours. It’s a little early for the next cigarette, but hey, moments like these are worth celebrating, so why not? What did I have to lose?

     Suddenly, the euphoria of the moment was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of rubber grinding on asphalt. Then the back end of the car dropped.

     Fuck. A blowout. Good thing I had a full sized spare. I turned my gaze to my left and my mouth went dry.

     That wheel bouncing past looks a lot like mine. The black ring bounced fifteen feet in the air and wobbled. Oh, shit. This is gonna be a problem. Hang on! I slammed the brakes and pulled over onto the shoulder, unable to trace where the jettisoned wheel would land. I feared the worst. The wheel would inevitably bounce into oncoming traffic and kill the family coming around the bend. I slammed it in park and killed the engine. I snubbed the cigarette in the ashtray and got out to look.

     Holy fuck.

     The wheel had indeed flown off, taking the brake assembly and the hub with it. All that was left was the smoking nub of an axle, resting directly on the ground. A big rig truck swung around the corner. I tried to wave him down. He kept his speed and kept on driving. Bastard.

     I pulled my water jug from the front seat and returned to the still smoking nub. I hesitated. This water is all I have until I figure this situation out. If something catches fire, I’ll dump it. But in the meantime, I should wait.

     I watched as the smoke thinned out and stopped. No danger of fire now, but I’ve still got a wheel I need to locate, if I ever want to get this car back together. I should think of getting out of here.

     I called the insurance company and explained my situation, making clear that this wasn’t a case of loose lugs where I could just put the wheel back on and be on my way. I walked along the edge of the highway, scouring the ditch on the right until I was certain a wheel going 78 couldn’t travel this far. I crossed over and scoured the ditch in the opposite lane, desperately searching for a turquoise wheel ringed by three inches of grimy white.

     I walked along the northbound ditch one more time, this time spotting a path of grass that had been knocked down. I followed the path, and there it was: my wheel was lying helplessly in the green. Just fifty yards away from my car. I rolled the thing back and sat in the passenger seat. The acrid stench of what I know now to be axle grease penetrated the car, complimented by ashtray and hot energy drink.

     May as well finish what I started. I smoked the rest of the cigarette and watched a helicopter circle and descend. I stepped out of the car and put up one arm: signaling that I was okay and didn’t need help. The helicopter nosed away and flew off. I snubbed the stump and called my mom.

     “It flew off. Like, the whole thing… No, I can’t just put it back on. The axle seized. It’s broke.”

     A black mass took up the passenger side mirror.

     “Hang on, highway patrol is here. I’ll call you back.”

     A highway patrolman clad in an armored vest approached the door. I cracked it open and asked:

     “Is it okay if I get out?”

     “Do you have any knives or weapons on you?”

     “...I’ve got a pocketknife in my left pocket, but I don’t think this is a good time to use it.”

     “...Ah, that’s alright.”

     I slid out of the seat and stood up. The cop was a few inches shorter than me.

     “Is that helicopter y’all’s?” An ambulance pulled up in front of my car.

     “Yeah. We got a report that someone was changing a tire and got crushed by their car. So we thought we’d come check it out.”

     “Well, that’s not quite what happened, as you can see. I just had a wheel fly off, that’s all. But there’s a tow truck on the way, and I’ll be off this shoulder in just a short while. But I appreciate y’all checking on me.”

     “The truck coming from Twin Falls?”

     “Yeah, I think so.”

     “Okay, he’ll be here in about two hours or so, so just sit tight. Is there anything you need out here?”

     “No, I’ve got plenty of food and water, so I’ll be okay.”

     The cop returned to his car and pulled up behind the ambulance. He waved his arm to the still lingering helicopter before they all went away.

     I was stuck here. For two hours. I sat on my trunk and watched the cars roll by. I wrote in my journal, then dug in my bag for that sacred bottle of Kraken. I tipped the bottle up and sucked down a few defiant sips. What else was there to do? I stuffed the bottle back in my bag and tried to return to Denver. To get back to the frigid wind coming down at Red Rock Canyon. To get back to the surreal world created by the artists of Meow Wolf. To get back to those late nights in the hotel room.

     But it wouldn’t work. It was too early to get drunk and the situation was too precarious to make myself sick trying. After writing and reading, the tow truck finally showed up. I explained to the driver what had happened and watched as he dragged the car onto the bed. As he was securing it, I opened the passenger door of the truck and was greeted by a small child. I lifted my heavy duffle bag into the cab and he pulled it in. He enthusiastically asked me what had happened.

