

The Edge

Book Three of the Ved Ludo Series

K. Austin

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.

The Edge

Copyright 2012 by K. Austin

Smashwords Edition
Also by K. Austin

The Exodus

The Slip Away

For my blood.

The ones who always wondered.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Joe Liley, my oldest and longest lasting friend, God, how I love you... I swear to you that my sanity comes from our conversations on the phone and the understanding between us; that even if I'm a tad reclusive, the man-love remains the way it has since our days in the factory. (I can't believe I ditched you on your wedding day either, but you did say that jeans weren't acceptable attire.) No doubt, I am a sometimes terrible friend. Why you never pushed me aside and forgot me, I'll never know. You are the closest thing I've ever had to a brother, and there is nothing that I wouldn't do for you. (Well, except wear slacks.) Long live "High Horse..." and yes, the truth as it pertains to my ego is a beautifully painful thing.

Glenn Stroud, who undoubtedly has the most control over whether I wake up in the morning hating or loving my life, I am grateful to you. You choose to allow me happiness. You, perhaps more than anyone, deal day in and day out with my antics and oddities. There were so many times in my life that I wanted to live animatedly, that I wanted to be as strange and unpredictable as the world would allow, and here I am, 35 years old and finally doing so. It's only because of the space you give me. There are familiar faces and then there are the faces you look for, the ones you trust... I found that sort of friend in you, Glenn. I live a happier life because of your consideration for me. (Sign the damn adoption papers!)

While I'm getting all weepy about Strouds, I have Shoe, Jess, and Jake to mention, as well. I'll tell you what, this little clan of Strouds has given me a leg up in this world. Shoe and Jess, who were the first readers of these words (all three books to date), I am honored that you invested the hours into doing so. Your enthusiasm and encouragement has made all the difference. One day I came strolling into FedEx, fashionably late, and casually announced to Glenn that I'd decided to write a book. Within twenty-four hours, rather than doubting my ability, I was told that "Shoe's dying to know what you're writing." She became my first reader, and like so many other firsts (Mia Gateway), you never forget them. As for you, Jake, I'd like to believe that you understand exactly who and what I am. The depth of our conversations, the details that we've gotten into... whew... there are few others whom I can do that with. Yes, your optimism about the world sometimes makes me want to insert hot pokers into your eyes, but even in the throes of Oregon winters (Go Ducks!), the Sun always shines upon you, buddy.

Fletch! (aka Nic Fletcher), who, beyond everyone else, came out of nowhere and loved the story for its brutal honesty, you are my homeboy. When I came across you reading The Ex, and I heard your passion for the story, I was taken aback. It's not that others hadn't said the things you did, but I believed you more than I did them. I value your honesty and flawless integrity, and I look forward to you breaking the noses of my relentless fans as we fly first class across the world. There is something deep and old school in you, my friend, something that took me too long to find, but restored my faith in mankind.

Tammy Lott and Jill Southwick, my ladies from the past, how glad I am to have you back. Every chapter, every idea, every undertone... Welcome to the "insider's club."

I want to be you, Zane Hendershott (two Ts), when I grow up. Cindy, I bought a new hemp necklace to wear with my Steal Your Face shirt, but I'm having a hard time with the wallet chain... I miss 1993.

Franklin Q. Radke... isn't man drama intriguing? Damn you, but you are a good man, Enemy.

Dan Richter, yes, I'm bringing you into this. I wish I was a member of your church. I have thought much about you, seriously wishing you were my neighbor. We were cocky little bastards, weren't we? I wish I had you close enough to seek your counsel. I think that your investment into this took immense understanding. I have such respect for you that, once again, I find myself jealous of you.

To my dad, Dave Garman, I wish I had the words. I always have the words, but, yet, now they fail me. Sometimes I pick up The Slip Away and read a chapter, imagining that I am you, until I feel like I'm going to puke from the anxiety. There has been no more influential man in my life. I was wrong so many times... Who was I to expect perfection? God help me, I hope my son doesn't. I'm proud to be your son, and I love you endlessly.

