 
BE LEAVE SEASONS

SERIES

By

Michael J. Milano

GONE WITH THE FALLING LEAVES

Copyright © 2019 by Michael J Milano. Music-Cool Productions LLC.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Call me the Breeze, I keep blowing down the road

Well now, they call me the Breeze

I keep blowin' down the road...

Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Breeze

Spent your whole life running away

I belong, I believe

Home at last.

Lumineers, Angela

Autumn leaves are falling all around,

Time I was on my way.

-Led Zeppelin, Ramble on

Winter is an etching,

Spring a watercolor,

Summer an oil painting and

Autumn a mosaic of them all."

-Stanley Horowitz

"Kicking through the

autumn leaves and

wondering where it

is you might be

going to.."

-David Gray, Babylon

This book is dedicated to staff at the Blasco Library.

BE LEAVES

"He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colorful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself. "

-Siddhartha, Herman Hesse

BREEZE BLOCKS

The Intro

I step out from the greyhound terminal to the terminal's outdoor courtyard. I'm in Los Angeles. It's quarter past midnight, according to someone else's cell-phone. I tossed mine in the lake, months ago, before leaving home. Home is 2,000 plus miles, east. As of now--home is wherever I rest my head. I'm wearing my vintage travel cap: a straw hat, similar to that of the late Huck Finn, with a folded American flag wrapped around it. In my new life, I've created myself to be a blend of both Elvis Presley and Huck Finn. I've coined myself a 'huckster'.

I've been wearing the same white-tee for over a month now. In bold black lettering across the front reads: I BE LEAVE. The back of the tee is a quote by Janis Joplin that goes, "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

I have with me my traveling tote and my song. I travel light.

I take to stop and crane my head to the sky. It is dark and starless and choked with a combo of smog and smoke from a nearby, seasonal California forest fire. My vision is a bit blurred due to sleep deprivation, but I stop and oscillate my head around the courtyard to see what I can find.

I find people passing, coming and going, sitting and staring, itineraries folding and unfolding, plumes of candy-flavored vapors emanating from vapes, cigarettes butted, joints being lit and passed. People chatting and playing on their phones. Kids crying, parents passing their tablets to both appease and distract them. On the ground before me is a young dude sitting cross-legged on the concrete pad. He has long, silky-straight black hair, tanned skin, and a sort of witch-doctor face. He wears skinny black jeans and a tight black t-shirt with the witch from the Wizard of Oz looking through her crystal ball. Dude is something of a mixture of hipster/surfer/warlock. I dunno, I can't really decide which, so I'm going with all the above.

Beside him is a cardboard sign leaned up against a bright-blue meshed-metal trash reciprocal. The sign reads: Read your future for a fee. Before the sign is a row of tarots cards evenly aligned. I inquire:

"What's the fee?"

"Dunno, my man. What's your life worth to you?"

"Priceless," I reply, removing my wallet from out the pocket of my ashy-gray chinos. My wallet is also gray and made of tweed. On the front, embossed in black, is an image of a dog chasing a rabbit. Halfway around, the dog stops to take a dump and the rabbit gets away. The caption below the image is the title of my favorite song by the king--HOUND DOG.

"I have seven bones. Will seven bones make the grade?"

"I'm hella hungry, so seven bones should suffice. Please, sit and join me. Be one with the earth."

I sit, cross-legged, mirroring Future, a row of tarot cards between us.

A loudspeaker sounds: Passengers departing from Los Angeles to Phoenix, New Mexico, Denver, please line up at door 10. Your bus will soon be departing. Los Angeles, Phoenix, Be Leave, Denver, please line up at door 10.

I stick my paw out to shake,

"Breeze."

Dude, apparently a germ-a-phobe, offers a pound.

"Future. Future the Soothsayer."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Future. Now, let's get down to business. Shall we?"

Future the Soothsayer scoops the cards from off the concrete, stacks, then shuffles. His eyes are shut tightly, his head tilted toward the sky. A tall fella with a bulging hiking bag strapped to his back passes by. He stops and observes. He is bespectacled, his glasses round and professor-scholarly-like, perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose. The spange-reliant traveler peers ponderously at both Future and I sitting on the concrete before him. He has a big, bushy, brown, benign beard. Behind the beard, you can't tell if he is twenty or fifty-years-old. Where there is a horse with no name, comes a man of no age, I think to myself. His teeth are the color of plum leaves. His hair--the same color and texture as his epic beard--is pulled back tautly in a ponytail. He removes a joint from out the breast pocket of his button-down fall-colored flannel, followed by sparking it. He takes a couple of puffs, then passes it down to me. I puff-puff, cough, then pass it to Future. Future shakes his head, 'no'--

"Not while I'm working."

I nod out of respect. I turn to pass the joint back up to--

"Say, got a name, epic beard man?"

"Name's Zep." I detect the accent is from--

"From Britain. I've been backpacking the U.S. for about two years now. Lots of experiences, men. Good and bad alike. I believe that's what makes an adventure an adventure, right? Least that's what I believe. And what's that expression I had picked up from that New Age/hipster/transcendentalist fella I met out on the pier back in Rhode Island?" He scratches his head as if to hatch an eggshell of incubating memory. "Oh yes! Been coast-to-coast like butter and toast."

Future blurbs in. "It's time."

He lays the cards down, and then evenly spreads them out. He flips three cards individually. He reveals a 7, 10, and the Fool.

"Now, the seven is a super solid number. Lucky number, as most know. The number of, "the seeker." Ten: Ten shows your individuality and independence in the world while still being a part of the whole. Ten also represents the completion of something, and also the coming of something new. Now, the Fool..haha.. the Fool, see...the Fool is an interesting card. See, the Fool--in the midst of all his folly--can cancel out both the seven and ten. But dig this, the Fool--while in the midst of his wanderlust curiosity--could also stumble upon both numbers as well. Are you picking up all that I'm laying down?"

Zep, pacing back-and-forth, stops, drops the butt of the joint and then stomps it out. He scratches his head, and then says,

"Wasteful. I believe I've become Americanized."

He bends over, scoops the roach, and then tosses it at Future's cardboard sign. The roach bounces off the cardboard and lands. The sign reads: BE LEAVE.

"You know; you Americans are an interesting breed. Most wasteful people I've ever seen. Consume, consume, consume. Waste, waste, waste. Not to say us Brits are much better. But I do dig your style to China and back. Your creative ways of expressing yourselves and such. Your...swag. Anyway, the road is a-callin'. I believe I must be on my merry way." Zep the Brit turns to go, flashes the peace sign, then says, "Godspeed, gentleman. Godspeed."

And that's right around the time the Breeze knew. Also right around the time, the bus pulled up and the Breeze blew.

FORTY DAY DREAM

"He's coming to. He's coming to. Levon, can you hear me, Levon? He's back with us. He's awake." And the light above is blurry and bright, shining through a spinning black circle that looks a bit like a record. An image of a person, shadowy and incandescent, appears above me. And then--for some strange reason--an image from the film, Wizard of Oz appears. Dorothy, the Tin Man, The Cowardly Lion, and the Scarecrow, skipping down the yellow brick road, toward me, singing:

You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark

You're out of the night

Step into the sun, step into the light.

I have no idea where I am or how I got here. Above me stands a man in a white medical coat. He looks like Einstein. I laugh. I scream. The lights go out, and the record stops spinning.

I wake the next morning to a sphere of sunlight shining in through my hospital room window. Einstein is present. Across from him is a pretty nurse dressed in a candy striper outfit. She has full, Botox-injected lips smeared with strawberry-red lipstick. I get an image in my head of the cover of a Blink 182 album. She looks a lot like the nurse on the cover.

"Welcome back, Levon. My name is Dr. Swan. I'm your neuropsychologist. You were in a bad automobile accident almost 6-weeks back. You suffered some injuries to your coconut, as well as some lacerations to your face. You slept for an even 40-days. You, friend, are lucky to be alive."

In the corner of the room are my four mothers. Mother #4 steps forward, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks.

"Doc, his vitals haven't been checked since yesterday. I know, I've been in and out of his room all night. His RN is a slack-ass, and needs replaced. I mean, come on, doc, what the hell are you doing here--running a circus? Allow me to do the honors." Mother #4, dressed in her nursing scrubs, grasps the stethoscope draped over her heart and proceeds. Dr. Swan looks up to acknowledge her, smiles then reverts his attention back down at me. "Can you remember anything...anything at all?"

Before I can respond, Dr. Swan is summoned from the loudspeaker above, followed by a woman's voice. The voice is soft and angelic, being carried by a gentle wind. The voice says,

"Be Leave."

There is a man standing in the corner of the room next to my four mothers. He is dressed in a gaudy black business suit and is wearing a solid red tie. He has a fresh tan as if he just got back from a cruise in the Caribbean Islands. On one hand, he holds a briefcase, the other his iPhone. He approaches me with a wide-eyed, wide white smile. "Good morning, Levon. A pleasure to have you back with us. As your neuropsychologist had said, you were in a nasty car accident. You've just awoken from a 40-day dream. Your mother had contacted me to represent you."

"Which one?" He smiles.

"Janet."

I try to smile back, but my face hurts something terrible, feeling as if I had fallen from off my cloud and landed atop the ugly tree, hitting every branch on the way back down from heaven. I respond,

"Mother." He retorts.

"I just want you to know that you are not at fault. I've acquired a surveillance video from a convenience store located across the street from where the accident occurred. It will be used as supporting evidence in your case. And no worries, you will be lawfully and rightfully compensated for your injuries." A voice booms from across the room.

"Welcome back, Breezy. I didn't know if use was gonna be coming home anytime soon or not, so, I took the liberty of covering your end of the rent. No worries, Breeze-dog. What are friends for?" This is Slim. Slim and I had met back in the Bay Area nearly a decade ago. He moved here to the Gem City to get away from some family issues he was having back in the Big E-Z, his home ground. Slim turns to face my four mothers still standing tired, panic-stricken, and red-eyed in the corner of the hospital room. He smiles playfully, then sarcastically says,

"Hey, no disrespect and all...but how come y'all didn't help chip in on the rent?"

After spending a couple more weeks in the hospital, I finally received my discharge papers and was free to be leave. Mother #3 is there to pick me up in her beat brown Buick. She drives me to my apartment--her car only stalling out twice-- and leaves me with a bag of food, as well as Pumpkin Pie ala mode she had picked up from the restaurant she serves tables at. For some strange reason, I can't recall the name of the restaurant or that pumpkin pie ala mode is my favorite dessert. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, then tells me she needs to talk to me about something. She remains quiet about that something. She decides not to. She looks upset. She then turns to me and says,

"Mother #1 is going through some rough shit. She's been on one of her pill binges as of late. Please try and be patient with her." Mother #3 then dotes me with kisses on the cheeks and forehead, and then be leaves me with the bag of food and the dessert. We bid farewell, and then I head to my apartment, mounting the concrete steps to my front door. I knock. No answer. I knock again. A strong warm welcoming-home wind blows, and the door opens. I take a book-look inside. I enter. The tarnished wood floor has a glimmer to it as if it was recently polished. A beat brown sofa sits pressed against the wall; a flat-screen TV atop a chipped wood hand-me-down table sitting directly across. The Christmas tree still stands from last Christmas: lights, decorations, a fallen star.

The door to Slim's room is shut. I knock to see if he is here. I knock soft, but the door still slowly swings open. I enter. His mattress is there below the window against the white wall. It has been stripped of all its blankets. His closet door is ajar, but all that remains is empty hangers and a pair of weathered, winter-beaten boots he wore to walk to-and-from work all winter long. I notice his desk is empty of its computer. Atop the desk is an envelope with my name written across. I open it. There is a letter inside. It reads:

Dear, Breezy, glad you finally made it home. Had me scared for a minute. Anyway, the lease is up in exactly one month, so I decided to split a bit early, get back to my chickee-poo back in the bay. Lawd knows I miss that sweet Georgia peach. Also, I took the honor of paying the final month. Go ahead and keep the security deposit. You helped me when I was down and out, and I went and returned the favor. Mi casa, su casa. Also, when your mafioso attorney gets you that settlement jingle, do feel free to come out to the bay, treat me to some Bob's Doughnuts and some Tommy's Joint. Haha. Jk. For real though, Chelsey would love to have you, plus you can stay with us--the dog could use some company on the couch. Anyway... I hope you are feeling better and all. You looked like yah done stepped in the ring with Mike Tyson and the ref done took too long to call the fight. Anyway, the rent is spent, and I'm glad you are alive, Breeze E-Z. Give me a call when you get home and find this letter. I left some crawfish and Jambalaya for you. Hope that someday you get to New Orleans, get your taste buds on the real deal. Anyway--I also hope you remember how to read. Also, sorry about your brother, dog. You just can't catch a break. I only met him that one time he was over at the crib playin the guitar. Seemed like a really good dude. God bless the dead. B-E-Z, Breezy. Till we meet again. Your friend,

-Slim

P.S. Also in the envelope is Daniel's obituary. Hearts and thoughts, Levon. Hearts and thoughts.

I read the obituary over, trying to string together memories of Brother Daniel, but they come off dismal and in disarray. I leave Slim's room and enter my own room. My room is a mess. Books and records and notebooks and band tee-shirts are scattered all over the floor. Against the window is an expensive cherry oak desk Mother #2 had bought for me. Leaned up against it is an acoustic guitar. A memory returns.

* * * * *

Gravedigger

Daniel, eyes gooey and glassy and low, scratching at his nose, picks up his guitar and sits in the desk chair. He starts strumming, tunes the guitar, then plays, Dave Matthews, Grave Digger: He sings--

"Gravedigger, won't you dig my grave. Will you make it shallow, so I can feel the rain."

The sky is blotched with gravid gray clouds, and the rain is coming down in torrents. I wear a black suit that still had the Goodwill tags on it before I put it on. I forgot an umbrella, but it feels good getting drenched in the cold, early October rain. I mount the slick, stone steps leading toward two thick and heavy cathedral doors. I step inside and out of the rain. I am soaked to the bones. Mass is in procession.

The pews are full of Gem City folk sitting and listening to Father Brennan read from the Bible:

"The rains came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; it won't collapse because it is built on bedrock."

I walk down the center aisle--toward Father Brennan--Jesus Christ nailed on the cross behind him. Below lays Daniel in a casket surrounded by flowers. He looks quite peaceful and all. In hand, I have his guitar.

I arrive before his casket. His face is clean and smooth and shiny. He looks sixteen again. I rest the neck of the acoustic against his casket, take a knee, remove my huckster hat, then begin:

You knew that shit was going to kill you eventually. You knew that everything is eventual. You knew you were sick. I don't know if you knew that you were an angel on stage when you played the guitar. Something sent from above. You made the ladies' mouths water, and the dudes glow with jealousy. I'm certain you know it now. I'm thinking you knew it then. We weren't biological brothers, but that didn't matter. You were the truest brother any brother could have. You were always there for fistfights, and you always hopped in to save me when I was getting my butt kicked; even when you told me you would never fight my battles. I know you battled with depression. That's the real reason you lost the battle with addiction. You were all soul brother--all soul--and I know you are in a better place; free of sadness. I know you are singing with the angels now, strumming the strings on your heavenly guitar. See you sooner than later, brother. For one day we all 'be leave'.

I stand, take to nodding at Father Gable--by and by--then take to removing a bouquet of roses from a glass vase. I nod down at Daniel, then say,

"I'm going to be borrowing this bro," then turn and walk the direction in which I came. The rain has ebbed--slowing to a light sprinkle. I stick my tongue out for a taste of the pure. I head three-miles east--to Solsbury Cemetery-- to bring the flowers to the woman who saved my life. I mount a slippery bright green grass hill, and find her grave empty of flowers. Guess it's a good thing I came.

You were my first mother. You picked me up off the orphanage steps the night I was abandoned there. You told me the reason why you gave me my name. You said it was because when you found me on the steps that late and strangely warm October night, that there was a soft breeze blowing, whirling golden-colored leaves all around me. You said it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. You always had a way of making me feel special.

I often take to remembering you helping me with homework, and greeting me at the bus-stop every afternoon when school got out. I remember you always making me chicken noodle soup and grilled cheese sandwiches when I was sick with a cold. I especially remember you baking pies. Ain't nobody can bake a pie like you, Flo. Nobody. I remember on them cold and snowy nights, when you'd take to making hot cocoa and reading me folk stories until I fell fast asleep in your lovin' arms. I remember us staying up late and listening to records. You taught me that oldies are goodies. Man, you were so hip. Then the day came that you taught me how to play piano. And I'll never forget those times when we'd walk to the penny candy store, stopping to pick locust shells from off the trees so I could score extra points in Science class. I sadly remember tears in your eyes when you handed me off to Mother # 1. I want you to know that I love you with all my heart. Rest easy, Flo. Your love will never be forgotten. Be Love.

The rain has gone and picked up again, and my feet are tired and sore and soaked from walking all day. It's a six-mile walk from Solsbury Cemetery to the Gem City County Correctional Facility. I called a week prior to make arrangements to see my good friend, Cisco. Cisco's always been hard to get hold of--yet--never hard to find. A corrections officer meets me at the entrance. He uses a metal detector to scan me for weapons. I tell the CO to B-E-Z on me, for I have no drugs. For I had taken to take them all before I got here. He mean-mugs me, followed by buzzing me in.

The visiting area consists of multiple round white plastic tables surrounded with plastic white chairs. There are families sitting circled together (mostly black families): mothers holding their babies with one arm while tightly squeezing their man's hand, tears in their eyes while their fella stares off--doing anything to fight his tears back. I take a seat and wait for Cisco. He comes out wearing what he calls his "coco browns." He is referring to the color of his jail-house uniform. He is smiling as he walks out, giving the CO a friendly shake and nod and all. The CO can't help but grin--Cisco being a character and all. He walks along, then takes a seat at the table. He arches back in his chair, hands behind his head, a full-smile on his face. He acts as if he's at the county country club and not the local cooler.

"How's it feel to be awake, Sleeping Beauty?"

I smile back. "Good. I feel well-rested, and re-ready for the world. How's it feel to be back in the can? What did you do this time?"

"Another doo-wee. I don't blame it on the boozing, though. It was this bad broad I got all mixed up with. She has lots of tattoos and rides a Harley. You know, just the kinda girl I dig on, you dig? Anyway, I'm not really thinking much of biker babes these days. You see, Breezy, they give you this drink at every meal that makes your dick limp all day and all night. It gets served to you at every meal. The good-boys call it, "dick-down juice." But anyway, the gaI was seeing just so turned out to be my P.O. Things were golden at first, then I pissed her off, and everything took a turn for the worst. The story goes a little something like:

THE CALL-UP (An Interlude)

Cisco, squatting in the open doorway, rests his shotgun against the door frame and picks up his celly, which rest next to a medley of items: a bottle of whiskey, a metal coat-hanger, a high-powered mag light, and a wooden instrument used to call in turkeys. He checks the time, sets the phone back down, then scoops the bottle and swigs, gurgling before swallowing.

"Ten minutes till the call-up." He scratches his ankle with the coat hanger, the only way to get below his ankle monitor.

"You're not supposed to be drinking. Isn't that why you're in this mess? And isn't that damn contraption around your ankle supposed to detect booze in your blood?"

He sets the bottle and hanger down. He picks up his cell-phone, looks at his concerned mother and then says, "This is why I'm in this mess (making reference to his phone). A bad broad and me answering her call. Oh, and I guess my tracking device has a malfunction. He cringes at the thought and lifts the bottle, taking a larger than life swig. He looks at the screen on his phone and then says,

"Five minutes."

He uses the turkey call,

Gobble-gobble-gobble. He looks back up at his mother with a smart-ass smirk on his face, laughs a bit.

He turns the mag light on, resting it in the open doorway. Cold-winter air and snow-motes blow in. He elevates his shot-gun and has a look-see around the mag-lit yard to see what he can find. He doesn't feel the cold, the booze and adrenaline keeping him toasty.

"What the hell are you doing with that gun, son?"

"Can't you see I'm hunting, ma?"

"Hunting? Hunting season is well over."

"Yeah, but being laid off and collecting unemployment isn't. It's hunger-season. Survival of the fit. Far as I'm concerned, anything brown goes down."

"You're out your rabbit ass mind."

"Brown-tail rabbit is game. I'll let the white rabbit slide."

"You're sick. Call your PO."

Cisco leans the gun against the door-frame, scoops up the turkey call, then looks at his mother with a big smile—

"Gobble-gobble-gobble."

"This isn't funny. When the hell are you going to grow up? Call your probation officer now!"

He sets down the turkey call, takes a pull at the bottle, swallows then say,

"Ok. Ok. Ok."

He places both his forefinger and thumb in his mouth, whistles aloud. He does it again. Again.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Making the call-up. He whistles again, then says,

"Call-leen. Colleen, dear. I'm calling in."

Then, from out the back room, comes a woman in a showy laced thong and strapless bra (both white), with white bunny-rabbit ears attached to her head. Also-- a Glock strapped to her waist and a rolled joint slowly burning in her mouth. She looks as if she's been sleeping.

"Ma, Colleen. Colleen, Ma. Glad you are both now properly introduced."

"Now, mother-dear, since I've summoned my PO, think it's ok I get back to hunting?" He picks up the turkey call,

Gobble-gobble-gobble.

*****

"Oh well. Anyway, I'll be out of here in the next few weeks. In the meantime, would you be ever so kind as to drop a little jingle on my books? In need of Kite tobacco and Ramen. You should see how creative these cats in here are with Ramen. Make it into something you could order off a dinner menu at a four-star hotel. So what you say, hombre. Put a little cheese in my Ramen, Breezy, ol' pal?"

LIME IN THE COCONUT

Dr. Swan sits in a chair before a messy desk filled with folders, paperwork, empty Starbucks cups and scribbled on sticky notes. He has a Starbucks coffee in hand. He sips from it. He stares forward. He asks,

"So, how are things going at home since you've been discharged? Good, I hope. If not, vent. Venti-sized vent." He smiles, and again sips from his coffee.

"Oh, you know, chip-chip-cheerio, doc. Still slowly adjusting. Rolling with the changes and all."

Dr. Swan adjusts his glasses, pondering my response. He says,

"How's your memory? Do you recall life before the accident?"

"Yeah, doc. A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Constant coming-and-goings of memories every time I stumble upon something from life before the coma. I was recently placed on family medical leave assistance from my gig at the hospital. I recall digging that gig, though I can't recall what it was I dug so much about it."

Dr. Swan polishes off his coffee, then tosses it in a tin trash bin that has written on it in black-felt marker--

Am I crazy, or simply brilliant?

"Oh, so what is it you do there at the hospital?"

"I was an environmental services aide. Are you familiar?"

"Can't say I'm familiar with the position. Do enlighten me."

"It's medical jargon for 'housekeeper."

"Indeed." He then takes to placing his hands on both sides of his head, slowly ballooning his hands outward. "Thank you, Levon, for filling my coconut."

"Don't mention it, doc. So, I'll obviously be on a sabbatical until you give me the OK to get back to putting in work. And of course, I'm a bit tight on jingle, as you can imagine. My roommate helped me out a good bit, as well as co-workers. They bring me a weekly supply of canned goods. Charity case, doc. I've also got some food stamps. Before you know it, you'll be seein' my face on gumball machines."

"You know, Levon. Drastic unexpected incidents occur all the time. Remember you are not at fault. It is good that you have a support system in your corner. It is going to take some time to acclimate to your old life. Put the puzzle pieces back together, if you will. Be patient."

"Something is different. Like I don't know myself. Forgot me. Like, I dunno. It's like I come across my old life, and it is as if I was there before, but don't recall ever being there. Like a ghost returning to someone else's vacant life."

"Well, as we've previously discussed, you suffered many injuries to your brain. You could be experiencing symptoms of depression and anxiety, PTSD from the trauma of the accident. Are you feeling depressed?

"Empty. That's what I feel. Or, rather-- don't feel. I don't feel at all. Stoic is a better choice of word. Lost in not thoughts, rather, a sea of nothingness."

"I see. We are going to run another MRI on you shortly. You will be scheduled to take a series of neuropsychological assessment tests in order to see where you are at mentally. Do keep in mind that brain injuries do take a good deal of time to recover from. Be patient. Rest and take care of yourself. Oh, and drink lots of water. You are still very early on in the recovery process. Hell, some people will suffer from post-traumatic symptoms for all their lives."

"I've never much been into medication, doc. I was 3-0- do-zee'd(302'd) some time ago, and the doc went and prescribed me some brain chow-chow in order to get back on the level. Seroquel, if I recall correctly. It had me doing the zombie-walk up and down the halls. Ever heard of the Trazadone shuffle, doc?"

He smiles. "Yes, I've had other patients mention it before."

"Anyway, doc, I'm not much into brain chow-chow or Trazodone shuffling for that matter. However--in this case--I'm willing to make a compromise. Anything, anything at all to get me out this funkin' fog I'm in."

"Yes, Levon. All of the above has crossed my mind. Following your MRI and the neurological assessment tests, I'm going to link you up with a psychiatrist colleague of mine. He's very good at his job. Very professional. Very knowledgeable and well experienced in his field. He will be able to get a better grasp on what's going on with you...also, prescribe you the appropriate meds for your current psychological...ailments."

MONEY

I enter attorney Jingle Giovanni's office. He is naked, other than a pair of green boxer shorts bedecked with golden dollar signs and a gold watch dangling from his wrist. He is playing golf. He hears me enter. He looks up at me, startled, then says,

"Levon. What's up, broseph? You caught me in the middle of a golf outing. I've got good news for you. As I had mentioned before, I had obtained the surveillance video of the accident and you are one-hundred-percent not at fault." He stands and offers me a high five. I leave him hanging for the moment, staring at his hand hovered high above me. Mentally, man, it seems like a galaxy away. And that's how I feel. Like Carole King--So Far Away. He looks at me and sees dollar signs--he can't help but smile and all.

"You will be fully compensated by the insurance company for the damages to your vehicle as well as your injuries. Now, this kinda thing can go on forever, however, I feel we have enough solid evidence to get the ball rolling. How are you feeling? Does your neck or back hurt at all?"

"No. I feel fine physically. Mental issues and difficulties focusing. Doc says he has a good psychiatrist he's going to link me up with. Money sounds good. Sweeter than a slice of honey pie. Money makes people happy, right? Makes them move."

"Haha. Money makes me move. If only you paid the annual amount of taxes I pay. But, yeah, money makes the world go round-and-round. The universal language, bro. Just the way it is-- was--and always will be."

"Ever wish you could just up and leave it all?"

"And be a bum. Naw, no thanks."

"What's the meaning of life, Jingle?"

"Not sure. But I know the meaning of the system--Money."

I look out the window of his office, to a clear blue sky. I respond,

"Sky blue, money green." He lights a cigar--

"Money."

DR. FEELGOOD

"Hey, Levon. Dr. Feelgood, here. Glad to finally meet you." He sticks his hand out to shake. His hand is soft and pudgy, as if he's never done a day of manual labor in all his life.

"Please, take a seat. I just got off the phone with Dr. Swan, what a terrific doc he is. Such a swell guy. I'm glad he sent you my way. Now, I went over the test results he faxed over. Are you currently suffering from any depression, anxiety, perhaps paranoia?"

"Dr. Feelgood. I feel like a guitar that is in need of some fine tuning."

Well, your MRI results came back and everything is clear. However, your neuropsychological assessment tests came back a little iffy. Your memory is impressive, your cognitive skills are certainly above par. My concern, however, is the attention span portion of the test. You seem to be having difficulties concentrating. I'm also worried about mood instability. Now, before I prescribe you any meds, I want to hear from you what is really going on in Levon's world. What you are really feeling?"

"Well, Feelgood, I feel as if I'm a ghost revisiting a world in which I once lived, but am no longer familiar with. Like that book, Stranger in a Strange Land. Or, like the title, at least. That make any sense to you, doc?"

"Are you feeling mixed emotions? Perhaps lots of energy, mixed with periods of depression? Do your moods tend to fluctuate?"

"You mean manic depression, doc. Is that what you are driving at?"

"Yes."

"I was diagnosed with bipolar years ago. First bi-polar I, then later, bi-polar II. I'm under the impression that if there was a bi-polar III available, they would have done hit me with that pedigree, too. Out of curiosity, has that become a diagnosis in the last 40-days that I was doing the Rip Van Winkle?"

He smirks. "No, it has not. But the reason I ask is that I went through your medical records, and found that you were diagnosed with bipolar. I'm wondering if it could have been intensified due to your recent head traumas."

"No, I just feel like I don't I know myself. Forgot me. A ghost in my own world, as I mentioned before."

"Yes, Dr. Swan had mentioned that over the phone as well. We both concur that you are also suffering from PTSD. There are a couple of meds I've considered. Sertraline--which is just a generic form of Zoloft--which I have noted that you've been prescribed in the past. I've also selected Paxil, which I'd like to start you off at. Low dosage, then gradually up the milligrams as we go. Also, there is another med we both strongly considered. We will be taking a chance, but are you familiar with Adderall?"

"You betcha. Back in high school and college, everyone took them during finals week. The chicks take them to lose weight and feel great. That sound about right, Doctor Feelgood?"

"They were treating the med like a drug. This is why we are concerned. We see that you don't have a history of chemical dependency, but the med can cause serious dependency issues, especially if not taken as prescribed. I will be starting you off at 10mg. I will be scheduling you to see me once every week for the next month due to concerns with the med. I'm also going to prescribe you a mood-stabilizer. Any questions?"

"Yeah. Where can I get me a little TLC, doc? Got any of that available round here? Cute nurse out front in the waiting area. Meant to ask her if she's married or in love. You happen to know off hand if she's a bird-of-love, doc? He fights back the smile because he's a highly-professional doc and all.

"Don't worry, Levon. You'll find yourself again."

I leave Dr. Feelgood's office, and then walk three blocks west--to the pharmacy--with three signed scripts in hand. A lady at the counter with hair dyed blue approaches me.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"I'm here to pick up three prescriptions, an orange cream float, and a slice of pumpkin pie you've got over there in the cooler next to the bottles of Vanilla Coke. I wash all three meds down with my float, devour my pie, then I take to be leave.

I walk home. I go inside. I sit and stare. Within the hour, I feel euphoria--butterflies and bubbles rising in my belly. I feel an enhanced, sharpened, crystalline-concentration. I feel alive. Even if just artificially.

SLEEP ON THE FLOOR

"I'd like to withdraw 10,000 dollars from my account."

The bank teller looks at me with suspicion. She looks both grouchy and groggy and in need of coffee. She thinks--

He doesn't quite look homely, but he looks sort of like the ever-changing-job traveler type. Not the type to be stuffing ten-grand into a checking account. Unless it is an inheritance from grandma or from a recently received settlement.

Marcy, the bank manager, has had some strange lessons learned in the world of both economics and diversion. She studies the man-child for a moment longer; he seems in a daze; a day-tripper day-dreaming--a sweet dumb innocent look on his face. A beautiful boy who looks a bit like Elvis, she notices without much thought. But she can't be too sure. Especially not in these tough economic times. Especially not at 9 a.m., her mind still sleepy, a hangover still slightly present--slowly being ebbed by the strong Columbian Starbucks coffee she has getting cold on her desk back in her office. Yep. Never too sure. She asks for his account info as well as his social security number. And he removes both his debit card and social security card from out his tweed wallet and then hands them over. He smiles a bit at the look on her face; a befuddled look, knowing it foolish to leave a copy of your social security card in your wallet. But hey, everybody plays the fool sometimes, he thinks with a smirk. And it's just paper to him anyway. Paper with numbers. To Be Live again. Priceless, he thinks."

"Oh, and no preference. Cash only, toots." He helps himself to a complimentary Tootsie Roll.

"Are you being blackmailed or extorted?"

"Hm. You make me feel as if I'm about to be. You got a team of ninjas hiding outback, darlin'?"

She looks at the computer screen again, scrutinizing, beady eyes scrolling. She looks up.

"That is the rest of what remains in your account. That and seven cents."

"Keep the change, no preference."

She keeps the change and comes to the counter counting carefully, raising a suspicious eye every time she hits a grand. The money is all there, crisp hundreds stacked as high as a box of boot's--the simile spawning from the memory of working low-paying temp labor jobs in his life before the coma.

She was right. The traveling type. A free-spirited student of life with beautiful blues eyes and a face with the most magnificent bone structure--as if marble perfectly chiseled by Donatello. He also seems to have a certain air of freedom about him that almost makes her kind of envious. Levon could see a soft breeze knocking leaves from off a row of maples in the window behind her. The time had come--the time to be leave.

He takes the cash with a smile and thank you.

Then the Breeze blows.

****

I arrive back home to Mother #3's house, and the first thing I do is devour a slice of pie, followed by brushing my teeth. I stare at myself in the mirror. I don't know the guy I'm looking at. Instead--I'm creating him.

I look down, and next to the sink are the three prescription bottles I scooped from the pharmacy. I go to the one in the middle. The Doctor Feelgood special.

I toss my toothbrush in my tote bag and then put on my fav. tee. It's a white-tee with big bold black letters that read: I BE LEAVE. I toss on my straw Huckster hat, the American flag wrapped around it. I put on my tweed gray coat, using my hands to press out the wrinkles, then roll up the sleeves to show off my tattoos. I remember the ladies always liking my tats and all.

I put on polished black dress shoes with pointed tips--my brother Daniel's birth-date on the side of the left shoe, his demise date on the side of the right. With a gold sharpie, I write on the tip of the left: Be. The right: Leave.

I take two books from off the shelf: Jack Kerouac, "On the Road," and "Mark Twain's, Huck Finn." I have a nostalgic, uncertain feeling about the Mark Twain novel, then recall the author's real name is Samuel Clemens. Be remembered, Mister Samuel Clemens.

I unload socks, boxer shorts, t-shirts, sweatshirts, a hoodie and three pairs of pants. A map of the U.S. and a dart to toss. I open up the night stand drawer and fetch a bag of peppermint candies and a can of Cool-Whip. I toss my pills in my wheelie tote and then take to be leaving Mother #3 a note. I then head to the kitchen to feed the cats and make myself a few PB&J sandwiches for the road.

I fetch my wheelie-tote, and then I am off. Off to the highway, where I stand on the off-ramp with my tote and thumb out, ready to be leave the Gem City behind me, the sun going down to the east, a beautiful pastel pink perfectly lining puffy golden clouds. A tow truck pulls up and I recognize the fella, just can't place who he is and where I had once known him from. He stares at me with a big humorous grin as if I've known him all my life. He lights up a blunt and passes it to me.

"Here. Try this. This is some grape ape. Here, take a hit and be somebody."

I hit it, pound at my chest like an ape, cough, and then pass it back to him. He still has that same shit-eating grin on his face that he had when I had first gotten into his truck. Like he has some dirt on me I know nothing about. He says,

"Levon. Levon the southern-boy Breeze. You don't remember your old pal, Dan Gerous, do you? No, I think to myself, doesn't chime any southern bells. I hit the blunt and exhale, feeling well and... well, stoned. I look over at Dan Gerous while exhaling marijuana smoke, and get an image of him walking along an overpass, clinging to a chain-link fence some hundred feet above the highway--looking down at me with a big, daring grin. He says,

"You were in an awful auto accident. Heard it kinda screwed with your coconut. Glad you're alive, bro. The world's hard-living without E-Z Breezy blowing around. Glad I saw you. Shit, glad I picked you up. What the hell are you doing thumbing around town anyway, man? Are you a newly awoken degenerate? Breeze gone hobo. You should go pick yourself up a set of some new wheels, man. Well...on second thought, you're prob not looking to drive anytime soon though, huh? I towed your Cadillac to the junkyard; getting a firsthand look at the damage done. Lucky to be alive. Sure you've heard that already, though. Now, old friend, where is it I'm taking you?"

"Gem City Luxury Lakefront Hotel. Now, there was something you use to always do when we hung out, I just can't remember what it was."

"Gem City Palace... How the hell can you afford that? And why? Dude, you've got like ten moms, go stay with one of them."

"I know, Dan Gerous, I know. I've just always wanted to stay on the top floor and overlook the lake. Don't know why...just something I've always wanted to do. Plus, I want to take a super long hot shower and sleep on a huge feather-downy matress. It's like some people want to go to amusement parks or go sky-diving, and others want to buy a motorcycle or a sporting boat or go to the jungle for a tour of the wild safari. I just want to spend a night in a luxury suite. Get a look down on the lake I've been fishin' from for all these years. Kinda weird, huh?" He pulls out a zippo with a pair of matching cherries on it. Cherry pair. He lights the flame, swiveling it around some for effects.

"Yeah, you've always been kind of a weird dude. Weird in a good way, though. Like, when we used to go out to the bars, and there would be a dozen hot chicks on you, and you would always dance with the shy or ugly girl standing in the corner that no one wanted. Big heart or no brains. Maybe both. Hey, reach in the back seat and grab me a beer, would you?" I reach in the back and see a six-pack of Yuengling and also--

"Cherry bombs. That's it! You were always known for making an outro with the lighting of a cherry bomb. That's what it was, wild-child. Dangerous Dan Gerous. The Cherry-Bomber."

"Guilty as charged." Dan Gerous still has the flame dancing in his face, that sour cherry pie-eating grin from ear-to-ear reappears.

"Give me one of each, Breezy." I hand him off both a can of Yuengling and a cherry bomb. He snatches a stapled list of names, some highlighted. He pulls over. He scrolls his finger down the list, coming to one particular highlighted name.

"Patrick Dunn. 836 Haven Drive. Two-hundred-dollars and sixty-three-cents. Yep. He's getting bombed."

He lights the cherry bomb and then steps on the gas-- soaring down the road. We watch as the flame burns, sparks shooting all over his carpenter jean pant legs and onto the floor of the truck. He pulls over, opens a mailbox, and drops the bomb inside. He creeps slowly down the road, both listening in as the mailbox explodes. He steps on the gas and speeds off to the hotel. I get out and grab my tote, bid him farewell with the tip of my hat. I be check-in.

The gal at the counter is a sweet caramel-colored thing with curly, chestnut brown hair and big, doughy brown eyes. We make eyes. I ask for a suite on the top floor.

"Nicest one you can offer, stone fox."

She rings me up, and I hand her 2-hundos. She slips me two room keys. We keep eyes. I slip her one back. She giggles. I tilt my eyes to the ceiling to see a painting of a blue sky filled with white clouds and seagulls soaring here and there. I go to my room. I start by taking a long steaming hot shower, then lay naked on the bed with nothing but my hat on. I toss 10,000 dollars in the air and laugh like a maniac. Hm. Better take the mood stabilizer, for I'm feeling a bit manic, Feelgood. Hahaha. I get up. Tacked on the wall is the map of the U.S. I take the American flag bandana from off the Huckster hat (which isn't really huckstered at all without the flag) and wrap it around my eyes. I blindly toss the dart. I remove the conglomerated colors of America, and take a waltz on over to the map, smile a bit, remove the dart, and put the Huckster hat back together as one. I then take to putting a phone call down to the front desk.

"Front Desk."

"Hello, Front Desk. I'm calling for Donna."

"Donna speaking."

"Oh. I was under the impression that I was on the line with Front Desk."

Donna giggles a bit.

"Anyway, Donna darlin. This is Levon, Levon the Breeze, calling down from room 334."

"Hey Levon the Breeze from room 334. How can I go about assisting you?"

"Well, Donna, I was callin' down to see if you dig champagne and Elvis Presley?"

And wouldn't you know--the dark-eyed vixen, Donna, happens to dig them both. Ain't that something about a dandy. She then says she will be right up with some bubbly on ice. I go to the jukebox and select Elvis-Burning Love. I put it on 3 times in a row, wouldn't want Donna to miss the moment and all. I head to the window, open the blinds, gazing up and the stars, thinking where it is I'll be going to tomorrow. Be Music-Cool.

I lay back on the bed, toss more money in the air, seeing if I can feel the magic that Jingle Giovanni feels. I feel nothing. The door opens and I watch--in my mind's eye--as falling bills transition to falling leaves.