     I explained my predicament in the most dramatic and censored detail that I could before his father came in and started the long drive to Twin Falls. The youngster kept asking questions and I answered them the best I could. I told him how I had just seen a concert in Denver and how I was heading to Oregon next. He turned his head and showed me his earrings.

     “Look, I’ve got some. And so does my brother.”

     He scooted aside to reveal an even smaller child sleeping in the backseat. And sure enough, said five-year-old had little diamond studs.

     “Are you gonna pierce your ears?”

     “Maybe. My… girlfriend… said I would look really good with gauges. Do you think I should?”

     “Yeah! Get gauges! Just do it! Just get them.”

     From seemingly nowhere, he produced a sharpened wooden stick and tried to drill a hole in my left ear. This would be a helluva thing to explain to Savannah, but it would make a good story. I laughed and let him work, wondering if he actually could, until his father interrupted and told him to stop. I turned my attention to the dad, making small talk until the conversation had reached its natural end. He turned the radio up and we listened to metal all the way to Twin Falls.

     He unloaded the car at an inconspicuous repair shop on the main drag in town. An enthusiastic mechanic came out to greet me and asked what needed to be done. His name was Mario. Or something of vague Italian/Mexican origin. He looked like Mario. His short and portly stature was complimented by a greasy mustache and dark complexion. He took my name and number and went inside to call around for a new axle. A highschool-aged kid took his place. The kid seemed eager to work on my car. He beamed over the blue rims and three inch whitewalls. I talked shop with him for a bit, then turned to the tow truck driver.

     “Hey, is there a bus station in this town? I don’t plan on staying long here. I’m trying to get to Oregon.”

     “Yeah, there’s a place on Blue Lakes, I think. I can take you there if you want.”

     I was dumbfounded. This was a working man taking time out of his day just to give me a ride two miles up the street.

     “Yes, yeah! Thank you! Could I have a minute to repack my bag?”

     I dug through the trunk and cut the items I didn’t need. Hawaiian shirts? Stay reasonable, you only need one. Swim trunks? It’s too cold to swim in Oregon, leave them. All this canned food? Maybe I don’t need it all. I slung the lighter bag over my shoulder and hopped in the truck. There goes my car. There goes my place of safety. The only solace that I had on the road would be laid up in a shop for however long it took to fix it. From here, I was on my own. I’d have to find other means of travel, I’d have to find another place to sleep.

     I thanked the driver as I got off at the gas station. There were a few bums sleeping in the shade of a tree, so I figured I was in the right place.

     I went around the corner to the office and stopped. I didn’t even try the door. The dusty boxes scattered on the floor indicated that this bus station had been closed for a long time. Fuck.

     Fuck! I’d been marooned! I was stuck here in Twin Falls with no hope of getting out! Alright, calm down. How else can I get to Oregon? Across the alley was a car rental place. I walked over and tried the door. Closed. Closed for Fourth of July Weekend! Shit! There really was no way out! I walked over to the hardware chain behind me and asked a lady if this store would let me rent a truck. “No can do” she said. The moving companies were closed too. How was I ever going to get out?? My mom had explicitly said that I was not allowed to hitch-hike, so there goes my only other option. I really am stuck.

     I sat on the curb up the bus station and hung my head. Clouds moved in and it started to rain. I sat in the gloom and considered crying. There was a motel across the street. At the very least, I would have a place to stay. But the cost of a room plus the repairs would clean me out. The road trip was effectively over. I’d never go to Oregon and I’d have to stretch my dollars to the last penny to make it back to Cimarron. A lady came out of the gas station and asked if I was waiting on a bus.

     Through muted tears, I said, “Yeah. I’m trying to take a Greyhound to Boise, but the office is closed.”

     “Have you tried the Salt Lake Express? You can get your tickets online, try that.”

     The rain cleared up and the sun was shining once again. There might be hope for me after all! I looked online for a ticket, but the website said it was too late to book. Poetically, the skies darkened again. Not raining yet, but threatening a downpour at any minute. On top of all my grief, my phone’s battery was getting low. I tried again and again to book, but always got the same result.

     A colorful van reading “SALT LAKE EXPRESS” on the side pulled up to the curb. The driver rolled his window down and asked if I was on the bus to Elko.

     “No, I’m… Dammit. I’m trying trying to book tickets to Boise, but it keeps telling me it’s too late to book.”

     “Nonsense! Try calling. Here, I’ll give you the customer service number.”

     I came up to the window and punched the numbers in as he read them off. I thanked him and wandered back to the curb. I navigated the automated messages and once again, it began to rain.

     “Hey, do you want to come sit in my van? Try to get out of the rain?”

     “I guess I can’t say no. It’d be nice to stay dry.”