Erin Walsh (Kingpin), who in so many words said it mattered, thank you. In life, people sometimes change into things unrecognizable, but you haven't. Anne Mariano, oh how I love your song quotes. Are we alone in appreciating the power of lyrics? Trey Thomas, my brother... who else but us could have done what we did? I miss you, old friend. There's a Pearl Jam show and a tab of acid in our future. WallyBobby Roberts, whose stellar Amazon review made me think he should have written the books for me, thank you. Diane Kraft, thanks for keeping a steadfast eye on the project from a distance. Mullingroove, I'd chew my fingers off to get back on that stage with you...

I love you, Sassy. You're amazing. You make me look talented.

1

The Gift, the Gun, and the Vampire

I held it, feeling the cool weight of it. It was a magnificent gun: hard chrome and gunmetal gray, a classic Colt 1911, timeless and weighty, a true American-made beauty. The .45 caliber bullets that lay within were still among the deadliest bullets ever manufactured, with a single-bullet stopping power that should never be tested.

It's not even that I was so much of a gun guy; it was just that euphoria of rediscovering something that had been mine for so long, but mostly forgotten. All of a sudden, the thing was applicable again. All of a sudden, it seemed as relevant as, say, a pocket knife, but far more beautiful to set my eyes upon. Danger and safety, life and death, right there in the palm of my hand...

Don't fuck with me, world.

When I bought the thing, I was in need of some protection, so it seemed reasonable to acquire such a beauty. At a cost of $1090.00, this wasn't a purchase that I had taken lightly. Hell, on an E-2's salary, it would have been damn near impossible to buy, but I had something to use in lieu of cash alone... drugs. The thought came to me that using drugs to buy a gun would be using money I'd already spent, and because I was a savvy bulk buyer, I'd paid a fraction of the street value for them.

Originally, I was just going to try and sell enough drugs to make the buy. Obviously, I knew I didn't have a grand just lying around in drawers, so something was going to have to be done to make the money. Drugs seemed like the easiest solution, but the idea of becoming a "dealer" was nauseating. It's not that I dislike drug dealers, I don't, but I knew long before I ever began looking for money to buy a gun that I couldn't really ever hold that job. It's just not me. Sure, I was sitting on more drugs on any given day than most dealers in the Fayetteville area, but the idea of selling them... receiving phone calls in the middle of the night and all that shit. No, it just wasn't my style. On the other hand, I also realized that for most dealers, buying an inventory was the first step to becoming a reliable source. I'd always kept a stash of stuff, even exotics like mescaline and opium. Not to sell, just to have.

Whenever I found someone who could hook me up with something in particular, I'd buy it, even if I had no intention of using it immediately. I just liked having it. Usually, I had at least a few grams of opium (which I used to lace my bowls before bedtime), acid, mescaline, mushrooms, and some blow―and I always had an ounce of weed. Pain pills came and went too, but they were more difficult for me to resist. Not every time is a good time for mescaline, but anytime was a good time for Percocet.

After Eli had stopped in to warn me of the "threats" Genie was making against me, I'd begun the hunt for a piece, though I didn't find the right connection until later, after Monica introduced me to Tony D. When I told Monica that I was looking for a gun, she responded with excitement and an audible, sexual wetness. I don't know where that came from in her, or why the idea of owning a firearm was so hot to her, but it was. It only took her a couple of seconds to mention the name Tony D.

Tony D was the douchebag boyfriend of her college roommate Allistre, and though I'd met Tony D and Allistre a few times over the last few months, we'd hardly ever spoken a word to each other. He was a suit of some sort, a stock broker or investment banker... something along those lines. He had soft hands like a woman, a big gut, and stood only five-five. Everything about him screamed of the importance of money, including his relationship with Allistre, who, just by appearances, looked like she didn't come cheap.

Whenever I had the misfortune of being around the fat bastard, he wasn't personable towards me. When we were left alone together, he'd somehow find one-word answers to be sufficient when I would obligatorily ask him questions, trying to propel a conversation. By the third time we'd been forced together, I'd decided I didn't like the guy.