RAMBLE ON

Leaves are falling all around, twirling and hanging on a fine morning gentle-wind. The crisp smell of autumn hangs in the morning air. Seasoned travelers are hanging outside the Greyhound terminal--smoking cigs and trading travel tales--tales of the coming and going. Everyone is anxious for the road; anxious for more kicks. Anxious to live more of that one life and one life only we've all been given. And what was it them Birds done sang? Oh yes-- Turn, Turn, Turn.

An older black man, that looks a bit like Ray Charles--black shades and all-- with a navy blue suit and a pair of blue suede shoes just like the King wore sits with a guitar in lap and a guitar case and tote similar to the one I've been totin' around town on the ground beside him. I give both parties a friendly nod and groove inside to buy a ticket. I kibitz with the guy at the counter for a bit, the watchman of the seasoned traveler, "seen them come, seen them go." I purchase a ticket, a ticket to Salina, Kansas. "Fun fact," I tell him.

"Do you know that Salina, Kansas is in the center of the U.S?" He nods as if he's already heard this before--been there before; been on the fourth of July even. A seasoned traveler gone and hung up his roadie hat, tucked his trustee tote away in the closet, and took to the hound desk for retirement. Sit back, watch them come, watch them go. I receive my itinerary and exit out the back.

The morning sun shines sharply on the calm sparkling lake; a few morning fishermen dot the pier. I walk along the promenade to see what I can find. See if anyone got any bites. I make out seagulls soaring above, coming to land atop the pier-- curiously circling the concrete lot for scraps. I nibble at the last of my remaining PB&J sandwich, pinch off pieces of the crust and then toss it off to the gulls, squalling and scrapping for it. And memory serves me that the gull is my favorite bird. For if you really watch, you'll take to see that the bird isn't just pure white, rather--all the colors of the rainbow blended into one when caught in the rays of the sun.

I pull my iPhone from my pocket. I call Mom #1. She is the only person I know of that doesn't own a cell-phone. The phone rings and rings and rings, remembering she is still upset about Daniel, and probably double-dipped on her pill supply. I remember Mother #3 saying something about going easy on her. I end the call and call just her.

She is busy showing a house to a young couple and tells me she will give me a call back when she is done. Before she gets off she quickly adds that Brother Johnny Boy said he'd pay for a ticket for me to come to stay with him in San Diego. I assure her I'll get hold of him soon. I thank her for the pie she left and call Mother #2.

Mother #2 is at Book Club with all the other doctor's wives and says to call if I need anything and to be sure to see Brother Tuffy, for his baby boy is on the way any day now.

Next--Mother #4. She had worked all night in the ER, and I thought it best to let her sleep. But, during the second ring, Mother #1 began beeping in. She sounds as if she herself had just woken from a coma. I tell her I love her. She returns her love and falls back asleep without hanging up the cordless phone.

I log into my Facebook account. I look at the last posted pic of myself, out cold and battered-looking, the pic my co-worker tagged me in. I stare at it for a while, both stupefied and stunned by the way I look. I click on my profile picture; my huckster hat hanging in a field of beautiful, sun-splashed goldenrods. I look at my background pic-- my pink 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood. Bummer it got totaled. I got a lotta pink in that thing. Total-bitchin'.

I make one final post before heading out: GONE WITH THE FALLING LEAVES then toss my phone in the lake. I meander back around to the entrance of the bus station.

The shaded black man with the high-cheekbones and the graying hair and the prickly salt-n-pepper whiskers is playing the Blues. I know the song, know it well. Hell, probably own the record--lost in one of my many milk crates stuffed with them. He sings aloud while plucking chords--

Guy Mitchell- Singing the Blues.

Well, I never felt more like runnin' away

But why should I go cuz' I couldn't stay

Without you

You got me singin' the blues...

Through the station's overhead speaker, I can hear: "People leaving for Ashtabula, Cleveland, Columbus, Indiana, Be-Leave, please line-up in front of door #7. Door #7, passengers departing for Ashtabula, Cleveland, Columbus, Indiana, Be Leave--door 7."

Be Leave, door 7.

And I and all the other passengers form a single line and hand over our tickets, shuffling outside and onto the hound. We are all finally aboard, sticking our luggage in the above compartments, taking our assigned seats. Anxiously waiting to--

Be gone with the falling leaves.

THE BREEZE

Everyone is aboard, taking seats. I sit next to the gentleman that was singing the blues. He introduces himself as Reverend Ray Guitar Banks. He says he is coming from the Outer Banks and making way to Indianapolis. Says he is going to be an OTR trucker and see the country. Something he has always desired to do but being the head preacher at the local Baptist church and all, didn't really enable him to do much traveling. He says he is no longer reverend and the church is currently closed. He said some mentally-ill white-boy shot the church up, killing 11 partisans. He says he is no longer a reverend, and he is struggling with his faith and believes that no matter what your "higher-power" maybe, that there is only one rule that applies--the Golden rule. "Do unto others as you want to be done onto you. Can you dig?"

And it makes sense enough. I can dig. He pulls out a THC oil vape pen and says, "Take a hit of this. Some medicinal. Got a long ride ahead of us, brethren. Might as well get lifted, take in all the pretty colors. Fall, my favorite season."

"Mine, too."

"To change."

"To change."

"To let-go."

"To let-go."

The bus driver announces that we are going to be departing shortly. He picks up the mic and speaks to us, passengers.

"Morning ladies and gentlemen. Beautiful morning for travel. My wife got up this morning and looked out the window, then looked at me and said, "Los Colores." She is beautiful and Spanish and I love the way the word, 'colours' rolls off her tongue. Now, no smoking on the bus or I will have to pull over and ask you to leave. I'm usually on time, so don't worry about being late for your destination. I'm a punctual guy who has clocks all over my house. For all we have is time. They'll be a series of breaks along the road. Usually fifteen minutes. If you're late, the bus will be gone-daddy-gone. So, if you are someone who likes to take your time, I suggest you get your luggage out from below the bus at every stop. Like the great Tom Wolfe said,

"You're either on the bus or off the bus. Now, hope everyone on the bus can jive with rock n roll." Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Breeze, comes booming through the speakers. The bus takes to the highway.

"Oh, and another thing, brethren Breeze."

"Lay it on me."

"God is rock n' roll."

I take a look outside the window, the highway is lined with gorgeous color, leaves falling, classic cars passing. And life feels all mystical and magical and mysterious and all. I think I'm again starting to again feel in touch-with-the-touch.

I make out a bitchin' blue Pontiac Roadrunner, muscle-bound and bound for the west coast. It's California plate tells me so. I turn back to see a few gentlemen passing a fifth of some bourbon, sneaking nips while keeping an eye out for the pusher of the hound, who is busy focusing on the road, while simultaneously drumming the steering wheel in sync to the song-- sneaking peeks at his wristwatch. A tall, pale, gorgeous gal with frosted hair and a milky complexion comes strolling up the aisle. She is drinking a bottle of Vanilla Coke. She is wearing a black dress. She appears so tall because she is wearing roller skates. She grabs hold of the headrest on opposite ends of the rows to keep from rolling back down the aisle. She looks around for an empty seat. She looks at me and smiles. She looks around at all the passengers occupying the back of the bus. She says, "Now, there is an older, overweight gentleman sitting next to me on the front of the bus. He is snoring something obnoxious, and his head keeps falling on my shoulder. Now, are any of you fine fellas willing to be gentlemanly enough to perhaps trade seats with a young lady?" I notice she has a southern drawl. Southern bells, man. Southern jezebels. Dig'em the most.

The Hollies-Long Cool Woman comes on, blaring through the overhead speaker. Man, I think to myself, wouldn't it be dandy if this gal's name is Holly. I give the Reverend a nudge. I say--without taking my eyes off this tall glass of southern honey-milk, "Say, Rev, you willing to play a little musical chairs? Be a gentleman. I dunno, maybe get your faith back up a bit?" He smiles at me, then up at her, then says,

"Sure, why not. Another brick to my house in heaven. For all we know, you two could become some birds-of-love by the end of the trip. Sure sweetheart, seats yours." And I say,

"Amen, Reverend, amen." I introduce myself.

"Breeze, nice to make your acquaintance, darlin. And you are,"

"Sky with two y's. Vanilla Skyy." She holds her hand out like a madam, and I give her hand a soft kiss."

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Vanilla Skyy with two y's."

"Ditto." She polishes off the remainder of her Vanilla Coke, then continues.

"So, Breeze, where you blowing off to?"

"Well, I went and blindly tossed a dart at the map just the other night, and I'm off to Salina. Salina, Kansas. Which I figured I'll get my kicks there, then make way for Colorado Springs for my brother's wedding. How bout you, love-dove. Where you flapping off to?"

"Going back to my Volkswagen. Broke down in Charlotte. A friend in Cleveland is giving me a ride to pick it up." We lock eyes. She smiles and then bites her lower, cherry licorice-rope red lip. And all I can think is that those lips probably taste like cherries. I think of cherry pie. I want to keep the conversation but I'm distracted by her knee digging into mine. I look down to see she has a tattoo of a bee, tattooed slightly above her knee. I take to notice she has one on both legs.

"Bee's knees."

"Clever, huh?"

"Very clever, indeed."

She snaps her knees shut, giggles and then blushes a bit.

"What color is your Volvo?"

"Honey-colored." Eyes stare wildly.

"My-my, hey-hey, wouldn't you think." She laughs, takes a quick sharp nip at her lower lip, and then takes to again flashing me her vivacious, apple-green eyes. Her eyes turn to sharply scan the seat in front of her, searching for the next string of words to say.

"Bought it back in Asheville, North Carolina. Ever been before, Breeze?"

"Can't say I have, but there is suspicion that I was born in Memphis, Tennessee. Least that's what Flo, the woman from the orphanage, who discovered me, thinks."

"Anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Elvis?"

"Well, doll, anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like Karen Carpenter--lawd rest her soul?"

"Not sure I know who that is? You know...you are kind of a funny dude. You look like Elvis, claim yourself a huckster--not a hipster--and make reference to vintage actors and music. You are like...like a new version of the old scene."

"I think I can dig that. Dig that if that is a good thing. So, is that a good thing or a bad thing, Miss Vanilla Skyy, darlin'?" She waits to respond, scans me up/down down/up, then says,

"Good thing. I think you are really rad."

"Thank you, thank you." she laughs.

A guy from behind us tap's Vanilla's shoulder and then slides a fifth in between our seats and offers. She sips first, makes a bitter face and then swallows. She passes it to me. I take a slug and then hand it back over. The guy who slipped it to us has slicked-back jet-black hair and a chubby, pinkish face. His eyes are narrow and money-green and intelligent looking. He has a cut off shirt; the shirt is from a casino in Vegas. He has muscular arms; tattooed on his right arm is the Queen of Diamonds. He is shuffling cards. He stops shuffling, slides his hand between the seat and then says,

"Jack. Jack Diamond. I'm heading back to Vegas to win back my fortune. I've been to almost every casino from the Indian reservation in upstate New York all the way out to Cali and back. On winning nights, I get a hotel room, losing nights I pitch a tent. Life is full of ups and downs, I guess. Guess that's life on the road. Living and learning and learning to live it all over again."

"Be live and be learn," I say.

And he asks if we'd like to play a game of Black Jack. We both consider-- thank him, but fold instead. He asks again, his head above us, getting an aerial view of Vanilla's chest and all. I raise my thumb and toss it backward, giving him the ixnay, then say, "Be leave, man." He gets the notion and then sits back down in his seat. I smile, turn to Vanilla, wink, then ask,

"Where are you from?"

"Alabama. My father passed away a few years back, leaving me a little mint in his will. So I gots me a Volkswagen and then took to the open road, taking pictures of almost everything my eyes came across. Life's beautiful man, and beauty is in the eye of the beholder." She looks down at my tattoo.

"Beauty is only skin deep. I dig that."

"You think it's rad?"

"No, I think it's true. Meaningful. Unregrettable ink. A remedy-type of reminder throughout the ages. Soul that counts."

I smile and then say, "beauti-fool, imbesoul."

She says, "your soul is full of quirky catch-phrases. Anyway, yeah, so I traveled around and became a photographer. Livin' the life I dreamed for myself since I was just a lil' gal. Even sent some photos to some popular magazines and low-and-behold, they bought them from me. But it was in Asheville, North Carolina that I decided to settle down for a bit. Incredible how many people are living out their vehicles there. Kinda funny, really. Parked at a Big Lots--where my VW is now--it's like the whole lot is a neighborhood. Like, I had neighbors, man, and we'd always barter and borrow from one another. Some had dogs that liked to beg. Some were dogs that begged. Never gettin' a treat. Needless to say, I'm not much into spanging off thy neighbor.

But I dig the vibe, and I dig the Blue Ridge Parkway. I enjoy hiking and taking pics. I took some beautiful photos while there. I also got to boogie-down on some good local music, too. Speaking of, I've always wanted to meet a boy who looks like Elvis. You, Breeze, kinda look like him. Say, sugar, mind getting a pic with me?" We both lean into one another and she takes the pic, followed by posting it on Facebook. She sends me a friend request. The bus pulls up into the Cleveland bus terminal. She skates down the aisle and retrieves her carry-on bag from the overhead compartment. She turns to me with a smile. I blow her a kiss, and with those red licorice lips of hers, she blows one back. Long cool woman in a black dress. Lady Vanilla Skyy with two y's. Be foxy.

Be leave.

I enter the terminal to get something to eat. They aren't serving pie, so instead, I get some nachos with cheese. I sit down next to a pale white-dude dressed as an Indian. He asks me if I am an Elvis impersonator. I ask him if he is an Indian impersonator. We both laugh. He tells me his mother was of Cherokee descent, and that he is heading back to upstate New York to work as a medicine man on the reservation. I ask him what life on the reservation is like?

"Well, I stay in a teepee made of deer hide, and when people are sick they come to see me--me--the medicine man. It's mostly holistic healing that I'm dealing, but I sneak in some drugs sometimes when needed. Mostly the prescribed ones.

The food is really good, too. Excellent cooks those Cherokee women. But yeah, man, always gamey food, if you are into deer, rabbit, pheasant... that kind of thing-thing. And we drink a good bit, but usually only at night. And the peyote is incredible. Ever take peyote?"

"Can't say I have, man of medicine. Say, what kinda medicine you say you use?"

"Mostly natural healing herbs. But I'm more into sexual healing-- if you can dig that, Elvis." He laughs at his funny, makes a fist, followed by thumping me on the shoulder with it." I pull out my Feelgood favorite and pop one. Medicine Man asks if he can have one.

"I thought you said you are only into the natural stuff?"

"It's all about balance, bro."

"Say, ever do a rain dance before?"

"Just last night, Elvis...at the strip club. I was making it rain all night long."

"Bet you were."

I get up and head back in line. Back on the bus, where I take a seat next to the Reverend. I open up Jack Kerouac's, On the Road, and wait for the next stop.

The Reverend gets off in Indianapolis. I tell him the best of luck with his new life on the road. Tell him I'll see him in the next life and all. He turns and grins and says, "Sure I'll be seeing you sooner than never. Good crossing your path, Breeze." I get this funny feeling about him. The bus pulls off, and he raises his hand, goodbye.

THE WANDERER

The bus pulls up in Salina, Kansas. We all shuffle out. I wait for my bag to be unloaded. I fetch my wheelie-tote and tip the gentleman who handed it to me a fresh 20-dollar bill. He seems shocked. He smiles and thanks me. I head into the terminal. I head to the restroom. I brush my teeth, comb my hair. I head to the public water fountain to fill up my water bottle. I exit the terminal. It is going on 5 pm and I'm getting hungry. I ran out of PB&J sandwiches, but have a can of Pringles, a can of smoked oysters, and some hot sauce to dab atop. Other than pie, this is my favorite meal. I decide to eat when I get somewhere. I see the highway up over the ridge. I mount the hill, dragging my tote behind, reaching the road. It's a sunny, warm Saturday evening. Cars pass. A green 68' Thunderbird throttles by, followed by a green van with a scraggly guy driving with his dog in the passenger seat. Marijuana smoke billows from out the windows--the side of the van reading: MYSTERY MACHINE.

A Station Wagon full of giggling girlies goes by, all honking and waving. A pink cotton- candy-colored-Corvette goes by, a blonde-haired cutie pie in the backseat raises her shirt to show off her goods. She makes out my thumb, turns to the driver, and they pull over. They all wave me over and all. I dash across the highway, toss my bag in the backseat and hop in. And wouldn't you know, just as soon as I get in, a cop car comes pulling up behind us, sirens blaring and all. The driver of the Corvette, a red-haired foxy vixen, plops it in park. The sirens cut out and the officer exits. He comes up to the car. I look over at Blondie, wondering if she is going to lift her shirt for him next. You know, take one for the team and all. Naw, didn't go as planned. The cop--Officer Gus, lowers his shades and mean mugs the hell out of me. He made me wish I would have brought a pair of shades along. He asks me and me only to step out of the vehicle. I put my hands up in the air and tell him "Be-Cool, Gus. Be cool." I open the door, fetch my trusty tote--get out. He asks me for some ID. I slowly reach into my pocket, reminding Officer Gus,

"Be easy, be cool."

I take out the wallet and he snatches it right out of my hands. He keeps his eye on me while opening it. He removes my license, scans it over, places it back in my wallet and slips it back to me. He asks me to take a walk with him--a walk on the wild side. He tells the ladies to get going--be gone. They look as bummed out as I do. We stop, he faces me, he says,

"Listen here, pal. I don't know if you are familiar with the laws here in the state of Kansas, but hitch-hiking is illegal. Now, I'm going to let you slide this time, but don't let me see you again on the interstate with your wheelie suitcase or that goofy straw hat of yours. Got me, Elvis?"

"Name's Levon, Levon the Breeze, and I certainly got you, officer. No need in explaining twice. Back on the East Coast, I'm what they call a quick learner. Anyway--I'm cooperating' just fine...as you can clearly see."

"Where are you coming from?"

"Greyhound terminal, Gus. Or, forgive me, Officer Gus. Just arrived from the Gem City not even an hour ago."

"Ok, Mr. Breeze. Hop in the cruiser, I'm taking you back. Do you have enough money to get back on the bus and go back to where it is you came from?"

"Well, sure do, officer." I reach into my pocket and remove a stack of Jackson's. I say, "Hey, Officer, ever heard the song, Jingle Bells?"

"Where'd you get that cash from, son? Didn't know Elvis impersonators could make that kinda ching. You selling drugs? Don't make me have to go and search your bag."

"Naw officer, I received this here jingle from an insurance settlement. Damn near killed in a car accident. Guess the good lawd and his lovin' angels were with me. Now, I'll tell you what, Officer Gus, hows about I slip you one of these here hundo's and you and I part ways. Be friends til the end. What do you say, Officer Gus?"

"Are you bribing me? That's also illegal in the state of Kansas."

"Naw man, I'm just being me. Being Breezy. Is being me illegal in the state of Kansas, too?"

"Get in the cruiser, smart ass. I'm dropping you back off at the station."

"The station? For what? I didn't commit any crimes?"

"Naw, idiot. The greyhound station."

"Right. Now, before we go, I must ask, is there anywhere a guy can get a slice of pie around here?"

Get in, goof-ball. We don't pay for phony entertainment in this part of the country."

He turns the cruiser around and drives me right back to where I started. I grab my tote and wave him off. "Keep it moving, Gus."

I am shocked to see him wave back. Smiling, too. I look down the highway and scratch my head, dumbfounded at what to do next. I look to the left and see a wooded area, and what looks to be a dirt road just beyond it. Hope surmounts. My stomach begins growling. I remember that I also packed an apple; one I plucked from off a tree while stopped in Columbus. I remove the apple from my tote, rub it off on my pant leg, take a chomp and head downhill. I roll the tote through the woods and come upon a dirt road--which isn't really a dirt road, rather-- a rusted railroad track.

TIN MAN

I look as far down the track as I can see. The sun is shining like a soft white marble ball, something pure and true waiting for me at the end of the rails. The promise of a good trip to come. Be wander. Be anew.

I take a nibble off my apple, tilting my head toward the cloudless, bright blue sky. The sun bedazzles the tri-colored bunched leaves above. I step onto the tracks. I tug trusty tote along, wishing I'd have brought a backpack, instead.

A butterfly flutters on by. A soft wind rustles the tree-tops--causing leaves to shake and then fall and then sail into free-fall. I stop and take it all in. And, for the first time since I came to, I feel something nostalgic and euphoric; as if the butterfly had somehow ended up in my heart and all. Both mind and tongue struggle to string the words together: Free. Ah yes--

Be free.

I slowly start along the tracks. A soft wind blows, leaving leaves of gold, yellow, and crimson slowly falling in a whirlwind around me. I think of Flo, and then get to thinking of what it was she said she saw when she found me on the stoop of the orphanage step that warm October evening. And I kinda feel like a King myself and all.

The king of autumn.

I stop and look to the right to see a billboard of the Cowardly Lion, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and Dorothy all bunched together, smiling all big and welcoming and all. The sign reads, WELCOME TO KANSAS. I smirk at this, and then take to carry on. A strong wind sweeps up from behind me, billowing my gray tweed-coat; casting leaves to fall in colorful myriads all around. I, Levon the Breeze, live again.

I let loose the handle of my tote, catching a directly falling golden leaf in hand. I stop and admire. I stop and think: To change, to let go.

I see something in the distance ahead. As I approach closer, I note that it is a deer standing directly over top the track. A beautiful brown buck with broad, ten-point antlers.

I approach it with a curious, dimple-dotted smile. I kneel before it and then make eyes. In its eyes is a glow like that soft white marble light I had first seen at the end of the railroad. I stick my hand out to pet its head. It embraces my love. I look at the tattoo on my sleeve, a big red heart. My sister, Kara Bear, tatted it on me a couple of years back. Said I always wear my heart on my sleeve. Said it was the perfect tattoo for me. She said something like,

"You're all heart, Levon."

I feed the deer the rest of my apple. I close my eyes, part my lips, and then slowly sway my head left to right and back again--blowing a soft breeze across its face. The breath of life, given to me again.

Be Breeze.

Be Life!

The heel of my hand is pressed against the rusted railroad tie. I feel a rumble, followed by the sounding of the train's whistle as it booms. I turn to see a train roaring toward me. I panic and--in a stutter-stuck sudden rush of desperation--try to talk the deer off of the track. The deer isn't much into reasoning and all, so I take to forcefully pushing it from behind. Then the voice of reason rises. The voice rises from out the brush below, summoning the sheep homeward. The sheep darts from off of the track and into the underbrush. I quickly roll off the track and the train barrels on by. Once the train rolls past, I take to gathering on all fours, watching as it chugs onward. On the very last boxcar, spray-painted in white, reads:

BE LEAVE.

I brush myself off and then start down toward the brush where I had before heard the voice of reason, prior to almost getting crushed by a locomotive. I amble upon a clearing with a path made of wood-chips. I follow along the path. There is a hammock tied off between two tree trunks, surrounded by blackberry bushes. I ramble on.

I ramble upon a medley of man-made life-sized stone figurines--carved, chiseled and crafted out of stone. First the Lion, then the Scarecrow, and finally the Tin Man. Dorothy seems to be missing. I remove my huckster hat from off my head and place it atop the Tin Man's head. I take a few steps back and frame my fingers, taking a mental picture and all--wishing I wouldn't have tossed my phone in the lake. But all is good and well out here in the atmosphere, knowing the memory is forever mine and mine forever. For keeps.

I smell a fire. I see a thin grey-tendril of smoke curling over goldenrods--slowly swaying in the wind--their tips lit by the reddening sun. Up ahead is a small log cabin. Sitting on a stone bench is a man dressed in a sailor's suit with a sailors cap. He holds a stick. From the stick protrudes a hotdog roasting atop a small fire. The sailor looks at me--unsurprised and expectant--gesturing for me to sit across from him, on the other side of the fire, on a matching stone bench.

He has a bushy white mustache, and eyes as clear blue as the sea. He offers up the hotdog but his dog, Toto (who looks identical to Toto in the Wizard of Oz), runs up and snatches it from off the stick. The Captain offers me a strong drink; I take his offer. The Captain seems morose while discussing his long-dead wife and his daughter, Dorothy, who he hasn't spoken to in years. We head inside the cabin. Before entering, I take a book-look at two legs sticking out from below the cabin. The legs are dressed in long striped stockings with ruby red slippers adorning the feet. We enter inside.

The cabin's shelves show framed pictures of a boat with nets that appear to be a fishing boat. Also dotted along the shelves are beautifully handcrafted wood sailboats all painted in different shades of blue. We talk a while longer, the Captain fixing two more highballs, and then he goes about mentioning something about how if only he had two-thousand-dollars he'd be able to get back to his beloved boat. I scratch my head and think I sure don't look like a guy with two-thousand-dollars on hand, so he probably isn't out to take advantage. So, I generously take the money from out of my wheelie-tote, and then simply hand it to him. The Captain--ruddy-faced and surprised--thanks me, followed by handing me a sepia-tone photo of the boat. On the back of the photograph is an address where the boat is docked. I assure the Captain if ever in the Florida Keys that I'll most certainly be his first mate. I wish the Captain well, then wave him goodbye. I continue back on the path. Back onto the tracks.

I let go of my tote, extend my arms out to full-length, and then begin to twirl freely with the leaves that dance around me. I crane my head, allowing the warm evening red sun to warm my face. Black dots dapple the inward eye, bringing about images from childhood-- childhood at the orphanage--crawling lost within head-high piles of leaves, wondering if I'll come out the other end and a family will be there waiting for me.

I lower the rim of my huckster hat, shadowing my eyes from the bright blinding sun. I open them only for a second, revealing red robins chirping in chorus amid a blazing red-leaf maple tree. I'm glad I took the tracks. I shut my eyes, and then slowly begin rotating my head left and right--blowing out the breath of life back out to mother earth. She responds with a gusting wind--right back atcha, I think.

I fetch my traveling tote and then begin slow-stepping along the tracks. One foot at a time: LEFT, BE. RIGHT, LEAVE. LEFT, BE. RIGHT, LEAVE. I step down from off the rusted rail, both feet stamping dead leaves that crunch below my feet. BE LEAVE. I walk on.

I hear the leaves rustling from the trees behind me. Train a comin'.

The whistle sounds, warning me to get off of the tracks. And just before I feel the train nearly about to plow into me, I both calmly and stylishly side-step from off of the track. And as the train passes, I elevate my arm and raise two fingers, letting the conductor know I'm traveling in peace, followed by closing my eyes and indulging again in another breeze-blow. I re-open my eyes, and in gold-spray paint, I see Autumn Leaves.

I hear laughter from aside. I turn to see two dudes--mid to late-twenties--sitting atop separate logs on the side of the railroad, tossing pebbles into an old rusted tin Folgers coffee can. I approach with caution, wishing I'd remembered my pocket knife. But then--just feet away--the sun shines on their weary faces and I think, why do I need a knife to harm? Be Live, be life.

Besides weary, both traveler types appear dirty and greasy and stink as if they haven't showered in months. They smile as if they can't smell it. They appear immune to their own stench. I introduce myself and their smiles widen, revealing bad teeth. The guy on the left has big round glasses. The lenses are attached by a paperclip. The left side of his glasses has a popsicle stick for an ear hook. The right ear hook isn't there at all, leaving the right lens slightly askew. Atop his head is a metal cooking pot with the handle pointing westward. He plucks his chipped front tooth with a long dirt crusted thumbnail and then sticks his hand out to shake. He is wearing a wrinkled white tee shirt with the Cowardly Lion's face on it.

His companion has long dry tangled hair hanging down on thin bony shoulders. He has a shapeless scruffy beard that looks as if it has nested birds before. He is wearing a soot-spotted cut-off shirt of the Scarecrow, standing forlorn amid a railroad track, pointing aimlessly in both directions. Next to them is a red, Radioflyer wagon filled with random junk. The guy with the gnarly dry dreads and the Cowardly Lion shirt introduces them both: "We are the Traveling Trash Pandas. My name is Savage, and this is my business associate and dearest friend, Simple. We specialize in the collecting of random junk strewn along the railroad, followed by expertly turning it into inventions to use in the modern-day home. We've been ripped off dozens of times due to not being able to afford patents, but we don't much mind. We love what we do. It's mighty important that you love what you do, and do what you love. Otherwise, you're wasting your time working too hard. Do we look like a couple of guys that work too hard?" Savage tosses another stone into the corrugated coffee can and then takes a swig from his flasque. He swallows and then spits between the gap in his front teeth. He looks up at me and then raises his eyebrow in the shape of a question mark as if he is still waiting for an answer to his question. I smile and watch as both his bushy brown brows even. He smiles back, content with my response. He opens a rusted tin Altoid box and then removes from it a gnarly, limp cigarette butt. He strikes a match from a horse-shoe strapped onto his boot, wiggles the flame in front his face as if for both amusement and effect, and then lights up the butt, followed by flicking the match stick off into the tin coffee can. "Swish," he says, taking one long hit, and then tossing it astray. He exhales as if cherishing every second of it. He turns to me and says,

"You see, fella...or, hey, I don't think we ever got your name. We as in both of us because Simple is just that, simple, and he doesn't much like talking."

"They call me the Breeze, and my line of business is to go wherever the wind blows." "Breeze, huh. Cool name. Never heard a name like that before. I can dig it. Simple, can you feel the Breeze?"

The wind picks up, and Simple examines this cool cat with the American flag bandana wrapped around a straw hat, his dark black bangs draped just above his eyes. He thinks there just might be something about this cool cat coming up the tracks looking like a modern-day misfit Huckster out of a Mark Twain novel. Simple's head follows the gentle-wind and then looks back up at the Breeze, shaking his head up/down, down/up. "Yeah," says Simple. "I can dig the Breeze, alright." Simple scoops up a pebble and then elevates both arms as if he is taking a free-throw from the foul line. He shoots, and the pebble rolls around the inside of the can, coming to an abrupt, soundless stop. I take Simple to be a man of brevity. He makes me think of the Skynard song, Simple Man. Savage, the apparent spokesman for the Traveling Trash Panda Corporation, burps and then bursts back in.

"We like to live a life full of freedom. You look like you indulge a bit in the get-free yourself there, fella." That a true statement, or you a traveling businessman selling kitchen knives in that tote bag of yours?" He gets a giggle-and-fart out of this, then passes the flasque to Simple, who is picking a scab from off his farmer-tanned arm.

"Be free," I respond, holding out my paw for a nip of the whiskey they've got. They both get up, rub the soot and stones from off their asses, and then decide to carry on. Simple starts toward the middle of the track and sticks his tongue out, followed by swiping his index finger from off it, standing like the Scarecrow on his shirt with both arms fully extended out, elevating the finger in which he just licked, and then says,

"West." The same direction in which the handle of his hat (cooking pot) faces.

Simple skips off the track, and then fetches the handle to the wagon filled with junk while Savage scoops up a bamboo chute shaped like a bow, followed by spinning it above his head with one finger. I grab hold of the handle of my tote and then take to following these Traveling Trash Pandas up the tracks and into the rapidly setting sun.

Simple and I travel in tandem, both my tote and his wagon dragging and wobbling in the stones. Savage is stopped alongside the track. He is in the stance of a Samurai ninja, spinning and then hoisting his bow forward as if doing battle with the setting sun. Savage speaks,

"We will be hopping a freight for Denver tonight. There is a pawnshop that shows us love out there. You said you were heading to Colorado as well... if I heard right? Any-hoo--ever hop a train before, Breeze? Or...ah... is hopping a train outside your means of travel?" I smile and then respond,

"Naw, Savage, I don't mind riding coach. Can't say I've ever hopped a train before. But I'm down for some kicks n' giggles. Plus, I've got only two days before my brother's wedding."

"Well, use gots to be kinda crafty and cheetah-like slick, these conductors have gotten sharper over the years, and you can catch yourself a pretty hefty fine if caught, maybe even catch some J.T.--which isn't so bad over the winter months when the winter wind comes blowin' in, and business begins slowing down. Three hots and a cot never hurt anybody over the winter months, ain't that right, Simple?" Simple doesn't say anything. He just keeps pulling the wagon along, not saying shit if he had a mouth full of it. Savage twirls the bow before him, and then quickly extends it in front of Simple, stopping him in his tracks like a railroad crossing gate stopping oncoming traffic.

"I said ain't that right, Simple?" Simple ponders this, and then says,

"I beg the differ, Savage. I'd rather eat out the dumpster then eat flavorless bologna sandwiches all winter. Try and keep it simple, stupid."

"You make an interesting point, Simple. He elevates the bamboo chute above his head, and then says,

"Forward-onward."

Ahead is a heavily spray-painted freight stopped along the tracks. I share with both my new traveling companions Pringles and Oysters. I also find two smooshed PB&J sandwiches in my tote. We munch on both oyster topped Pringles and sandwiches, and continue ambling tiredly forward along the track. My throat is dry and coated with peanut butter. I think aloud,

"Man, I could sure use some milk."

Savage--in hearing Breeze think-aloud-- feels quite fortuitous today on the tracks, thinking as if he should be the one wearing the tie and cool hat and dress pants, tugging a tote like a rail side salesman.

"Breeze. Today just so happens to be your lucky day. For I just so happen to have some milk on hand."

Savage removes from his knapsack a glass bottle of milk. The bottle is wrapped in aluminized bubble-wrap in order to keep cool. And I'm so thirsty that I don't hesitate. I uncap the bottle and then begin to gulp it down. And the milk is chunky and curdled. I feel my stomach tighten as if I'm about to vomit.

"Good lawd, what the hell kind of milk is it you've got here?" Savage laughs a bit,

"Goat's milk. Guess it's not fur everyone." He takes the bottle from, and then casually takes a sip, swallowing it down with a hint of delight. "Ah. Refreshing." We eventually come upon the stopped freight.

"Quick, quick," says Savage, teetering on the line of having a conniption fit. "Breeze, give Simple a hand getting that wagon aboard." We pull up next to the open boxcar and carefully load the junk-filled wagon. It is dark enough to not be seen, but still, we move both stealthily and quickly in order not to get caught. Savage uses his bamboo chute like a pole vault and pole vaults himself right inside the open freight. Savage then removes the flasque from out his pocket, takes a swig, passes it around. Minutes later the train chugs off.

Savage pulls from his pocket an old-fashioned pendant chain pocket watch. It has little white Christmas bulbs encircling it--the ones you'd see wrapped around a Christmas tree. The bulbs are powered by a solar-powered charger glued to the back of the watch. He looks over at both Simple and me, smiles wide and then says, "Right on time."

Simple and Savage are arguing about the cost in which they intend to sell some of their new inventions. Well, it's more like Savage arguing with himself, the louder and angrier he gets the longer Simple pulls from the flasque. And I know I'm not a doctor and all, but I think Savage could really use some of these mood-stabilizers Dr. Feelgood prescribed me. Mood stabilizers for Savage, antidepressants for Simple. Yes, doctor's orders.

I start to feel tired and all. I'm considering popping another Feelgood special, but I'm not trying to be up all night listening to this Savage cat auction off inventions to a guy who I don't really think cares--for Simple is just going along for the ride. And that's it, I think. This Simple cat just lives for the thrill of it.

Be Simple.

While the Trash Pandas are bustling about inventions and discussing prices, I begin to drift off. And just as I'm fading off to the heavens, a voice can be heard from behind us, startling us all.

"Told you I'd be seeing you again." And, to my surprise, it is none other than the reverend himself--Reverend Ray Guitar Banks. He has his shades on and is also wearing the same blue suit I had last seen him dressed in. He is smiling big while polishing with a rag his blue suede shoes. I sit up, then say,

"You're too groovy for the gravy train, Reverend. Thought you were going to be pushing semi-trucks?"

"Me too. But on the way there, I saw a train slowly crawling along the track and thought-hey, YOLO, like the teens at church used to say. I ran after the train--guitar in hand--then took a leap of faith. Say, Breeze, who are your traveling comrades?"

My eyes are trained on his shoes, shimmering in the milky moonlight beaming into the boxcar. I shake my head of a paused response and then say, "Man, how rude of me. Reverend, these are the Traveling Trash Pandas. Simple and Savage. Simple and Savage, this is the Reverend Ray Guitar Banks."

They look blankly at the Reverend as if he is some sort of train-yard apparition, an angel sent to speak to this other strange saintly-like figure they saw earlier this evening, walking up the track wheeling a tote bag from behind. Savage takes to do like Simple and sits in silence. Together they sit, staring off into the full-moon, both thinking about recapping on a lost belief in something they haven't thought about in a long, lonely time.

"See you can't take your eyes off my shoes, Breeze. You like the old Reverend's swag, don't you, youngin?" He laughs a good hearty laugh and then finishes up his polishing job. "Say, Breeze, what size shoe you wear?" "Size-eleven, Rev. Big shoes, big blues."

" Well, Breeze, I'm through being blue. How'd you feel about taking my shoes off of me?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to inconvenience you, Rev, plus you had never mentioned your size." His shoes are already off his feet. He ties the laces together and then takes to tossing them over to me. "Size eleven. Match made in heaven. Now, toss them shit-kickers on over here, boy." I remove my shoes, then send them on over to the Rev. He looks them over, whiffing at the insides, and then sets them atop the junk pile hovering high above the base of the wagon. "From me to you, Trash Pandas. Some memorabilia left behind from the infamous Breeze." He then looks at me and says, "Be Leave," followed by leaping off the train and disappearing into the night.

I dart toward the entrance of the boxcar, scared out my wits. I look frantically for the Reverend, but he is nowhere in sight. There is no way in hell he survived that jump. No way!

Simple can't shut up. He is stutter-struck and shell-shocked and believes. Well, doesn't really know what to believe.

"Who the hell was that guy, and how do you know him? Who the hell are you? Are you following us, trying to steal our new inventions!? What's in that tote bag of yours?"

I open the bag and reveal to Simple that I am also simple. He sees clothes, two books and a notebook.

Simple has taken charge.

"Savage, fuck the auction, fuck the pawnshop, and mostly-- fuck the pen and it's three hots and a cot. As soon as we get off this train, I'm going to the first church I see. I am giving myself over to Jesus." Savage has a sick and maniacal look on his face, his feet half on/half off the edge of the boxcar, thinking that he too might just take the leap of faith.

"Leap of faith, the Blues Bat Man called it. Yes, leap of faith."

He doesn't. He just stares dreamily off into the night, knowing damn well he won't be sleeping a wink. I yawn. Lay down. Before you know it, I'm fast asleep.

I wake the next morning to the conductor, a beefy balding fella with a lamb chops beard and muscular forearms that look as if they bend rails and tear phone books. I notice the Traveling Trash Pandas are no longer present. The conductor grips my ankle and yanks me with ease right off the freight. I plop against the dusty stones, hurt and confused and bug-eyed. I feel as if I broke a rib. "Ah man, what gives?" "What gives is a busted nose and a call to the local po-lease next time I catch you riding the rails. Get up, get lost!" I slowly rise on all fours and work my way up to my feet, brushing myself off. I grab my tote, which is leaning off the edge of the boxcar, shocked it didn't fall off in the middle of the night. The sun is shining hot and bright and whole. I expect to see the Rockies before me but instead, clay-red, wall-like rifts running across a never-ending plain. "Where am I, Lamb Chops?"

"Utah."

"Utah...Ain't that a crying shame. I be leave I've made a very big mis-state."

BOOGIE SHOES

I walk for miles with nothing in sight. Vultures swoop and swarm all around me. A snake slithers around my blue suede shoes. This can't be how I go out. I walk and walk, thankful for the shoes I got from the Reverend, even though they attract snakes and all. It's the Reverend, really, that keeps my mind off of the panic-stricken fear of not only missing my brother's wedding, but dying out here all alone on this empty clay sheet of nothingness. I see something in the far-off distance and I wonder if I'm day-tripping. And then--there--high above in blue and red halogen colors, reads, TA TRUCKER STOP. Shouldn't be an issue getting a hitch from here, I think. I begin running, carrying my tote in arms like a loving mother running her child away from the zombie apocalypse.