     The old man reminded me of my boss. Another blue-collar Good Ol’ Boy who’d found himself in a professional job. I talked to the lady on the phone and booked a last minute tickets to Boise. Hell yes, this was step one DONE. I half listened as the old man told me about the muscle car he used to race and the 300 guns he owns as I tried to book a flight to Eugene. He offered to buy me Arctic Circle, but I declined, choosing instead to stay in the van and revel in my success.

     I’d done it. I’d found a way out! He dropped me back off at the bus stop just as a much bigger bus to Boise pulled up. I threw my luggage in the trailer tailing the bus and climbed aboard. I held on to my journal and “Desert Oracle,” just in case.

     The bus ride was long. It seemed that the driver never quite went the speed limit, and I was worried that we wouldn’t make it to Boise on time. I looked out the window and dug the familiar scenery. I recognized every desert hill from the last time I drove this route, in my own car.

     The car was down for the count for sure. But sometime soon, I’d be back on the road. Don’t worry about that now. You’re heading west. You’re just not in the driver’s seat. You don’t have YOUR music, and you can’t smoke, but you’re still on the move. I looked around the bus to the other passengers. It was a diverse mix of people trying to get to the Boise airport. An attractive young woman sat in the aisle across from me, and I could only wonder where she was going. Who was she going to see? I carefully wrote in my journal as the driver hit every pothole on this inadequately paved road, then tried to read. Giving up, I laid my head against the window, trying to rest. But I was too excited to sleep. I had conquered the odds! I was still on the road!

     We pulled up to Boise and I was first in line to retrieve my bag. I walked inside and checked in at a digital kiosk. I walked up to the counter to turn in my bag and froze. The agent was a busty redhead with bright blue eyes.

     I went weak at the knees. To hell with Des Moines: the pretty women live HERE! I handed her my bag and nervously explained my situation. She faked sympathy and checked me in. I wanted so badly to say “look, I’m on my way to Oregon, but I’m willing to stay here. So long as I can stay with you.” But I was in enough hot water already. Plus, this girl was probably a Utah transplant. She likely slept in special underwear and would blush at the suggestion of what I had in mind. Get on the plane, Tate. She’s out of your league anyway.

     I rushed up to the gate and found a seat. I read some more until a golden voice called through the intercom: “Would passenger Davis please come to gate seven? Passenger Davis to gate seven.”

     I nervously approached the counter. Fuck, they’d found my lighter. I stowed it in the outside pocket of my duffle bag and the baggage handlers had found it. My bags would be returned and I would be kicked from the flight. Oh, fuck, it’s HER!

     “Hi, is there a problem?”

     “I looked at your flight plan and the flight you booked lands in Seattle at seven thirty. Your flight to Eugene departs ten minutes after. So I’m moving you up to an earlier flight, you’ll be boarding in thirty minutes.”

     God. Bless. This red-headed vixen. She looked over my flights and found that I’d never make it out of Seattle if I boarded the flight that I booked. She moved me up for FREE. I was dead convinced that this was my guardian angel. I hadn’t had much experience with the populace of Idaho before this, but now I was sold. Everyone here is so kind, and this woman’s kindness almost made me cry.

     She called me up one more time. This time, I knew I was in shit. But no: she handed me a new luggage tag and wished me safe travels. I retook my seat and tried to read, but I was lost in my thoughts:

     I was driven by compulsion. I’m a man of my word. I said I would visit, and now I was. But why? The last few interactions had been turbulent. I remember the day Lydia and I left each other:

     As the sun was rising over rural Oregon, I hugged her for the last time and kissed her.

     “I love you,” I whispered.

     “I love you too,” she whispered back, through teary eyes.

     After that, we’d never love each other again. Sam, Colin, and Nickson were waiting in the car. I rolled east down the gravel road and never looked back. The rearview mirror was right there, but I never looked back. I could call it all off and stay in Oregon, but the next chapter stood in front of me and I had no choice but to be part of a new story. It was too late. I drove those boys home for two days, hitting Fresno, Vegas, and Albuquerque on the way. But they were just stops. No story to be found, just mile markers on a long trip home…

     She visited half a year later. We argued the entire time. I remember storming out of the bar and driving myself home, crawling into bed. Then she called me around midnight, begging that I pick her up.

     I should have told her to eat shit. Serves her right for embarrassing me. But I took the high road and picked her up. I brought her home and put six years worth of grievances out on the table. She took it well, then left me to sleep as I brought to a close all of the damage those six years did. I was committed to staying with my high school sweetheart, but that was not my destiny. Our journey together had ended, and now it was time for us to go out on our own.

     What do I have to show for it?