Despite his lackluster physical appearance, he thought himself to be quite the pimp, and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why any woman would let him fuck her. Maybe I was naïve and unaware of the power of money at the time, but when I was in his company, I was always proud of myself for the women I'd slept with, knowing that they certainly hadn't been motivated by money.

Tony D never inquired about my life or asked me anything that would require a thought-out answer. He never really addressed me at all, until the day he asked me if I knew anyone who could get him some blow. It just so happened that I did know someone, so I made the hookup happen.

Suddenly, I was acceptable in his eyes. That's the problem with fucking coke heads. They're all the same. They're all so two dimensional. After that, when I was at his house, or at Allistre's apartment with Monica, he'd wrap his arm around me, patting me on the back and telling me what a good "salt of the earth" kind of guy I was... a compliment that made me want to choke the fat bastard. Salt of the earth? What the fuck was that supposed to mean anyway? Does anyone who is described that way take it complimentarily? I suppose if you were a millionaire, or the CEO of a billion-dollar empire, and you were described that way at the company Christmas party, there might be a compliment in that. But when you are poor, at least comparatively, it's hard not to hear more about your economic positioning in that, than anything else.

I'd never really developed a die-hard passion for coke, though I sometimes used it recreationally. I liked coke for one simple reason: clarity. Other drugs bring a haziness, a fog, at least when you are looking out beyond your inner self. Sometimes drugs like mescaline, acid, or peyote bring you an inner clarity, but they definitely cloud your vision of the world around you. Coke is the opposite of that. It is the clearest substance on the planet. Anything that you can do sober, you can do better on coke, including driving, writing, and... naturally... fucking.

I've been known to smoke a bowl before accompanying my lady friends to the bedroom in order to focus on all the important things, things that might escape me when sober. With cocaine in my bloodstream (and a little rubbed on the tip of my dick) I was a monster... I was a porn star, as comfortable and focused on the mission at hand as a man can be. Mental clarity and the stamina to do just about anything aside, fucking on cocaine is among the best pleasures this world has to offer. Even if you have never used coke before, even if the idea of doing so just nauseates you, I'd like to remind you that your life is short, and this is one of those things that you should do, just to have done it, before you die.

Allistre Marquette was Monica Dillinger's roommate at UNC in the late eighties, and her best friend. Together they raised hell with the boys who were naturally drawn to them, and the stories never got old, at least in Allistre's mind. Every time Monica and I bumped into Allistre and Tony D at a club, or a diner, Allistre had to reminisce about the guys they'd fucked in college, as if she was secretly out to ruin any potential Monica and I might have, even though at the time Monica was still married and we were still just "friends." Allistre knew something was up with us, though Monica and I were still trying to deny that we were headed anywhere other than friendship. Of course, I knew that we were more than friends, though I had not slept with her yet, but the constant detailed bombardment of sexual episodes from her past was beginning to wear on me. Granted, at the time I was still far more promiscuous than Monica had ever been in college, but the aching I felt in my heart when Allistre would talk about Monica sleeping with this jock or that was enough to sometimes make me wish we weren't even friends. I focused on not taking it out on Monica when we were alone, but it was difficult for me. I didn't like knowing who she'd slept with. It was one thing to assume but quite another to hear the account from a third party, especially when my gift was telling me that I was being told these accounts for a reason.

Of course, I knew Allistre's motive for being so candid. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that she dated Tony D for his money. She was smoking hot and he looked like Danny DeVito. Her relationship with Tony D ensured her every need was met, but left her unsatisfied romantically. Everyone wants to be with someone who excites them, someone they are attracted to, someone who makes them feel "alive." Sacrificing that need for financial stability might have been worth it to her, but seeing Monica and I together was enough to remind her of what she was missing... that human connection. I watched Allistre when we were around her. I watched her eyes, and I saw what almost looked like loathing in them. They hung on us too long, too mischievously.

Monica and I had such an oddly unique bond, which transcended money, marriage, and the other bullshit people hang up on, that anyone who knew us was somewhat jealous of what we had. People usually approached us with left-handed compliments about how close we were, insinuating that we had to be fucking and surely we could let them in on the truth now if we wanted to, as they wouldn't say anything.