TRUCKING

I arrive. I'm out of breath and sweaty. I remove my hat and fan myself off with it. There are endless rows of fuel pumps stretching across the blacktop lot. There are semi's being fueled by sleep-deprived drivers, or crammed in parking slots stretching along the rest area parking lot. The soft pink and blue halogen lights of a diner comes into view. I enter, use the restroom, and go take a seat in an open diner booth. Time isn't on my side. I look above at the overhead flat screen and see Donald Trump. He seems to be ranting about something. Nothing new. The waitress arrives. She is pretty but I have no urge to flirt--I'm anxious to get on the road to Colorado Springs. She leans over me to set the menu down, blocking my view of the television. I ask for a glass of ice water with lemon and a glass of milk and a slice of apple pie alamode. I hand her the menu back. I also ask if I can borrow her cell-phone. I tell her it is an urgent call. I tell her I'll make it worth her wild. She pulls her iPhone from out her creamy lavender-colored apron, and then she passes it off. She asks for it back right quickly so she can enter in her password. She says not to snoop on her photos. I ask her if I look like a creep? She says, 'no.'

"You look like a misfit traveler-type crossed between Elvis Presley and a boy from a book that I had read in high school--a book about a boy who flees society and helps assist a slave to freedom by paddling a raft down the Mississippi River. I'll BRB."

She vanishes off. I feel a strange flat buzz in my head, a tingling-zap shooting down my arms and into my fingers. I haven't taken either the mood-stabilizer or the anti-depressant in a few days. I decide to take all three pills from out my tote and take them all--Feelgood orders. I look back up at the TV and see two beautiful young women, One Blonde, the other a Burnette, sitting on opposite sides of a hefty, terrified, truck driver. They hold pink handled diamond plated pistols pointed at his head. They are both smiling wide and winking at the camera. The caption on the screen reads, "The notorious Twin Sisters from the Twin Cities known as the Grace Sisters strike again." Twin babes, I think to myself. I go to call Brother Bill but I forget his number--same with Brother Bruce and Sister Kara Bear. I remember Mom #4's number, however, and phone her. She answers immediately.

"Levon, you have me worried sick. Where are you, and why aren't you answering your phone?"

"Well, madre-four, I misplaced my phone on the hound back in Ohio, and then I caught a train and fell asleep and instead of waking up in Colorado, I woke to a Utah sunrise. Least I woke up. Least I woke to sunlight. I'm currently in a diner, using a waitress's phone. Oh, in Utah, of course. What time does the wedding start?" 
"Levon, you're in the wedding. You have to be there. You have less than 24-hours to get your ass there, and you are also supposed to be fitted for a tux, followed by the wedding rehearsal. Listen, honey, I know you just woke from a coma, but geez hon, when the heck are you going to start being responsible?"

"I tell you what, ma, fear not. I'll be there no later than tomorrow morning. I think I'll hitch a ride, or maybe find the bus station. Either way, I'll be there in two shakes of a lamb's tale. I've got a good bit of jingle left, and am willing to pay top dollar to get to Bill and Heather's wedding. Godspeed."

"So you're telling me you misplaced your phone."

"No, I tossed it in the lake, but I'll need the address from you."

The waitress returns with the water and the milk and the piping hot pie, a scoop of vanilla ice cream quickly melting atop. I ask to use her pen. "Quite needy, aren't you? And I know of your kind-- you are a hipster?"

"A huckster--beg your pardon-- and yeah, I apologize about my neediness." She uncaps and hands me the pen, and I unspool the roll of silver-ware and then write down the address of the chapel where Brother Bill will be married. I tell Mother #4 I love her and hang up, kindly handing the phone back to the waitress. I fold the napkin neatly and slip it in my tote, followed by removing all three pill bottles. The young blond-haired waitress flashes a smile--a beautiful, healthy, milk-white smile-- almost making her look like a completely different person than before. She looks at the pill containers, and then at me as if I may be slightly nuts. She winks and walks off. I chug the water down in nearly a gulp, nibble on the lemon slice, and then uncap the prescription pill bottles, removing each pill individually. I toss the pills onto my tongue, and then wash them down with milk. I devour the apple pie, leaving not a crumb in sight, then leave the money for the bill as well as an overly generous/gratuitous tip. I put my huckster hat on, fetch my tote, and then head back out to the fueling station.

There is a large pitch black and brilliant purple tractor-truck without the trailer coupled with it. There is a large woman with a blackish-purple dress--matching the colors of the tractor--picture perfectly. Her dress twinkles with sparkles. She wears atop her head a Viking helmet. No, not the football team from Minnesota and not a football helmet-- I'm talking about an actual Viking helmet, with two spiked hooves jutting out the top and curling slightly inward at two sharp points. I wonder if I can charm her for a ride. I remove my hat, slick my hair back, freeze-frame my dimple dotted smile--ramble on.

She stands at the fuel tank, pumping gas with one hand, while the other holds what remains of a Snicker's bar. I approach her like,

"Hey miss, I traveled throughout the night aboard the train and unexpectedly conked out. You see, miss, I'm supposed to be in Colorado Springs for my brother's wedding but, well...slept through my destination arrival. And here I am, a rebel without a cause in the midst of your humble generosity. So, miss, what I'm really knocking at is...is there any possible way that you just might be heading toward Colorado--even better--Colorado Springs? And, if so, would you mind if I tag along for the ride?"

"She has a well-set, plush, jovial face. She smirks a bit, her face revealing both a beautiful smile as well as a strong notion that she has a bit of a sense of humor. She has gentle, pretty blue eyes that are large and round and kind. She has traces of glitter sprinkled sparingly on her soft-pink cheeks. There is a thin, crescent-shaped sliver of a twinkle that flashes in her eye, telling me she is going to say 'yes' before she says just that.

I hop in on the passenger side seat. Seconds later, we pull off to the far side of the truck stop. She plainly asks if I can assist her with coupling the tractor and trailer before we hit the highway. I tell her I have no experience. She says today is the day I get some. We both get out. She shows me where all the air-valves are located. We then take to connecting the air hose tractor's brake systems. Each valve is color-coded: green, red, blue. She tells me these are the air brakes, and that it is important they are correctly connected. I daydream of the Reverend. I wonder if he is dead; I wonder if he enrolled in trucking school. I cannot help smirking; not about the Reverend, but instead the Viking helmet this woman is sporting. She can't resist smirking back at me. I'm thinking she gets a kick out of my hat, too.

We get back into the cab, and she turns up the stereo. Trucking, by the Grateful Dead, encircles us.

"Omni-directional surround sound speaker system. Best damn stereo system money could buy. I'm on the road all day every day, so the stereo accompanies me along my travels. Music is my everyday passenger. My morning med. My muse. It used to be my chocolate lab, Buddy, but Buddy soon has passed. However, it isn't too often I get a handsome young man like yourself to ride along." She hums along to the song and then takes to turn it down. I stick my hand out to introduce myself.

"Levon. Levon Breeze."

She sticks out her hand to shake and introduce herself, but her CB radio pops and screeches static interruption, then a voice comes into tune.

"Dorothy. Dorothy Dixon. Whereabouts is your location? Dorothy Dixon."

She picks up the receiver and responds.

"Dorothy Dixon here. Who this be?"

"Why...It is Wild Wiley. Wild Wiley the Kentucky Roadrunner."

"Wiley. How's it going? Where about are you running today?"

"I'm on my way to Montana, but I stopped to get a shower at the TA, and before leaving, I caught a glimpse of something on the TV. It's those damn sisters again. Sticking up truckers for their furs. It seems to be truckers with furs and minks are the only trucks they are robbing. Expensive purses and shoes, too. I'm stuck wonderin' how in the hell they know which trucks to scout. Anyway--I'll be damned. Technology, plum-mama...not a fan. Any-hoo, I know you are running a truckload of fine furs, and I just wanted to let you know to be on the lookout for those social media-loving stick-up chicks. They've been identified pushing a light pink cotton-candy colored Corvette. Showy lil' bitches they are, like to post selfies of themselves holding those diamond plated pistols at innocent truckers' heads. I've got nothing but frozen meat hanging in the back of my rig, so don't look like that will interest them much. But, any-hoo, I caught the news and couldn't help thinkin' bout you, mama. You packin' at all?"

She smiles, hands the radio over to me, then tells me to take the wheel and say hi to the Roadrunner, followed by reaching behind a purple satin drape. She comes back from the other side of the curtain with a large silver battle-ax. She kinda makes me a bit nervous and all; gooseflesh rising up my neck and across my arms. I'm thinking about getting out the rig. Maybe just jumping out on the open highway. Do like the Reverend and all, and take the leap of faith. Ol' Dorothy Dixon looks like she could get choppy with me at any second with that body-chopper in hand. She is steering with her knee caps while holding the battle-ax. The battle-ax is draped across her chest, the handle running the length of her safety-belt, the tips of the blade leaned sideways against the driver side window.

Road Warrior, not plum-mama, I think. Glad I took them meds this morning.

I ask her where she is heading. Hopefully not a vacant desert, I'm thinking. She says she has to make a drop off in Chicago, then head down south to New Orleans, then en-route back up to Denver. She says she can't mess around due to the cost of the merchandise she is hauling. She says if she gets stopped at a DOT stop, or gets caught in an annoying after-work traffic jam, the cost of the merchandise sinks nearly in half.

"These grease-ball guinea goon-ba's involved in this business have no patience. Time is everything. I've been pushing rigs since I was old enough to see over the steering wheel. My grand-daddy used to take me with him on long OTR hauls. He took me because he liked the company, but also because he was confident with me at the wheel when he needed some necessary snooze. And that's how I first learned to push rig. Even when he wasn't sleeping I was running. Matter-of-factly, I'm always and forever running. Running hard. It's in my blood. When he retired, he bought a fishing boat. My daddy took over that business. I worked with him after my grand-daddy passed. So, yeah, you can say I have a natural knack for pushing ten-speeds and bringing in fish. It was working as a green horn that made me tough. I mostly worked with men.

In my past time, I enter into arm-wrestling tournaments. Men and--as of recently--women divisions. The women's division is no challenge; I tell them to give the first place trophy to a charity or a local high school, I don't want it cramping up my rig space. And let me tell you, Levon, there is nothing more rewarding than clenching fist with a male, muscle-bound buffoon and watching them panic as I slowly bring their arm down with a 'never-forget-me' slam. These trophies I tend not to keep, either. Usually, I'll go and give the trophy to their wife."

"Now, not to interrupt you, miss..miss..what is your name?"

"Dorothy Dixon."

"Dorothy Dixon. Honor to meet you. Now--"

"You hungry, sweetheart? I've quite an appetite. Care to stop for a snack? There is a diner bout forty-miles down the road from here. An old-fashioned juke-box joint that has some killer hamburgers and hotdogs but mostly, distinctly delicious pies. Do you like pie, Mr. Breeze?"

"Do I like pie?"

AMERICAN PIE

"Now, what makes a good pie an excellent pie is all in the crust."

It's Dorothy Dixon's soft/sweet voice that says this, but it's not her face I'm seeing. It's someone else's.

* * * * * *

"Now, Levon, what makes a good pie an excellent pie is all in the crust. The crust is key." I watch as Flo kneads the dough, pressing her old tiny nimble body against the

weighted wood roller, sprinkling just enough sugar atop the flour to make it sweet, but not too sweet.

"Too much sugar not only gives you cavities but can also ruin a superb-tasting pie. Are you listening, Levon? Do remember now, the sweeter the fruit, the less sugar needed. Cherry is a horse apiece. Whether it be wild sour cherries, or sweet-flavored cherries--like the ones we got from the farmer's market up the road last week-- is merely all just a matter of preference, if you will. Different strokes for different folks, as the old adage goes."

And ten-year-old me drinks a glass of whole milk (Flo only purchasing whole because it's not watered down, and she gets her complete monies worth). I sit and watch intently as Flo continues to roll and knead; followed by gently inserting the lower layer of flour in the pan dish, filling the center with fruit, and concluding by using a dinner fork to evenly insert divots along the edges. She prefers the crust along the sides to be thin rather than bulky and dry and crumbly when ingesting. She has an obsession with making the top layer the exact way in which she disdains the sides to be. An airy art form: fluffy, golden-brown with maybe a bit too much butter (never use margarine) with a window-pane instant purchase appeal to it.

"Set the oven to 325 degrees, and then gradually increase it to 375 degrees. Never above. Golden-crust rule of thumb. Are you getting this, Levon? Good. Rotate the pie four separate times at a 45-degree angle. Also, most importantly, always wear a baking mitten when sticking your hand in the stove. The hospitals two too many miles too far, and Flo doesn't own a vehicle. Lastly, always treat the pie with tender love and care. This, Levon, is how you bake the perfect pie."

* * * * *

The menu at Pie in The Sky reads like a novella. The diner offers fifty different styles of hotdogs, fifty different style burgers, fifty different style shakes, and lastly--fifty different style pies. There is nada chance that I am going with pumpkin this time.

"My favorite, doll," says Dorothy while tucking her curly, bobbing brown hair behind her ear and from out her face, "is the banana pudding cream. It's what I'd suggest to a first-timer like your dear self. A strong second is key-lime. It's a tad-bit on the tarty side, but it is also cool and creamy and smooth and light and refreshing. Third, Bavarian coconut cream. It has thinly sliced slivers of rich dark chocolate flakes flecked along the top; the chocolate so thinly shaven and so sensitive to the taste buds (trust me, you'll be salivating before you even lift your fork) that the chocolate flakes melt along the roof of your mouth before you can even swallow a forked dollop of pie. These are my top three. I've been here hundreds of times and have tried all--all except the rhubarb--which I've just never been a fan of, and they are all remarkably unique and tasty in their own way. But like I said, it's the crust that gives the pie its touch, Mr. Breeze. So, which slice are you going with? You make your mind up, yet, doll?"

"Well, Dorothy, they all sound and look so remarkably good that I really can't make up my mind. How about you, darlin'? Which one are you going with?"

"I'm going with banana, key-lime, and coconut."

" Hm. I'll try the banana."

"Hm. I thought you would have gone for peach. Listen, sweetheart, you may never get another opportunity to come here again. Don't cheat yourself, treat yourself to another slice for later tonight. You'll regret it otherwise."

"Well, alright. If you say so. I guess I'll go against the grain and give the pumpkin a whirl. But, Dorothy, let me pick up the bill. I insist. Least I can do for you helping me out with a ride in a tough squeeze and all."

She smiles, then blushes, then pinches my cheek. And, of all the times a lady has pinched my cheek, it never quite hurt as much as when Dorothy Dixon pinched it. And she steps stolidly to the front of the counter and pays for all 5-slices. They serve her with gold-gilded plastic forks and napkins. I scratch my head, befuddled. I say,

"Say, Dorothy, where is the pie you just paid for?"

She points to the back of the diner. I follow her finger. Overhead retro-colored lights splash hot hues upon murals of rock n' roll stars painted on the walls. Pinball machines light up as balls spring and bounce and rebound back. Classic miniature modeled cars race on electric tracks whizzing by and wrapping around the neon-phosphorescent glowing room. Jukeboxes' divide tables, tables divide wax figurines of actors from the era; wax stars of the era divide fifty different record players all spinning fifty different flavored pies along the record top. There is an American flag posted at the center of every surrounding wall. Prices. I'm the owner-operator of this vehicle. The Queen Bitch. You, Mr. Breeze, are a once in a lifetime experience. A manifesto made up of mere memories enhanced with a life-soundtrack

"Self-serve, dear. Honesty is the best policy."

And wouldn't you know--the pumpkin pie just so happens to be backed by a painting of the King himself.

ME AND BOBBY MCGEE

"Now, Mr. Breeze, trucking can be an awfully lonely job. I could shut my GPS system off, discard my compass, and close my eyes and tell you how to get almost anywhere in America with the quickest directions possible. So, in the truest and most heartfelt way, I'm both honored and pleased to have you with me, darlin'. And, well... it most certainly helps that your cute, too--no flirt. How is the pie?"

"Not quite as good as Flo's, but that's just me being loyal and biased and set in my pie-eating ways and all. But to give you an honest answer--out this world, darlin' Dorothy Dixon. Best pie I've had since I was a boy."

"Good to know, Mr. Breeze. Now, as I was saying before, the road can be a long lonely gig. Now, music-- doll-face--music has been my traveling companion as far back as I can remember. You see, I have put thousands of dollars into my sound system, and I regret not a damn dime spent. However, nothing compares to vinyl. The only thing better than a vinyl record is a live show. Would you like to attend a live show with me, Mr. Breeze?"

"Now, Dorothy, don't you know that this here is a music-cool of our lives?" She breaks the fourth-wall, stares out the driver-side window--as if staring into the lens of a camera--and then says,

"And the records just keep on spinning."

She pulls the truck over into a vacant, dirt-covered and dusty parking lot next to a roadside stop where a freshly white-painted wooden stand holds pumpkins, apples, squash, and pears. There is no farmer nor seller of the products around. Instead, there is a white metal box with a small slit where the money can be inserted. Dorothy slips in a ten-dollar bill, putting an additional two-singles in to pay for the baskets she uses for a dozen apples and a dozen pears.

"Mr. Breeze, as a friendly reminder, honesty is the best policy." We walk across the road. There, alongside a vacant, cobble-stone country road is a man sitting atop a tree stump. He is wearing a red bandana, a sweat-stained white tee--the sleeves tightly wrapped around bulging biceps--and torn blue jeans where his narrow pointy knees protrude through the holes. At his feet is a fully opened black guitar case. It is littered with quarters, dimes, nickels (no pennies, you're bound to get a gee-tar slammed over your head with that kind of insult) and one wrinkled single dollar bill, weighted down on the corner by a quarter. Next to the guitar case is a miniature beagle, wet and emanating a potent wet dog odor, lying flat on its stomach, his forepaws tucked below his head, his eyes low and dull and bored, staring off at a rarely traveled road, waiting for someone or something to go by. Standing next to the man with the guitar is a curly dirty-blonde haired woman wearing an identical red bandana and a white tee and holey-blue jeans. She shakes a tambourine in hand while humming. Her face is not pretty, but her voice overpowers all that she lacks in exterior beauty.

Beauty is only skin deep. I guess Sky Vanilla is right. Soul beauty. It runs deep. Best be leave.

Her voice is slightly raspy but carries a volleying bassoon distance, rare and ethereal and mesmerizingly stunning. Her name is Janice, and the fellow strumming the guitar is her hubby, Bobby. They play, Me and Bobby Mcgee. When the song ends, both Dorothy and I give them a round of applause and also a twenty-dollar kick down. In addition, Dorothy also gifts them both an apple and pear, followed by removing from her dress pocket a milk-bone treat for the dog. She bends down, pats the beagle atop its head, then whispers in his raised ear, "I've been saving this here treat for you since I left Illinois, my lil furry friend." The best concert I've yet attended.

Back on the road. For the road is Dorothy's life.

"We are now going at a fast-speed toward Colorado Springs. Fast-speed\--I remember to pop a Doctor Feelgood on those two words running across the matinee screen of my mind. I definitely don't want to miss my brother's wedding, so I grow anxious as I watch the speedometer rapidly increase with Dorothy cautiously clocking her mirrors, looking out for highway patrol. I take a deep breath, sit back and try to compose myself. Once relaxed, I pop a pill and request some tuneage. Dorothy puts on,

Iggy Pop-The Passenger.

I stare straight into the forever unfurling road as we both float forward onward. Dorothy sneaks a peek at me, smiling because I look safe and comfortable and cool with the song--maybe cute like she said a couple of times before... I dunno, I'm assuming and I remember it's never safe to assume, but her smile is so lovely I just want to reach out and give her a huge smooch right along her puffy pink cheek. She says, "Life is better lived while making memorable experiences. Live for the moment, Mr. Breeze. Live for the moment."

"Kinda like a slice of heaven from Pie in The Sky or a deserted dirt-road concert?"

"Point exactly."

"Now, Dorothy, I've noticed you have yet to drop off any of the goods you've got stored in the back trailer. Won't you be in a bit of a bind if you don't get the goods to where they need to be on time?"

"Levon, my dear sweet passenger. Please allow me to fill you in on a little something if you will. I, miss Dorothy Dixon, just so happen to own the goods, buying them outright at wholesale listed with marvelous music. Again, the utmost honor to have you. About money, Levon. It comes and goes. Moments, however--not so much. Moments are precious. Make moments more important than making money, dear."

"Sky blue, money green"

"What was that you just said, doll?"

"I said sky blue, money green."

"Sky blue, money green. I like that."

THE PASSENGER

We cross the Colorado state line, and Dorothy tells me to hop out really quick.

"Hop out, and hop up on the state welcoming sign." She snaps a photo of me with her phone. WELCOME TO COLORADO.

"Moments. I told you you'd learn something new, Mr. Breeze."

"Be moments."

* * * * *

We continue on down the road. Her phone begins chirping. She checks to see who is calling. She silences her phone. It begins chirping again. She picks it back up, stares at the incoming number with a look of dismay, and then turns the power off. She then carelessly tosses the phone behind the purple curtain--as if throwing it down a well or a black hole. You can hear it bounce from off of the battle-ax.

Looking from out the windshield, the sky above is a pale-grey overcast; endless rows of rippling clouds ranging as far as the eye can see. A light rain begins coming down. Silent sprinkles land on the windshield. We mount a mountainous ascension--Dorothy switches gears. We slowly climb the steep road, steepling up into the clouds. The air up here is thin--thin like the crust on this here pumpkin pie.

My ears begin popping. Dorothy offers me a piece of gum--Juicy Fruit. Sprinkles turn to hailstones, welting the windshield with high-audible thuds. We reach the paramount of the hill, then begin slowly descending. Dorothy switches on her high beams and then changes gears. We begin coasting on down the road.

And although difficult to see due to the blinding storm, the high beams are able to capture--parked dead center the road-- the infamous pink cotton candy-colored Corvette. Both sisters are standing on opposite sides of the car, sheltering themselves below flamingo pink umbrellas that take to perfectly match their pink dresses, as well as their infamous pink diamond, plated pistols--cocked in hand and pointed directly at our windshield. Dorothy slams the emergency brake and comes to an abrupt stop. The Grace Sisters slowly begin working their way to each side of the truck, signaling for us both to put our hands up. Dorothy looks at me and says,

"Don't be a hero, Mr. Breeze. Put your hands up high."

Together we both 'stick em' up'. Blonde (who I think looks better in person rather than on the tube), is at Dorothy's window; gesturing with her pistol for Dorothy to roll down the window. Dorothy does just that. Blonde goes to speak, but Dorothy cuts her off.

"Listen, sweetheart. I know who you are, and I know what I've gotten myself and my passenger into. With brevity, I'm going to inform you: I own this rig, and my trailer is filled with minks and furs from all over the world. Now, do us both a favor and put that gun down and out of my face before I get out my rig and stick it up to your ass. Secondly, I'm going to kindly hand you over the keys to my trailer and allow you to hijack me. The keyword is 'allow'. Call it an early Christmas gift. Feeling holly-jolly a bit early this year. That's all I've got for you."

Dorothy tosses down the keys and then retorts--

"You've gotten minutes. My friend here needs to be at a wedding and I'll be damned if he misses the moment. Ten minutes, and that is all I can offer you. I'd suggest starting at the back of the trailer, that's where all the Persian minks are."

The Sister's take only a few minutes and are out. Blonde stylishly struts up to Dorothy's window, hops up alongside the rig, and then slips Dorothy her keys, reassuring Dorothy that the Sisters will never again hit her rig.

Dorothy laughs in her face.

"Naw, toots, I reassure you if you ever do, you and your sister will be as good as roadkill. And Dorothy Dixon doesn't make promises she can't keep. Sky blue, money green. Now get lost, sister.

And we go about the rest of the trip in silence, me nipping at the pumpkin pie, Dorothy smiling wide, focusing in on the road. We pull into the chapel where Brother Bill will soon be married. I leave Dorothy with a long kiss and a big thank you. I take a thousand dollars from out my tote, and leave it on the passenger seat.

"Sky blue, money green. Thank you for all the precious moments, Mr. Breeze."

She blows me a kiss and drives off.

GOING TO THE CHAPEL

I definitely missed both the tux fitting and the dinner rehearsal, but was dropped off just in time for the exchange of vows. I walk in, my tote rolling behind me--my date-- and the first person I see is Mother #4 dressed in a burgundy dress, squatted down with her back arched, holding tautly onto the back of Joseph's tux-coat, his legs kicking quickly in place as if he's on a treadmill. Joseph is Kara-Bear's 4-year-old son. I try to dodge Mother #4, knowing she is a bit perturbed and all about my not being there for both the wedding rehearsal and the tux fitting--ambling in from off of the road late for the actual wedding itself.

Madeline, Sister Kara Bear's 3-year-old-daughter, is dressed pretty with flowers in her hair. She is wearing an orangish-red dress, and is swaying about the aisle--looking cute and all--while tossing flowers into the pews, earning smiles from all the wedding attendees. Now, I was told that I'm in the wedding, yet no one told me my appointed position. I feel kinda embarrassed, kinda ashamed and all.

At the foot of the pew is Brother Bruce, dressed in the assigned navy-blue tux. His thinning golden-red hair is combed carefully back from his forehead, his reddish-brown beard neatly snipped, his glasses fogged from either the surprisingly muggy November heat or he's hot under the collar because I'm late. I'm going with all the above.

Anyway, he sees me come in, and I pretend not to see him, and act all incognito and quickly slide into an open pew, hoping to go undetected. I look about as if I'm searching madly for a long-lost uncle that I can't spot anywhere amid the crowd. Finally, after I'm done playing the fool, and I think I feel Brother Bruce's encumbering infrared gaze lift from off me, I make the mistake of turning toward him only to lock eyes. I instantly regret it. Like locking horns with a bull, as Brother Bill probably would put it.

Brother Bruce appears pretty pissed, tapping on the face of his wristwatch while leering at me unblinkingly. So I revert back to playing dumb and look around for the long lost uncle who I know is dead but due to the coma, I can say I forgot his demise. So I look away, only to look in the direction of Brother Bill--the groom to be--standing atop the alter, laughing at my impromptu arrival. Bill is dressed in a white tee with red suspenders holding up navy blue dress pants. Atop his head is a black fedora with a hundred-dollar bill folded in the shape of a triangle and tucked into the rim of his hat. He began wearing the hat when he began noticing his hair thinning. That was a year ago, now it is safe to say he is officially bald and still hasn't learned to accept it. His mustachio is perfectly trimmed, curled at the corners to form little curly-cues. It is this mustache that gets him a lot of air-time on ESPN. That and he is one of the best damn bull riders to ever have lived.

The Pastor steps between both Brother Bill and Sister-in-law to be, Heather, and begins reciting the assigned words prior to the exchange of wedding vows. I feel hungover and I haven't had a drink since I can remember. I wonder if it's side-effects caused by the meds. I wonder if it was the near-death rush experience of having a gun pointed at me. I go with all the above, remove my Huckster hat and take to fanning myself from the heat. The preacher man is giving me a dirty look, shifting his eyes up/down, signaling for me to keep it removed. Lots of cold stares, man--and I thought weddings were supposed to be happy celebrations. Be deceived.

My non-blood nephew, Joseph, can be seen working his way up the aisle--his pants a bit too big for him, as if he is wading in waist-high water--high-stepping to prevent himself from taking a tumble. I'm under the impression that maybe he too was absent from the tux fitting. Bruce stares up the aisle at him, smiling, patiently waiting for his arrival. And he eventually arrives before Uncle Bruce at the stoop of the alter. Uncle Bruce's smile heightens as he bends his knees, lowering himself to the height of his favorite and only nephew. Joseph returns the smile--a front tooth missing in which he just cashed out a fresh ten-dollar bill from the tooth fairy and kindly slipped it into the wedding basket with his name written atop the front in orange crayon, rather than using an envelope as the adults did. He did everything in his power, too, not to be proud and tell anyone, but he slipped and told his little sis, and before you know it, the whole family knew.

Joseph holds his tiny hand out, the ring resting in the center. Brother Bruce plucks it from out his hand, placing it on his pinky finger, and then uses his other hand to pat his nephew atop his head in a combined manner of expressing both good works and I love you so. Brother Bill cooly approaches Brother Bruce in a slinking, wild-west-walk, picking the ring from off his brother's pinky, making eyes with his older brother and holding his gaze, concluding with a smile and then nodding in a way that only a brother would know means--

Here goes nothing. He turns toward his wife-to-be.

Before the preacher can get out the custom words of wedlock, Brother Bill takes control of the situation, confident and coolly and all, like he does when riding a bull. He says,

"Heather, you are my best friend. I rode bull for three-months in order to afford this here diamond, but I only bought it because I wanted to get you a nice ring--and because I knew I could afford it. But, babe, like you and I both know, this here ring doesn't mean a damn thing. It's you I'm handing my heart on over to, my near-and-dear hearted darlin'. My dandelion wine. You. The person I wake next to every morning with sleepy eyes and your uncanny soul flickering like a candle-lit flame in those endearing diamond blue eyes of yours. That's what this is all about; being with the one I love until this world takes my last breath and I reach my dying day. So, Heather, my love, do you take this bull-riding buffoon as your forever and ever?"

She smiles, her cheeks reddening, lowering a hand to her stomach--where she feels butterflies. Butterflies which take her back to when both her and Bill first kissed at the drive-in theatre in his newly purchased, apple-red Ford.

"I do."

"You may kiss the bride."

And they tongue kiss just because--

Because it was beautiful.

MOON DANCE

The reception is being held in a high-ceiling warehouse adjacent to the chapel. Mother #4 and I meet at the bar. She is using a straw to slurp straight gin from a clear plastic cup; sinking damn near the entire cupful in one long slurp. She sets the empty cup down and then begins rubbing at her wrist as if giving herself an Indian burn. She has an intense agonizing expression of pain on her face. I ask her if she is ok. She responds,

"Yeah, it's hard getting old. I've developed arthritis in my wrist, and while trying to hold Joseph back from bursting too early down the aisle, my wrist began to ache something of a bitch. So, as you know, I'm still sort of pissed off at you for not making it to the tux fitting and rehearsal. Just a wee bit pissed, sweetheart, but quickly getting over it. Hm. Do you know what you look like? You look like a bum that just flopped in from a drunken weekend bender at the House of the Rising Sun. What's with this hat? Are you running for president of the Hipster Foundation of America, or are you making a soon-to-be-trending fashion statement? Do tell. I'm interested."

"Huckster, ma."

"Huckster, what the hell is that?"

Well, do allow me to tell, while I'm holding your interest and all. You see, due to the lingering PTSD suffered from the accident, instead of trying to recall my old self, I have decided on recreating myself."

"Oh. Dr. Swan mentioned this to me when I went to see him in his office just before my shift. He said you were put on meds. How are the meds working? Are you taking them? Are you taking them as prescribed?"

"I dunno. The mood stabilizer makes me feel a bit blunted, dulled-down, drowsy. Not a fan. The antidepressant should just be a placebo. I felt nothing until I stopped taking it. Then I felt these sudden shocking jolts shooting down my arms, leaving an aftershock tingle in my fingers as if I'd stuck a fork in an electric outlet. The ADD med, now...haha. I dig that one. Mellows my mood and gives me an enhanced form of elation, confidence, concentration. An omission of all outer worries. Allows me to be more...oh how'd Dorothy Dixon put it..more--Be moment. The downside, sadly, is I don't like how it keeps me up all hours of the night. And I also don't like how it brings you down. Needless to say--It's speed, ma."

"Adderall or Vyvanse?"

"Adderall, 20 mg. Where every day is a great day for up."

"Why the hell would they prescribe you that, and who the hell is Dorothy Dixon? I hope you are practicing safe sex on your travels. Or, what Dr. Swan said you coined, your--

"Be Leave."

"That's right ma. Be Leave. The path to rediscovery. The path to enlightenment."

"Well, maybe you should consider going back to work at the hospital, rather than play the orphaned prodigal son and throw all your money away."

"Hey, ma."

"Hey, son."

"Like Tolkien once said, not all those who wander are lost."

"Ok. It's your money-- if it helps your mental health, fair enough. "Where to next?"

"Good question."

I take to removing the American flag bandana from off my straw hat, take the wrinkled copy of the map of the U.S. from out my back pocket, then shift on over to the Men's bathroom, where I stick it in the slant of the shiny gold engraved MEN's restroom sign. I then take ten steps backward, remove the dart from my ear, and then wrap the bandana around my eyes--then shoot.

"Ma, say, why don't you do the honors."

I can't see her, so I slowly slide the bandana from off my eyes, watching as she plucks the dart and then says, "Son, I've always wanted to go to California."

"Californication it is. However, it's a pending trip. I'm riding back home with Brother Bruce, stopping in to see the Northern Boys. "Stay away from Cisco. He's trouble."

"He's not trouble, Ma. He's an inspiration."

"I love you, Levon. I'm glad you're alive. Now give me some sugar."

Sugar she gets. Paul Simon-Diamonds On the Soles of Her Shoes plays. It's Mother #4's favorite.

She closes her eyes and begins tapping her heels, raising her arms and waving her hands through her hair--her head grooving and her hips twisting to the tempo of the tune. I believe Mother #4 is getting herself lost in the music. She then takes to slipping her hands from out her hair, placing the hand of her unhurt wrist in my open palm-- as if knowing it was there waiting for her the whole time. I then court her to the dance floor.

Next to the alcohol bar is a marijuana bar. I reckon this must be a Colorado thing, seeing marijuana is legal in this state. Where there are Jell-O shots at the alcohol end of things, there are bud brownies over at this end of intoxication. Bud brownies and a rolling stack of pre-rolled joints, dabs if you're into the extremes, and some butter-pecan almond candy that Brother Bruce baked and batched up himself. Sister Kara Bear is showing off her tats to two heavily tattooed gals I'm under the impression could be either co-workers or clients. Little Madeline is pulling at her mother's dress, imploring for her attention. Her little free arm is extended outward, pointing at me and her grandma boogie-woogying on the dance floor.

Brother Bruce and his girlfriend, Katherine, make their way on over to the marijuana table--both with drinks in hand. Brother Bruce nibbles on a piece of his butter pecan creation, giving himself a pat on the back, and then a thumbs up. He then removes a joint from off the stack and lights up. Another couple joins them, taking to lighting a joint of their own. They huddle in close as if discussing speak-easy confidential business. I turn my attention on over to the dee-jay, who has a lame laser light show going on-- a record player before him. I take to notice several colored milk crates set aside the record player--stuffed with records. I scratch my head and ponder, "Wait a minute..."

In the far right corner of the auditorium is a mechanical bull--most fitting for Brother Bill's wedding, I get to thinking. Riding atop with a good buzz going on is Heather's father. He is hugging the bull rather than straddling it, and ends up getting thrown off, landing atop blue and white striped wrestling mats placed on all four corners of the bull. And as assumed, he is tossed off--taking a tumble on his ass and all. Like a good sport he laughs it off-- then gets right up and goes to the bar for another Vodka and Red Bull. This humors me, momentarily taking my attention from off something that was irking me. And what was it again that was bothering me so?

Brother Bill approaches me with two shot glasses. He says, "Say, when I didn't see you at rehearsal or at the tux fitting, I thought you had gone and got shacked up on the road with some dame. Figured you would eventually show up, and you and I would be having a shotgun wedding." We laugh a bit at his funny, and then I ask, "Say, couple things, bro. One: congrats on becoming a married man and all. Heather is a fine gal--she'll make for a good wife. A keeper wife-ee for life-ee, Brother Bill. That's a fact. Numeral two: I'm under the understanding that I was supposed to be in the wedding. However, I'm kinda dubious as to what my hustle was?" He laughs. He then turns to point at the DJ. "Well, Brother Levon, you were supposed to be the disk jockey. Hell, everyone knows you play good tunes. Ma thinks you should be a nurse; Kara-Bear thinks you should become a writer. You know what your good brother Wild Bill thinks (talking bout himself in the third person like he tends to do sometimes). I think you should become a disk jockey. But, you know what, it's all about what Levon wants to be. See, trick to life, Brother Levon, is to grab the bull by the horns and to take complete control of your own life. Sometimes it's a helluva hard ride, and you've got to ride it out no matter how hard the bull tries to toss you off. But remember-- it's all about grabbing them horns, and taking complete control. Here, here's a shot. I say we drink to that."

"That and you being a married man, Brother Bill." We cheers and then sink the shots.

"Anyway, you didn't show up for your gig, and no one could get hold of you, so we hired this lame-brain named Lenny. Lenny's Laser Light Show. Ha-ha. Funny thing is, he doesn't supply the music, only the lights. So we called upon Mom, and she loaded up your records and record player and you didn't show, so..."Hey, meet Lenny!"

"Awe man-- looks like I went and bit the dust again. Now ain't that about a crying shame. Ok. Say, how do you like living in Colorado?"

"I dunno, bro, a bit homesick at times...but, in terms of work, I get a lot more rodeo's here then I did back up North. So money has been a bit better. Other than that, I have Heather--and Heather is my heaven, and heaven on earth is all that matters." I look at a crate of my records, then reply,

"My love grows where my Rose Mary goes."

"Got that right, brother."

I pull a hundo from out my pocket, and then slyly slip it into Brother Bill's pocket. I then take to rambling on.

Lightshow Lenny picks up the mic and then asks that the dance floor be cleared. He calls upon the bride and groom--Brother Bill and Heather-- to step on out to the dance floor. They meet up in the middle. A bright, rose-red light spotlights the newlyweds. Cute couple; Birds of love, I think. The record turns--

Van Morrison, Moon Dance, is the ditty that sounds. Clamped between Brother Bill's teeth is the thorn less stem of a white rose, a complimenting contrast to the rose-red light beaming from Laser Lenny's turn table. And as the newlyweds' dance, Brother Bill's mind travels back to a blast from the past.

* * * * *

Snowflakes fall from the sky, melting almost instantly upon landing upon his windshield. He pulls over and puts his truck in park. He then takes to gazing from out the windshield to the last lingering leaves clinging from the maple tree out front Heather's parent's house. He finds himself happy he got to enjoy an Indian summer during his last days in the Gem City. He steps out of his red Ford truck, leaving his door open.

He has a red-rose clamped between his teeth. He honks his horn. honk, honk. Heather steps out in a scarlet red dress, looking super sexy to Bill and all. Brother Bill takes to going about his plan and puts on some Van Morrison, Moon Dance. Brother Bill asks, "May I have this dance?"

And they dance on the snow-encrusted street; sterling snowflakes falling from all around them, the full moon spotlighting them in milky white light--causing a complimentary contrast of the red rose, red truck, red dress. And as the song draws to an end, Bill valiantly takes to his knee and then asks the question. Heather responds without thought, "Yes and only yes because you played a diddy like Moon Dance, darling."

HE'S GOING THE DISTANCE

I'm telling you, Kat, if we break it up into eights and quarters we can make a killing. It's just I don't want that kind of heat around the house, and I shit-sure don't feel like driving all over town, cutting into our profit margin. This bud, though. I've never seen anything quite like it. Like, ever seen the Northern Lights before?" Katherine giggles, then responds, "Right." But It's like I said before babe, it is the traffic that bothers me most. Either way, I'd sell this for twenty-dollars a gram--all day, every day. Bada bing, bada bang. Kat, take a bud out and hold it up to the light. Look--It's like staring into the sun. It's like you need sunglasses to stare at it without burning your retina. Sunshine Calypso, that's the name of the strand, pusher-man told me. Anyway, I'm handing a lot of weight off to Ziggy. He said his crops are good and dry now. Little worried his aren't going to be quite up to par with this stuff, but I'll swap some out of good faith. I think we should take a ride over to the Northern Territory before heading back home. Best we do it now. Better now than later. Be sure to remind me, honey-pie."