     Half an hour later, I boarded the flight with only the essentials: my phone, my wallet, a prescription bottle of Hydroxyzine, a beat-up pack of Spirits, and a charging cord. I carried my journal and Desert Oracle. I found my seat and began to fidget. It had been so long since I had taken a plane. I almost didn’t want to. To be trapped in a high-speed tube with a hundred other passengers, ten thousand feet in the air.

     I talked to the couple next to me as we taxied away from the gate. Oh, fuck. This was it. No backing out now. No rest stop, or gas station, or scenic outlook to park and take a breather at. I was locked in. My creeping nerves were getting to me until we hit the runway. The pilots lined up the plane, then shot us forward at an incredible speed.

     I was used to traveling at 78 miles per hour, sometimes eighty if I needed to pass. But now we were going well over three hundred. THIS was a thrill. I watched as the ground fell away from us and the wings teeter-tottered over Boise. The city shrank and gave way to countryside. Raw, unperverted America slipped beneath us in a wrinkled blanket of velvety brown. I wondered how much of my country was tract houses and freeway, and how much was untouched land. Snow capped mountains cast long shadows across dusty landscapes. Ominous clouds loomed ahead. Another flight passes through them on our right. Just as I was recalling the antique jets in Kansas City the stewardess comes by with non-GMO pretzels and WHOLE cans of soda. I’ll have to fly this airline more often! Maybe traveling in the modern age isn’t so bad. Out the window, clouds tumble down the sides of mountains. Is that St. Helens in the distance? Seattle lies still below us. There’s the space needle. There’s the bay.

     We line up to the runway and fall closer and closer to the Earth. The plane drops a few hundred feet, then steadies itself at altitude. Then drops. Then steadies. We’re close enough that I can see the details on the roofs of houses. I can see project cars in the driveways. We’re going to crash, aren’t we? Right into some old lady’s living room. But just as the wheels are close enough to trim the trees, we graze over the fence and onto the tarmac.

     Out of the tube, into the jetbridge. I navigated the labyrinthian airport and found my gate, having to take an underground tram to get there. But I still had forty minutes to kill. A guy next to me nearly fell as the tram took off. Unaware passengers stumbled backwards as the shuttle suddenly took off down the tracks. I sat in the back window and wrote in my journal:

     “So many people. Lots of women. None of them look like Savannah. I stare at the pictures we took together.”

     I rode in the middle car for at least half and hour. Then I hopped into the last car and got it alone once. I rode between the three stations in liminal solitude until I was joined by a lone woman. I wonder what she thought of me propping my phone up against the pole and taking pictures of myself. I’d ridden the same loop about twenty-six times. Sometimes it was entertaining. Sometimes it was sad. All these people, and I didn’t know a single one.

     I boarded the second flight. A turboprop plane flying directly to Eugene. By now I’m exhausted. The lights of the cities slip beneath us, illuminating the clouds in between. I never passed out. Sleep never came. But in an instant, I was on the tarmac in Eugene. I texted Lydia and she was already waiting. I rushed past the slow stream of travel-weary passengers to the baggage claim, waiting eagerly for my green duffle. Nondescript bags went around the carousel, but my bag never appeared. I turned my attention to a goth girl sitting near the door, and I started to miss Savannah again, having spent little over a day without her. Another girl rushed down the stairs and hugged her. Friends? Lovers? Good for them. My reception would not be as warm:

     “You didn’t have to slam the trunk.”

     “I didn’t slam it, it closed on its own that way.”

     “Right, whatever… How was your flight?”

     “Long. And exhausting. I’d have been here two hours earlier had my wheel not shit the bed.”

     “It’s an old car, man. What did you expect?”

     “I maintain everything that I can. The engine still runs and the transmission is still solid. This is just one of those things that you can’t predict. Things get old. Things wear out.”

     “How much is it going to cost?”

     “I don’t know yet. But I know for damn sure that it’s going to be cheaper than buying a new car.”

     We wound our way through Eugene to her apartment; a single story duplex located in the hills overlooking the town. I retrieved my bag from the back and let her close the trunk.

     “You’re right, it does kind of slam.”

     I couldn’t believe it, I was here. After all the struggle and stress and strife, I had made it. She unlocked the door and let me in.

     Pippin immediately greeted me. He didn’t look up at my face, but stared dully at my shins. Perhaps that was the only way he’d recognize me.

     “Usually he runs. He’s afraid of guests.”

     I coaxed him towards me and he immediately came into my arms. Annafish looked at me and ran. I took her from Lake Thunderbird as a kitten, then again from my grandma’s as an adult. She probably thought I was here to steal her away again.

     She ran out of the room and Lydia showed me to the fridge. Eleven PBR’s that her friends refused to drink.