We weren't fucking then, though we'd set a course that would eventually take us there. First we became friends, then we became lovers, and then later on we finally slept together.

Tony D had accepted my offer to trade him significant amounts of cocaine and cash for the gun. All together, the drugs I handed over might have cost me six hundred bucks, but having to liquefy my stash of shit made it feel as painful as it would have had I just paid him the grand. I sold off everything but the weed and the acid: the two things I didn't like to be without. There was a time and a place for each and, usually, if the sun was out or if it was dark outside, I was on one of them.

When I first got the gun, I spent most of my time posing in front of the mirror. I'd say things to my reflection, challenging it to draw, and when it did, I'd pull the .45 from my belt and aim it at my helpless reflection. My eyes would get squinty and wild; my voice would be a gruff whisper.

"You ready to die, man?" I'd ask it.

It went on that way for quite a while, a week or maybe even longer. I had this thing, this thing that could so easily shape the rest of my life. How can anyone hold a gun and not feel the vibrations it puts off? There is no friend on earth who will be there for you the way a gun will. People question the need for a gun, citing them as reckless or dangerous; however, I would speculate that anyone who had ever been taken hostage or murdered, in the final moments of their lives, had wished they'd had one. In that critical moment, when you either have one or you don't, there is nothing more important.

Sometime in the wake of Genie's revenge, a revenge that didn't warrant shooting anyone in the face, I grew tired of the gun, as it represented a constant state of reckoning with my evil self. It got to the point where I finally locked it in my closet, more to keep the crazy women who kept coming and going through my room from using it against me than anything else.

Before too long, months had passed and the deaths had started, thus beginning the downward spiral of my mental state, and all but erasing the gun from my memory completely, except when I contemplated using it on myself.

Now, I was headed to Luke's apartment to stick my gun in his fucking mouth, and maybe even pull the trigger, when suddenly I heard a woman singing a song on the radio. Something about the way she was singing the lyrics convinced me that this was legit; this was real, not some bullshit pop song. The song was "Not an Addict," by K's Choice. Her lyrics were like a passage from the Bible... descriptive and abstract. I was so enamored with her moaning and lyrical content that I sat there, completely still, listening to her sing, almost forgetting my plan to commit murder.

When the song ended, I sat there, still. I couldn't believe what I had just heard... like it'd been written for me to hear, and not just anytime, now. I stubbed out my joint, opened the car door, and prepared for what came next.

As I climbed the stairs to his apartment, I realized the weight of my gun, especially loaded. The thing was heavy and bulky, and, for the life of me, I couldn't imagine how anyone could carry these things concealed, day in and day out. I knew right then that carrying a gun of this magnitude was out of the question for me. I did, however, feel a certain power from carrying it. Something about it made me unstoppable, at least in the short term, and I knew that was the reason men carry these things with them: not so much for protection, but for power.

I forced myself to remember who I was and who I was going to see. I thought in pictures, transcending words, remembering Luke and me when the sun was still brilliant and yellow, in the days of the clear blue skies. A fog was hanging over me, something derived from too many things happening too fast. I needed time to digest, time to process. I didn't have the time. This needed to happen now; this needed to be done. Maybe I just needed closure.

Images flooded my brain: still shots of my house in Blythe, Nic in various poses, my mother reaching out to hug me... Sometimes the gap between the life we are living and the life we could have lived is so close, a paper thin line dividing them, a split second decision that turns out to alter the entire course of events.

He's a friend of yours, Ved. Slow down, breathe...

I found the door I was looking for and stood beside it for a long minute, straining to hear the conversation within. It only took me a second to identify his voice among the other two. I closed my eyes, hearing him, remembering his smile, a smile that was dead and lifeless to me now, like a skeleton. It'd been a long time since I'd heard Luke laughing and talking normally, and part of me was jealous that the rest of the world still got to hear it, but I was no longer among the privileged.