"I've been thinking about going back to school. Cosmetology. Carrie, you remember Carrie, girl I worked with at the florist shop. You remember--tall, gangly, pale, long stringy dark hair. No? Anyway--she up and went to cosmetology school. Just decided one day she was sick of postponing her dreams, and up and went and enrolled. I always see her pics posted on Facebook and Instagram. And to think, I only think of her now because she was prescribed Adderall and always hooked it up when we worked together. And I think cosmetology would be a good thing for me, too. Something different. A fresh start. Something. Anything. I need change. It was good we came out here." Katherine cups her hand and then extends her arm out the window, bringing her arm back into the car, gulping the cupped air. "The air here is so fresh. Nothing like that ever-present diesel-fuel stench back home. I wish we could move here. Maybe that is what we should do. Maybe, after a couple of years or so, after cosmetology school is complete, we can come back here, stay with either Kara-Bear--who's tattoos I love--FYI. You see the new one of the Grateful dead bear she has on her hand? I can't believe she did that herself. She's a world of talent, your sister. And I was also thinking that maybe if we keep bringing in the cash flow we've been bringing in with are Denver connects, we could stash away a little extra dole-ah and perhaps maybe just get our own place. Are very own happy home. I dunno. Wishful thinking. Kara-Bear has her hands full with the kids and work. Maybe we would be a nuisance to her. Not trying to be anyone's beast of burden. Plus, Bill and Heather got their own thing going. They just bought their house--which I wish we could have seen before we left. The outdoor exterior landscaping is beautiful. Ultra-swoon. I also really like what Heather did with the flower bed arrangements in the front and back of the house. Hell, maybe Heather should work at a florist shop." She turns toward the backseat. "Levon, please do telltale tales of your travels." She places her hand over her mouth as if to prevent herself from talking more--

I laugh a bit, thinking that the addies got her feeling ultra-swoon, daydreaming dreams of grandeur and all. I can't help but dig the positive vibes. I go to talk and she releases her hand and says, "One more thing; Bruce, can we roll up another doober? I like the combo of Adderall and weed. I mean, right now and never again."

"As do I, honey-bee. Roll-ee, dole-ee."

"Levon, do proceed."

"Well, I first ran into Dan Gerous while thumbing on the side of the interstate."

Brother Bruce bursts out in laughter. "I knew you were thumbin.'"

"Yep, Brother Bruce knew I was thumbin' and all. And while I was thumbin', a tow truck appeared out the clear blue yonder and low-and-behold it was Dan Gerous. I didn't remember Dan Gerous, but I got to thinkin' about him while on the bus, and memories began to unfold of him--unfold with the unfolding road rolling beneath the hound's wheels as we proceeded together as one into the future--into the great wide open. And I met some groovy people on the bus, and learned some new things...and there was this dude I met at the Greyhound ... cool-cat with a taste for the blues--hell, the man was the emblem of the blues, looking like Ray Charles on stage at some smoky speakeasy bar, beep-bopping away in the tang and twist of curling lingering cigar smoke and barrels of cheap, boot-legged whiskey. And he was a reverend, too. Not like your stereotypical church pigeon, but a real rad reverend. He taught me a couple of things about life, too. And I am not sure if you want to call it coincidence or if you want to call it fate, but I ended up catching up with this swagged-out blues playing reverend who had faith no more but later found it hanging from an apple orchard, plucking it from right off the tree of life. You see, the Reverend was supposed to be truckin', but something turned his soul-leaf, and he ended up hopping a train--same train I just so happened to hop. I mean, can you dig that, or is that like way too heavy?"

"You hopped a train, Levon?"

"Please, Brother Bruce--call me the Breeze--and yes, I hopped a train and rode the rails all the way to Denver. Or no, that's not how it went. It went something like I ended up falling asleep, and waking up in Utah to some gnarly lamb chop bearded burly dude who snatched me by my ankles and then whipped me off of the train as if I was a left-behind carry-on bag. Ha-ha. And I think I broke a rib and you know what, that shit hurts now, come to think of it, but I don't want to think of it, so I'm gonna carry onward-forward with my story. So I was in Utah in the middle of nowhere--just me and my wheelie tote and all--and I took to the empty, vacant brown-red plains and walked and talked to myself...getting thirsty and thinking of misty gardens and all. And then I got to thinkin' like I was going to die out there, and then thought that can't be the reason I survived that crash--naw, not to die out there in that dry, vast red-cray world, picked apart by vultures and half-starved coyotes and all. And a vision appeared--oh, I forgot to tell you about those Traveling Trash Pandas I met along the railroad track before I saw the mirage, which was just the TA. But at the time the TA was better than seeing Vegas with a suitcase full of money because I have a wheelie tote full of money and full of cools and because what I needed most was a ride to Brother Bill's wedding--reason I was running late and all, Brother Bruce... but you weren't letting me make excuses by the look in your eyes, and now I notice a glint of peace in your eyes, and I don't know if that is from the combo of Adderall and sunshine cheeba, or if it's because you're delighted to see Brother Levon--oh, correction--Brother Breeze. I'm going with all the above because that's what I used to do while taking standardized tests back in high school, and I discovered a formula while doing so. Also, I was always the first one done in class. I discovered that if you select D--or, all the above, you are almost always guaranteed to get at least a fifty percent--which makes you average and being average is ok by me. And I went inside and rewarded myself with a tall glass of cold milk and a slice of pie."

"Of course you did," mutters Brother Bruce before taking another toke of the joint, his eyes sinking low like the setting sun sinking slowly behind the Rockies.

"Pumpkin?"

"Apple alamode, actually. And I had my pie and was proud of myself for not hitting on the waitress but I realize now that I didn't spit game because I was nervous; nervous I wasn't going to make it to the wedding. I truly only made it because I met this lady outside the trucker station who turned me on to making moments and we certainly made moments--haha--not the moments you two gutter minds think I mean, but what I really mean is moments that I want to just maybe keep to myself, stored in the treasure chest of my heart. But it was her--Dorothy Dixon-- that brought me to you and you that is bringing me back home. And that just about sums it up."

Katherine, smirking and nodding her head in approval of my raconteur skills and all, says,

"Do you think you really need Adderall, Levon?"

"No. I think I just need love and happiness--

And maybe a slice of humble pie, if ya'll trying to stop. My treat."

GOING UP THE COUNTRY

The sun hits my eyelids while Katherine taps my foot. My eyes are open.

Katherine has a joint in hand. There is a constant, jolting rumble beneath Brother Bruce's Mustang. I look out the windshield to see a familiar pot-hole dotted dirt road. The Mustang is coasting at an even speed, Brother Bruce peering out the driver side window. I follow his visage to see Cisco riding atop his horse--a beautiful muscle-bound, full-bred white mustang that goes by the name, Horse With No Name--selected from the song, Horse With No Name by the band, America\--racing in the field alongside, keeping tandem with Brother Bruce's Mustang. And Bruce takes to ease on the gas, taking a hard left up the long narrow dirt road. Cisco yanks Horse With No Name's reigns, arching him onto his back hooves while his front hooves box at the sky, neighing our arrival. We pull up before the cabin. Cisco--of course--had beaten us here. For Horse With No Name is already tied off, lapping well water from a tin bucket. Cisco feeds him a carrot, and then takes to turning and greeting us. I get out and give him a hug and then say, "Free at last." He spreads his arms wide, takes a deep breath, his face smiling in the sunshine. That smile makes me feel warm inside.

"Ah yes, can't lock up something you want to see fly." A hawk soars overhead. Katherine offers Cisco a pull at the joint. He happily takes her offer, taking two tokes and then heading back towards me. "Breezy, whatever happened to the jingle you were supposed to put on my books? Fucking flakey let-down, you." "I never said a thing about putting any spread on your books, Cisco Kid." We both laugh. He asks me about my travels. Ziggy comes bursting out the cabin's front oak wood door, a bandoleer strapped to his bare-chested body, a joint in his mouth. He sees Bruce--gets to smiling big and all--noting he too has a joint pooched in mouth. Ziggy descends the log stairs, taps Bruce on the shoulder, and then says, "Bruce almighty. Try the new crop out. I call it, Ziggy Stardust." He holds the joint out to Bruce. Bruce takes the joint from out his mouth and then says, "This is what I've brought back for you, straight from my main mang out in Denver. Sunshine Calypso. Be sure to go easy, Ziggy. Some head banger boogie, herr." They both swap joints. They hit, nod heads, shake hands,

"Deal."

Ziggy goes back inside the cabin and returns with two large hockey bags filled with pounds of Ziggy Stardust. He follows Brother Bruce back to his Mustang--two bright pink stickers on the trunk that read: MUSTANG SALLY.

Bruce pops the trunk. A golden light glows from within. As before--the same reaction: wide-eyed, stutter-struck-stupefied-silence. The silence is broken by sirens wailing, a cop car racing up the dirt road, a funnel of dust left in its tracks. Blue and red lights flash, wail and warble.

"Fuck, fuck, mother fucker what the fuck,"

Ziggy starts laughing. Brother Bruce doesn't know what to do. First, he's holding his head, then he's holding his heart. Head-heart, Heart-head. Next thing you know, he's holding both his head and his heart, feeling the big one coming. He then begins counting his fingers: 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, adding up approximately how many years he might be looking at if they go to his crib and find his hidden grow-lab. The Ranger's cruiser soars up the last stretch of the driveway, and I've never quite seen Brother Bruce so ghostly pale in all my life. Cisco is holding his stomach, curled over laughing. Katherine looks both angry and scared, looking at Cisco like "what the heck is so funny?" Ziggy takes another look at Brother Bruce and then hits the ground laughing. Brother Bruce looks down at Ziggy and then says, "You...you...you piece of shit. I've known you since we were kids...you...you rat bastard, you." And the Ranger steps out of the cruiser, dressed in uniform, wearing his patrol shades, a big pearly smile on his face like he's about to get down to business. A gold nametag reads, APPLEBEE.

"What's good gentlemen?" He looks at Brother Bruce and immediately identifies guilt.

"I smell trouble."

"Ah, ba, ahababa," And none of us knew Brother Bruce could speak Mandarin so fluently.

"Ahaa..aaaahhaa." Ranger Applebee approaches Bruce's car. Bruce's face is iron-red with rage, looking for the nearest thing to kill these snitch-friends of his with. Ranger Applebee studiously investigates the marijuana in the trunk of his car, then approaches Bruce, giving him the 'you're in some deep shit' mean-mug, then lowers his glasses, then says,

"Got papers?" Ziggy and Cisco roar.

We are sitting around a fire, passing a joint, trying some of Old Man Mount Virginia's homemade Meade. Old Man Mount sits in his rocking chair, rocking calmly before the fire, the marble handles of his twin Colt SSA's protruding from the leather gun holster wrapped around his bloated beer-belly. Resting in his lap is his pet baby raccoon, Rocky. Old Man Mount always has a pet raccoon around this time of year--saying goodbye to the coon come spring or summer of every year. For when they are newborns they are very docile, cuter than hell, really, but once they begin maturing, they become feral and almost impossible to domesticate. Funny thing is, he always gives them the same name--Rocky, like the Beatles song--Rocky Raccoon. And Brother Bruce sits pissed off in the corner by himself, Katherine doing anything and everything to keep him from seeing her smile. And she forces herself not to look at him, for when she does, she ends up like both Ziggy and Cisco and just lets loose laughter. Ranger Applebee tokes the last hits of the Sunshine Calypso strand, exhales and then says,

"By God. Where did you get this shit?"

Ziggy says, "Rooster Bruster, come on, man, law-man here wants to know where you brought the funk-fever back from.

"I'm going to plead the fifth."

And Ranger Applebee, sipping from his beer and then licking his lips, smiles then says, "Come on, man. It was just a joke. Don't take things so personally. Either way, be a good sport and hook it up with an ounce. My wife's gonna love-love."  
Everyone is drinking beer--everyone other than Brother Bruce--who still sits salty, leaning sideways on the steps, still a little butt-hurt, it appears. Old Man Mount hits hard at the Moonshine, wondering what Brother Bruce's deal is. Cisco stands, then tosses a couple more logs onto the fire, rubbing his hands together, then hovering them over the burling fire to get them nice and toasty. And I take to looking around the acreage to see the trees still loaded with full-fall color galore. The day is windless; comfortably cool hoodie-weather. It kind of makes me wish I had a girl. Comfortably cool cuddle weather. I feel sappy like the sap trees.

And Cisco starts over toward Bruce, and then takes a seat next to him, throwing a friendly arm over his shoulders. He looks at him and says, "Cheer up, Bruster. No one here is going to the poky. Here-- I tell you what, why don't you rid yourself of all that unnecessary anger, and give me a hand loading hay into the barn loft." Bruce doesn't really put too much consideration into it. Instead, he gets up and Cisco pats him on the ass, grinning wide and all, drawing his eyebrows up/down, down/up, saying, "That smarts, huh Brother Bruce?" And Bruce finds no humor in this, but smiles anyway--followed by them both heading toward the hay-barn.

Katherine goes with. She seems to have a sort of fixation with Horse With No Name. It is because she grew up with her grandparents who owned an equestrian center but no one knows this other than Brother Bruce, who falls back to hold her hand while she pets the horse while Cisco guides him toward the barn. My eyes wander with them as I polish off the rest of my beer, getting an image of the cover art of a Van Morrison album which looks something similar to the sight in which I see now. I raise the last sip of my beer and say,

"Be friends" and then take to polishing it off.

Coming up over yonder is the juggernaut of a man, Thomas Rome, pulling behind him a large, John Deere tractor. I'm seeing this in black-and-white. Black-and-white through the lens of an old film camera, cranking the side-arm in order to film. You see, the Northern Boys have a law amongst the land and that law is no technology, no electricity, no pesticides, no fuel. They are simply simple living naturalists, living off the growth of the land. I pan the camera toward the sound of Old Man Mount snoring something that sounds similar to a high-powered chain- saw (which you wouldn't hear amid the Northern Boys territory) the latter of which I just explained. Even Ricky Raccoon the XII, who is attempting to sleep, sits startled up in his lap, looking up at him like, "Keep it down, I'm trying to catch some snooze, too." Cisco and Ziggy are cooking steaks over the fire, the meat coming from a recent cow they'd slaughtered--which they only do twice a year--mainly for situations such as these: the joining of friends, the recent release of Cisco from the county pen, and--here goes that dimple dotted smile--the wakening of a true friend.

While peering at Cisco through the lens of the old crank camera--Cisco smiles and his smile appears grainy and black-and-white--which almost looks ghoulish and haunting through the camera's eye. Cisco turns his attention toward Old Man Mount, getting a hint of inspiration and all. Cisco walks over to an apple tree amid the orchard and plucks an apple from off the branch, followed by high-knee tip-toeing on over toward Old Man Mount, slowly and gently placing the apple atop his head. He then heads inside the cabin, quickly exiting with both bow and arrow. He evenly sets the arrow against the string, pulls back the string, tightly shuts his right eye, then releases.

Pwat!

Old Man Mount's eyes shoot open as if he's having a recurring nightmare of Vietnam. I get an unforgivable funny out of this.

He looks around, uncertain of whether he is on the Northern Territory or back in the jungle. In a half-conscious, drunk-sloppy-slumber, he dips down at his feet feeling around for the remainder of his jar. His stone-hard stub-fingered hand finds it. He elevates the jar of shine to his lips, gulps, and then lays back over in his chair--almost instantly falling fast asleep. A large jarring sound of machinery dropping instantly catches all of our attention. I pan the camera over to Thomas Rome, who stands tall and bull-like before the tractor he just pulled back-and-forth along acres of fields as if he was dragging a red wagon full of railroad strewn junk and not a high-powered, two-ton tractor. Rome is dressed in a pumpkin-orange fleece (my conjecture being that the fleece must have been purchased at Big-&-Tall) him standing 6-foot-six and as thick as a bull--his fleece skin-tight on him as if he'd just gotten done taking a dip in the pond. And he sees me and I see him through the lens. He begins running over, arms swimming and swaying back-and-forth, a big-dumb happy look on his face, like a twelve-year-old boy who just got out of school for the day, running home to his newly beloved family puppy.

And he snatches me and then lifts me from off the ground, drawing the breath from out my body, all the bones in my body cracking.

"Baba, baba, bababa, Bree-bree- Breezy. Ah, ma, ma, man, Ba, ba, Breezy. I tha, tha, thought you-use was a gun, gun, gonna."

"Put me down, Rome, I can't breathe."

"My, my, mama, my bust, Breezy."

He sets me back down onto the Earth, and instead of a cracked rib, the camera lens is cracked. I look up at the sky, think of Neil Young, yet, reword his song lyrics with an auspicious viewpoint--

"When you're out of the black, and into the blue."

The food is ready. It is spread along a large thick oak wood table carved and crafted by the master carpenter, Cisco. Everything on the table went straight from the farm onto the table. Prime rib, T-bones and sirloins, venison back-straps, both mashed and baked potatoes, yams, green beans, lentils, cucumber salad, and fish fresh from the lake: Trout, perch, and walleye--strictly smoked and seasonally seasoned, caught and prepared by the Northern Boys appointed fisherman, Ziggy Stardust.

"And no," he said while pouring more apple cider into a wood-carved cup, watching with satisfaction as I load my plate with more perch.

"It's not parsley you think is the seasoning." He smiles and winks. Cisco requests that someone go wake Mount Virginia. Cisco has a gallon of homemade wine in hand, pouring out individual glasses to everyone before serving himself. I think it's the jug of wine that reminds him of someone else who is missing from the tableau.

"Anyone see Nacho around? I haven't seen him all day."

Nacho. I remember him as clear as the cloudless sky above me.

I decide on taking a walk around the prairie--toward the vineyards. I think I may know just where to find him. Cisco says to take Horse With No Name. I untie him from the well barring's and then hop atop the leather, weather-beaten saddle. Giddy up.

I guide him as best as I can use the reigns, directing him toward the grape vineyards. The vineyards stretch for miles, and I'm glad I took Horse, otherwise, I'd probably be searching til dusk for Nacho. And the rows between vines are spacious enough for the horse to gallop between. Problem is--even being horseback--is that Nacho is so short, the rows are taller than him, making him damn near impossible to find. I gallop between three rows, picking a handful of grapes from off a vine, and then tossing them onto my tongue. They are chilled, plump and delicious. Nature's candy. De-lic-ious. I stop and call out for Nacho. I volley my voice. I look around some. Then, right in front of me, I see a blue-bird chirping, staring curiously up at Horse. I examine the bird. Then, a hand comes ripping through the bunched vines, snatching hold of the blue jay. I peer over the vine to see Nacho, smiling all big and happy and all, gently grasping onto the bird.

"Hey, Breeze."

"El senor, Nacho, my old friend." He looks at the bird and then takes to tossing it up into the marble blue heavens above, smiling wondrous and playfully as it flies off. I give Nacho a hand getting up atop Horse. He saddles up, and then we gallop back to the cabin.

We get back and everyone is pretty much done eating. Everyone other than Thomas Rome, whose plate is stacked sky high and most likely on his third helping. Mount Virginia is goggle-eyed and groggy, just waking from a "moon-nap." Brother Bruce and Katherine are loading up the trunk with the last of Ziggy's crop. Cisco is setting a couple of jugs of wine in the back seat, a half-dozen or so pints of cider, baskets of pears and apples and the last of the tomatoes for the season--green ones, which Brother Bruce loves to fry. I tie off Horse With No Name and note that there is no room for me in the backseat. I look at Brother Bruce then say,

"Hey, I think I'm going to stay at camp for a bit, then prob get back on the road in a few weeks or so. A few weeks when concord grape season is through. Nacho, you'd like a hand, wouldn't you?"

"Gracias, señor Breeze. Gracias."

I give both Katherine and Brother Bruce a hug goodbye. Bruce proceeds on firing up Mustang Sally and then heads off down the dusty dirt road. Cisco rides in tandem atop Horse With No Name. The dust clears, and Cisco can be seen over yonder, galloping gallantly along back down the prairie field--smiling in the sun.

WORK ALL DAY

Nacho and I got up just before the sun. No alarm clocks or cell-phones. We were up even before the rooster crowed. Nacho is sitting outside next to a small fire, cooking eggs in a cast-iron skillet and boiling coffee. I can see that he already has a plate made up for me, and a tin cup for coffee. Nacho had even taken to conjuring up a bit of milk from the cow this morning to cream our coffees. Nacho fetches hold of Horse With No Name and then fetched two large bushels to contain grapes.

We pick until noon, filling about four bushels apiece. The grapes are picked and then used primarily for wine, jelly, and on weekends Ranger Applebee takes to bringing two bushels to the farmer's market back in the Gem City, returning back to camp with jingle to spread around the camp fire.

"How you say, Breeze, 'jingle?" says Nacho while counting a stack of fifties and twenties. Couple more thousand, Breeze, and my familia will be here, livin' la vida loca right here on the farm." Cisco's gone hunting for the day, looking to tag a turkey or two for Thanksgiving. Ziggy went out fishing, but we all kind of have the impression that he is out selling the last of his Ziggy Stardust, being that he hasn't shown up with any fish for two consecutive days and all. Thomas Rome is off in his own world, using a large axe that sort of reminds me of Dorothy Dixon's battleax. He's chopping logs at supersonic speed, followed by stacking them onto a bobsled and then dragging them to be stacked alongside the far cabin wall. Mount Virginia is dick-in-the-dirt drunk, but there is a half-basket of potatoes present, revealing he did a half-assed labor job for the day. Funny thing is, those potatoes will be used to make more shine. And what did the late John Lennon say...

We all shine on.

Nacho and I had spent the day laboring in the vineyards, plucking away. At noon I sat to have a glass of wine and snack on some grapes, marveling at Nacho and the speed in which he worked. When I asked him why he picks so damn speedily, he responded--in broken English--that he thinks of both his wife and daughter, thinking the faster he picks, the faster he will have them here in the states by his side, sharing in a glass of red wine. I raise my glass, cheers.

There is a double-walled copper bathtub tucked in the woods just yards from the cabin. Nacho and I take to dumping two bushels full of grapes into the tub. Nacho--being so small and nimble and quick--removes his shoes and socks, rinses his footsies with soap and spring water, followed by hopping in the tub and stomping away. Cisco engineered the tub so that the faucet faces the exterior end of the tub. So, when the grapes are good and smashed and Nacho is seen sweating profusely-- a big happy humorous hopeful grin drawn upon his face--you would then turn on the faucet and let the wine drip into the glass gallon jug, letting it fill while adding yeast and sugar and then corking it, followed by bringing it down to the wine cellar below the cabin for fermenting.

And Cisco ambles from out the foot of the forest wearing a deerskin pelt, a bow slung across his brawny bare chest, and a feather headdress--the feathers recently plucked from the gobbler in which he is dragging from behind with a rope.

He wakes Old Man Mount and then asks him to pluck the remaining feathers while he goes to tap the trees for syrup. And the late afternoon sun is a soft ball of mellow-yellow, sinking slowly like butter from a skillet from out the sky, bringing on dusk the color of a concord grape. And the good ol' Northern Boys collectively gather to prepare dinner.

Together we sit around the fire, drinking wine and eating heartily, are bodies aching, are hands blistered and callused, all the while a sense of pride gained from a hard day's work. And that is life on the Northern Territory. The earning of your keep through an honest hard day's work.

INTO THE MYSTIC

From back in the day when Cisco's father was head chief, a record player was permitted on the camp grounds. Cisco selects a record from out his own personal milk-crate collection, selecting Van Morrison. He turns his head toward me, a cockeyed mischievous grin on his face, then says,

"E-Z Breezy. You know your tunes. I personally feel that Van Morrison is perfect fall weather tunage. Now, a little Q & A for you, jukebox hero. Now...Breezy, what is my nearest-and-dearest favorite ditty on this record? Hint: also your favorite track on this album." I hit the joint--a combo of Ziggy Stardust and Sunshine Calypso--then gaze giddily at Cisco, eyes low, returning a goofy grin, then say,

"Well, that ain't no puzzle. Into the Mystic. Spin that ditty."

"Correct-a-mungo, Breezy my boy. A spin coming from the groove yard, right atcha!"

And he drops the needle on the record and the song comes on strong, pure, conquering--strictly vinyl, baby. Nothing like it on Earth.

"Pass me that joint, chief." I pass it to Cisco. He puffs. We watch as Nacho chases a chicken around the yard. It was a fifty-dollar bet he made with Old Man Mount Virginia.

"Say, you can snatch a bird from out a bush with ease, let's see if you're quick enough to catch a chicken on the run. Got fifty-bucks down on it. Bring your family in off the banana boat a week early. What you say, Nacho?"

Nacho races wildly in circles after the chicken, his tongue limp and lolling from out his mouth, gaining in close to make the snatch, but instead only coming up short with a few loose feathers. Again and again--round and round-- spinning like a record, coming up with nothing but feathers. And Old Man Mount Virginia, good and drunk at this point, laughing whole-heartedly as if it's the funniest thing he has ever seen, taking gulps of shine while intermittently pulling his gun from out its holster and firing a shot at the harvest moon. I look over at Cisco and he says, "Hey, want to take the canoe with me out on the pond?"

"Under the full harvest moon. All aboard. Say, something wrong, man?"

He looks straight-faced and slightly scared while looking back at the chicken.

"Yeah, bro. I need to talk to you about something. Let me fetch a joint and a jar of shine from Mount Virginia. Moonshine under the harvest moon--seems fitting to me."

Together we place the canoe out on the pond. We hop in. The moon is full, reflecting lunar light from the still water that surrounds us. You can hear crickets chirp and frogs warble in the calm stillness of the night, being momentarily disturbed by far-off laughter, followed by ripping gunshots that ripple the night's peace. Cisco sits in front of me, paddling gently along the pond below eaves where we duck our heads, across pines that appear gracefully illuminated and silver-lined by a stretch of stars and milky moonlight decorating a grape-dusk matte sky. I drop my hand alongside the edge of the canoe, letting my fingertips dip and then skim along the cold murky water. I take a long pull of shine, Cisco setting the paddles aside, firing up a fat joint. I take another swig of the potion, then pass it to Cisco in exchange for the joint. He hits it hard, swallows then takes another larger than life gulp. I take to observing him, knowing him well enough to detect that something is eating at him. And somewhere in the distance, you can still hear the Van Morrison album, so faint that I can barely make the song out-- Moonshine Whiskey. He hands me the bottle, and I take to tilting it back--getting good and lit and all. Cisco then places his hand below the jar, and then forces me to drink up. He hits the joint, exhales and then tosses it in the pond. I hand off the remainder of the bottle, watching as he polishes it off. He then gazes into the night sky, followed by howling at the moon like a wolf.

"So, Cisco, you got kind of weird back there when watching Nacho chase the chicken. Something about that chicken weirded you out. What's going on with you, man?"

"Member when you came to see me in the birdcage before you set out on your Gulliver travels?

"Yeah, you still pissed I didn't put any money on your commissary?"

"No, see, I lied to you, Levon. Lied right in your face. Forgive me, man, I just didn't know how to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"I was there the night of your accident."

"Yeah, fill me in."

I was drinking, you weren't... luckily. You were in your pussy pink Cadillac, I was in Carmela, the caramel-colored Chevy Camaro--if you remember her or not. I challenged you to a round of chicken. You weren't much having it, but I egged you on anyway, calling you, well...a chicken. So, after twisting your arm and persisting with peer pressure, you finally took me up on the challenge. I revved up and you revved up and we went speeding toward each other like mad bulls. I knew you'd pull off, but I was so drunk I took the chance. And you did pull off, of course."

"But you weren't the one that hit me."

"No. Call it coincidence or call it fate, but what a crazy circumstance it turned out to be. I smashed into a guardrail, blind-drunk and going nowhere. You...you went toward a stop sign and slammed on your brakes. I was knocked unconscious, so everyone around later told me that you stopped on the dime in front of a stop sign and some drunk asshole driving a Chevy pickup came clear out of nowhere and damn near took your life."

"All over a game of chicken."

"All over a game of chicken."

And multiple gunshots are heard over by the cabin.

"He did it. He got hold the chicken."

SUGAR, SUGAR

It was early Sunday morning, and the sun was showing over the last hanger-on leaves clinging to maple trees(all plugged for syrup) aligning the broad horizon forest to the north. I'm feeling a bit hung-over, looking at my pills in hand. I pick up the mood-stabilizer and fling it in the direction of the maples. Next is the antidepressant, which I flick in the direction of the smoking shed, where Ziggy can be seen puffing a blunt while smoking fish over apple-wood chips. The Dr. Feelgood special is eyeing me tough, knowing that it could wipe away my hangover, put a little pep in my step and all. I head toward Horse With No Name, feed him an apple I snuck from the orchard last night while drunk and stumbling off to bed. Guess I was saving it for breakfast. Here, now it's yours.

He chomps on the apple while I take my Huck hat off and place it atop his head, stepping back and using both hands to form a picture frame. I stare through it and watch Horse With No Name with his big white teeth, a strand of hay protruding from his front choppers, my huckster hat held centered by two perked ears. I remove the hat, scratch his nose--which he likes best--then grant him a kiss on the side of his face.

"Farewell, old friend."

I grab my trusty traveling tote from the cabin, then finish off a half-glass of Meade to ebb my hangover (hair of the dog) and drink from an empty jar of pickles, the juice being an old Indian remedy Cisco had once taught me one hungover morning such as this. Better than Tylenol. Live it, love it, learn it. I fetch my tote and do the stroll.

My tote bumps and bobbles against the cold, solid, pocked earth; dipping and diving into a pothole here--pothole there. Thomas Rome is doing chin-ups from the branch of an old oak tree, his back muscles flexing tight and strong like the knots in the trunk of the tree in which he hangs from. He drops down and the tree does a tremor-like shake.

"Bababaabaahh, Bree, Breeze. Your ah, ah, take, take, taking off-bro?"

"Yeah, Rome, the time has come to ramble on."

"Wha, well, well, Bree, Bree, Breezy, babe, baby. Pleasure ah as all always."

He gives me another bear hug, lifting me from off the ground, his sweat soaking through my tweed coat, his armpits reeking of rotten orchard apples, the breath of life not blowing, rather, gasping.

"Pah, pah, put, put me, duh, down, Rome." He laughs because he knows I didn't stutter to make fun of him. He knows brother Breeze is a gentle-wind; a gentle sah, sah, saw, soul.

I make a break for the road. Old Man Mount is by the fire, in his rocking chair, fast asleep, an empty jar of shine atilt in his lap, a bowl of unfinished beef stew at his feet. Rocky Racoon the XII takes to slopping up the leftovers, and I take to tapping Old Man Mount Virginia on the shoulder. One eye opens and I bid him farewell. I then kneel down to show Rocky some love, too. I tap him on his head, but he doesn't notice nor care because he is face-planted in the center of the bowl, licking up the last of his leftovers. And back off to where I came from--

The open road.

Be Leave.

Cisco and Ranger Applebee are talking it up while standing next to Applebee's truck. They'd just finished loading the last of the hay stacks, as well as the pumpkins into the back bed of Applebee's truck. I pass by, say farewell to Cisco, and he grabs hold of my coat and pulls me in. He pulls me in, and then whispers into my ear,

"Let the Breeze blow on."

And Applebee says his farewells to Cisco, who still has his sights fixed on me, smirking that troublesome grin of his, knowing this won't be the last hoorah for us. I tip my hat, shut my eyes, and take to slowly oscillating my head, letting the breeze blow on.

I hop into the back of Applebee's truck. I can't help but notice he has a sticker from Applebee's restaurant on the side of his rig. I ask him if he is performing the art of product placement. He says,

"No, my wife and I just love there two-for-twenty special. Speaking of the wife. Here. She sent me off with a piece of pie for you."

In the back of the rig, atop a bundle of golden straw, next to a pumpkin, sits a porcelain white dish, a silver fork, and the perfect slice of pumpkin pie.

"Wife made it last night. Figured I snag you a slice, Breezy."

"Good man, Applebee. Best Ranger I've ever known. Come to think of it...only Ranger I've ever known. Be Applebee."

"I'm going into town--to the market--to get rid of what you see."

"What you see is what you get."

"Yes, indeed. So, where is it I am taking you too? The market is the last and final stop."

"Well, I dunno...call me Mr. Downtown."

He puts the keys in the ignition while I put fork to pie, then we are off.

Bada bing, bada bang.

On the road again.

* * * * *

Applebee pulls up beside a meter posted alongside the crowded downtown sidewalk. He pulls up in front of Darren's Soda Fountain Drugstore. I hop out, grab my tote, thank Applebee, then mosey on in. Razzle-dazzle red cushioned spin-stools line the soda bar. The floor is checked, black-and-white, and looks as if recently polished. In the far corner of the bar is the new medicinal marijuana hang out, where you are free to smoke a gram accompanied by a delicious soda or shake. A girl with hair dyed tri-colored: pink, blue, and orange, with a white soda barista uniform and a paper boat-shaped hat atop her head comes forward to greet me. She has an ice-cream scooper in her left hand, mint chocolate chip ice cream curled along the cusp of the schooner. Her nametag reads: Addie.

Addie says, "Hey, man, what can I get for you?"

"Well, I'm here to pick up my scripts. Also, I'd like an orange-cream soda and a slice of that pumpkin pie you've got over in the cooler back there. Yeah, that cooler--right next to the bottles of Vanilla Coke."

"Whoa...one thing at a time, boss man."

"I can dig."

She walks with the schooner still in hand, flips through bags of prescriptions, then yells out—

"What's your name...bruh?"

"Levon. Levon Breeze."

"Levon Breeze. Yup. Here we go. You have three different scripts."

"Yeah, about that. Why don't you keep the Seroquel and Setraline. For I'm a mentally stable, happy young man."

"You have one more script available."

"Hey, I see your name is Addie. Kind of an old-fashioned name. You don't look old enough to be an Addie."

She giggles.

"Yeah,old-fashioned name, for an old-fashioned joint. The name was passed down three generations."

"Cool. Very cool. Yes, I'll take the last script."

And I pop a Dr. Feelgood and wash it down with my delicious orange cream soda and then take to munching on my pie--by and by. Smoke lingers from on over the smoker's section. I catch a whiff of the waft.

"Mmm. Funky."

A guy sits next to me. He is wearing a red corduroy jumpsuit, flashy razzle-dazzle red boots--to match the color of the cushioned stools--and tinted red aviators. He has curly reddish-brown hair--almost afro like-- and long bushy sideburns. He kinda reminds me of Steven from That 70's Show. He orders a chocolate soda and a bud brownie. Addie says he has to go to the smoker's section for the bud brownie. He nods as if he's heard and done this all before. Addie adds,

"Yes, I know. It's the smokers' section, and yet--you're technically not smoking. Weird rule. However, laws and rules apply, and you must sit over in the smoker's section in order to even ingest marijuana. Oh--let me see your card."

And I polish off the orange soda while heading on over to the jukebox. I remove a fresh single from out my wallet, then put on The Archies-Sugar, Sugar. I groove on back over to my seat, finish my pie, and flow with the melody. And, wouldn't you know, I look up at the tube and see those bitch n' bad babes that stuck Dorothy Dixon and me up. They are sitting in their pink cotton-candy colored Corvette--chillin' cooler than the ice box and all. Blonde is blowing a big pink bubble gum bubble while Brunette sits in the passenger seat nipping at a spool of pink cotton candy. They both rep matching pink rimmed shades. I finish my pie, and make way for Jingle Giovanni's office.

LEVON

"You already need another ten grand?"

"Yes. More jingle, Jingle."

"Alright, alright. Let me go into my secret chamber and unlock Mount Rushmore."

And he spins in his executive genuine leather desk chair, followed by knocking twice on the wall behind him. Seconds later the wall slides open, leading to a secret vault revealing a gold-figurine of Mount Rushmore standing about 3-foot tall, sitting on the ground of the hidden chamber.

"You like that, don't you, Levon?"

"Tricks are for kids, Jingle. Gimme the loot."

He laughs. I laugh. Be both LOL.

He counts the money so fast that it reminds me of one of those flipbooks where you quickly flip the pages and an animated drawing moves in motion. He hands the cash over and then says,

"Thinking about a J.O.B. anytime soon, Levon?"

"Leaving here to pick up the paper and check out the job adds."

"Sure you are. Well, you did give me permission to take full account of your settlement money. After this round, I'm going to advise you to turn your jets down a bit."

"Thank you, thank you very much."

I walk out of Jingle's office, head right, and then work my way down the sidewalk. The neighborhood has become a bit of an eyesore over the last few years, factories shutting down and jobs going south to Mexico or overseas. And I spot all along the sidewalk homeless people. And more homeless people. And a homeless Hispanic woman with two small children. She looks up at me with eyes that plead,

"Help."

So I snatch hold the handle of my tote bag, and back step all the way back to Jingle Giovanni's office, looking up to see him in the window, counting a stack of jingle and all. He sees me and I see him and we both smile and wave. I then take my tote and do the stroll down the entire block, inviting every homeless person on the block to follow me to the corner, where you can see McDonald's golden arches glowing above in the distance.

I tell them to order anything, and they mostly order off the dollar menu. The Hispanic woman orders a Big Mac, her children--Happy Meals. A blind guy with a seeing-eye-dog orders a vanilla ice cream cone. I buy one for his dog, too. And all are happy here in the atmosphere.

WAITING FOR THE BUS

Cold November rain starts to drizzle from the sky. Everyone on the bus stop happens to have an umbrella. Everyone but me--but of course. The bus pulls up into a large puddle, splashing water onto yours truly--but of course. The driver: a red-haired, attenuated, irritated-looking dude, swings the doors open. He says, "Make sure everyone has their fare on hand. Today, like yesterday, hasn't been my day." The bus is packed, and there are no seats available. Everyone on the bus seems something like the driver--irritated and anxious to get off the bus. The bus comes to an abrupt stop, forcing passengers to fumble forward. I feel someone land into my back. I turn to see a cinnamon skinned, hazel-eyed, curly dark haired gal with a little mole dotted just above the right side of her upper lip. She is about a head shorter than me. I look down, she looks up, we both smile. She apologizes. She frowns, turns toward the bus window, then tosses her hair from out her face. I notice a terrible burn mark jagging along the entire left side of her face. She brings her hair back over the deep scar, then turns toward me, tilting her head back up, meeting my eyes. She whispers,

"Would you still love me?" She gets off.

An older woman gets on, the driver of the bus using the wheelchair lift ramp to elevate her aboard. She is missing a leg. She has angelic, bulbous blue eyes and wrinkled, heavily powdered cheeks, a quarter-sized dab of blush dabbled on both sides, bright pink lipstick unintentionally smeared. She smiles at me, then lowers her gaze down at my blue suede shoes.

"Hey, the King used to wear those while on stage. I remember watching from a black-and-white tube. Those shoes are quite classy. I stopped wearing shoes a few years ago after my leg was amputated. Cancer. And I used to walk along the peninsula, walk along the mall, walk to my girlfriend Catherine's house for tea and a couple of games of Pinnacle. And I played soccer in high school. A private all-girls school. I was captain of the squad. And I kicked lots of goals; even kicked a guy from the boys' private school in the balls for trying to get fresh with me.

As a young girl, I can clearly recall that I could hopscotch with one leg and jump rope using only one leg. As a child, my elementary teacher--in order to discipline the students--would have us stand in the corner of the room, balanced on one leg while elevating the other and sticking our index finger on our nose. I was a good pupil, and only had to do that once.

In my teen years-- when I took up dance--I would arch like a swan, one leg curled and craned behind my back, the other bent and based on nothing but my toes. And I'd hold that leg behind me, on stage, a breathless audience before me, and it isn't until now that I really realize how much I appreciated that leg--holding it for balance-- holding it for dear life. I held it as if I knew I was going to lose it someday. Nice shoes. This is my stop. Take care!"

And an older gentleman, bald, wearing glasses with thick speculating lenses and a plain flannel shirt and navy blue jeans steps on the bus. He has a large coffee in hand. His head swivels around anxiously, searching for the nearest person to chat with. Anyone. I guess that someone is me.

"You got a lady in your life, guy?"

"No. Soul searching, not love searching."