     “I threw a party and bought some beer. This was all you ever drank, so this is all I knew. But nobody wanted it” she laughed. I could imagine a group of sheepish college students huddled around a single can. One tried it and winced before handing it to the next, who would take a hesitant little sip then freak out before handing it to the next victim, who’d straight up refuse to try it. Hell yes. My favorite beer.

     The case glowed under the light of the refrigerator. I pulled out a can and immediately opened it. I killed the first one, then another, then some rum. Lydia talked to me and pulled out an air mattress. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. She put it right in the center of the room, filled with the furniture I had once owned. It was weird being here, with my ex-girlfriend. It’s odd to explain to people, but we had spent six years together. She got accepted to the University of Oregon and gave me the choice: Leave or Stay.

     I quarreled with it for several months, choosing to go at first, then choosing to stay. Then going back and forth and back and forth. Ultimately, I stayed. I never felt like she held it against me. We were still friends, and after being so close for six years, how can you not be? But I don’t think she ever understood why I stayed in Oklahoma.

     My friends were there, and so was the film industry. That was my excuse. There was a budding industry in Eugene, she said. But it was too late. I would never be able to recapture that feeling I had the summer before last, to have it as good as I did.

     It was the only time in my life that I had it “together.” I was working a day job to feed us, but in the afternoons and on my days off, I’d go to the office. I was part of an online series that was scheduled to release as soon as we finished the first season. It was special because I was the director.

     Editing fell to me too, and I treated myself like a studio executive. Every Saturday morning, I’d roll over to our office on Main Street. I’d be dressed up in nice clothes, sometimes even a suit. For the first time since working as an independent contractor, I felt like I was going somewhere. This was the start of something monumental. And my name was right at the top of the credits. I had cheated the system. I skipped cutting my teeth as a PA or a grip. I was BIG.

     I was on the cusp of ditching my dead-end job and taking up film full-time. Soon we’d be shooting training videos. Then commercials. Then TV series. Then movies. Full, feature-length, big budget pictures. And I’d be there behind the megaphone, telling actors their places, calling “CAMERAS… SOUND… ACTION!”

     Lydia and the cats would be well taken care of. Sooner or later I’d be a producer. I’d make an obscene amount of money just for showing up. Production assistants and subordinates would take care of everything. I was just there to witness it all. I’d sup up the Lincoln and get it repainted, buy a nice house in central Norman ,drive up to a film set for a few days a week then take the rest of the month off. These dreams of independence and fulfillment kept me motivated.

     I worked Saturdays in summer, sweating my ass off in the upstairs editing bay of an old office downtown. Summer turned to winter and I’d shiver my way up the steps just to cut together another episode. I sacrificed a lot of time I could have spent at home: Getting high and playing video games, lounging on the couch and watching TV, spending valuable time with my then-girlfriend. But I stayed in the office instead. To me, it felt like a long-term investment. If I keep at this, someday everything will be just fine. The American Dream! Right?

     But one day the work dried up. The men who had thrown this all together were too busy to shoot. The crew had sat on their hands for one season, and then the next, and then we realized: Oh shit: This project is dead.

     No longer would I go to the office in my suit. No longer would I sit in the director’s chair calling “CUT!” at the end of a take. The lights had gone down for the last time. My filmmaking hopes were shattered. My home life suffered too. Without that sense of “togetherness,” I fell apart. I felt like I had failed my entire house. We weren’t going anywhere: I was back to being stuck in a dead-end job, barely scraping by.

     A year had passed. Lydia left for Oregon and I was alone. I’d work sound occasionally, but that was “below the line.” My name wouldn’t be first in the credits: it would be towards the very bottom. Right next to the other day players and technical nerds. The audience would be long gone by the time my name scrolled up on screen. Hell, I was never going to make it to the screen.

     I tried again one more time in April. Right after I met Savannah. I wrote and directed a short film, and drafted Sam on as my co-director. The first half of the trip was planned as a celebration. We did it. We were back in business. But now I’m in Eugene and the short film had stalled. Our editor had dropped off.

     It was once again up to me to finish the picture. But I had the same doubts: What if I couldn’t do it? When so many people were relying on me and I had promised them so much. I was no longer the hotshot filmmaker, just on the cusp of getting recognized. I was a drifter. Giving everything I had just to make it to the West Coast.

     And here I was, drunk out of my mind with my cat. I cuddled Pippin and held him close. I forced him to sit on my lap until he got tired of my company and darted away. Maybe this is what I came for. It wasn’t about seeing the ocean again, or fulfilling a half-assed promise to visit Lydia. This whole expensive struggle was centered around petting Pippin.