He gets a kick out of my response. "Say, buddy, my wife and I were together for just over forty-years. Never fought, never argued, never bickered about bills. I cherished every moment with her. She was a stay at home wife, but she was highly active, involved in lots of activities in the community, also a frequenter of the YMCA. Now, you may not believe it, but I was once a doctor in the ER at one of the local hospitals here. Well, my wife had developed a major heart condition later in life, and just when we thought we had found the right medication, she ended up having a heart attack. She was rushed to the ER. Now, with decades of experience in my field--especially the constant turnover the ER has--I was both skilled and disciplined enough to work under extreme pressure. But being my wife, I was thrown a fast pitch. I did everything I could to resuscitate her. Nothing. There was a point where she was minutes dead, and I was pounding on her chest like a maniac, the other doctors and nurses and aides yanking me from off of her. So, I gave up life as a doctor and decided to work third shift at Wal-Mart. I kept to myself, doing my job--doing extra to occupy my mind in any way shape or form possible. Now, the younger guys--guys right around your age--used to pick on me, call me dumb, assign me their work so they could go hide and goof off. Which I didn't mind. Like I said--anything to occupy the mind. So one night, while stocking cereal on the shelves, an older woman came in and flop, fell over smack in the middle of the isle next to me. Now, these punks I was telling you about were all circled around her, some calling an ambulance, others snapping pics with their phones. I ran down the aisle, and then yanked the peanut gallery apart. I got on all fours, and began giving her mouth-to-mouth CPR. And, wouldn't you know, I saved her life. And, as I speak, I'm going back to the hospital now to get my job back. Take care, thanks for listening."

And he gets off, and another gets on. And so on and so forth. And I reach the front of the bus, just about to get off myself, when I turn to look about the back of the bus--still congested— everyone, even sitting passengers, holding umbrellas. And I'm the only one without an umbrella. And I think—

Life can be worse.

Be happy with what you've got.

Sing in the rain.

FEEL IT STILL

I step off the bus in front of the Humane Society. I enter inside. The sound of a hundred dogs barking in sync rattles my brain. I look around. I think: Mother #2 is allergic to cats, so I skip right by them, feeling a bit of pity for them and all. I meander around the caged dogs. I see a golden retriever--which mother #2 has had a serious strain of bad luck with--always dying young due to hip dysplasia. I come across a sad, sand-brown pit-bull. Other than sad, he looks old and tired and over-caged. He looks as if he's often passed by. I don't know how mom #2 is going to feel about a pit-bull, but he looks old and lethargic and docile enough. I wander on down the row. A Labrador Retriever--just a pup--a healthy golden-yellow coat, tongue lolling, eyes like a teddy bears. He pounces around the cage, bouncing around as if trying to perform tricks to impress this human passerby. He concludes by sitting and planting a paw on the cage. He turns his head sideways, giving a cute look of desperation.

A black lab, a pug, a shiatsu, an American English coonhound. A Siberian husky. Together they all bark and bark and bark-- as if pleading for me to let them loose.

*****

I purchase the bulldog, a golden retriever (take a chance), the Labrador retriever, and the pug. I put them all on leashes. When the store manager and the employee at the desk aren't looking, I make my break. First the husky, then the shiatsu, a German shepherd, a cocker spaniel. I let out about ten dogs before the manager looks up--startled-- threatening to call the police. A poodle, a chi Wawa, some cats--a partridge in a pear tree. The entire place is a wild menagerie, animals making a break in every direction. I laugh like a mad man, playing mirror dodge with the manager, who I fake out with a spin move, get to the door, stiff-arm open, and watch the animals parade out to freedom.

* * * * *

"Sir, can I help you, sir. Sir..."

"Huh..."

I snap out of it.

"What's that, mam?"

"Are you interested in purchasing a pet?"

"I pull from out my coat pocket a wad of jingle you could choke a bull with, and then tell her I'm looking to purchase ten dogs."

She looks at me like a mad man, but money talks, dogs walk. You dig?

And I slip her the cash, and she applies a leash on all ten. I exit the Humane Society with my ten new furry friends and make way for Mother #2's house.

I arrive at the mansion overlooking the bay. It is the biggest house on the block, with four cars in the carport and a glass elevator out back that overlooks the bay. I've intentionally stopped it a few times with a few chickee friends of mine. I liked to leave it stopped on the second floor, making love while watching the sunset. And I enter through the garage door, entering the passcode to deactivate the security locks. It beeps, I enter. I walk to the second floor, losing my grasp on the dogs' leashes while cutting the kitty-corner to take the stairs. They run off and upward. I hear Mother #2 scream. I run up behind the bulldog, lethargic like I thought, stopping at the top step to take a nap.

"Levon!"

"Ma, look, it isn't a big deal. See, I did the calculations. Dad is a neurosurgeon, and you and him are the only ones living here. See, I never excelled much in math, but if my mathematical skills serve correct, you have exactly ten vacant bedrooms. Ten vacant rooms, ten dogs, and a rich husband who can provide food for all. Hey, ain't life grand?"

Mother #2 watches anxiously as the puppy Labrador retriever chews on her purse.

"Levon, what the hell does this place look like... The Humane Society?"

"Funny you say..."

"Levon, there is a ticket for you to go to Chicago and stay with your brother. Amtrak. Said you always wanted to ride the train."

"Hm. Thought I said I always wanted to jump a train."

"Well...close enough. You are scheduled to leave tonight. I've been trying to contact you, but your phone has been off. Next to the ticket is some snacks to take with you, as well as a new cell-phone. Please activate it before you go. Oh, in your room, there is an outfit I picked out for you. A Polo shirt with some cream colored khakis. Take a shower and toss them on. You look like a damn bum."

The Labrador retriever is now peeing on the floor. Mother #2 and I stare at one another and say nothing. I get some paper towels to clean up the mess.

"Levon...haha ...I really shouldn't laugh. Do you realize you've been bringing strays home since you were just a boy?"

"Yep. That didn't slip my memory. Hurt my brain, not my heart." She smiles.

"Will keep them. The cleaning ladies are going to want both a raise and your head."

I yank out two crisp hundred dollar bills.

"Here's their tip."

I walk over to Mother #2 and both kiss and give her a hug. She says there is leftover Chinese food in the fridge.

"Forgot to get pie, just didn't know when you'd be showing up next."

"Ok, ma, I'm going to go shower up then take off. Good seeing you. I'll call you when I get to Chicago." I see the clothes, put them in a bag and address the bag to Sonya, the housekeeper, who has a son both my age and size who could possibly use the clothes more than me.

Once a huckster--always a huckster.

Best be leave.

CASEY JONES

The first person I see at the Amtrak station is my seventh grade English teacher. Well, that's not really how it went. How it really went was that I was sitting on a bench outside the terminal, waiting for the train, reading Huck Finn, and she came and tapped me on the shoulder.

"Levon. Levon Breeze?"

"Yes, mam. Sorry, don't recall where I know you from. Or your name, for that matter. Please don't be offended. I was in a bad car wreck, and suffered some injuries to my coconut." I knock on my head for effects.

"Mrs. Palmer, your seventh grade English teacher. I thought that was you sitting here. You've grown quite a bit since the seventh grade, but you still kind of have that baby face look about you." I smile.

"Those cute dimples, too."

"Geez, mam, you're making me blush."

"Say, you were always fond of reading. Do you recall when I had read Catcher in the Rye to the class? If memory serves correct, you were the only one that appeared to be listening to the story."

"That sounds bout right. Now I recollect. You gave me the copy of the book when you were finished. Come to think of it, I still have it at Mother #2's house. Ironic, didn't he too catch a train at the beginning of the novel?"

"Yes. Holden Caulfield. He was just kicked out of Pence Prep School. You weren't just expelled from school, were you?"

"Naw mam. I'm heading to Chicago to see Brother Tuffy, who just recently had a baby boy. Do you remember Tuffy?"

"How could I forget him. Bit of a trouble-maker, if I recall correctly. Used to enjoy getting into fights."

"Well I'll be, Mrs. Palmer. You've got a memory like an elephant. An elephant's elephant, even. Yes, that's where he got the nick name, Tuffy."

"Yes, Tuffy. Had him for detention more times than I'd like to remember. Do tell him I said hello, and congratulations on the newborn boy."

"Well, Mrs. Palmer, that's quite kind of you to say so. Yeah, I'll surely let him know. Where abouts are you heading too?"

"Chicago as well. My sister lives there, so I'm going to go spend a week with her."

"Are you still teaching?"

She smiles.

"No. I retired a few years ago. I like to spend my newfound time traveling, and reading, but of course. What is it you are reading now, Levon?"

"Well, I'm indulging in Huck Finn."

"Oh. Mark Twain."

"Well, Samuel Clemens, if you're still handing out bonus points." She gets a kick out of my response. The train rolls up, and comes to an abrupt stop. Everyone gets up out of their seats, and heads for the boarding entrance. The conductor, who introduces himself over the loudspeaker as Christian Jones, sounds exuberant, slightly wild, and full of life. I think I'd like to meet him.

I load my traveling tote into the upper baggage compartment, and then take a seat next to the window. It's late, and the sun has gone down, but it's a starry cool evening, and at least I can view the stars while riding across the center of the U.S. A man sits next to me. He is black, burly, broad-shouldered and barrel chested. I kind of wish he didn't sit next to me, cramping my space and all. I was kind of hoping for a pretty gal to sit next to me. Cramping space, cramping style.

"Say, what's your name big fella?"

"Jim. And yours?"

"Breeze."

He sticks his paw out to shake, and I get one look at that hammy, sledge-hammer of a hand and all I can think is I'd hate to be on the receiving end of that thing. We shake. His hand is dry like cement and callused like the hand of a seasoned laborer who swings an axe or work pick all day. And when we take to shake, I feel all the bones in my hand about to break. He smiles--aware of his power-- then releases.

"Where you heading to, Breeze?"

"Heading to Chicago. You?"

"I'm heading out west, for work."

"Where you coming from?"

"Well, I guess I just come off the Mississippi River. I got off in Illinois, and then took a ride from a trucker at a trucker station, who drove me here to Pennsylvania, bidding me farewell at the trucker stop, then leaving me with a little money to get on my feet with. So, I contacted the guy I took the dinghy up the Mississippi River with, and he told me he found me some decent paying work in California. So, I used up the money the trucker, Wiley the Kentucky Coyote--I think he said his name was--gifted me with. I had just enough bread left ova for a few meals and a train ticket to the west coast."

Jim has caught my interest. I shut Huck Finn, and take to digging big Jim out."

"So, Jim, you say you took a dinghy--which is just a small boat, if I'm correct— up the Mississippi River." I look down at the novel in my lap and chuckle a bit, tuck the book in my tote, and then offer Jim a PB&J sandwich. He takes it with a thank-you.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, Jim, what was it that made you want to take a small boat up the Mississippi River?"

"Well..I guess there is lots of situations involved that led me and my work buddy, Sam--Sam Sayer-- to hop on his small boat and just up and leave. You see, Sam is the one who had been talking to me about it for months and months on end, always making me curious and dreamy and wanderlust. We was working at the factory together; a factory that specializes in manufacturing bullets. They have a licensed contract with the U.S. military. You can't even imagine the size of some of these high-powered shells that come dropping off onto the conveyor belt. I'm talking high-caliber slugs that look like they could cut a man in half. And we'd inspect the shells--spinning them in our hand, then rotating them on there side, spinning them forward and back again, looking for flaws, sometimes major, that could definitely kill a man--in this situation--the man firing the gun. So the inspectors and the overseers weren't that friendly in particular, but maaaan they'd tear you a new hole if they just so happened to find you missed a flaw in the "product." And you only get two chances--one if they don't like you. And it was mostly white men, so I thought they didn't much care for me anyway. But I think it because of my size and my strength that they done saw me as some sort of protection to them. You see, when I first started, they'd take to inspect a lot of the "products" that came down my conveyor belt. I also thought that they thought me to be big and dumb aside from large and strong, so that's why theys was doin it. They'd always look kinda scared of me, but when they got to rotating them bullets in hand.haha. Well, it gave them some sort of superior power that made them less intimidated of big dumb me. And Sam, standing and staring slyly across at me, would examine these power hungry men like he took to examining them there bullets, his straw-blonde bangs draped down from out the bottom of his straw hat. A hat like you got, Breeze. And that sly-devil would smirk at me below his hat and look at the inspectors and then draw his eyes on me and chuckle a bit, wondering who was really the stupid one.

And Sam was a single man who had spent most his life traveling around, working job-to-job. Interesting fellow, he is. You see, he both traveled and slept on the boat. He packs light and moves quick. Well, I was busy supporting my family: my wife and my two children, Charles, my eight-year-old son, and Destiny, my six-year-old daughter. Well, we lived in a tiny trailer park in Greenwood, Mississippi, which was cheap, but not very comfortable living. And we wasn't the only poor family, and we wasn't the only black family. But I got up and went to work every day, and was able to provide for my children--keeping their bellies full and a roof up over their heads. And I'd do anything and everything for my children. My wife turned out to be the problem.

And I don't know if it was that lingering flint of wanderlust twinkling in my eye when I got home from a day of inspecting bullets--or more like a day listening to Sam and his adventures--that my wife felt something, something similar as if I had met another woman at work and had my mind on her when I came home at night. And she would often ask—

"Are you cheating?"

"And I'd call her crazy and go about my business, mostly spending my free time with the children, or out with the neighbors, drinking beer and frying chicken. Haha. You see, in Mississippi, almost everyone gots a chicken coop, and almost every black family on the trailer be eating chicken. Soul food, Breeze, you swine on soul food?"

"Have not, but my buddy Slim turned me on to some craw-fish. I'll have to get around to some soul food while on my travels." Dig big Jim, Be big soul, I think.

"Well, so my wife caught jealousy over me coming home dreaming of seeing the country--which I'm now convinced she mistook for me daydreaming of another woman--and also me spending all my spare time with my kids, or out having cold brews with all the other working class men on my trailer lot. So I came home one day from work, not daydreaming of adventure cause Sam had called off sick, which usually meant he was up all night drinking by the camp fire with his homeless, vagabond friend, Tom Jones. Anyway, I get home and all the neighbors are looking at me with troubled, sad expressions. I get home to my trailer, and there is a note on the table stating that my wife and my kids done packed up and left for Georgia to stay with her sister. Well, I'm a big man and I gots a big ol' heart, but lemme tell you Breeze, I felt my big ol' heart snap in half when I done finished reading that there note. Like, like I wanted to punish myself for coming home with all those wanderlust adventures in my head. Hell, it made me hate ol' Sam Sawyer for a good while. So I gots good and drunk that night and unlike Sam I showed up all woozy and hungover the next morning for work. Sam didn't say much, thinking we'd known each other long enough now so he could sense something was wrong. A week of work and a paycheck went by, and I opened back up to him. I told him bout my family picking up and leaving--my wife leavin' the dear john letter filled with messy handwriting and lots of misspellings--she isn't all that well educated-- the education system in Mississippi ain't like it is up north. So Sam told me a fabulous story of him working on a fishing boat down in New Orleans and eating all the shrimp and crawfish his heart could desire. He said all he did was drink, eat and fish. He said all he did was smile. He then told me to save up my next two pay checks. I asked him why, and all he did was smile big--like he prob did back on that fishing boat back in New Orleans--then tell me it was a surprise. So I had taken to later asking a few more times cause I was squirming with eagerness and anxiety, and he'd just elevate those dark mysterious eyes at me from below his straw hat and say he didn't want to ruin the surprise. Actually, what he had said was it was a dandy ol' surprise he didn't want to spoil for me. So, finally two weeks ran out, and we done punched out, done for work not just for the day but entirely. Done spinnin' bullets that done killed somebody we'd never had beef with and never met anyway. And that slick son bitch Sam Sawyer and I got our pay checks and went straight to the boat tied off on the bank of the river. Tom Jones was there; long, squirrely greying beard, his thin face bearing both the wrinkles of wisdom and time. And ol' Tom Jones wore a red knitted cap atop his head, and a bright orange life jacket around his frail, thin body. He held a fishing net in one hand while he poked and pulled at a rolled cigarette with his other hand. Sam and I took to loading two heavy red cooler chests onto the boat and filling them with ice. One with food, the other with drink--which consisted mainly of purified water and beer. Always beer aboard. Sam also brought along a charcoal burning grill with three thirty-pound bags of charcoal, as well as a dozen plastic containers of starter fluid. Three fishing poles leaned half-way over the side of the boat, below them a tackle box filled with bait, string, and a medley of hooks. Sam said I owed him a lil bread for the supplies. Tom Jones used his food stamp card for the food. That would be his contribution.

So we set off northbound. And, lemme tell you, Breeze--it maybe an irresponsible, unfatherly thing to say, but--maaan, I ain't never felt so free in all my days. Lawd have mercy! Hot damn! I kept with me a picture of my family, only looking at it at night, by the light of the stars or by the light of a camp fire or inside my tent by the light of a kerosene lantern. I kept the picture in my back pocket and the promise of them in my heart.

And when the food done run out, we'd pull over, tie the boat off, and then take to searching for a convenient store in whatever hub-bub town or rural countryside mom-n-pop stop we stumbled upon. And a few stores didn't take Tom's access card, so Sam and I would have to break off a little bread for food. And of course--beer.

And some of our money remaining from our last bi-weekly check went to tents and sleeping bags--for the boat was too dinghy for the three of us to sleep on, so we'd always pull the boat ashore, make camp, then make a fire. And I'd sit and listen to both Tom and Sam trade off travel stories, Sam sometimes--but not too often--talking about his years served in the U.S. Marine Corp. He never looked up at us when he told these tales. Sometimes I got to thinkin' that he seldom told these war stories to get them off his chest and out his mind. It was in these times he tended to act a bit strange. Silent dark moods that were kinda like big dark storm clouds that came and went." Big Jim pauses for a moment, rubbing his chin with both forefinger and thumb, pondering over Sam Sawyer's strange shift in mood. He then shrugs it off, smiles, and continues.

"And we ate lots of fish. Constantly eating fish. Say, Breeze, if you ever get the chance to eat catfish from the Mississippi, let me tell you the best way to prepare it--for fish, my newfound friend, is all in pre-preparation.

You see, after gutting the fish and fileting it, we'd take the aluminum foil--which we often took to recycling, it being so dang expensive— and would fill the inside of the fish with butter, then take to squeezing both one-half lemon and one-half lime, letting the juice drizzle along the length of the fish, then sprinkle a tea spoon of salt, pepper, and my personal favorite--Cajun, along the fish. Hot damn that's good eatin'. And we'd use bread and sometimes burritos. See, we got the idea to use burritos from a trio of Puerto Ricans we fished with along the muddy banks--Missouri on the right of us, Illinois to the left. And we weren't too sure which way we wanted to go yet, but Sam, who kept a lucky silver-dollar in his pocket at all times, would flip his coin in order to make decisions. You see, while over in Iraq, a tank got bombed and a piece of steel hit him in his head--screwing up his ability to make decisions. Which isn't funny, but what was funny was he'd be flippin' that dang coin all day long, as if he should flip it in order to decide which pant leg to put on first. So, you see, we was fishing with this trio of Puerto Ricans-- two of which apparently couldn't speak any English--said nothing but did a lot of smiling and drinking and nodding, and out of the three there was one who I think spoke better English than yours truly. And his name was Julio. And one-hundred-yards east of us--just up the river bank and into a sparse, marshy grass field, was a small brick schoolhouse with a cracked, old-fashioned school bell that looked as if it stopped it's ringing a long, long time ago. Sam kept singing a song called Julio by the Schoolyard. Ever heard it before?"

Jim has my utmost, unblinking attention.

"Simon and Garfunkel. Classic, my man."

"If you say so. So Sam kept on singing that tune, and Tom Jones laughed and laughed, but it went over my head and I couldn't see what was so funny about it til I actually heard the song while in the cab with Wiley the Kentucky Coyote. And I stop and scratch my head, wonderin' where the heck I done heard this ditty before. But like I was saying, Julio, who also used a charcoal burning grill to cook his fish, turned us on to using burritos and hot-sauce. He also turned us on to using crawfish as bait, saying it was the best of bait for catchin' catfish. And we done drunk tequila with limes and ate burritos and then took to makin' camp on a full stomach. And, while around the fire--just before we crashed out--Sam looked at me and said, heads or tails. I asked what is the decision we flippin' on? And he looked up at me with that damned sly smirk of his, then said, heads is Missouri, tails is Illinois. I wanted to go to Illinois because I already done been to Missouri before, as a boy, so he flipped and luckily tails it was. We put the fire out, and set out for Illinois the next morning. And we woke and Tom Jones was nowhere to be found. We waited around for an hour, annoyed, and dug up worms for bait while we waited. Finally, after two hours was up, Sam looked up at me from below his straw hat and said forget him. We gonna have to make without food-stamps and constant funnies. We then loaded up our sleeping gear and left. And we got off in Illinois. We got off and walked around--immediately looking for work, being we was well outta bread at this point. We finally found a temp agency similar to the one we went through back in Mississippi, and the only difference was this agency gave you a debit card that after every day of work the card was loaded with your day's pay. We found this to be the next best thing after sliced bread and cat-fish on burritos. And we went out one night to a local bar, and Sam went and did something he ain't never done before. Sam went and fell in love. So he began staying with his new lady friend, and I gots all lonely and decided to keep traveling. So I went to get a shower at the trucker stop and while having dinner started up a conversation with a trucker fella who was heavily involved in the TV, watching these two gals whom was robbing truck drivers with diamond pistols and posting pictures on social media of them committing to stick-up crimes. I mean, how crazy has the world gotten, Breeze? So he got to telling me his thoughts and concerns on what we was viewing on the tube, and that's when he took to generously offering me a ride. He was hauling tractor tires to some back woods town in Pennsylvania, and then dropped me off at the Gem City, leaving me with a little survival bread to get me back on my feet--get me back to feelin' like a man again. So, I did some fishing along the pier, left my pole for someone else, then ambled on over to the train station for a ticket west, where Sam and his honey-pie, Sades, recently packed up and moved too... where I'll soon be working on a fishing boat outside the San Francisco Bay." I thank Big Jim for sharing with me this fine travel tale. I get up to go pee. I enter into the bathroom. The corridor is so tight to where you have to pee with your hand posted against the restroom wall in order to keep from falling over or piddling on yourself. I see many people have done the same in order to prevent the same mishappenings from occurring--handprints scattered and stacked amid the bathroom mirror. I wash my hands, then exit the bathroom. I place my hand in my pocket and remove a quarter. I say aloud to myself,

"Heads, left. Tails, right." I flip. Tails. I head right.

* * * * * *

I enter inside what seems to be a private luxury buff. There is a fine-finished, glossy-gold linoleum lining velvet red walls. There are round red tables-- similar to the ones in the pharmacy/soda shop--and a ruby red carpet rolled out below. And the windows over in this section of the train are broader, and women and nothing but drink martinis with olives floating atop. At the end of the luxury bluff is a well-lit bar, and at that bar stands a well-dressed handsome blonde haired man with a fresh tan and a smooth clean shave. He is dressed in a white-tux. He appears to be a highly professional tender, serving nothing but high-end booze. He gives me a questionable look like I'm in the wrong part of the train. In response, I give bar man a wink and a tip of the hat. He smiles, winks back, then holds both his arms out, swiveling his head around, his eyes wandering along the fine party gathered before him, as if he's inviting me in on the fun.

"Be cool, bar man. Be cool."

I make way toward the bar, then ask the bartender what he's got to drink.

"Well, sir, tonight we are serving martini's. Could I interest a gentleman like you in a martini?

"Why certainly. Thing is, I don't know a thing about no martini."
"Well, fine sir, allow me to school you. I have the chocolate martini, which the light-skinned black woman wearing the sequin-embellished cape jumpsuit with the gold-hoop earrings

Is having." I turn to her, her legs crossed, her hair in the style of the afro, her head languidly leaning on her hand, involving herself in the circled conversation. She turns to us as if she heard us talking, raises her glass, smiles, and then sips. We both nod in her direction.

"Now, another martini, one of the first martini's I've ever learned to make, is the Vesper. Now, if you've ever seen any James Bond films, you'll recall that this was Mr. Bond's choice martini. The Vesper consists of gin, vodka, and..." he turns behind toward the gold-gilded mirror aligned with bottles, grabs and then turns and says,

"Kina Lillet, a high-end booze that makes the Vesper the Vesper."

He looks in the mirror behind the bar--in the open slot--where he'd removed the bottle of Kina Lillet. He sees a woman with brownish-red hair dressed in a shag cut, repping a bright banana yellow top hat atop her head. She wears oversized sun-glasses, and an autumn print-knee dress adorned with tri-colored leaves. Her legs are crossed like the black bohemian babe across from her, wearing yellow knee high-boots and yellow elbow-high gloves. She has her martini raised in salute, making eyes with the barman in the glass mirror. He fills the slot and then turns.

"Say, you seem like a fine young gentleman. Would you care to join me for a drink?"

Sure, bar man. Name's Levon. Levon the Breeze. And you are?"

"Scotty. Scotty Prichard. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Breeze. Now, I'll be having a Brandy Alexander. Have you ever had the pleasure indulging before, Mr. Breeze?"

"Well, can't say I have, Mr. Prichard."

"Please, call me Scotty."

"Nope. Never had the pleasure, Scotty."

"Well, let me go ahead and shake one up for us." His phone begins ringing while in the process of shaking the booze together. The Car's, Shake It Up, is his ringtone.

He turns and sets two chilled martini glasses atop the well-lit, marble bar. He makes a final shake, the song ends, and he pours both glasses to the brim, garnishing them with ground nutmeg. He raises his glass to make a toast.

"To us, Mr. Breeze, and the pleasure of sharing drinks among total strangers. Godspeed, sir...Godspeed."

And we toast and sip.

"Well, Scotty, this is the best Martini I've ever had."

"Well, Mr. Breeze, it's not a martini, but you've had the pleasure of meeting the best bartender in fifty states. Enjoy your libation, Mr. Breeze."

I turn back to the women circled in a group, exchanging chit-chat and nibbling on olives from toothpicks. I look to the two sitting closest to the bar. I can't help but notice that they are giving me the eyes. I get kinda shy and all, so I turn back toward Scotty who is staring straight at them, sipping from his drink, waving at the ladies. I turn to see they have their martini's raised high, smiling and returning the wave. I smile because I think it's kind of funny and I'm having a splendid ol' time and all. I turn back to the bartender, and he keeps his eyes set on them while saying sideways—

"If I was you, Mr. Breeze, I think I'd finish that drink and maybe get another one for that lady right there." I turn and turn back, not sure which lady he is talking about.

"Which one you talking about, Scotty boy? They are both equally delicious."

"If I was you, Mr. Breeze, I'd go with the dirty martini on the right. The lady on the left is drinking a Gibson, which consists of a pickled onion juice and is garnished with onion. May have a hard time talking to her, being her breath smelling like an onion and all." I laugh at Scotty's Funny. I pull out a fresh twenty and lay it on the bar. "Two dirty martini's, Scotty boy."

He smiles and then softly lays his hand atop mine and says,

"Your money is no good here, Mr. Breeze."

"My, my, you drive a hard bargain, Scotty. Take it as a tip for your fine tending."

He slowly slides his hand down mine, removing the twenty and slipping it into his pocket. He winks at me, I wink back. He turns and sets the martinis atop the bar. He leans in and then whispers,

"Now go."

I sit on the velvet red love seat with Dirty Martini, who has gem-green eyes, a wispy-smile, and a flawless porcelain complexion. She looks at me like I'm a piece of pumpkin pie she is looking to devour. I set the drinks down atop a thick glass table and scan her up-down, down-up.

She has chestnut brown hair, a pageboy cut--which I'm typically not fond of--but dirty martini seems to wear it exceptionally well. Her hands, smooth, milky and flawless like her face; I put my hand out to introduce myself.

"Levon, Levon the Breeze."

"Lucy. Lucy Diamond."

"Lucy Diamond. Shucks. You married to a traveling poker player that goes by the name of Jack Diamond?"

She giggles. "No. Recently divorced. Thanks for the drink." She scoops it from off the table and takes a sip, leaving a red-lipstick imprint on the cusp of the glass. I continue my scan-down. She is wearing a gold jumper dress over a red turtle neck. She wears matching red stockings. I sip from my drink, and go to ask her where she's coming from--where she's going--simple talk. And her eyes, man--I can't help but get a—

The loudspeaker sounds:

"May the male passenger in the luxury buff please bring his ticket to the conductors' booth. I repeat, May the gentleman in the luxury buff please make way to the conductor's booth with his ticket. Thank you."

"Dang. Party crasher."

I look across and Onion Martini is nowhere to be found. Snitch. I look over at Scotty and say, "Say, in reference to the gentleman in the luxury buff...he talking about me or you?"

"Go."

"Got yah. Say, Miss Lucy Diamond, I'll be back in a jumping jack flash."

"Hurry quick, I'll be needing another drink soon."

I head straight across the length of the train, pass my original seat, where I find Jim snoring and fast asleep. I continue onward-forward. I get to the conductor's booth and knock. I can hear music playing from inside.

"Come on in."

Grateful Dead-Casey Jones blares from inside the booth. The conductor turns toward the driver-side window, and then turns real fast toward me. In hand, he has a powdered funnel cake atop a paper plate. His nostrils appear to be covered with powder--which I find odd--his mouth being perfectly clean. And his pupils are dilated, making him look like he just got off a spaceship before he got back to running the train. He says,

"Whoooooo! Shut that door, man, what are you trying to do, blow my cover or something? Sit, man. Sit. You're making me kinda nervous...here, have some funnel cake."

I sit and he hands me funnel cake. He observes me, looking out the windshield, watching as the train takes us further into the future. I take a nibble on the funnel cake, then say,

"Why thank you. Good jam, by the way."

He smiles while singing along.

"Say, I dig your git-up. That's a cool hat. Can I buy it from you?"

"Thanks for saying so, but no--it's limited edition."

"I dig, I dig, I dig." He takes a huge sniffle.

"Say, guy, you got some powder on your nose."

He sniffs again, then wipes it off.

"Did I get it?"

"Yeah, you cool. Say, why'd you summon me up here, track-star? I was about to get fresh, my man."

"Use was hangin' in the luxury buff. Haha. More power to you, my man." He offers me a pound. "See, I wouldn't have even of said nothing, but someone showed up bangin' on my window, ruining my jam session and all, so I slide open the door and this woman starts complaining about some riff-raff...sorry, man...she called you riff-raff...weaseling his way into the luxury buff for free booze. And she was jive-foxy but man I couldn't wait to get her out of here...she reeked of onions."

"I knew she scum-bagged me."

"No diggity, no doubt. Say, what's your name, Mr. Too Cool for School?"

"Levon. Levon the Breeze."

"Levon the Breeze. That ain't your real name, man."

"No, you're prob right. But I got dropped off on the steps of an orphanage when I was just a newborn, and that's the name I was given by my orphan caretaker."

"That's deep, bro. Say, I tell you what, why don't you wait like another twenty-minutes or so, and head back down to funky town. Debbie-downer will prob me conked out soon. She seemed real drunk when she was talking, slurring words and spraying onion breath and such."

"I'll do just that. What's your name brother?"

"Christian Jones."

"Christian Jones, pleasure to meet you. So, how long have you been pushing train for?"

"Maaaan, I've been riding the rails since I was a boy. My father, Casey Jones, who started out working on the tracks, turned me on to this gig. He worked for the Illinois Central Railroad Company. He was later hired to be the conductor. I'd usually ride along with him, falling deeply in love with the lifestyle from boyhood. Anyhow, he passed away a little over a decade ago. He was killed when his train collided with the caboose of a stalled freight somewhere down in Mississippi. If I wouldn't have been in school that day, I would have been killed, too. Rest in peace."

"Be peace."

I hand Christian Jones back his funnel cake.

"Why thank you."

"Why welcome."

He takes the plate, and then turns back toward the window. He says something but I can't hear him over the music. I say,

"What's that you say, Mr. Jones?"

He turns and says,

"Do you want a Coke?"

In his hand is a bottled Coca-Cola.

LONG TRAIN RUNNIN'

I take a stroll down the train and check in on my main man, Jim, who is still fast asleep. By the way miss Lucy Diamond was gazing at me-- eyes like sharp cut diamonds--I'm hooked on a feelin' that I won't be making it back tonight, Jimbo. I remove my traveling tote from out the top compartment, and then secretly stuff a few twenties in Jim's pocket, then ramble on.

Now I instantly take to notice that the luxury buff has cleared out. To my surprise, however, miss Lucy Diamond is still present, a half-drunk martini in hand, her head rested in her other hand, flirting with ol' Scotty boy. And I get a little jealous and all, my face heating up and reddening to the color of miss Lucy Diamond's dress. I recognize that I'm not just jealous, but slightly embarrassed, too--by and by. Scotty sees me over miss Lucy Diamond's shoulder. He waves. Miss Lucy turns. She looks pretty buzzed up and all--not sure I should buy her that other drink she was requesting last time we were--say, shooting the breeze. But she waves me over to the bar and offers to buy me a drink.

"What will you be having, Mr. Breeze?"

"Well ol' Scotty boy, how bout another one of those Brandy Alexander's you fixed me up with earlier."

"I'd be honored, Mr. Breeze. Another Brandy Alexander coming right up. He turns. She dips into her wallet, leaving Scotty a fresh fifty. A woman with class. Just the kinda lady the Breeze can dig on.

"Say, care to share my drink with me, miss Lucy Diamond. You don't look like you can handle another one of your own, no offense and all."

"No offense takin''. Say, your kinda cute. Take that silly hat off, let me see what you look like." She does the honors of removing it for me. She rubs her free hand throughout my hair, and then slowly slips it down the side of my face. She polishes off her drink, and then takes my hand, tugging me along. Scotty boy turns with my drink to find that no one remains at the bar.

"We walk down the aisle, her holding my hand out, tugging at me a little and all, making me feel like I'm her pet poodle or something. Like dress me up, take me out, kinda thing. She stops, turns, then asks,

"Say, Levon dear, where is it you are spending the night?"

I peer over her shoulder, way down the length of the train, point then say—

"Coach, darlin'."

"Well, I just so happen to have a superliner bedroom for the night. Where is your final destination?"

"Chicago."

"Windy City. Me too. Tell you what, you're really cute and I was wonderin' if you would be interested in bunking with me for the night? Soft pillows, hot towels, continental breakfast in the morning. Whatcha say, Mr. Breeze?"

"Say you got me hooked on a feelin', miss Lucy Diamond."

"My pleasure."

"Beg the differ...pleasure is mine, sugar pie."

We get to her luxury room, and you know miss Lucy Diamond doesn't even give me a second to investigate what it is that she's getting me into and all. She takes her shoes off first, followed by her vest and sweater and then tosses them onto the bed. They land on the pillow. She grabs my crotch, tugs and then sticks her tongue in my mouth at the same time. And I got one eye open--staring at the pillow--thinking that that really must be a soft pillow after all. Her top shirts and shoes landed without a sound. She pushes me back up against the wall, a forceful lover she is-- I think. She stares into my eyes as if staring into a deep ocean abyss. She's breathing hard, her chest recoiling at a fast rate. She unbuckles my belt then removes my pants, followed by her shirt, and then takes to tugging on me--toward the bed. She tugs me as I tug my traveling tote. All that remains are her stockings. She lays backwards on the bed. I lay my tote down, reading on the front, written with white out: Fool of Cools. I open up my trusty traveling tote and remove a peppermint candy and a can of cool-whip. I remove her stockings. I take to my knees. I remove the wrapper from off the peppermint candy. I slip a pillow below her head before placing the candy in her mouth, taking safety precautions and all. I place the peppermint candy on her tongue. I then take to placing the wrapper in her hand, closing her hand into a fist, then say, "Hold on tightly." I then remove the cap from the can of cool whip, shake it up like ol' Scotty Boy was shaking up martini's, then hit the light.

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH

The morning comes and Miss Lucy Diamond and I have breakfast in bed. And ain't miss Lucy Diamond just full of smiles. I was able to get a hot shower and all, pocketing some shampoo, soap bars and conditioner. I took a few towels for the rode, too, she an ultra-poofy pillow, and then take to using her phone to contact Brother Tuffy, then get off the train in Chicago. I take my wheelie tote and do the stroll down toward the Dan Ryan Expressway. I can immediately tell I'm not in the best of neighborhoods, Tuffy--whom I wouldn't imagine being scared--said to avoid certain neighborhoods on my way to the L-Train. I come across Taylor Street and see endless rows of tents. I pull my tote along between the tents, looking around, seeing needles along the pavement, families huddled together against the wind, and people flagging signs asking for help. And, even if I wanted to help these people, there was no saving them. Not enough money to go around. There is far too many. I continue to pull my tote between the endless rows of tents, coming to a stand-still at the end of the street, where there are police men standing tightly next to each other, shoulder-to-shoulder with shields and mask--behind them a row of bulldozers. The officer in the center holds a megaphone, demanding everyone vacates the street immediately. I stop because there is nowhere else to go. Behind me, people rising and exiting from their tents. Before me, a row of officers with guns and shields. A glass beer bottle gets chucked from tent city, toward the officers, landing and smashing on a shield. In return, a cannister of tear gas is released. The SWAT team presses forward, beyond me. I elevate my head and look at the city--towards the Sears Tower, the Trump Tower. I take my traveling tote and keep rambling on.

OUR HOUSE

I take the L all the way to Magnificent Mile, where I get off and follow the instructions Tuffy had given to me. And--on a personal note--I've noted that my coconut is healing rather well, being I can now recall directions without writing them down. The days are turning to nights faster, and the sun is going down over a gated community with both neighborhood watch and privately paid police patrol. A neighborhood with countless cul-de-sacs where kids roam both fearlessly and freely along freshly paved streets that are well-lit by the overhead sodium arc streetlights that light the way to multi-million-dollar mansions. I locate the address of the house in which Tuffy had relayed. I wheel my tote in front of a mansion larger than our parents crib. It certainly appears to me that Tuffy is doing quite well for himself. The front porch is lit with a bright white light. I stroll up along the narrow brick walkway leading up to the door.Tuffy comes out in a Day-Glo orange long-sleeve work shirt, holey overworked work jeans, a work belt, and a hard-hat on his head the same Day-Glo color as his shirt. He comes walking toward me, walking slow and powerful as if he's carrying cinder-blocks below his big, muscle-bound arms. I see he's grown a beard. He says,

"Welcome, Brother."

"Wow, your house is gi-normous. Appears you outdid dad."

"You like it?"

"Do I like it? Are you kidding, brother? I'm full of loves. It's beautiful. Good for you and your family."

And an older bespectacled gentleman in an unbuttoned suit coat and a loosened, lowered tie comes walking out the door behind Tuffy. He says,

"Thanks for coming by and giving me a hand unloading the new fridge and washing machine. Congrats again on your newborn, Tuffy. Take another paid day off on me. You've earned it."

I laugh a bit. Toughy too.

"You had your baby. Congrats. Man, I'm late for everything."

"Sure did. A week ago. Tried to get ahold of you. Never no luck. Oh well, better late than never. I'm parked across the street, bro." I turn to see a silver Ford pickup, highlighted below bright street lights. Tuffy's a Ford man, not a Chevy. There is a great difference, I just don't know what that 'great' difference is. He pulls his keys from out his pocket, then clicks the unlock button.

Click-click.

"Let's get motivated. Here, give me your luggage."

We take to the highway.

* * * * *

We pull up in front of a white-and-brown Winnebago. We get out. Tuffy fetches my tote from out the back of his pickup, carries it in. Their home is dead-silent. Valerie is in the front room, sitting in the lotus position atop her yoga mat. A Roman candle burns before her. She raises her hand, ejects her pointer finger, and then slowly motions it toward her face.

"Shhh."

Tuffy turns to me and emulates the motion,

"Shhh."

I gently shut the door behind me.

We turn toward the living room. Tuffy's newborn, Callan, is fast asleep in his crib. Tuffy starts to tip-toe toward the crib. Valerie's eyes are shut, but her senses are keen. She snaps her fingers--shooting her index finger toward Tuffy's feet.

"Boots. Right. Levon, remove your shoes at the door, please." Tuffy removes his boots, leaving them beside the only entrance/exit of the Winnebago, then again begins tip-toeing toward his newborn son. It's kinda funny to watch, really--him looking awkward as hell because he's all big and muscle-bound and all. I tip-toe behind him--shadowing him as I've always done.

"Callan, Uncle Levon. Uncle Levon, Callan."

I stick my pinky finger out, lowering it down into the crib, and then take to hooking it with Callan's teeny-tiny pinky finger. I feel the soft warmth of him radiating into me. He slowly opens his eyes--bright blue like Tuffy's. Callan's beautiful baby blues look directly into mine. Our eyes lock for the moment--soul-searching—and he slowly closes them, releasing his pinky from mine, falling back sleep. He looks more like Tuffy than Valerie but,

"Got all Valerie's good-looks."

"I'm a working class dude. I don't need good looks, I need money. Hungry?"

"We turn toward the kitchen--a small alcove, more like a kitchenette--where there is a small stove, microwave, sink, and a square marble counter to place the food.

He turns toward Valerie, whose changed positions, to ask her what's for dinner. He turns toward me and says, "Kapotasana. Not bad for just having a baby just a week ago. Levon, I luckily landed not only a smart, but a hot wife that somehow finds herself to be in love with working class me. Winning. Anyway, brother Levon, hope you like health food. That's all we have. Costly, but. Oh well. She isn't high maintenance, and she is uber health conscious. Obviously our doctor father loves her. Mom gave me the thumbs up, too. I've been on a strict vegan diet for over a month now." He turns toward his wife, Valerie, then leans toward me,

"I sneak a cheeseburger with fries once a week. Shhh." Tuffy removes strawberries and tofu from the fridge. He removes two cans of coconut water. He reaches into the cabinet above the sink and removes a bag of walnuts. He dumps the remains in a blue bowl.

"Dinner is served." Valerie rotates, switches positions. Tuffy washes down walnuts with coconut water, points at Valerie, then says—"balasana."

He offers me more tofu.

"Naw, I'm good on the tofu."

"Me too. Care to join me out front for a beer? Yuengling Light, kind of part of the diet plan."

Valerie stands straight as a dart; her body tall and thin and athletic and pliable and as graceful as a ballerina. She intertwines her hands, and then stretches her arms to the ceiling where her fingers nearly swipe across. She bends and descends and stretches down to touch her tows--opens her eyes--blows out the candle. She draws towards us, eats a strawberry, gives me a huge hug.

"Levon...how does it feel to be an uncle?"

"Well, Val... Not sure quite yet. Haven't really felt the full effect."

"You will when you wake in the middle of the night to him crying," says Tuffy, uncapping and then handing me a beer. We head outside. Tuffy fetches a few lawn chairs and circles them around a small, makeshift fire pit. He starts a fire. He takes a seat next to me, yawns.

"I'm beat." He taps his bottle with mine. "Cheers. Glad to have you, baby brother. Now be honest with me about something."

I drink from my beer. I think of Dorothy Dixon.

"Honesty is the best policy."

"Mom buy you your ticket here?"

"You know it."

He laughs.

"I swear, I'm her biological son, and she treats your stray-dog ass better than me."

"No. She really doesn't. You just don't embrace her love and generosity with open arms like I do."

"Hm. Suppose your right. Want to burn one?"

"Why certainly."

"Ok. BRB."

He putters tiredly on over to the door. His phone begins ringing. He takes it out his jean pocket, sees who's calling.

"Speak of the devil." He answers.

"Hey, ma" heads inside.

It's a cold night, and the fire feels fine. There is a stretch of stars above, and not a cloud in sight. Feels mighty fine to be with family.

There are two cats on the other side of the fire, just feet from the door. A black cat appears to be playing with a dead mouse while the other cat--a white cat--sits and muses over it. Valerie comes exiting outside. She is wearing a wool-sweater, completely buttoned down, holding Callan tightly to her bosom. She has a glass in hand. She sits next to me. I turn toward her to say something and—

"Ahhh!" I shut my eyes and quickly turn away.

She chuckles.

"Should have given you the heads up. Baby needs fed-- mama, too. She raises her glass and tips it toward my bottled beer, then says,

"Cheers."

She drinks it.

"Kale. I'll make you one in the morning. Oh, and while you are here, we are going to be focusing on mental, physical, and emotional wellness. Balanced health and nutrition. Less beer, more water. It's all about what you take into your body, Levon. As cliché as it may sound, your body is your temple. After the awful accident you were in, I'd think I'd take the time to take care of yourself. Start anew. Turn a new leaf, so to speak."

Tuffy comes out with an unlit joint in mouth. He takes a seat next to me. He sits in silence for a moment--staring ponderously into the fire— then begins rubbing his eyes and then his temples, counter-clockwise, with his hard-work hardened hammerheads. He lights the joint, blinks thoughtlessly at the fire, exhales. He takes another puff then passes it to yours truly.

"Levon, we need to talk."

I take a puff—

"What did mom say?"

"Well, for starters--she is pissed you didn't call her when you arrived. She said she bought you a new cell-phone. She said she found it sitting on the desk unopened next to a bag of clothes she bought that were bagged with a sticky note placed on the side with the maid's son's name scrawled on it. Secondly, she said you went and set all the dogs loose from the pound and brought them over to her house to be sheltered and fed. She said she has to purchase new rugs for the second floor upstairs because the dogs shit and... he looks at his newborn being breast-fed. He restates--

"She said the dogs both urinated and defecated all over the rugs upstairs. Says she has to replace them all. She also said that it was disrespectful--which I concur with her on--that you let loose a bunch of hounds then left town."

"So what's she doing with them?"

"She said she knows your heart, and she is fully aware that your intentions are good, so she's placing ads up and literally offering a 1,000 dollars to a family that takes them. She said your welcome to keep one."

"Shucks. Ain't that a crying shame."

"Hey, quit bogarting my joint."

I pass it back to him.

"On a good note, I got us tickets to a ball game. Cubs. Boss man got me season tickets. Game starts tomorrow night at seven. Don't even know who they're batting against. I'm going to be here with wifee all day, helping her out with the baby. If you like, at some point, I can drop you off downtown and you can walk around and sight see.

"I'd like that."

"I'd like another beer. You interested?"

"Double-up."

"BRB."

Tuffy tosses another log on the fire, heads inside. The fire is burning bright. Valerie mentions something about my shoes.

"Levon, are you swagging blue suede shoes?"

"You know I always wanted a pair. King me."

She laughs, covering her mouth not to wake the baby. Tuffy comes out with two beers.

Valerie releases Callan from her nipple. Tuffy hands me the two beers and Val hands Tuffy the baby. She buttons up her wool sweater, and then heads inside. I twist the cap from off my beer, sip, then take to observe Tuffy. He has a compassionate, loving look aglow on his face. He is steady gazing at his son. He smiles. He turns toward me, I say,

"You don't look so tough." He laughs.

"You know, it has only been a week, but...I dunno, Levon. Can't explain it, really. I mean, to see a child being born, Levon. I dunno. Made me think that life has no coincidences. Like, we have choices, and creation is unquestionably a thing. I dunno. You know I'm not into religion, but man..I couldn't help but think that there just might be some sort of divine creator or creators involved, watching us all upon this stage they built, musing over our every move." He looks up at the stars as if he's on to something. "I mean, what I'm gazing at before me is my very own flesh and blood. Me and Valerie's combined DNA. Kind of a magical experience, brother. Life changer, that's for sure. Kind of makes getting up and going to work every day a little bit more worth-while." I take all this in.

"I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be a father. I wonder if I'll ever have a family of my own."

"You know, Levon. Don't go out looking. The right one will come. I thought about you a lot, for some reason, while watching my wife give birth. I wondered what it would be like coming out of a coma? Do you remember?"

"It's not so much what I saw, Tuffy, it's something I felt."

"So, you like, didn't see, "the light?"

"Nope. I felt something. Care to hear."

"Dying, too."

"The second I woke; I was unsure of everything. Who I am and where I was. But I felt something. It was in my heart that I felt it. It was like...like a gentle-wind blowing. A breeze blowing inside my heart." Tuffy smiles at me.

"Levon the Breeze lives to tell."

"That's why I just want to travel about for a bit. Learn this new me. Try and rediscover myself."

"Felt the breeze blowing in your heart, huh. Bro--I so diggit."

Valerie exits the Winnebago. In her hand is her tablet, and a bulky pair of head phones.

"Levon, I was listening to Pandora just the other day, and heard this song that made me think of you. I know you'll dig. Take a few more drags off that joint. Tuffy gets some good stuff, doesn't he? Haha. Sucks I can't smoke. I want to remain completely clear headed with Callan around." I say,

"Be Motherly."

Tuffy passes me the joint while Valerie places her tablet in my lap, swipes my hat off my head, and then places the head phones over my ears.

"What am I getting into, Val?"

"Head and the Hearts-Another Story." She points to the moon. "Levon the Breeze. I think you are going to dig this ditty to the moon and back." She then lowers her pointer finger, places it over her nose—

"Shhh." She presses play. I stare deeply into the fire, memories--lost memories--from life before the accident, return nostalgic and vivid and true. At first they appear as blink-images, then blossom and remain--sustaining scenes from a forgotten past life-- like a non-linear, music-cool montage choreographed with colorful memories of a life lived that I'm slowly and surely re-learning to remember.

* * * * *

Tuffy riding his new Huffy bicycle, me on the pegs, my hands holding tightly to his broad beefy shoulders, our heads on a steady-swivel. He arches from his bike seat, like a hawk setting stance for takeoff. He pumps his legs harder, driving into the petals, gaining speed, steering toward a city-street lined on both sides with endless leaf-piles. He increases speed, resetting himself atop his seat just before ripping through an endless sea of leaves; a kaleidoscope of autumn colors billowing all around us.

"There." He pulls over his bike. "Be on the lookout, Levon. Oh, and remember, no woman and no children. Small pumpkins--especially those with kid's paintings--show mercy. Absolute no-no, Levon. We are professional pumpkin smashers, not amateur heartbreakers. Now, as previously explained--large pumpkins, 100-points. Large white pumpkins, 200." I'm on the lookout. Tuffy claims two, 100-point pumpkins. His takes one for each hand, plummeting them onto the road, watching them explode. I creep to the porch, look around, mount the porch steps, snatch and raise the pumpkin above my head—large white pumpkin-200 points.  And every fall season we'd form a team of four and smash the night of Hallo's Eve away. We'd stay up all night, drinking beer we stole from our parents--Tuffy not getting a fake I.D. until senior year of high school. And we'd walk like warriors, hungover and proud--marveling at the streets, paved orange with pumpkin guts, the trees that line the block streamed with toilet paper--But that wasn't us.

* * * * *

And there I sit in the open window, homework complete, looking down at the football team practicing for their big game against the rival school--biggest game of the year--played on Hallo's Eve. I caught a total of two games while living at the orphanage with Flo--the other two years they played away games, and the other five remaining years I lived at the orphanage with Flo, I wasn't tall enough to look outside the window. "Levon, today I'm going to be baking pumpkin pie. I know you've never had it--but you're in for a treat. Try it with whip cream." And Flo sets it before the window, knowing I'm watching the Varsity squad practice and all, and she sets down the pie with a glass of whole milk. I observe the pie, completely different and distinct from the rest of Flo's pies. I take a bite, large glass of milk in hand just in case I need to swallow it down really quick. And, from that moment on--I discovered my favorite flavor of pie. Better than apple alamode, I tell her. She kisses me, says, "You'll have a family soon." I reply,

"We are family, Flo." "We will always be family--Levon, dear. Now, when you are finished with your pie, I'm going to teach you how to play the piano."

* * * * *

"Hey honey, your mother is too sick to take care of you. So, how would you like to come stay with us over Thanksgiving?

* * * * *

"Sorry I'm home late guys. I was stuck at work late, and had to work two separate sections because we had a call-off. Anyway, as you know, I wasn't able to be here and cook dinner for you both, so I brought back food from the restaurant. Levon, I brought you back an entire pumpkin pie. Now, why don't you and Brother Johnny set the table. Also, since it's a holiday, I'll let you both have a glass of wine with your mother."

* * * * *

And my first kiss. Below that maple tree down at Frontier Park. The wood-bridge above the flowing stream that runs into Cascade Creek and drains into Lake Erie. That tree, towering over all the others, slightly bent over that there bridge. And I feel a warm October wind whoop up, whipping and whirling around us, leaves gushing down from above; leaving us invisible to the world, lost within a fall floral fantasia of kaleidoscope color. Our lips meet, slightly out of alignment, then lose traction--an amateur kiss at best. But I remember us with our eyes closed, noses running, wet warm lips searching around soft skin, looking to reconnect. And I feel her breath out, all the while she breathes me in. And this is also the first time I thought I was in love. Going to bed early to daydream so I wouldn't think of her in class.

* * * * *

"Mr. Andrews just called. Said you smashed his pumpkins. Said he didn't want to call the cops, but thought you boys deserve some discipline. There are two new leaf rakes leaning up against the garage. I want you and your new brother Levon to rake them all. I don't want to see one leaf on the lawn when I get home. Not one, do you boys understand me?"

* * * * *

Sitting in the woods with Cisco, Thomas Rome, and Ziggy, looking at porno mags that Rome snatched out his dad's borough. "Hey, what are you boys looking at over there?" This is the first day we met Ranger Applebee. He was lenient then, and has been ever since.

* * * * *

"Well, Levon, allow me to introduce you to your brothers and sister. This is Brother Bill, his new girlfriend, Heather, Brother Bruce, who doesn't have a girlfriend this year for Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, and that's Sister Kara Bear, who can't seem to stop staring at her first tattoo. She is only sixteen, so I had to take her. Which I didn't feel good about, and won't do again. So don't ask, Levon. Well..anyway-- welcome home. Give me a hand setting the table. Turkey is still in the oven. Bruce, can you and Bill take it out in ten minutes, cut it up, bring it out to the table?

"Welcome home, Brother Levon."

"Bruce hugs me."

Bill is in line behind him.

"You are my new brother. What did you say your name is?"

"Levon. Levon the Breeze."

"Levon the Breeze. You and I are going to have a lot of fun, Levon the Breeze."

He hugs me, whispers in my ear,

"Brother Levon."

Sister-Kara Bear comes last, and says,

"Say, check out my new tattoo, Brother Levon."

And I had a huge crush on her at that point, which I had for years, and always felt awkward about because, well--she was my sister and all.

****

Cisco, releasing an arrow, taking a turkey out. "You're dragging Thanksgiving Dinner, Levon."

*****

Nacho, in the grape vineyard, smiling large, picking quick while I rest to sit and sip wine and snack on grapes.

*****

Eyes opening for the first time in a long while, a bright light and a blurry unfamiliar face leans down, and a soft wind blows across my face. A woman's voice whispers--

"Be Leave."

*****

I feel a hand lay on my shoulder, I know it's there but I'm still somewhere else, not wanting to leave this beautiful trance that I'm in. Val removes the burning joint from out my hand, sets it down on a rock surrounding the fire, removes the headphones from my ears, then says, "So, what do you think?"

"Be ethereal."

"Keep your eyes closed, Levon."

She takes Callan who is fast asleep--like his father-- from out Tuffy's arms, gently lifting him and bringing him on over to Uncle Levon.

"Levon, keep your eyes shut. Stay in the Zen of the moment. Now, you are going to hold your new nephew. Don't worry, I'll guide you along."

She unfurls my arms from my sides, flattening out my hands, placing them heels up, following by gently placing Callan's bump into one hand, then gently laying his body across my forearm, followed by resting his head into the crook of my elbow.

"Open your eyes, Levon."

I slowly open my eyes and look down. Down onto my new nephew, Callan.

Callan gently opens his eyes, too. Damn near in sync with mine.

We hold eyes. For how long, I don't know. All I know is a tear fell from out

my eye and landed onto his forehead.

Be Life.

* * * * * *

SATURDAY IN THE PARK

Wake up, Levon. Saturday morning brunch awaits."

I wake to Tuffy wearing a white bath robe. He smells of soap. His hair is wet and combed back. His beard looks freshly trimmed. I rub the sleep from out my eyes, get up. I fold the blanket and set it on the end of the couch. On the kitchen counter is a chickpea vegan casserole, oat meal with an assortment of berries, cucumber avocado toast, a kale spread, and pumpkin rolls. Valerie turns on the blender. I load my plate and join both Valerie and Tuffy on the floor. We eat breakfast and drink kale smoothies--which aren't half bad afterall--I think. Callan is still sleeping. We finish breakfast and Tuffy does the dishes while Valerie cleans up around the Winnebago a bit before the baby gets up. I find our high school year book, our senior year--and skim through the pages, reminiscing back to when life was simpler. Tuffy looks over at me while drying the dishes, smiles, then says,

"Ah, yes. The good ol' days. So, now that you have had a chance to sleep on it, have you decided where you would like to go and explore today? I'd recommend Navy Pier or Millennium Park for starters. Valerie has a monthly-ride pass for the L she won't be using. So you can feel free to use it while you are here with us. Really sucks you didn't bring a phone. I have no idea how we are going to get in contact."

"I'll figure it out. You said we are going to a ballgame tonight."

"Yeppers. Good seats, too. Would you like to meet for dinner beforehand, or do you just want to meet at the ballpark?"

"How about we just meet close to the ballpark. I'll meet you by the entrance, or you can just give me a landmark location nearby."

"Play ball. Meet me at six by the entrance. I'm not giving you your ticket until then, make sure you aren't a flaky no-show."

"Yeah, I've had a series of bad luck recently with being on time."

"It will just be us, seeing that Val is going to be staying home with Callan."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Ok. I'm going to go ahead and drop you off at the L, then come here and hang with the fam. Feel free to take a shower, there are a couple things I need to do before we go. Oh, the hot-water tank is small, so the water is only warm for five minutes or so, cold from there on out. I've a few things to do before we leave. Take a shower and get ready to roll. I'll be outside.

I get dropped off at the L, take the train downtown. I've a couple leftover double cheeseburger from lunch. Tuffy literally sprayed his truck out with Aerosol, and then tossed an entire pack of Wrigley's Spearmint gum into his mouth so Val wouldn't be able to detect double cheeseburger on his breath.

"Secrets safe with me, bro."

"Here, there are a couple burgers left. Dispose of the evidence."

I get off on the Northside, walkabout Navy Pier. I have a beer in the beer garden. The wind is blowing cold, so I buy a black scarf and some black gloves to match my suit coat. I continue to walk around. I get to the Ferris wheel, and notice families and couples riding happily together. I get kind of melancholic and all, wishing I had someone to ride the Ferris wheel with.

I see a clock that reads eleven-o'-clock. I still have plenty of time to kill. I get directions from passersby's and other tourist-types using their phones GPS system to navigate them around. They don't mind much, though. I eventually begin to make way back to the L. I finally locate it and hop aboard.

I intended on getting off at Millennium Park, but I somehow get lost and end up in Riverdale. I feel lost without my tote. Maybe I should have activated that phone after all. Maybe I shouldn't have tossed my phone in the lake in the first place. Oh, well. Everybody plays the fool sometimes.

I leave my hat behind. Brother Tuffy said he wanted to rep it for the day. I come to an intersection with a store on my left hand side. The windows and door are barred, and I can't tell if the store is opened or closed.

"Yo, sir. Sir." I look around and there, below my range of vision, is a short black kid with a Huffy bicycle that almost reminds me of the one Tuffy had as a kid.

"Sir, how much are you willing to pay for this bike?"

"Say, don't you think I'm a little big for it?"

"Hell naw, my daddy been ridin' it to work, and he's way bigger than you."

"Well, don't you think he'll be needing it again?"

"That's what I said, but ma duke said since daddy don't want to go to work no more, that I should take the bike out and sell it to someone on the streets who could put more use to it."

"Yeah, where is your mom at now?"

"Work, fool."

"Ok."

"Sir, you interested.

"Fifty bucks do?"

"Sheit. I would have settled for a dub. Fifty, though. No doubt. Money first, sir, then you get the bike."

"I hand him the fifty."

"Thank you very much, sir." He turns and runs off in the opposite direction.

I hop on the bike and start peddling. I butterfly my knees outward because they keep banging against the chrome handlebars. I get a funny awkward feeling about where I'm at just by the way people are looking at me. They kind of make me feel like I kinda don't belong and all. Some of them laugh like I'm a joke. By the looks of some of these dilapidated homes and heavily barred buildings and stores, there is really no joke about this place at all. I come to a 4-way intersection, clamp on the brakes.

"Aw, shit."

No brakes. I take my loss. Instead of wheeling a tote, today I'll be wheeling a bike with no brakes. Ahead is a basketball court. I head there. I lean my newly purchased Huffy up against a park bench, then approach the court--which is enclosed by a chain-link fence. I approach the fence and let myself free-fall into it, hooking my fingers into the links and letting my face be flattened and imprinted by them.

There is a group of black kids playing a 4-on-4 pickup game. I begin following the game, getting absorbed into it and all, watching as the boys (ranging from the ages of 12 through 16) pass the ball back-and-forth, the one team outsizing and out-gaming the other team--kind of unevenly matched I thought from the beginning--like watching an NBA team play a high school varsity team. No, more like the Harlem Globetrotters playing against a varsity high school team-- pulling off flashy, show-off maneuvers, and stopping to remove their phones from out their high-socks—

"Get me on that, Snap. Quick--get me on that Snap."

And they'll stop sometimes to catch their breaths, call out a foul, compare Jordan's, peep out and game on teenage girls from the neighborhood going by in groups. I turn to see my bike is gone. Oh well, another man's trash is another man's treasure, an experienced dumpster-diver once said. I lean back into the fence, the young girls gone by, the game back in session.

Someone leans into the fence next to me.

"So, how them shoes treating you, E-Z Breezy?" I smile.

"I thought you were dead."

"Nope, rolled my ankle pretty bad, though."

"I take it it was the ankle of the foot you use to drive with."

"Are you assuming that I never went to drive truck?"

"Not good to assume, but..."

A kid jumps and hangs in mid-air, followed by his legs being taken out from below him, the basketball bouncing against the chain link fence, just missing my face. The kid is down and on his back, eking out in pain. His teammates circle around him. They help him up. He limps off the court. One kid--apparently the one with the freshest J's--says,

"Another one bites the dust. Wanna call game?"

The Reverend hollers out,

"Naw, you've got a fourth man right here."

I turn toward him. The Reverend is pointing at me.

"Come on with it then, man."

"Welp, sorry Breeze. Today's the day you are going to sketch up those blue suede shoes."

I stretch and get on the court—

"Checks."

"Levon. Levon Breeze."

"Emmanuel. Emmanuel Cabrini-Green Homes.

The tall, show-offy boy tosses the ball at me. I toss it back. He dribbles between his legs, around his back, fakes left then goes right. He does a mid-air 360, running the ball behind his back not once but twice, and puts it into the no-netted rim with ease. He laughs.

"Whitey ain't got no game."

They all laugh. I laugh a bit, too. Kind of embarrassed and all. I ask,

"We playing winners?"

They all laugh again.

"For your sake and the sake of your team, naw. Here, checks it up."

I dribble between my legs, keeping eyes with my opponent and all.

"Drive to the hoop, homie. Or are you scared?"

I drive toward the hoop, jump, bank the ball from the backboard, score."

I turn and members from both teams are laughing hysterically.

"Travel. Travel. Hahaha. Travel."

"That's what I'm feelin to do as soon as this game gets through. Here, losers walk."

They all break in laughter.

"Naw, man. Travel as in like you got to dribble the ball, not pick it up and run with it to the hoop. This game is called basketball, not football, homie. Say, Ty, tell me dude wouldn't make a good running back." They all split in laughter.

The Reverend sits on the bench, shades on, sipping from a bottled Coca-Cola while concomitantly strumming his guitar and watching the game. He has my suit coat hanging from the neck of the guitar.

I'm sweating profusely, playing a tight game.

"Come on, Breeze, I've been schooling you up and down this court all day long."

"Has anyone ever called you a ball hog before?"

"Ball hog. Haha. Anyone ever call you a sore loser?"

I steal the ball, then dribble all the way down toward the hoop. From behind me I can hear my teammates cheering me on. The Reverend is on his feet, too. I have a clear shot to the hoop, wide open. I stop, set my feet, pivot, shoot.

"Brick."

We shake hands and tell each other good game. I go to meet back up with the Reverend, but he is nowhere to be found. Instead, my suit coat is folded neatly on the park bench.

I ask Emmanuel the time.

"4:30."

"Hey, what's the quickest route to Wrigley Field?"

"Follow me."

I follow Emmanuel.

We get back on the L. I talk to Emmanuel, learn he is sixteen-years-old and spends all his free time playing basketball so he can one day get into the NBA and take care his mother and baby brother. He says his father was shot and killed a few years back, and mom just couldn't get it together enough to be with another man. Said mom wanted to get out the projects, so she started working two jobs and he took on a part-time gig at Wrigley Field in order to help with rent. And coincidentally enough we are both headed to the same place.

We get off, and he shows me the way to the entrance. I thank him and we part ways.

Minutes later, Tuffy appears wearing a Cubs ball cap and a jersey with the number 9 on the front. In his hand he holds two tickets.

"Looks like I finally made it on time."

"Yeah, I was a little worried. It's a relief to see you. Now, here is your ticket."

"Now, I really don't watch sports much and--"

"You never really have. I wasn't much into the Cubs until boss-man got both his family and my family season tickets. So, I usually attend games with him. I'm wearing the jersey of my favorite player, Javier Baez or "Javy." He plays second base--which is great--because that's exactly where we will be sitting."

We take seats and get comfortable. The game has started, and the stadium is packed. The Cubs are playing their rival team tonight, the Arizona Cardinals. Tuffy asks if I'm hungry. I respond,

"Yeah, my treat. That is, unless you brought along Tofu."

He smiles. "Naw, Valerie gave me a free-pass to splurge."

"Nice. I'm going with a hotdog, how about you?"

"Same. Grab me two."

"Beer?"

"Naw. I'm driving back. Ever since Callan, I've decided not to drink as much, especially if I'm driving."

"Be responsible. BRB."

I've never been to a ballgame before, but the park is what I like best about it. The stadium is huge, seated row tier columns jutting up toward the bright stadium lights. I get in line to get some dogs and a beer and a cherry Coke for Tuffy. I see Emmanuel go by, a vendor rack containing rows of paper-bagged peanuts strapped to him. He waves and I wave back. He heads down the stairs into a heavily congested fan section to hustle peanuts. What a good kid, I think to myself. Must make his mother proud. The line feels endless, and I'm getting impatient. I know the game has started because I heard the broadcaster yell out,

"Play Ball!"

Fans from both teams shake the stadium with roaring pandemonium.

I finally get to the concession stand window, then place an order in for four dogs, a Budweiser beer, and a large cherry Coca-Cola. The young woman at the register tells me the price, and I feel as if I am choking on a hot dog."

"Say what now?"

"That will be thirty-dollars even."

"Dang. No wonder Tuffy let me pay."

I get the dogs, dress them, then head back to my seat, located front row of second base. I see Tuffy on his feet, hands coned around his mouth, shouting out, removing his ballcap and swinging it around. He seems really into the game. I take seat and hand Tuffy his food. He takes a bite into his hot dog. "Good, but nothing like a Smith's hotdog. When is the last time you had a Smith's hotdog, Levon?"

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing."

I try to follow the game, but I feel kind of gamed out, hopping from park-to-park and all. I inhale the dogs, and then drain my beer only to find I'm still thirsty and wish I would have bought two. So I focus in on "Javy" who is the second baseman for the Chicago Cubs. He is quick and fleet-footed--springing toward the ball--then rocket-launching it over to home plate.

"You're out!"

Tuffy gets to jumping around, swinging his hat in a repetitive figure-eight pattern, screaming, "Javy with the save!"

It's the end of the third inning, and the Cubs are ahead, 3-1, and I go to use the head, followed by getting back in line for another beer and another cherry Coke. The line is longer than before, and I damn near miss the entire third inning before getting back to my seat with his cola. I drunk my beer before getting back.

And we leave early because the Cubs are up by four, and Tuffy is secure in the fact that they will be capturing the win for the evening, plus he wants to get home to his wife and say goodnight to his baby--plus dodge the terrible, bumper-to-bumper- Chicago traffic. I sit quiet, counting classic cars along the highway.

We pull up and head inside. Both Valerie and the baby are fast asleep. Tuffy tip-toes into his bedroom, covers his wife up, kisses her and then hits the light. He then goes over to Callan's crib, kisses him atop his forehead, followed by picking up the cradle and setting it next to Val in the bedroom. Next, he goes to the fridge and fetches us both a beer. He sits down next to me-- yawns and stretches. He always seems tired. We drink our first beer in silence. After the second, Tuffy gets more talkative.

"Say, remember when I came back from Toronto with your brother Johnny Boy? Remember we went there to get fake IDs? Ha. We never thought we'd be able to purchase liquor with those things, and I ended up scoring it from a state store for that balling Halloween party he had at his--well, at his and your mom's crib. Charlie's Treasures was the name of the place where we bought the phony ID. On Yonge Street. We were smoking a joint we purchased in a park just off of Yonge. We were smoking it on the way back, and Johnny Boy tossed it out the window just before coming into customs. Well, the custom police ended up smelling the weed, and they pulled us aside and placed us in holding cells, getting interrogated and such. And I remember watching as they tore Johnny's car apart, searching for weight they never found. And when we finally got cleared and got back to the car, Johnny found his fake I.D in the back seat sliced in half. Haha. Like, completely ruined the entire point of him driving to Toronto. So, he was all soggy and butt-hurt, but I kept my ID and ended up buying a keg and a bottle of American Honey. And he told me absolutely no liquor, but I went against the grain anyway. I still think that's what jinxed us that night. Oh well, still my favorite brand of whiskey."Tuffy stands up and heads over to the kitchen cabinet, removing a bottle with two shot-glasses. He comes and sits next to me, fills them up, shoot.

I'M EIGHTEEN

It just so happened to be Tuffy's eighteenth birthday the day he purchased a fake I.D. claiming him to be twenty-one and officially old enough to buy booze. He originally wanted to go to the strip club, for starters, but the problem wasn't his age--no, he could go to the titty club with his real I.D. Problem was, he wanted someone to drink with, and Johnny Boy was just the dude for it. An additional problem, while coming through customs, was Johnny--who was never very in tune after smoking a fat blunt--left his new I.D. stating he was Christopher Wallace Columbus from Virginia Beach, Virginia, age 22, behind in his car. Well, Johnny Boy went and left his fake in the car and all, and the customs gestapo slit that thing clean across with a razor blade. So, Tuffy would be solo-dolo for the evening. He started by going to the beer distributor, kind of nervous and all, but acting really cool like he's really Richard T. Townsend, age 21, from Daytona Beach, Florida. He maturely asks the guy at the register--the owner, from his understanding--for a keg of beer. Tuffy wings it, too, saying,

"Oh man, I'm going to be needing a tap, too. I left mine back in Florida."

"Yeah, I see that," said the owner, staring at the ID, and then at Tuffy and back again. "Say, Daytona Beach. Why wouldn't you stay down there where it's nice and warm. Buy a keg and hang out on the beach. Just curious, of course?"

"Well...um..I'm a college student here. Local community college."

"Oh, ok. That explains it now. Say, Richard T. Townsend, would you happen to have that college I.D. on you, as well?"

"Um...well yah, man." Tuffy opens his wallet and, uh...well..."

"Hey brother man, let me head back out to my car to dig for it. For some reason I don't happen to have it in my wallet."

"No, that won't be necessary. Let me bring that keg up front. Tap too? That right, Richard T. Townsend the second?"

"Yeah, yeah, man. Tap too."

"Tap, too. Coming right up."

"Keg of Yuengling."

"That's right. Keg of Yuengling for Richard T. Townsend the second...coming right up."

Tuffy is sweating nuts, wondering whether to make a break for it, or just he-man the keg on his shoulders, leave the money, and bounce like a kangaroo on a trampoline with a bad check in hand. He was just gifted a fresh pair of running shoes from his mother for his birthday, figured now might be a good time to break them in. But no, distributor dude didn't do the dirty, and brought the keg out with the tap.

"Say, when you bring the tap back tomorrow, bring the keg back as well. I'll give you thirty bones for the keg, which will cover the cost for the tap rental-fee."

"I always do that, man. Thanks for the reminder, though"

"Ok, Richard T. Townsend the second. Have fun, be safe, and please remember to drink responsibly."

"Yeah, Yeah. I always do that, too. Cya tomorrow, high noon."

"Are you gonna be needing help getting that keg loaded into your truck?"

Tuffy smiles, bends down, and then tosses the keg across his shoulders. He looks at distributor dude and then says,

"Naw man, I hold my high school record for highest squat. 500 pounds, up/down, down/up."

"Catch you tomorrow, Richard."

And Tuffy tosses the keg in the cab of his truck, feels a second simmer of pride seep up in his guts, then heads over to the liquor store while he still feels confident about being Richard T. Townsend the II from Daytona Beach, Florida.

Tuffy soon arrives to Johnny Boy's just minutes after his mother pulls off to work. She is working third shift, and won't be returning home til morning. A new job she has recently started, and couldn't afford to pass up. Johnny Boy can be seen anxiously peering out one window, me in the other. And we couldn't resist smiling when we saw Tuffy pull into the cobblestone driveway.

Johnny Boy is pre-prepped for the party-- the bathtub already filled with ice. Tuffy single-handedly unloads the keg, and then takes it to tub. Johnny Boy leaves our mother's room shut with a note on the door stating, NO VACANCY. He leaves his bedroom door wide-open, a happy-birthday streamer suspended from the ceiling--orange and black--the colors of both Halloween and our all boy's high school sporting teams' jerseys. There is an Alice Cooper record playing, yours truly playing deejay for tonight's shin-dig. Tuffy packs Johnny Boy's bong, Bongo, then takes a killer rip. He passes it over to Johnny Boy. Johnny Boy, one of the biggest stoners around, passed it up. Tuffy smiles, then says,

"Still feeling bashful from earlier?"

"Fuck you, dooooood."

"Levon, get on the level."

"Why certainly."

The doorbell rings.

"The girls are here. I can feel it," says the birthday boy, fist clenched, still feeling strong from setting the school squat record and buying booze underage.

The three of us shuffle to the door.

And yes, a squad of about ten girlies from the all-girls school are at the door, all decked out for Halloween. Both Johnny Boy and I--young, dumb and filled with come-- head to get the door. Tuffy grabs us both by our costumes, then says,

"Cat Woman is mine all mine."

Johnny Boy responds,

"Ok, b-day boy. You're just saying that because you know Levon will pull it."

"I got the keg, Johnny Boy. Party favors prevail."

"This is our mom's crib."

"Poor excuse. Cat Woman wouldn't like you anyway, Johnny Boy."

Tuffy gets the door.

Before you know it, the house is filled. A piñata explodes, revealing candy corn and Tootsie pops and condoms and ecstasy pills. People are bobbing blindly for apples and cans of beer. Johnny Boy is hosting a game of quarters at the dinner table. A red plastic cup sits centered amid the table-- filled with beer, four people sitting around, anxiously waiting their turn. The objective of the game is to bounce the quarter off the wood table and make it into the cup, the person sitting next to the quarter bouncer expected to chug it down. And I spin records all night, playing whatever comes from off the top of the dome or whatever people request. I'm dressed as Elvis. Tuffy, who is dressed as Popeye, comes in with an eye-winked and a corn-pipe in his mouth, stuffed with marijuana. He says,

"Levon, matee, come join me in the basement for a round of beer-pong. I put on Monster Mash and follow him to the basement. There are two guys, star football players from our rival school, on the opposite side. We end up playing a few rounds, Tuffy sinking nearly every shot.

"Birthday boys on point tonight." Tuffy talks some trash, and so do our opponents, and before you know it someone upstairs switches the record to Beastie Boys-You Gotta Fight For Your Right to Party.

I'm a member of the wrestling squad, and the guy is nearly double my size, so I shoot in on his legs and grapple him to the ground--showing him a thing or two about ground-and-pound. Only problem, I have a hell of a time keeping him down. He gets up and we trade blows. I clench up with him, looking over to see how Tuffy is holding up. He is standing in the corner, drinking a beer, smiling and watching as I struggle with my opponent, his opponent out cold, snoring on his back. And we trade more blows and finally Tuffy steps in, tosses me aside, and does what I'm thinking he did to the other guy. Two-hit combo: Tuffy hits him and he hits the ground.

I go back upstairs to spin records because that's where I knew I'd be safe. Elvis has a fat lip and a black eye. Johnny Boy takes a frozen pork-chop from out of the freezer and smacks it against my eye. He laughs and then says, "keep that on your eye, Levon. Haha. Hell, I'm thinking you should have been Popeye. Your eye is swollen shut."

I get to talking to some girlies, playing them some spins and all, and Tuffy comes into the room holding hands with Cat Woman. He says, "here, sip on this. You'll feel better."

"I chug from the bottle. Again, then again. "Slow it down, Levon." He watches as I continue to get turned up, then puts a pointed index finger before his nose—

"Shhh."

Popeye and Cat Woman relocate themselves into Johnny Boy's mom's room, shutting the door and NO VACANCY behind them. I feel sick. I end up over the toilet, puking my guts out.

I can't see anything, but I can clearly hear everything going on around me. I hear Johnny Boy open our mom's bedroom,

"What the fuck! Put your clothes on, and get the hell out of here. Didn't you read the sign?"

Then, sirens outside. Someone screams—

"Pigs!"

People jump out windows, hide in closets, someone climbs over me and shuts the shower curtain, taking cover next to the keg.

"Sir, you are under arrest for underage drinking."

"Be cool, man. Be cool."

* ****

We sink another shot and laugh. Tuffy is trying to decide on whether it was the neighbors, the dudes he head knocked, or the guy from the beer distributor who had called the police. He thought it was definitely the owner of the distributor, but he rationalized it to being just bad luck that started back in Canada. He says he's never been back to Canada since, and has no urge of ever returning. "Anyway, I eventually returned the keg, but somehow misplaced the tap, so it was kind of a loss in the end. How's Johnny Boy been? I haven't seen him in years. Still a stoner?"

"No, he's like a completely different dude. He recently finished law school in San Diego. I'm actually going to see him at some point in the next month or so."

"Yeah, that dude was full of cools--full of funnies. Anyway, I'm going to hit the hay. Put the booze back when you're done, wouldn't want you puking all night in my commode."

"Got you. Night, Tuffy."

"Night, Levon."

He stops in the entrance of his bedroom doorway, turns and returns.

"Levon, I'm glad you are alive. It means the world to me that you came here to be with me and my family. You'll always be a brother to me."

"Likewise,Tuffy. Likewise,."

"Say, when are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow at some point. Gonna take either the train or the hound, head to the Bay Area to catch up with my buddy, Slim."

"You are welcome to stay as long as you like. I just need to be back at work by Tuesday morning."

"Yeah, that is why I've decided to split tomorrow. Give you and the wife and the kid a day together without me pestering you. Say, mind if I use Val's tablet? I'm going to log into Messenger, and let Slim know I'll be heading his way sometime tomorrow. I'm also going to go ahead and order a ticket. Say, let me borrow your credit card."

"Say what now?"

"I'll leave you the cash. I just forgot to get my card from the bank before I rambled off."

"Sure." He takes his wallet from out his pants, then tosses me his card.

"Her tablet is over there on the desk. See you in the morning. Just leave my card on the desk with her tablet, please. Good fight, good night."

GOING TO CALIFORNIA

I'm up with the birds. I'm again properly dressed in my Huckster apparel, ready for the open road. I go with a black fedora--switch up the style a bit--placing the American flag bandana around it. My I BE LEAVE shirt, freshly washed and ironed by the lovely Valerie, is back on my back. I place a suit coat over it, matching black dress pants, blue suede shoes, and one traveling tote. Tuffy treats me to breakfast. I have Apple Pie ala mode with a glass of milk. He drops me off at the Greyhound and we say farewell.

"Until next time, Tuffy."

"Be E-Z, Breezy. Safe travels."

"Godspeed, Tuffy. Send the family my love."

I go inside and purchase a one-way ticket to San Francisco.

I've stopped taking my meds--for the most part--and don't really intend on taking them again. I sit and wait in the terminal lobby, waiting for departure. I think of Tuffy and Valerie and my newborn nephew, Callan. I already miss them. I think of all four of my mother's, and miss them too. I miss everybody. And the voice of Dorothy Dixon pops up in my head—

"Make moments."

A middle-aged woman, who--not to assume or judge--appears to be a drug addict, asks me for some jingle to buy food. And I think about drug addicts, I think that most of the ones I've met or have gotten to know personally--such as Brother Daniel--aren't really bad people. They are just misguided, lost souls who have had hard lives or suffered a series of traumatic events that maybe were too hard for them to heal and return from. They end up stuck, with no hand to pull them out. So I hand her a twenty-dollar bill and watch as her and her two daughters get in line at the Greyhound food station and place an order. She turns to me, smiles and waves. I return both. A Chicago police officer--a young stout bald-headed black man-- approaches me and thanks me for my heartfelt generosity. I thank him for serving and protecting and all. My bus has arrived. I get in line, hand over my ticket, get aboard. Be leave.

I look out the window to a glossy, ashen-gray sky. The world seems drab and morose and unkind. I take Jack Kerouac, On The Road, from out my tote and begin reading. The bus takes off. I read quite a bit, become tired, and take note that I've a long ride ahead of me; so I'd like to try and snooze for a bit, knowing it damn near impossible to sleep comfortably aboard the hound. I place my book back in my tote and try to get comfortable. I shut my eyes without any luck. I turn to see who is sitting across from me.

A young, feathery fair-haired thin blonde woman, wearing a white dress with dandelions spotted throughout her hair, holding the hand of the woman next to her who has her dandelion decked head leaned on her shoulder. They are eating Footsies. The blonde woman closest to me leans over and asks if I'd like some. I pass, but take to properly introducing myself.

"Levon. Levon Breeze."

"Pleasure to meet you, Levon Breeze. My name is Dawn. Dawn Chorus, and this is my new wife, Brittany Dobbins."

"Well congratulations on your marriage. Where are you coming from?"

"We are coming from the Gem City, and headed for San Francisco."

I'm headed to San Francisco as well. Say, did you say you were coming from the Gem City? Did I hear you right?"

"Sure did. Born and raised."

"Me too. Small world."

"That it is."

"What was it you were doing in the Gem City?"

"Well, Brittany and I have just recently graduated college, and decided to go back and live with my mother for the summer. We stayed a bit longer because I was hired by a private ecological company as an investigative journalist. The contract was supposed to be over in September, but they ended up extending it until the end of October."

"I see."

"Yeah, I was employed by this privately funded environmentalist agency to go undercover into a plant that, they felt, wasn't abiding my OSHA standards. They are currently in the process of trying to shut the plant down for good. For the better good, if you ask me. What is it you do, Levon Breeze?"

"I really don't know exactly."

I roll back over and try to sleep. I can't, but I keep my eyes shut anyway. Someone hops aboard, tosses a large knapsack in the overhead compartment next to my tote, and then takes a seat next to me. He is a long haired hippy wearing a multi-colored Baja hoody that reeks of marijuana. He has long red hair and a thin, weather-beaten face. He begins convo—

"Where abouts are you heading to, brother man?"

"San Francisco."

"Groovy. Me too."

"What are you going there for?"

"Well, I'm not staying in San Francisco long, although I'd like to. Beautiful city. Most beautiful city in the U.S.--in my opinion. But no, a few friends of mine are picking me up and we are headed back to Humboldt County to clip plants for a farmer we know there. Kind of a cool gig. We get to keep a portion of the clippings, as well as stay in a barn overnight and get fed three meals a day. It will be my third year working for him. What are you going to the bay area for?"

"See some old friends."

"Seeing old friends is good for the soul."

"Ditto."

"Rad hat, by the way. By the way, what's your name?"

"Levon. Levon Breeze."

"Well-well. Rad hat to go with a rad name. A pleasure to meet you, Levon Breeze. My name is Boomerang. Boomerang Buckley. Buckley is my real last name, but Boomerang is a nick-name given to me by my friends in my hometown of Ukiah. See, no matter where I go, I always boomerang on back to Ukiah. Just how it goes--who I am. Anyway, what's your hustle, Mr. Breeze?"

"I don't have one. I received a small settlement from an automobile accident I was in. I awoke from a coma, and feel as if I know longer knew my true self...so I've decided on rambling around the country meeting others...others like yourself, Boomerang...in order to rediscover my true self."

"I can dig. Little pointer for you, if you don't mind."

"I take constructive criticism quite well. Lay it on me."

"Ok. Don't try and rediscover who you once were. For you will never be that same person ever again. Instead, try a different approach. How about you discover yourself, rather than try and re-discover yourself. Maybe that's the purpose of your journey. And don't fret. You'll find yourself. Simply let Mother Earth take you where it is you need to be."

"Be leaf in me as I be leaf in you."

* * * * *

SAN FRANCISCO

The bus pulls into the terminal on Mission Street. I quickly retrieve my traveling tote and be leave. The weather is dreamy: mid-60's, sunshine, blue skies, cool-cool breeze. Dawn and Brittany hold hands while skipping together along Mission Street. They wear makeshift white dresses that are merely bleached sheets tied tautly round shapely, athletic bodies. They skip carelessly and freely in the sun with dandelions dotted about their hair. A cream colored caravan with frosted windows and a medley of decal stickers pulls up along the curb. Boomerang Buckley gives me a hug, releases, and then heads for the open caravan door where his hippy brethren can be seen sitting bearded and shirtless and pie-eyed, not knowing where they are going but going anyway.

Before Boomerang Buckley becomes one with his brethren, he turns to flash me 'peace'. He is in and then out my life. I am supposed to meet Slim on McAllister--at the library. I haven't been here in years, but I quickly recall why I regretted leaving so much. I head to the library, where I see Slim sitting on the steps, playing on his cell-phone. I take a seat next to him, toss an arm around his shoulders, pull him in and kiss him on the side of his forehead.

"Guess it's my turn to treat to Tommy's Joint, huh?"

He laughs.

"Breeze, dog. Haha. Man, you look way better than the last time I saw you. How do you feel? Imagine a little better now that use got a little jingle in your pocket. Naw, Breeze, my treat. Anyone trying to put their hand in your pocket after what you've been through shit-sure isn't your friend. Let's hurry it up, though-- I want to get there before noon."

We both order the brisket and sit in a booth.

Slim is all smiley and wide-eyed and happy I'm back in the bay.

"Now Breeze, is it just me, or is this here brisket almost worth dying for?"

"So good, worth dying for and returning back reincarnated for seconds."

"I can dig. Sorry about your brother, Breeze dog. Another reason I left was I didn't really want to be the bearer of bad news. You've taken some hard hits, Breezy--literally and metaphorically speaking. So, what is it you plan to do with all that fresh dough you've recently come into? Tell me you don't plan on being stubborn and traveling all over the place with it? Please, Breeze. Please. Be wise with your jing. Look at it as a fresh start. A new awakening."

"Exactly what I had in mind."

"Huh? What about the hospital? You plan on going back there to work?"

"Yeah, I think after I take a short stint stomping around the states."

"You should be a nurse. You've got a good heart, and that's good pay. Plus, all the nurses I saw when I was there bedside babysitting looked hella hot. You meet a girl yet?"

"Naw."

"Hm. We gonna take care of that while you are here. You should think about staying. I can probably get you a job where I'm at. We will discuss that later, though. You remember being here, Breeze? Bay-Breeze. Haha. You hella loved this place. Hell, still love this place--I see it in your face. Want a beer--your buying."

"Yeah, I got you, Slim. What was that hella hoppy brew we got back when I was living here with you? Local brew. Quite tasty for being so damn hoppy."

"Anchor Steam."

"Yeah. That's it. Hold tight Slim, I shall return."

"Hey, glad you're here."

"Gee, thanks for having me."

"Seriously, Levon."

We finish are meals, and take a walk along Van Ness--toward the wharf. Skies are blue, and you can smell sea salt in the soft blowing wind.

"Is there snow on the ground back in the Gem City?"

"Not when I left, but you could feel it coming. Smell it coming."

"That was my first time seeing snow. I loved it. Kind of miss it. Quiet quaint simple living. Plus, the cost of living compared to this place--shit. Yeah, I miss the Gem from time to time."

"I know. I remember watching you in the window the first morning snow covered the ground. You were rolling a snow ball across the ground. You looked like a little kid in a winter wonderland."

"That's right. I made a snowman and sent a pic to Chelsey. Remember wishing she was there with me."

We get down to the wharf, and then meet up with Chelsey, who is eating clam chowder from a bread bowl.

"Levon," she says with a smile. "Glad you made it. Glad you are feeling better. Slim was sending me pics and updates of you while you were hospitalized. He was there with you every night he got out of work. Glad you are alive. You look a lot better."

"Thanks for expressing your care, Chels. Man, been a long while since I had clam chowder from the wharf. Think I had it my first night here in the bay over a decade ago, and never again. I was really touristy that day. I went to Haight and Ashe, attended the Power to the Peaceful Festival, then took a tour of Alcatraz, followed by going to the Golden Gate Bridge--where I decided not to walk it and turned around and went back to Pier 39 for clam chowder-- feeding the bread bowl to the sea lions. I ended the day by taking the cable car up California Street and sitting exhausted on the stoop of the cathedral with Slim."

"Feeding the sea lions. Cute. I did the very same thing my first few times to the wharf. However, I now buy the soup strictly for the bread. Boudin's has the best sourdough bread ever made. Are you guys hungry?"

"No, we ate at Tommy's Joint before swinging down here to meet with you."

"Mmm. Yum. What did you get? Wait. Lemme take a poke. You got the brisket."

"You know it best, baby cakes." Slim kisses her on the cheek.

"See you brought a beer for the roady, too. May I?"

"Hap at it."

She takes a sip from the beer, hands it back to Slim.

"So, Levon, coming to Danielle's tonight for the art exhibit?"

"Well. Shucks. Be honest with you Chelsey darlin', I knew nothing about an art exhibit at Danielle's tonight."

"Yep. She just launched her own clothing line. Or, to reword it properly—" successfully" launched her own clothing line. It's like a modern day twist on 60's and 70's vintage women's clothing. She's also found love. Her new boyfriend, a popular fine-artist here in the bay area, will also be showing off some of his new paintings. She will be providing both wine and finger foods for us guest. Just be and bring yourself."

Danielle's new studio apartment is located on Jones Street. The street is so steep, that by the time we arrive, we are all perspiring and out of breath. She answers the door.

"Heyyy, thanks for coming. Levon, no way! I haven't seen you in years. Wow, you look well. gimme a hug."

"I give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Danielle and I had dated for a short stint when I met her through a friend at--well, come to think of it--an art exhibit, my first year living in San Francisco. We've been friends since. She kindly showed me all the hidden gems that the tourist doesn't know about, as well as turned me on to some killer weed. She was also the first to introduce me to In-N-Out Burger.

"I love the hat, Levon. Are you a now a hipster, or is this some new found form of fashion statement?"

"I'm a huckster. Too original to be a hipster."

"Haha. And are those blue suede shoes you are wearing? Haha. I love. You know I just launched my own clothing line? My tagline is, "New Version of the Old-Scene." It's 60's and 70's retro-style women's fashion with a modern day twist to it. Kind of neat. I've recently opened my own boutique on Haight and Ashe like...like three months ago. It's kind of hopping. It's not a cheap date, so I'll make sales usually to valued continued customers and potential purchasers I network and luncheon with in Pacific Heights and Snob Hill, and of course culture-curious tourists that come in with cash to spend. That's always fun for me. I dunno. No complaints here, really. I'm happy. That's most important to me, happiness. Love and happiness and being caught up on bills. Please, come inside. I'll introduce you to my new fella. Great guy. I'm lucky to have crashed into him. Or, he bumped into my bumper while stuck in traffic while on the Bay Bridge. Haha. Anyway, I think you'll dig his art. Come on, come in."

Danielle has a certain North Cal dialect that I instantly fell for when I had first met her nearly a decade back. The California natives I'd met before and during our relationship--mostly the ones from North Cal--considered Danielle a fashion-savvy clothing connoisseur with a native's passion for the Bay Area. A huge-hearted hippy--or Valley girl in terms of what they called her dialect--'valleyspeak'. And Danielle loves her family and her friends and her city by the bay, and has an insatiable taste for wine from Napa Valley. Danielle is and will forever remain a loyal and trustworthy friend. Best be leave.

We enter inside, and follow Danielle down a long narrow corridor with a high domed ceiling. Long, chamber-like blue candles are mounted on mahogany mantels. Flames flicker soft natural light upon fine traditional paintings perfectly proportioned and placed on white-wash walls. We turn left into a large room circled with identical blue candles carefully and purposefully placed to cast a mellow, comfy mood.

"Customers of costly traditional art crave the cozy, creative scene," whispers Slim, who is also knowledgeable of the North Cal art scene. We enter into the anteroom. Neatly polished mahogany wood paneled floors stretch toward a big broad bay window that offers a canted view of the steep Jones Street. A matching mahogany wood mantel frames an old-fashioned fireplace where neatly stacked firewood burns a cozy warm and inviting flame. There are wood fold-out chairs and china-blue bean bag chairs tossed about that identically match the color of the paint on the walls as well as the color of the candles dotted from the corridor to the art exhibit room. A small chestnut-colored corner table with wine and booze and a china-blue bowl brimming with roasted chestnuts below a close-cropped brown haired bearded man wearing a brown-button down and china-blue fitted jeans holding a wine glass and standing next a freshly painted canvas patiently waiting for a potential buyer of what he is proud to call his latest piece. He seems to fit right in. It appears to me that Danielle met her perfect match.

"I take it this must be the lucky--"

"Mark. Thank you for coming to the exhibit. You are,"

"Levon. Levon Breeze, thank you."

"Pleasure to meet you, Levon Breeze. Do you live in the bay area?"

"Four-score and several years ago. I was good friends with Danielle. I'm in town to visit for a week."

"Where are you coming from?"

"Gem City. It's in—

"Pennsylvania. Just above Pittsburgh. I'm from North Philly. Glad to meet another brother from the Keystone State. Feel free to help yourself to some wine or whatever it is you want to drink. There is beer in the fridge, and an assortment of odovers that I'll bring out shortly. Feel free to admire my latest work. I'll grab you a beer."

"Likewise, Mark. A beer. Nothing like a cold tasty libation while admiring new art. Thank you, thank you."

Slim, a painter himself--mostly digital— comes back from checking out all Mark's art hanging on the walls in the hallway. Chelsey and Danielle return from Danielle giving her a tour of the new apartment. Danielle has a record in hand. She elevates the record over her face while using one eye to peep at me through the hole center the record. And a memory comes back to when we first met, sitting at her apartment on Vallejo, on the balcony, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. We'd sit in these white wicker chairs with a record player between us while overlooking the bay, drinking wine and smoking weed and listening to mainly classic rock albums. I look at the record, and she knows I made the connection. She walks over to the record player in the corner of the room, and then puts the record on. She lays the needle, listening to the stereo squeal as the record spins. Music makes the flames on the wall dance.

"Levon, name this tune."

"San Francisco. Can't think of the artist, though I think his first name is Scott."

"Scott McKenzie. This song plays on a 20-song playlist I have playing on repeat in my boutique. I've come to realize that, strangely enough, when this song plays and a tourist comes in, I almost always make a sale. So, I wanted to solidify the deal, and decided on really listening in on the song. Like, that one time when you said to close my eyes and really listen to the lyrics...And it made me think of you--coincidentally enough--so I began wearing flowers in my hair while on the job. And, I noted, that when this song plays, and I have flowers in my hair, and always, always, always wear a smile... it is almost always a guaranteed sale."

"The power of song. The music-cool of not mine, but all of our lives."

"I see you met Mark. You wouldn't have a beer in hand otherwise. He hides them in the furthest reaches of the fridge. From who, I don't know. But he hides them anyway. Slim, would you like Mark to grab you a beer?"

"Please and thank you."

"Levon, do you still partake in smoking marijuana?"

"Long as the record still spins."

"Haha. Good answer. See that flower vase over there next to the cat in the windowsill?"

"Um, the china-blue one with the fake flowers in it? The bong you just referred to as a flower vase?"

"Yes! Yes! Can you fetch it for meaw, please?"

"Does the cat meow?"

"Yes! Yes!"

I remove the white fake fabric flowers from the fancy china blue bong, and set them next to the black cat that meows at me, followed by pouncing from off the windowsill and onto a china-blue bean bag chair. I bring it to her to fill."

"You know marijuana is now legal in California? No more stops to see the pot doc."

"Awesome. I think they should do the same where I'm from. All these people who are on papers who have to take a urine smoke this stuff called K2 so it doesn't appear in their urine. Awful stuff."

"What do you think of Mark's new painting? He painted it from off the balcony of the deck of my former apartment in Vallejo. I was living there this entire time—-until now, that is."

I was actually really getting into his painting. I'm really digging it. It's wonderful."

I amble back over to check it out again.

"What do you call this wonderful piece, Mark?"

"27."

"I recall seeing the number 27 next to his name in the bottom right hand corner of the painting.

It's a painting of the Golden Gate Bridge splattered with all sorts of psychedelic colors. Embossed on the canvas is a total of 27 records. On the records, painted faintly as if to give a ghostly image, is a total of 27 dead rock stars, all of whom died at the age of 27--Amy Winehouse being the last rock star on the last record."

"27 for 27-club?"

"You got it."

"I dig it."

"More wine, anyone?" asks Danielle while filling herself another glass.

The coolest thing about Mark's newest painting--in my opinion-- is that you can see in the foreground Danielle's record player. It kind of makes the painting look very personable and for me, nostalgic.

"What gave you the inspiration for this?" I ask.

"Well, three things really. One is San Francisco--and Danielle opening up her new boutique in Haight and Ashe. Two being her record player on the balcony overlooking the Golden gate Bridge. Three being I began painting it on my twenty-seventh birthday."

"Mark, my man--you are really good at connecting the dots."

"Glad you like it."

"Mark, I'm full of loves for it. Now only if I had a slice of pie to admire it with."

"Sorry, Levon," says Danielle with a plush smile. How about a glass of wine?"

"You still go with Zinfandel Rose?"

"Guess I haven't changed much in the last decade. The city has though. For good and for worse. Rent has sky-rocketed throughout the past decade, causing many people to leave the Bay Area. Gentrification has been another strikingly painful epidemic; techies from Silicon Valley moving in and creating a costly enterprise in neighborhoods where rent was kept minimal in order for artist to survive and still be able to make enough ends meet in order to eat, pay rent, and produce more art--something this city is fabulously well-known for. You see, many of the artists from the bay--many of which we were friends with that are on their way now who are running late because they can't afford to live in the city and have moved to the outskirts or across the bay to live in communes in Berkeley or live life like squatters in Oakland in rundown cold-water tenements. Sadly, the homeless population has sky-rocketed, too."

I know what she means. Just before meeting Slim at the library on McAllister, I noted that the library was encircled with homeless people--syringes scattered amid sidewalks that smelled like piss. I remember a decade back, spotting homeless people around McAllister, but nowhere near the amount I saw this time around. Libraries are havens for the homeless. I've noticed this all around the States. I remember rent being high back when, as well. I remember living in a one-bedroom apartment with a total of six students (aspiring artist) on Hyde and Leavenworth, sleeping with my girl at the time--corner pocket of the living room-- hidden behind a tapestry of Bob Marley, next to an open window where I'd watch the bright blinking stars at night and be awaken at the same time every morning to the bell chime of the cable cars going up California Street.

A knock sounds at the door. Danielle hands me off a glass of wine before going to get it.

A half dozen people enter into the living room. I personally know three out of the six.

Daanish, a very eclectic artist who--when I had known him a decade ago--was always producing art. If he wasn't producing art, he was at the gym. We both smile at one another in sync. I stick my hand out to shake. He snatches hold of me and gives me a larger-than-life hug.

"Breeze. Slim and I were just talking about you. He told me you were coming. I saw your bookface post...something about being gone with the falling leaves. So, I knew we'd be seeing you soon, homie."

Daanish, more physically fit than before, is wearing a cut off shirt, the logo on the shirt is of Deadpool--his favorite Marvel character. Another thing I forgot about Daanish is that he is absolutely obsessed with comic books. He loves the characters (preferring Marvel over DC) and religiously attends Comic Con in San Diego every year. He is wearing red mesh gym shorts and his arms look tight and swollen as if he'd just left the gym. I reach out and squeeze his bicep, his sand-brown skin taut around his muscular arms, veins fat and probing.

"I take it you still work out a lot?"

"I'm a personal fitness trainer. Work part-time for a gym in San Bruno and have a handful of clients I instruct outside of my work hours. Not doing too bad, either. Costs a lot to be healthy, but it's worth it. I feel great."

"Look great, feel great. Great for you, Daanish."

"Breeze, I still remember the last thing I said to you before you hopped on the Bart and out my life."

"I do too."

"Didn't think you would, Breeze. I also saw that pic posted on Facebook. You looked badly battered from your automobile accident. I talked with Slim about it, and he told me you may be suffering some sustaining memory loss due to your head injuries?"

"Getting better every day. You said...oh, you said.... shit! I forgot."

"Real recognizes real."

"Real recognizes real."

"That's really just what I said, too. Danielle, where is the beer?"

"Don't think we have any left. We have wine and booze. Food is done, too. Horderves are in the kitchen. Help yourself. Still waiting on a fondu to come out the oven, plus I need to put the finishing touch on some deviled eggs. Guess I'm running a bit late, too."

"No worries. Slim, come with me to the bar right quick to grab some beer."

"Coming...Coming..."

"See you shortly, Breezy. Glad you're here with us."

The three people I don't know, have worked their way into the living room. I see they know Mark personally. One is admiring Mark's latest piece, while the other two are giving him a hand moving a long wood table into the anteroom, as well as carefully handling and hanging other paintings I was kind of eager to check out.

Charley Grapewine approaches me. He is wearing thin, steel-framed glasses--the lenses thick and round-- and an ashen-gray Vaudevillian dress suit with a matching gray top hat atop his head. He has a thin mustache carefully curly-cued at the ends; something similar to Brother Bill's.

"Levon, what a dandy it is to again be in the present with you. Welcome back to the bay. I was going to take you out to Tommy's Joint, but Slim got to you first. Maybe go again before you be leave? How's your coconut'?" He knocks on the side of my head, laughs.

"Good. Good. It's been a long time. Last time we hung out was on the "The Trip" right?"

"Wrong. Last time we hung out was at Left-Hand-Lance's tiny apartment over on Post and Larkin--just before you went back to the east coast. We got you all loaded up on wine and weed and Lance snuck over a transvestite for you. Haha. You had no clue it was a dude, either. You came rushing out the bedroom screaming that she had balls, balls bigger than cantaloupes. Haha. Ten minutes prior you were saying she had a nice ass."

"Jeez. Hoping to of forgot that. What are you doing with yourself? You look well?"

"And you felt so humiliated and she felt even more humiliated...crying a spell in the corner of the bathroom. And you dumped a glass of wine over Lance's head, flipped me the bird, and then went into the bathroom and offered tissues, saying that your pendulum doesn't swing that way. Anyway, you were hella pissed. You were full of funnies too, bro. I missed you. Missed you lots. Well, I'm currently residing in Berkeley with a couple of co-workers. We all work for a company--a company owned by the guy I also live with. We specialize in creating educational applications for children, ages ranging between six-and-twelve. Lots of coding, lots of content, lots of hours involved. More or less, I create educational children's games in which you can download for free on your tablet or IPhone. I do some freelance work on the side as well, creating websites for numerous up-and-coming businesses in SF and in Berkeley. Danielle and Mark, for example. Can't complain. Life's been rather good to me."

"I see. Still doing any acting?"

I was when I'd first moved to Berkley. Mostly theatre and stand up stuff. Been awhile since I'm totally engulfed in a new career. Can't seem to find the time. See, Levon, I detested the techies moving in from Silicon Valley because I felt not only were they increasing the rent--bringing about more bureaucracy and gentrification--but they were also taking work from me as well. So, I became badly bitter, and picked up and moved out to Berkeley to live in a commune of fallin' starving artists that also migrated over to live off of the land. Did a little protesting here and there, too. Anyway, I fell in love with a girl who just so happened to have some solid connections in the techy world, and I ended up landing a good gig with those so-called Silicone Valley techies I'd spent nearly a year bitching about and hating on. Her and I are still together. Her brother, Bradley--my co-worker, best friend, roommate and future brother-in-law--lives with his wife right next door. Oh. I'm also recently engaged. Care to meet my fiancé?" He whistles. It's a weird whistle, funny and whimsical and, well--Charley Chaplin like. No. More like Charley Grapewine like, recalling his weird, witty, and whimsical thespian-ways.

Susan, who is chatting with Mark about his recent painting, turns toward us, tells Mark she will return shortly, then rambles on over.

"Susan darling, this is my old pal, Levon. Levon the Breeze. We lived together in a dorm room back on Van Ness for a year. We remained close chaps after we split ways. And, with age and time and separation, we slowly began to lose contact. That is--until now. He's a great, gentle guy and a pretty decent writer, too. Susan Styler, Levon the Breeze. "

"How do you do?"

"Just fine, thank you. Charley has mentioned you in conversation before, glad to finally meet you, Levon."

"Likewise, Susan. Congrats on your recent engagement."

And lastly...the gorgeous and incredibly talented, Cidney Sullivan. She is standing with Danielle, having a glass of wine and sharing a joint. Her face is a pinkish-plush, the color of the rose zinfandel she has in her glass. And, as always, she wears around her neck her digital camcorder.

Slim and Chelsey and Daanish come back with two twelve-packs and a six-pack of the local hoppy stuff Mark really likes.

"I introduce myself to the other two gentlemen. One, a professor of Fine Arts at the Academy of Art and the other, Mark's best friend, Sal, who is an art instructor at a high school in San Bruno.

And everyone thus far seems enamored with Mark's art. I see Susan cutting him a check for his most recent piece. I too kind of had an inner panging urge to purchase it, but now I'm kinda curious to see how much the sweet Susan Styler spent.

Chelsey gives Danielle a hand bringing the food from out the kitchen and into the living room. Slim looks over the new art hanging on the bright china-blue painted walls while sipping one of those ultra-hoppy beers Mark, and apparently Slim, both like. Daanish places the beer in the fridge. I stand next to the record player, pull the needle back and drop it back to Scott McKenzie (now I recall his name). Cidney, drinking wine and smiling all big and cute and all, stares at me from across the room. The song comes into pitch and I waltz on over to her.

I stop abruptly just feet before her. She hangs out her hand all delicately and stylishly and lady-like and all, and I take it and gently kiss her soft, sun-tanned hand while taking a gentlemanly formal bow. I rise, tip my hat, then say,

"Cidney Sullivan. The woman, the myth, the legend. Pleasure to see you again, darling."

"And if it isn't Levon the Breeze. The ever-charming, beauti-fool, imbe-soul. Heard you died, came back and had to make an appearance back to the bay. Say, here to stay?"

"No, just visiting. Traveling around the U.S. for a bit. See you did some recent traveling as well?"

"Yes. Bought a Volkswagen and traveled around the Midwest for a stint. It is what I'd like to call an "artistic sabbatical" away from work and responsibility. You know, being aloof from the mundane. Away from adulting and all."

Cidney sets her wine glass down, and then removes her camera from off her neck. We are both about the same height, so we stand shoulder-to-shoulder while she shows me her recent photography.

"The first photo is of her and her dog before a lemon bush in dog park. She is wearing tight black jeans with a matching black band tee-shirt with running, red lettering. Misfit band tee.

Her hair is sleek and freshly showered and super shiny--curled and jet black--draped over her shoulders. She is smiling. She has one strong camera carrying arm wrapped around her freshly groomed golden retriever--who is visibly dressed for sweater weather--and with her free hand she holds a lemon. She looks exactly like she does now--except no lemon, no dog. Her hair is still wet from the soft, drizzling rain.

And I've always found Cidney to be both interesting and uniquely rebellious in her ways. She is soft and stern and outgoing and is super down to earth and misfit-like yet easily relatable. A cool combo of both introvert and extrovert. Her heart is her art and people and animals take a tallboy second. She enjoys seeing friends and drinking beer and spinning records and traveling--capturing the beauty in the world, rather than making dollar bills and letting the social system standardize her life. She'd give a stranger her last dollar just to capture the emotions in his/her face for a forever-sustaining, still-frame after-photo. She is currently working at the Hotel California as a Sou-Chef. In my opinion, culinary art just might be her greatest artistic medium. So Cidney Sullivan states that she has recently settled down and rents a studio apartment in Oakland and took to buying a little furry roommate who doesn't contribute with rent or utilities, but brings her love and loyalty and companionship. And still to date she makes monthly trips to Dog Park--blocks from the dorm in which we met roughly a decade ago--and she still to this day picks lemons to cook with and bake her famous poppy seed lemon bread.

And I scroll through her photography--some of it which I recall seeing on Instagram and Pinterest--just different because this is before she refurbished it and went and put it out to the world. You can tell it hasn't yet been rendered and obsessively edited on Photoshop. Her style is both cunning and bold. She plays with the shutter-speed a lot. She drinks lots of coffee and doesn't sleep much. And the longer she is awake, the more she tinkers with the shutter speed, causing a blur image in which the viewer must look for hidden images through a splotch of cross-hatched haze and carefully chosen color. She learned this from a mutual friend, I just can't place his name at the moment. But this is just one of her many themes and styles. She's very experimental--very avant garde and all. Her most recent art project consists of a compilation of photos she had taken while traveling the Midwest. She had taken the photos, rendered them, and then did a slight touch-up, followed by diligently editing them. She ended by enlarging the corners and lastly placing it over a canvas. And she foresaw no real starting point nor a theme nor a clear idea to what it was she was about to indulge in. She just did her thing; letting her imagination run free. And she did a damn good job at doing just that. Making art with no rhyme nor reason. Just heart.

Her main focus is kinetic sculpting. She is famous in the bay for both her photography and her kinetic sculptures--which can be found in many art houses, even at the Soma Museum in San Francisco. She likes to use natural elements in order to put the sculptures in motion, but she has winged it a couple times before, using ropes and pulleys hidden from the viewing audience. This is why the set in which the kinetic sculptures are set upon are almost always more important than the actual sculptures themselves.

It is now time for Danielle to show off her magic. We all migrate to the backroom--the bedroom.

There are four mannequins hidden below autumn colored sheets: Orange, red, yellow, brown. They are arranged in a semi-circle. We the audience stand across--forming a full-circle when enjoined with the mannequins, while Danielle starts with the outfit she is currently wearing. She says it is a Biya Les Fleurs Fall Dress. It is a crimson colored flowing dress with tri-colored leaves traced in gold lining that float down a cascading creek, over a soft cotton slip--bunching together to form a pile of leaves running around the perimeter of the bottom of the dress.

"I envisioned it as something traditional and formal and hippy-like, but I also wanted to give it some form of sex appeal. Make it kind of revealing to show like, like I'm professional and I'm hip and i'm classy yet I'm also open to my body. Confident in myself, my sexuality, my womanhood. My being. So I also use slits with the gold-laced embroidery lining them like the leaves. One above the breast, one running diagonally along both sides of the legs and another running horizontally right above the ass."

She's confident in her creations, and doesn't look for a response nor constructive criticism. She'll wait for the end of the show for feedback. The limelight's hers, and she rambles on. She removes the cover from the first mannequin. Tight china-blue bell-bottoms.

"Now you know where I was going.haha. I designed Mark's jeans as well. Now, notice the pockets. What is it you notice." Kelsey says, "Well, they appear to look like they are made from a different form of fabric. That, and they are shaped like a soda bottle."

"Good eye. The pockets are shaped like soda bottles and are also made of elastic, allowing them to expand and mold into different shapes. Now, notice the mannequin is also wearing a silk, see-through shirt. Notice the bottom of the shirt is actually a belt that laces through the pants, slightly tightening them, but mostly causing the shirt to tighten round the breast, emphasizing the owners bust. Now, it is highly suggested that a bra and panties are not worn with this outfit. This particular outfit is to be worn in the warmth of summer. Mark, can you hand me the bottled water over there on the desk, pretty-please." Mark tosses it over. Danielle slips it into the pant pocket with ease.

"Now, since this is sexy summertime clothing--" She removes the water bottle, and takes to dumping its contents on the mannequin's breast. "And, not only are the breast more revealing, there is a silver-and-gold lace lining forming patterns around the breast and abdomen. Now, the shirt is also reversible."

She unbuttons and then turns it over, the lacing now facing the outside of the shirt, the gold and silver lining forming intricately woven figures around both the breast and abdomen. "I created this shirt with the vision of the customer being on a boat with her husband or lover or a potential mate. I designed it to be both sexy and fun. Next."

She removes the crimson red sheet. The mannequin is dressed in a tight leather dress suit. It is a short skirt, so short you'd definitely want to wear stockings. I went with red cause any female that wears this has a sort of kinky inner devil inside her. However, it's made from expensive Italian leather, so she has to have some sort of professionalism about her too. Not a cheap date. Haha. And the red boots and the red gloves are made of the exact same material. Stockings aren't included. Figured I'd save the best for last. You know, savor the flavor. This is the tie-dye dress Janis Joplin wore at Woodstock. A collector's item I keep at the boutique, but will be auctioning off in LA not this weekend, but the next."

Everyone begins trickling out. I've a good buzz from the wine. Both Chelsey and Slim have to work in the morning. I tell them I'm considering staying in the city, but Chelsey said that she already prepped arrangements to have me. She isn't taking no for an answer. Slim, slightly drunk, can be easily coaxed into coming out for a few.

So, Chelsey ends up catching a ride home with Daanish while Slim, Cidney, and I take to stomping around the city for some catching-up-kicks.

WISH IT WOULD RAIN

The three of us head over to Hyde and Leavenworth, to the Hyde Out, where we used to come together to get drinks almost every weekend. We hit the corner, and the rain comes pouring down.

"Rain season," says Cidney, opening up her umbrella.

"It's big enough to fit one of you. Slim, you may be too tall. Levon, come and get some shelter from the storm." Slim sprints down the block--to the entrance of the bar--where he shakes himself dry like a wet dog. Cidney and I take our time getting there. At some point, Slim seems to grow impatient. He heads inside. Cid and I arrive shortly after. She closes her umbrella, shaking it off in the doorway before entering. The bar looks fairly empty. There is a guy sitting lonely at the bar, watching the Giants game on the flat screen. He has a drink and bowl of popcorn before him. He is the only patron present. Slim gets to the bar, slips the tender a fresh twenty, and ask him for a ten-dollar bill back, five singles and five dollars in quarters. Cidney and I get to the bar. We take a seat. I offer to buy the first round. Same as before, a pitcher of Blue Moon, and three shots of whiskey. We lick the shots down. Slim says,

"Look, Levon, I'm leaving five singles to run the jukebox. I've change for the pool table, and a crisp ten for the next round. After that, I need to head home to bed. I've work real early in the morn, and I'm not trying to be all hungover. I'm not twenty-one anymore, and can't be hiding out at the Hyde Out all night."

"Fair enough. How are we getting back?"

"Uber, but of course."

Slim heads over to the jukebox, turns to us and then says, "I get the first ditty. Levon, tell me what you think of this guy. I heard him perform at the Independent about a month ago." He slips a dollar into the jukebox, and the song springs on. Slim heads to the bar, tips the pitcher of beer, refilling his glass.

"So far, pretty catchy," I say. "Who's the artist?"

"Leon Bridges. Young southern black cat from Mississippi. He's full of cools--brimming with soul. A soul brother. He performs blues, if you haven't picked up on that yet. When I had first heard him play, I thought he was covering someone. But, diggit, he's totally original. True blue southern soul cat. Totally his own work." Slim begins singing along, drumming on the bar, getting lost in this soul brother, Leon Bridges.

"I've heard of him," says Cidney, yet never got around to listening to any of his music. "So far, so good."

"What the name of the song?" I ask.

"Better Man." My girl downloaded all his stuff the very next night after we saw him perform live. We are going to see him perform again in March-- in New Orleans."

"I picture Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy and the other Beatniks in a blues and jazz bar in Chicago back in the late 50's, sharing drinks, getting kicks, getting lost in the music.

"What's up with your getup, Levon?"

"Whatever do you mean, Cid?"

"The way you are dressed. I like it. What's up with the hat?"

"Well, I wanted to kind of recreate myself after waking from a coma. I decided to travel around the country, become like a modern day Huck-Finn/ beatnik. Dig this:

I take the map of the U.S. from out my back pocket, and tack it on to the dart board. I take the American flag bandana from off my hat, and remove a dart. Come together, Cid. She steps behind the red line, and I tie the bandana off around her eyes.

"So, what am I doing, Levon?"

"You are going to toss the dart at the map on the board. That is where I will be traveling to next."

"Damn, Levon. Didn't we just talk about this. You just got here. Save your money...damn fool!"

She laughs. "Is this what you've been doing the whole time?"

"Yeah. Rambling about the U.S. trying to not necessarily rediscover myself, but instead--discover a new me."

"I love it." She tosses the dart.

"She pulls the bandana from off of her eyes, then heads toward the board.

"Dego."

"Good choice. I've been meaning to see my Brother Johnny Boy anyway."

"Welp, Levon, looks like you gonna be on a Californication." Slim turns from the bar and says, "Come on over here you two. Tequila."

We shoot the shots, and I feel pretty drunk at this point. Slim heads over to the pool table and inserts some quarters. Him and Cid take the table for the first game. I refill my beer, and then head to the jukebox. I look outside the entrance of the bar, and see that it's still pouring. I play, The Temptations-Wish It would Rain.

"Good song, Breeze, dog. Now, Cid, I believe you scratched on your first shot. I'd stick to taking pics if I was you. Breezy, get yourself a pool stick and chalk it up. You gonna be up sooner than you think. Breeze, what are you doing?"

I head toward the entrance of the bar, lean my elbow up against the frame of the door, and watch as the rain sweeps the city street. I escape from out the bar, groove out into the rain. I remove my hat, tilt my head, stick my tongue out, catch the rainfall, lick my dry lips wet. A dozen motorcycles come roaring up. They park in front of the bar.

Slim shoots, sinks the solid six, then says,

"Say, Cid, you got a man in your life?"

"Why are you even inquiring, Slim? You got a girl."

"No. Not for me. I'm talking about my man, Levon. You can tell he's got something for you."

"Nonono. Levon and I are forever friends. I don't want to corrupt a forever friendship."

"Ok. Ok. Ok. Game over. Slim sinks his last solid and the eight ball all in one shot."

"Whose Levon talking too?"

A large biker wearing a blue bandana and a white goatee says, "Listen here, bud. If you buy me and the guys all a round, I promise to take you for a ride on my bike. Never ridden a Harley before?"

"Can't say I have. But, I tell you what. Can I buy you a round after? You and your whole crew. What's the name of your gang?"

Another guy atop a Harley, wearing an orange and black bandana, points with his thumb to the back of his leather vest. Hells Angels.

"Haha. I'll be damned. I tell you what, I'll give you one-hundred-dollars to take me for a thrill-ride across the Golden Gate Bridge. It has to be in the rain, though. Has to be. For that to me is the purest form of free."

"I dunno, pretty-boy, I don't know if I want you cramping my style."

"I'll take him."

"A woman with dirty blonde hair draping down from a yellow bandana makes the offer. She wears a cut-off leather Hell's Angels Vest, her arms filled with tattoos of each state she has ridden through. "So whatcha waitin' on, honey pie, the next rain storm? I'm up for taking a cruise. Tell you what, leave fifty bucks for the boys, and I'll take you for the thrill-ride of your life."

"Cool n' the gang. Lemme tell my friends I'm taking off, and I'll be back in a jumping jack flash." She elevates her head, letting rain drops hit her tongue. She too, knows of the pure.

"Hey, What's your name, dude?"

"Levon. Levon the Breeze."

"Levon the Breeze, huh? Haha. Levon, how about you grab me a beer for the roadie. I'm feeling a bit parched. Just a sip--or two or three. You can have the rest." I slip the American badass biker gang leader a fresh fifty, then head inside, and relay to both Cid and Slim that I'm going for a joy-ride across the Golden Gate Bridge with that tough looking biker chick standing outside the doorway.

"Her, there."

"Levon, you're a nut. Who?"

"That foxy biker chick right there."

She is leaned in the doorway. She smiles and waves.

"Well, aren't you coming back to my apartment?"

"It appears I won't be making it back tonight. The night calls."

"Alright. Do your thing-thing. Cid, what's your plan of attack?"

"I'm drunk, but unlike you, I don't work til tomorrow night. I think I'm going to call an Uber as well. Levon, come give me a hug."

I give her a hug, and she slips my map of the U.S. back into my back pocket.

"Forgot that. Get hold of me before you head to San Diego. Meet me at the Hotel California, I'll cook you up a steak."

"How's the pie, there?"

"Dunno. Never had it. But if you like, I'll make you a lemon meringue pie to go."

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot, Cidney. That's both sweet and thoughtful of you."

"I'll shoot you the address. Dinner is on me. Good seeing you. Be safe. That chick doesn't look like someone you want to tango with."

I grab her a beer, and head out to the doorway.

"Say, biker babe, I don't think I got your name."

"June. June Friday. I changed my name after a bad marriage. Wanted to recreate myself. So, I picked my favorite month and favorite day of the week, and then went and got my own apartment, and before you know it--I was riding a Harley and in a biker gang. Now, cutie, how about that beer?"

"Oh. My bad. Here you go, June Friday. Say, June Friday--that's a cool name."

"Why thank you, Levon the Breeze. She laughs and drains the beer. Hop on sweet heart."

I hop on the bike, the rain coming down hard, but I'm too drunk or maybe too elated to feel it. I go with all the above. I hop on the bike behind her. I gently rest my arms on her shoulders, trying to get a good grasp without being too touchy/feely. She grabs my hands, places them on her inner thighs, squeezes. She starts up the engine, and revs it a few times. The radio is blaring Bob Segar-Roll Me Away.

ROLL ME AWAY

She rips off. I feel my heart stop, the rain lashing against my face. She turns toward me, says what I think to be,

"I'd hold on a little tighter, baby, I'm a bit of a wild-child."

I squeeze harder, applying more pressure, but not too much, being a lover boy and all, wanting to be delicate even though she seems to like it rough. I slide up my index fingers, slowing circling the tips on her inner thighs. I saddle up closer to her back, resting my chin on her shoulder. My hat feels as if it is about to blow off. I release a hand from one thigh, take my hat off, and then rest it in between my abs and her lower back. I panic, remembering I left my tote back at the bar.

I holler into her ear, hoping I didn't bust her eardrum and all.

"Hey, June, I left my tote bag back at the bar."

"No worries, baby-doll, Caribou Lou will place it behind the bar for you. He is good peoples. She revs the engine, zips up the road, soaring toward the Golden Gate Bridge. She floors it. She zips and weaves in and out of traffic, the rain drenching us both. She leans back. "You may want to hold on tighter, baby-doll ...this is the fun part." I tightly clamp onto the inside of her thighs--higher than before--and she floors it across the Golden Gate.

Sometime later, we arrive back to the Hyde Out. Slim and Cidney are long gone, but the biker gang is still present. The leader of the gang offers me a shot. I'm tanked, but I take it anyway.

"Say, gang, I'm going to throw some music on. Any request?"

"Naw. Do your thing, kid."

And I do my thing. I do it well.

AC/DC-Highway to Hell.

The gang cheers, raising beers. Even Caribou Lou, the bartender, tips one back.

"Say, Lou, my old friend, would you happen to have--"

June Friday pulls around the corner, wheeling my tote. She wears my huckster hat, while wheeling my tote along. My kinda gal. I think of Cisco--Cisco'd love to take her out for pie. She hands me my tote, followed by placing my huckster hat atop my head. She straightens it for me, making sure I stay dapper and all. She straightens it, then wraps her arms around my soaking wet suit coat, squeezes, then gives me a deep, long kiss. She digs tongue wrestling.

I thank her for the goodtime, and then go wheeling out and off into the night.

Be thrills.

SITTING ON THE DOCK OF THE BAY

First stop is Bob's Doughnuts for a large glazed donut and a cup of coffee. I'm feeling kinda drunk and all, and figured a Bob's doughnut and a large coffee would sober me up some. And I remember Polk Street, lined with authentic restaurants from all corners of the globe. I remember being dirt broke, and walking along this particular street with an empty stomach and an empty wallet, making future plans of where I'd be dining as soon as I got paid Friday from the Larkin Street Deli. I want to place an order to go for some doughnuts for both Slim and Chelsey to take with them to work, but I remember I don't have a cell-phone, and have no way of getting hold of them. And I reminisce back to walking the city streets all night with Slim back some ten years ago, feeling like the city was ours.

Nocturnal princes of the night. Staying up, heading down to the pier for some starry night kicks, watching as the sun rose over the Pacific. For now, I'm feeling pretty tired and all, and I think I should maybe find a place to sleep. On second thought, I did make a promise to myself after the Gem City Suite rendezvous that I wouldn't waste any more jingle on hotels. So, I somberly take to the streets, dead center, like Slim and I once did years ago. I stroll right down to Pier 39. I think of Dr. Swan on the way. This, doc, will be a true test of memory repairmen.

I get down to the pier just as the sun is coming up over the bay. The sea lions all hop on a wooded raft, barking at a shark circling around the raft. I roll my tote down the pier and--think. Think. Remember. Remember. Think. There--

I Stroll. I sit. I seek. I find. Engraved next to Otis Redding's name is mine--

BREEZE.

I watch the sun come up, and then decide to head back over to Mission Street. Get back on the Hound. Head south to Diego. Figure I can catch some shut-eye on the way.

IT NEVER RAINS IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

And, wouldn't you know--I start getting poured on all over again.

I wheel my tote all the way back to the greyhound terminal on Mission Street, and then purchase a ticket to San Diego. I'm whooped. I can barely keep my eyes open. Finally, the bus to Diego arrives. I hop aboard and listen to the rain welting down on the top of the bus. I fall fast asleep.

* * * * *

I feel a huge thump, and I'm startled awake. It is still raining cats and dogs.

"Son of a bitch. We've got a flat," says the bus-driver.

I hang around a lot in Lodi, California, for what seems forever. I think of the band, CCR. The tire is finally changed. We end up back on the bus. and I'm soaked, and caught a case of the sniffles. Be bunk, man. Hell, I've been getting rained on for 24-hours straight. We hop back on the bus, and eventually arrive to the Los Angeles bus terminal right around midnight.

BREEZEBLOCKS (an interlude)

I breath out the breath of life, let'em know the Breeze has arrived on time.

Future the Soothsayer lays the cards down, and then evenly spreads them out. He flips three cards individually. He reveals a 7, 10, and the Fool.

"Now, the seven is a super solid number. Lucky number, as most know. The number of, "the seeker." Ten: Ten shows your individuality and independence in the world while still being a part of the whole. Ten also represents the completion of something and also the coming of something new. Now, the Fool..haha.. the Fool, see...the Fool is an interesting card. See, the Fool, in the midst of all his folly, can cancel out both the seven and ten. But dig this, the Fool--while in the midst of his wanderlust curiosity--could also stumble upon both numbers as well. Are you picking up all that I'm laying down?"

Zep, pacing back-and-forth, stops, drops the butt of the joint and stomps it out. He scratches his head and says,

"Wasteful. I believe I've become Americanized."

He bends over, scoops the roach and tosses it at Future's cardboard sign. The roach bounces off the cardboard and lands. The sign reads: BE LEAVE.

"You know; you Americans are an interesting breed. Most wasteful people I've ever seen. Consume, consume, consume. Waste, waste, waste. Not to say us Brits are much better. But I do dig your style with a silver spoon to China and back. Your creative ways of expressing yourselves and such. Your...swag. Anyway, the road is a-callin'. I believe I must be on my merry way." Zep the Brit turns to go, flashes the peace sign, then says, "Godspeed, gentleman. Godspeed."

And that's right around the time the Breeze knew. Also right around the time, the bus pulled up and the Breeze blew.

CALIFORNIA DREAMING

I know I'm dreaming. I know I'm dreaming because I'm with both Flo and Daniel in my dream. We are all walking together down a rain slick black-top street that steams and shimmers bright in the warm after-present sun. The street is really an avenue, and the avenue is lined with both elm and maple trees running straight toward a bright-green grassy grove overlooking a bright blue bay. The sun shines a broad beam of brilliant white light over the bay before us, a rainbow faintly revealing itself--arced perpendicular to the sun.

"So, Levon, now would be a good time to pick locust from the trees for extra bonus points in Science class."

"I'm too old for that now, Flo. Class has been dismissed."

"Oh," she says, with a dejected look on her face. She puts her hand to her wrinkled face--feeling the time lines of age--wondering where the time went.

"Well, how about going to the penny candy store and loading up on some penny candy? I've two dollars in my wallet. One for you, and one for your friend. For I'm too old for candy now."

"As now am I, Flo. As now am I."

"Ok. Well, this isn't my home any longer, so I don't know of an available kitchen to bake pie. Do you have a kitchen to bake pie, Levon? Even better, do you have a nice wife who bakes pie for you?"

"No kitchen, no wife, no kids, no home of my own. But I've recently had some delicious pie with a woman I met while traveling on the road."

"Are you a traveling salesman?"

"No. A traveling student, majoring in life."

"You know, Levon, it really troubles me you don't have a home. Wasn't that why you were taken from the orphanage--from me?" A loving family found you--found you and took you to their home."

"I've many homes, Flo. Many parents. Many brothers. A sweet, loving sister, too. My friend over there is my brother. However--like you--he no longer lives here, either."

As we walk further toward the sun, the rainbow is easier to make out.

"Levon," says Daniel while picking a pear from off a tree.

"Where are you going, and what are you looking for?"

"I'm simply blowing in the breeze, trying to find myself."

"Levon, you are the Breeze." Flo then grabs hold my hand then says,

"It's why I had given you the name."

I wake up on the bus in a cold sweat. The rain has finally ceased. I see a city before me. The driver of the bus says over the loudspeaker that we will be pulling into the San Diego bus terminal at any minute. We pull in. I grab my tote, wipe the last beads of sweat from off my brow, exit the bus. I need to get in contact with Brother Johnny Boy. I ask to use the phone at the front desk. I need to call Mother #3 in order to get his digits. I can't dial out because it's a long distance call. I offer an old Mexican woman with a push-cart filled with a medley of fruit ten- dollars in exchange for using her phone.

"No, Senor. No."

I offer her twenty.

"Si, senor. Si."

I use her phone to call Mother #3 in high hopes of her answering.

To my luck, she does.

"Hey, Levon. Where in the United States are you located?"

"Just got into San Diego. I was calling to see if you were free to give me his number?"

"Perfect timing. I'm just pulling into work. Let me know when you are ready."

I remove a pen and paper from the breast pocket of my suit coat and jot down the number.

"Thanks, ma. I'll give you a call when i meet up with him."

"Alright honey. Glad you are doing alright. He will be excited to see you."

"Love your mom. Take care."

"Love you too, Levon. Chow."

I tell the Mexican woman--whom is beginning to look impatient--to hold for just one more moment. I call Johnny Boy and he answers.

"Johnny Boy! Levon here. Just got to San Diego. Where about can I find you?" He gives me directions to his apartment, a five-minute walk from the terminal. I hang up and hand the phone back to the Mexican woman. In return she hands me a plastic bag filled with oranges. That twenty went further than expected. Be grateful.

"Gracias."

I begin rambling on over to his apartment.

I see him hanging flowering pots along the second-floor deck. With him is a man sitting at a table on the balcony, drinking orange juice and reading the newspaper. Brother Johnny Boy comes to the door, lets me in.

"Levon! Surprise to see you."

He gives me a hug, followed by jogging back up the steps. I follow behind. We enter into the living room. There is a big screen TV before a cranberry colored couch. CNN is on. There is food cooking on the stove. I set the bag of oranges atop the counter.

"Glad you thought of me."

"Still love oranges?"

"When I first began law school, I couldn't afford orange juice, so I was always sucking on oranges. Now I have a fridge filled with OJ."

"What smells so good?"

"Glad you are here. You are just in time for dinner. We are having squash, tossed salad with a homemade raspberry vinaigrette, a side of pasta and baked salmon. Sorry, no pie."

"Sounds good. I'm famished."

The guy sitting at the deck reading the newspaper and drinking orange juice comes into the living room. He holds the paper neatly folded in one hand and an empty glass in the other. He is bald, well-built, and wearing a button up blue shirt and neatly ironed khakis. He smiles a big healthy smile and tells me his name.

"Todd. I'm Johnny Boy's best buddy from law school."

"Oh, so you are both attorneys of law?"

"Correct. We are actually both partners in law. We began our own firm shortly after graduating."

"Nice. No offense, but I never thought Johnny Boy would grow to be an attorney."

Todd chuckles then holds his radiant smile--as if about to take a selfie-- his cheek bones tanned and strong and chiseled.

"I heard you were in a nasty automobile accident. Glad you are ok. It's unfortunate we weren't back home to represent you. We both feel you got jipped."

"Now, Todd, don't go raining on Levon's parade. Speaking of Levon, I think you should take a good portion of the money that remains and invest it in stocks. I can assist you. Mine have been doing quite well as of lately. Also, are you still a constant reader?"

"Yeah, I brought some reading material along with me on the road."

"Fiction?"

"Travel novels."

"Fiction?"

"I guess you can call it that."

"Ok. Here, checks this book out. I think it will serve you with a lifetime of wisdom and good financial decision instructions."

"What's it called?"

"He takes it from the counter and hands it to me."

"Cashflow Quadrant?"

"Correct. By Robert Kiyosaki. He's also the author of, "Rich Dad Poor Dad."

"I think I've heard of it."

"Also a very knowledge-filled book on solid economic decision making. I'd actually suggest reading it before this one, however, I don't have it on hand."

"So what is this book about?"

"Well, it's based on a Quadrant System. It's four equations. Find out for yourself. Teach a hungry man to fish, he never goes hungry again. Read it, study it, learn it. Live it. It has been the epitome of all the financial successes I've recently reached."

Johnny Boy puts on a baking mit, and then removes the Salmon from out the stove. I notice he's also included lemon wedges and asparagus. Todd removes three plates from out the cabinet. He pulls the sliding drawer and scoops silverware. He takes two tongs then tosses the salad--followed by applying the dressing. We head outside to the deck and eat. Johnny Boy, in his new life of health and financial success, spends most his free time studying the stock market and staying fit. He goes to the YMCA twice a day, and rides his bike almost every night. He is very particular about what he eats; he drinks nothing but water and orange Juice. I see Todd is on the same page. He shuts the paper and chomps at some more salad.

Johnny Boy shows me to my room. I set the book down on the desk, lay down on the bed and conk out til morning. I wake up to leftover breakfast--breakfast similar to Tuffy and Valerie's--and head outside for a walk. I'm still kind of hungry, so I stop at a taco stand and have a couple tacos--fish tacos. They happen to be the best tacos I've ever had in my life. I walkabout the city,

"I see. Well, I'm heading to the Y to swim, then meeting a client for dinner. Would you like to go on a bike ride tonight? I've an extra bicycle down in the closet in your room?"

"Maybe."

"Ok. Well, I'm gonna head to the Y. I'll see you when I get back."

"Ok. Well, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Need me to grab anything? Not sure if you eat turkey anymore?"

He laughs. "I forgot. Todd said something about maybe getting a turkey, but I was thinking about maybe bringing something home instead. I'm really busy. Ha.Turned out like Ma. Coming home late from work with Thanksgiving dinner. Yes. Sure. Let's have Thanksgiving dinner here."

Him and I have changed. Separated. He makes me feel financially insecure as well as immature in my ways. I know it's neither intentional nor personal. His views on life just differ from mine, that's all. I also feel as if I'm intruding on his life. Maybe I think too much. I take a shower then take to the streets.

I head toward the pier. I see a bar that looks well-lit and inviting. I go inside.

BRANDY

I amble into the bar. It feels good to not have my tote along, although I feel kinda lost without it. The interior motif of the bar is designed to emulate the look of a ship. There are barrels of whiskey bunched about, nets sprawled and hanging hither-here, hither-there. Life jackets and circular floats are posted on woodgrain walls. Row boats are suspended from the ceiling--artificial seaweed and barnacles drape down from the sides. There is a piano in the corner of the bar, placed directly next to the ladies' room. Row boat paddles are used as bar shelves. A large anchor with a circular, omni-lit mirror behind it is placed at the center of the bar.

I notice that almost every patron in the bar is male. I also notice that every male is dressed in Navy uniform. I also notice that every male dressed in Navy uniform has eyes on the beautiful bartender, Brandy. She moves casually along the bar with a brown bus tub, loading empty beer mugs and shot glasses inside. She sets the brown bin next to the sink and grabs a cloth in which she wets. She then takes to wiping off the bar. Her and I make eyes. I now know why all the patrons' eyes are on her. Her eyes are a rare, dazzling magenta--mesmerizing and slightly hypnotic. I sit on a stool at the very end of the bar. I keep my hands folded and my eyes straight. Brandy comes over.

"What can I get for you?"

"Can I get whatever you have on draft as well as a shot of whiskey, please?"

"Sure. Coming right up."

I pay her, leaving a generous tip. I shoot the shooter, followed by chugging down the beer in one large gulp. I ask for another beer, then head to the jukebox. I keep my eyes focused on the box. I select none other than, Looking Glass-Brandy. It doesn't play. I select it again--nothing. I scratch my head, dubious as to why my song selection isn't playing? I turn toward Brandy, and then callout across the bar--gaining attention from all the other patrons, as well as--

"Brandy, what gives? I selected a ditty just for you."

"Whoops. Sorry. Should have mentioned that. The jukebox has been down-and-out for over a month now. I'll reimburse you your dollar. Here, have a beer on me."

I feel all the eyes in the bar darting into my back. I turn and straight-line on over to my seat at the edge of the bar. Before me is a freshly, professionally poured beer--minimal foam lined evenly with the brim of the glass. There is a dollar next to it. I slide it back over to Brandy's end of the bar, scratch my head, and get an idear. I turn toward the piano, sip my beer, head over. I take a seat at the piano. I can't recall the last time I played. Sometime before the accident, that I know for sure. Well, I guess this is a true test of memory recall. I roll up my sleeves, then begin, Looking Glass-Brandy.

I finish, impressed that I remembered both the song and how to play it. I kinda almost want to give myself a round of applause and all. Instead, I get a round of applause from all the Navy patrons sharing in drinks. I turn to nod my head in thanks. I notice a good number of the Navy fellas have dismissed the bar. Oh well, at least these remaining, selfless serving soldiers enjoyed the performance. Brandy is smiling at me, blushing a little and all. I sip my beer, head back to the bar--a little more comfortable after my pleasing performance-- and order another whiskey. Hours go by, and all the other patrons have left the bar and I just keep drinking. Misery drinking, I think is the correct term. Before you know, the bar is empty and I am shit-faced and feeling lonely and Brandy is closing down for the night. I've cut myself off at this point, afraid to get off the bar stool. Brandy begins placing freshly washed glasses above the bar. She then empties her tip jar--a glass mermaid. She counts. She counts again.

I start up conversation.

"So, Brandy, are you a native of San Diego?"

"No, I'm originally from Delaware. I moved here over a decade ago to attend college. Didn't finish, though. I began working here at this bar and sometime recently after ended up meeting a tall handsome Navy boy I happened to fall almost instantly in love with."

"Oh. Was he in here tonight? Noticed quite a bit of Navy boys present this evening."

"No, he passed away a few years ago. Never got over him. His picture is over there, mounted next to the bourbon barrel next to the door." She points without turning. On the wall I see his picture posted on a teak wood plaque with a gold plated memorandum plate below his portrait. I read:

Kevin Ericson. 11/27/1986-09/04/2016. Two-star Navy Seal killed in combat.

I turn and head back to the bar.

"Navy seal. Handsome young gentleman. I'm terribly sorry for your loss."

"I can't get over him. I think it's why I still work here. Like, I sometimes feel his soul stirring about the bar. And I've had countless men hit on me--mainly sailors--and i just can't give one of them the time of day. He proposed to me just days before he was killed. I still wear his ring, which keeps many prospecting men away. He had taken me out on a sailboat and then took to his knees and proposed beneath the moonlight. I am his wife although we were never married. I lost my love, my true love, and..you know what...you never get a true love twice. Least, I'm convinced. You ever been in love before?"

"No. Don't believe I have."

"Yeah, you'll know when you are--when you've found it. And when you, sir, happen to find that one. Hold on to them with all your heart. Never give up the ship."

"Never give up the ship."

I recite repeatedly that last line while stammering along the beach, under a full moon, thinking about Brandy and how magical and happy that moment must have been for her out at sea on the sailboat with that handsome young sailor who lost his life far too early. Also I think about what she said about holding on to your true love. About never giving up the ship and all. I lay down on the sand below bright blinking stars and listen as the waves roll in. I fall asleep.

SHE'S A RAINBOW

I wake to a seagull gliding along a cloudy gray sky. I wake up where I left off. I walk along the beach. The beach is vacant except for a woman sitting along the distant shore. Seagulls flock around her. I approach. She has long, reddish-brown hair and a white dress. She appears to be tossing bread to the gulls. I stand and watch her for a while, her not knowing my presence. She is in her own world and I in mine. There is something panoramic about the scene before me. It begins to rain. Rain quickly turns to a torrential downpour. I stand--motionless, not able to take my eyes off of her. She doesn't seem bothered by the heavy rainfall either, sitting stationary, removing slice after slice of bread from out the bag, tearing and pinching and tossing to the gulls--who appear not to be bothered by the gushing rainfall, either. I walk up beside her and say hello. She turns toward me, shocked to see anyone else out in this storm. She has a pretty face, pallid and smooth and beautiful amid the rainfall. She has soft blue eyes, the color of the sea. The rain stops and a hot ball of sunshine abruptly appears. We both stare at the sky, feeling as if on stage at a theatre, witnessing what the Greeks called, Deus ex machinas. She pinches another piece of bread and then tosses it to a forlorn gull standing outside the congested flock, waiting patiently for a piece to land in its direction. She says hello. I say, how you do? She smiles at me and then at the sea. There is a heavy hanging moment of silence, followed by a soft breeze blowing from off the ocean. A rainbow appears in the sky. I stick my hand out.

"Levon. Levon Breeze." She smiles, meets my shake.

"Autumn. Autumn Turner."

Autumn Turner. Pretty name. I've only known one other Autumn before. Autumn, may I sit and join you?

"Sure." I sit and she removes a piece of bread from out the bag. She hands it over.

"Care to join me."

I smile and say nothing. I take the slice of bread from out her hand and begin tearing and pinching and tossing to the gulls. They sail and circle and squall around us both. We say nothing about the rainbow.

There is beauty in this silence.

MOONLIGHT, FEELS RIGHT

She laughs, takes another sip from her beer, then says,

"So, you're telling me you take that bandana from off that hat of yours, place it over your eyes, and then toss a dart, aimlessly venturing off to wherever it lands?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I do." I head back home, and Johnny Boy and I sit and drink orange juice and play catch up.

"You've changed."

"No, Levon, I've grown up."

"I see."

"You should do the same. Have you dipped into that book I gifted you?"

"No, but I recall a quote from a book by a guy named Herman Hesse. Siddhartha, ever dip into it?"

"No, how's the quote go?"

"He looked around, as if he was seeing the world for the first time. Beautiful was the world, colorful was the world, strange and mysterious was the world! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green, the sky and the river flowed, the forest and the mountains were rigid, all of it was beautiful, all of it was mysterious and magical, and in its midst was he, Siddhartha, the awakening one, on the path to himself."

"You've quite the memory, Levon."

"Yes--I be leave it has returned."

*****

She shakes her head, smirking, rolling her eyes in sync with the circular motion she makes using her index finger on the smooth surface of the red and white checked tiled diner table. The waitress--who imitates the look of the late Peggy Sue--arrives.

"Two Apple ala mode pies. One with caramel, one without. Which one of you are caramel?"

"That be me," says Autumn while smiling and placing her hand above her head, pointing down at herself. The waitress hands me my pie and I happen to notice her name tag reads-

Peggy. I comment,

"Peggy. Like Peggy Sue?"

"No. Like Sue Peggy. I go by my last name, seems more fitting to the atmosphere. I'll be right back with your coffee sir." I turn to Autumn.

"You were saying you're originally from New York?"

"Well, I was originally born in Jersey, but my family and I picked up and moved to New York City when I was nine."

"What borough?"

"Manhattan. My father works on Wall Street. Still does, I think. Haven't talked to him in a while."

She forks the tip of her pie and takes a taste. She shuts her eyes dreamily, her head tilted at a cas if searching for the words to describe what she is tasting. She swallows, slips her tongue from out her pursed lips, sweeping it in a clockwise direction as if not trying to waste a crumb.

"Yum. De-lic-ous. I love me some pie. Can't say I've had it in a while.You should have gone with the hot caramel drip."

The waitress comes back and hurriedly sets down both my coffee and the bill--causing a dollop to splash on the bill--as if trying to get rid of us already. She turns and darts off.

"So, Levon, where abouts are you from?"

"Not quite sure exactly where I was born, but it is believed that I was born somewhere down south, being my southern drawl and all--if you've picked up on it." She chews then swallows, then smiles, hurt eyes lighting up, and then says in a southern drawl, mimicking Elvis,

"That I did, thank you very much," and finishes the last of her pie.

I take to nibbling on the crust, which is light and crumbly and coated with brown sugar and cinnamon. I look up to see that Autumn's eyes are squinted, observing.

"The crust is the best part, can you agree with that, Mr. Levon Breeze?"

"The crust is what makes a good pie great, miss Autumn Turner."

She takes her hand and--like a spider--slowly creeps it along the table--towards the bill. She speedily springs her hand toward the center of table. She looks at me and says,

"Wait for it."

She pulls from out her purse a quarter. She extends her hands out toward the center of the table, above the check, then gazes up at me and says,

"Heads or tails?"

"I was told that tails never fails." She nods her head like--fair enough, then flips the coin. It lands on her palm. She quickly covers the coin with the hand in which she flipped, and then pulls it back towards herself. She looks up at me, eyes squinted all mysterious and curious and all, then she says--in a southern drawl--

"We've reached the moment of truth, Mr. Breeze." She slowly slips the palm of her left hand from off the top of her right, leaning curiously into the light, and then says,

"Mr. Breeze--what's in your wallet?"

*****

We walk along Ocean Beach, Autumn carrying a six-pack of Twisted Tea, which she bought because she said she felt bad that tails failed me and all.

"Now," She says matter-of-factly, doing the same circle-motion thing with her index finger on the tip of her beer bottle that she was doing on the diner table--

"You said you believe that you were born somewhere down south. See..."

She squints her eyes all pensively and investigatively, rubbing her chin as if scrutinizing a crime scene.

"See...what gets me is you never said where exactly down south. I'm a woman of great certainty, Mr. Breeze. Not only did you not mention a town or a city--you didn't even mention a state. Should I be concerned about you Mr. Breeze? Are you a predator from the North playing off as some cool traveling cat from the South?" I laugh.

"Naw, see..it's kind of a strange situation. I never met my biological folks, but they had dropped me off on the doorstep of an orphanage in the Gem City one late warm night in October, where I was discovered by a woman by the name of Flo who ran the orphanage."

"Interesting. So, have you ever met your biological parents."

"Nope."

"Hm."

"So, did Flo give you your name?"

Yes miss. She said when she had found me on the steps that there was a warm breeze blowing leaving all around me."

"Hm. Levon for "leaves," and "Breeze" as in the gentle-wind blowing around your little baby self?

"That's right. I believe that's how it happened. At least, that is how Flo had relayed it to me."

"Clever."

"So, where did you grow up?"

"I was adopted at the age of nine by a family who owned a local jewelry store. My mother and father were having complications having another child, so they showed up one day and thought I would be a perfect shoe in for their family.

"So, if you ever want to get married, suppose you can get a good discount on a ring?"

"Afraid not. My father died of a surprise stroke, and my mother had to sell the store to keep from going bankrupt. Sometime later, my mother was hurt at work--fell from a ladder while painting a house and was prescribed prescription pain-killers. Well, she ended up meeting people who also were prescribed these same pain pills in which she quickly became addicted to. So, on top of having horrible back pain, she developed a horrible addiction to boot. So, she ended up passing me on to her best friend--Sarah, or--Mother #2."

Autumn stops before a small beach fire. She seems interested in my story.

"And what happened with Mother #1?"

"She's still around. Still sick. Sicker than usual because her son--my brother, Daniel--who also got addicted to the same pills--that led him into heroin, recently overdosed and died."

"Sorry for your loss. I lost a friend this past year to an overdose as well. Quite the epidemic, I guess."

"Yeah, but I contacted her after I decided to go on the Be Leave.

"Believe?"

"Not as in believe," I tap my heart while saying so, elevate my arm, make a fist and to-go-thumb,

"Be Leave."

"As in to be-leaving. Hence--your whole blind folded map-and-dart thing."

"Yeah, that is exactly it, Miss Autumn Turner."

"See your tea is empty. Would you like another, Levon?"

"Thank you, thank you very much."

She laughs.

"What is so funny?"

"I dunno, your hat and suit and how you sound just like Elvis Presley. Bet you get that a lot."

"I do."

She laughs, then snorts.

"So, you moved in with Mother #2. And that is where you grew up?"

"Sort of. I left there on my own terms."

"Why? Were they bad parents?"

"No, they were excellent parents. They still are excellent parents. My father was a surgeon and Mother #2 was a great loving mother and housewife. Bakes a damn good pie, too. I just left because Brother Tuffy and I were always getting into trouble. So, in order for us to keep from getting the cops called on us, Mother #2 had me go and stay with her best friend, Charlotte, who turned out to be Mother #3. Also the reason I'm here. Well, not fully. The dart did land on San Diego and all...but, dig this, Brother Johnny Boy--Mother #3's son-- lives here. He's an attorney. So i'm technically staying with him while here."

"You're interesting, Levon."

"Everybody's interesting, Autumn."

"Interesting point. So, exactly how many mothers do you have, Levon?"

"Four. Four mothers, four brothers--the fifth recently deceased--and one sister who is an incredibly good tattoo artist. She currently resides in Denver."

"Say, Levon...would you like to go to a party with me?"

"Yes and only yes because you agreed to have pie with me."

THIS MORNING

I wake to blue skies and two seagulls soaring overhead. I'm not alone. Next to me is Autumn, wrapped in a sheet, her head rested upon my shoulder. I have a cramp in that same shoulder, but try not to move to keep from waking her. She wakes anyway. She opens one eye--searching, squinting. She sits up. She stretches her arms up-and-out--forming a Y-shape--yawns, then wipes the sleep from out her eyes. She rises, rubbing both her head and tummy in tandem. "How's coffee and breakfast sound to you, Mr. Breeze?"

"Good. Up for pie again?" She smiles. She looks at my curled arms, my hands pillowed behind my head. She stares at my tattoo. She delicately rubs her fingers across it.

"Beauty is only skin deep--what made you get this?"

AUTUMN LEAVES

I was hired on at the local hospital back in my hometown-- hired on as an Environmental Services Aide--which is just big medical jargon for housekeeper and all. I worked on the eighth floor--Oncology--which consist of mainly cancer patients. Real sick people. The work requirements consisted of you entering into the patient's room, greeting the patient, then writing your name on the board on the wall so they know what to call you when they need something. Other than that, you clean and sanitize the room. After a couple weeks, you begin to acclimate to the daily routine. Well, once accustomed, you begin to find you can talk with the patient, as well as perform your job. I mean, it's not rocket science and all, but you still want to make sure the room is sterile in order to keep the patient's--whose immune systems are weak--from getting sicker.

Well, after a while, you begin to develop a close and personable relationship with the patients. Or, at least I did. One particular patient in which I became very close to.

Heck, sometimes I'd enter into a patient's room with a terminal case, and sit and start complaining about how bad my day is going. And they'd laugh, laugh because they know they are dying a slow, painful death and all, but it makes them feel at ease to see you are the only one who is treating them like you are the patient, them the care specialist. And the thing of the matter is that the oncologist only has a limited allotment of time to spend with the patient, being they have to makes their rounds with numerous other patients. Doctors are busy people--this you must keep in mind. And this goes with the entire medical staff. Nurses, Nurses Aide's, Physical Therapist, Respiratory Therapist, and so on and so forth, only have so much time that they can spend. A housekeeper, however, has nothing but time to offer the patient. And time--your time--is what they need most. You see, the docs can go ahead and prescribe you pain pills and such, but nothing--I repeat--nothing is better than TLC. Nothing.

I was going on my sixth-month working on the eighth floor. At this point, I was familiar with the nursing staff and most the patients. Also, at this time, I had also become familiar with loss. Began accepting it as a part of life and all. Like Autumn, when the leaves fall, and everything beautiful begins to go away.

You see, doctors have to have a sort of apathy about them in order to properly carry out their job--especially an Oncologist--who not only witnesses' terminal cases come and go-- day in, day out--but also have to be the individual responsible for telling family members and loved ones that the person they love and care for is going to die due to their terminable, incurable, illness. It's really a sad thing and all. A true heartbreaker.

But it wasn't until I met one particular woman, Autumn, that my eyes became wide-open. A very special woman who had taught me a very important lesson on life.

The first time I cleaned her room, she was really mean and knaggy and all. She asked me to leave half way through completing my assigned tasks. The second day, she was a little bit less bitter, kicking me out a third of the way through completing my daily duties. Finally, she got to accept me. She didn't look at me, but she allowed me to fulfill my job. I could tell we were starting to get along. I knew that soon we'd be friends.

And she'd sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the window, at a large tree, wondering why me? Why now? Why so young?

And she wouldn't eat and she wouldn't talk. She'd just sit on the edge of her bed, watching the leaves on the Maple tree slowly begin to change color. So I took to asking her--

"Do you mind if I have this to munch on?"

She said nothing. I then sat on her bed and started eating her lunch. She turned from the window to take a look-see at what I was doing. She began laughing.

I asked her if she thought it was funny that I was eating her now cold meal?

She balled out in laughter.

That day forward we were friends.

"Levon, go grab me an extra pillow, dude. My neck is killing me. The doc upped my pain pills, but I'm still in pain. Not so much physical, but emotional. So he prescribed me antidepressants, too. Cancer sucks."

I grab a pillow from out the hospital room locker, and then playfully toss it at her, rather than assist her in placing it below her head. I let her know we are cool. We are equal. No pity for my paycheck, no pity for her pain. We are friends. I wanted her to understand that she isn't helpless. That she has a chance. A fighting chance. Long as she keeps fighting, she has a better chance to--

Be live.

"Autumn, can I borrow ten dollars?"

"Haha. Are you joking? What do I look like, Bank of America?"

"Say, what are friends for?"

"Good point. Here's a five. Grab me a Sprite, would you?"

And she was sitting up one day, months later, looking out the window, her eyes glazed over from the meds, her heart losing hope. She was thinner at this point, more emaciated in the face, her bones brittle, her body at a constant slouch when sitting before the window--at the maple tree--the leaves in full color, about to fall.

And she'd always talk about her two daughters, nine and eleven, and her husband who she'd divorced not even a year before being diagnosed with Leukemia. She never tended to talk about him much. So one day she looked really glum, and I took to asking her what was eating at her--other than cancer. She said she missed her two daughters. So I picked up the bedside phone, and told her that there was an easy solution to that. She told me it's not as easy as you think. She then turned away, looking out the window. She says to the window--to her tree--

"Yeah. I don't want my daughters to see me like this. Especially after chemo and radiation. It's my hair being gone. That's what troubles me. Like, I'm only thirty-nine, Levon. Thirty-nine years old. Thirty-nine with one foot in the grave."

"That's why you don't want to see anybody but your buddy Levon?"

"My hair. It's not so much the fact that it's missing but it's the fact that--from a symbolic perspective--that I'm not me. Instead I'm the mother that is going to die and die soon. You close to your mother, Levon?"

That night I went home and shaved my head. When my hair started coming back in, I shaved it again. Finally, one day, I asked her what she enjoyed doing for fun? She said she was once a dance instructor. I brought in a stereo and we danced. We danced to Ed Sheeran, Autumn Leaves.

Shaving my head, replicating her baldness, wasn't working the way in which I thought it would. So, one morning, I got the idea to go down to the gift shop and purchase Autumn a sun hat. I came up from the gift shop and placed it on her head. A more brittle and weaker Autumn at this point, I helped her out of bed and over to the mirror. I placed my chin on her shoulder and we both looked at her--her in her new sun hat. She looked like she was going to cry. I went to the restroom and did just that.

Later that afternoon, I made my rounds around the floor, circling back around to her room to say goodbye. And--to my surprise-- I noticed her room was filled with visitors. Her two daughters included. And I peeked in really quick and saw her wearing the sun hat that I had bought for her. And all the leaves had fallen from the trees at this point, and winter was working its way in.

Autumn passed soon after, and I had received a letter from the CEO of the hospital inviting me to a dinner party. I was selected one of the top employees of the year due to a letter she had written to the hospital about me before she passed.

And I remember her saying something one morning while looking out the window. She said,

"It's not what's on the outside, Levon. It's what's on the inside that counts.

I asked her what exactly she meant by that. She then turned toward me, barely able to lift her thin-frail self, gasping for the words,

"Beauty is only skin deep."

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

I had leftovers with Brother Johnny Boy and Todd. After leftovers, I stopped at the Goodwill to get a new suit. A blue one, to match my blue suede shoes. I was also lucky enough to find a blue fedora. We then purchased airline tickets for the East Coast. Todd picked us up from the Goodwill, then dropped us off at the airport.

I hold both hands flat and together, covering my face. I slowly pull them apart, the concourse before me, a plane about to take flight. I say aloud,

"Be Leave."

I'M A BELIEVER

And this is all a part of the journey, all about experiencing life, breaking away from the norm. Rediscovering yourself, appreciating life for what it is, knowing that at any moment it could all be over. A bird with many nest, a huckster vagabond searching across the U.S. of A for all the great wandering American spirits that make this great country what it is--the land of the free. Everyone I've crossed along my new life's path is now a part of me, and I apart of them. All souls and beating hearts and neither race nor color nor gender nor sexuality make any damn difference out here in the atmosphere. All souls and evermore on the Be Leave tour. Be moments. For memory is forever.

I wheel my trusty wheelie-tote down a 700-meter stretch toward the airport ramp through Detroit airport's famous, Light Tunnel. As I exit the Light Tunnel, I see the year's first snow fall. I board to be leave.

And just before I enter onto the plane, I close my eyes, slowly shaking my head back and

forth, blowing the breath of life out onto the oncoming winter wind.

Be Breeze.

Be Leave.

CREDITS

Produced by: Music-Cool Productions

Assistant Producer: Music-Cool Memoir

Story by: Michael J. Milano

Musical Score: Michael J. Milano

Lighting by: Laser Lenny's Light Show

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Levon Breeze

Future the Soothsayer

Zep the Brit

Dr. Swan

Candy the candy-striper

Mother #1

Mother #2

Mother #3

Mother #4

Slim

Jingle Giovanni

Father Brennan

Brother Daniel

Flo Orphanage Mother

Cisco Kid

Reverend Ray Guitar Banks

Dr. Feelgood

Dan Gerous AKA The Cherry Bomber

Donna Vixen

Vanilla Skyy with two Y's

Jack Diamond

Officer Gus

The Captain

Traveling Trash Pandas

Lamb Chops

Dorothy Dixon

Wiley the Kentucky Coyote

Janis Mcgee

Bobby Mcgee

The Grace Sisters

Sister Kara Bear

Brother Bruce

Katherine "Kat"

Brother Bill "Wild Bill"

Heather

Ranger Applebee

Ziggy Stardust

Thomas Rome

Old Man Mount Virginia

Ricky Raccoon

Horse With No Name

Nacho

Addie

Steven, That 70's Show(guest appearance)

Bus Driver

Christian Jones

Big Jim

Scotty "boy" Pritchard

Lucy Diamond

Brother Tuffy

Valerie

Baby Callan

Emmanuel Caprini-Green Homes

Brother Johnny Boy

Dawn Chorus

Brittany Dobbins

Boomerang Buckley

Chelse

Daanish

Danielle

Mark

Jennifer

Charley Grapewine

Cidny

June Friday

Brandy

Autumn Turner

Autumn Leaves

The Jingle Bunny

BOOK II

GONE WITH THE WINTER WIND

COMING IN MARCH...