Standing there beside his door, I felt like I was stealing his sounds. Among the effects leftover from Ryan's tragic death, was a division in the group of us who'd been so close. Even in the wake of Jacob, we'd managed to party the following weekend, somewhat unaffected. That wasn't the case with Ryan; he'd been so much closer to us. Even the strongest of us had been hit hard by his death in time, if not immediately. I'd thought that being there with him, watching as he took his last breath, seeing the fucking thing happen, had been a gift, but the subsequent guilt and despair that was attached to those memories was cancerous, eating away at me over the course of months. My condition was decaying, while everyone else seemed to be healing.

I have never been one to regret things. My philosophy is as follows: watch, learn, and die quietly. I suppose that it's easy for me to say that now, knowing what I know about the process of dying, but in the months following his demise, I spiraled into a dark place, forever attaching his name with the images in my head of seeing him lie lifeless while he pissed himself.

Grief is an inevitable process that strengthens us in time. The problem with immense grief, the kind you can't see through, is that when you are there, you cannot see a light at the end of the tunnel. It gets hopeless, and once you accept the sadness as hopelessness, rescue seems improbable. That's the point when I start thinking of pointing a gun at my head, the point when I start asking myself a series of well thought-out questions pertaining to the desires left in me to continue living in misery. If death is so freeing, why do I always seem to choose life?

Luke couldn't relax around me after Ryan left us. Whenever I was around him, his tone always changed. It went from being like the sounds escaping his apartment door right now, to something darker and somber. Things are always changing, and I wanted to cling to the idea that the months he'd been home might have healed him; but three days ago, when I'd been here, I'd seen that he wasn't any better than he was when he left Ft. Bragg. Even for strong men like my friend Luke, some places are too far away to ever come back from.

I didn't want to knock and ruin the sounds. I didn't want to move. I just wanted to stand there and listen to Luke and Danielle talking like real people. I loved the man more than a man should love another. He'd been my right hand, my best friend, my mentor, and my confidant for three years. And now I am here, standing outside his door, gun in my belt, wanting him to be the way he used to be, or dead, whichever came first. It seemed unfair to him to allow him to live on as this falsity. We were so young, so free. There was nothing that he and I couldn't have done together; we could have been Butch and Sundance, Mic and Keith...

Let's get this done.

I didn't want to do this, I didn't want to hurt him, but the motherfucker thought he could just blame me for the rest of my life? He knew I wasn't guilty of anything, he fucking knew, but he refused to allow me the freedom of innocence. He refused to verbally announce my innocence. How was I supposed to wander through the last days of my life knowing that somewhere, someone was blaming me for the loss of our mutual friend and protector?

I was here to force him to say it... I was here to get redeemed, at any cost.

How is it that your best friends are always the dough that your enemies are made from? Somewhere in the confidences that best friends are afforded, are the insults and injustices that enemies are made from. Allowing Luke to be so close to me for those years―years where everything we did, we did together―were now the toxins creating infection. I hadn't done anything to create this oddness; my crime was being there, holding Ryan as he left this earth behind. There is a chemical process taking place at the time of our death, an electrical process and a spiritual one as well. Was I affected by his ghost passing through me on his way to... wherever?

Goddamn right.

Maybe I had some of Ryan's strength in me, or maybe I didn't, but what I didn't know was that in the next six months, I would be forced to shoot, stab, steal, and grapple with people who should have easily killed me, all with powers that I'd never had previous to my time spent with Ryan.

I'd never seen death so vividly, so up close. It was really a magnificent process, so automatic that the dying man has little or nothing to do with it. All he has to do is resign; all he has to do is stop doing anything... clinging, hoping, willing... Death, the mistress, the whore, the ghost... she does the rest.

"Luke? Are you gonna shower tonight or in the morning?" Danielle asked him from somewhere within the room.

"Tonight," he replied.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I squeezed them closed one more time, wishing I was someone else, someone in control, someone with the ability to leave shit alone, to not need to rectify things. But here I am, high on ephedrine pills and pot smoke, contemplating killing a man because of my uncontrollable jealousy.

To say that he and I had been the best of friends would be blasphemy. We'd become brothers somewhere between the nights out, the inebriated conversations, and the happenstance of life. All of the others could have gone away; I would have chosen to hold on to Luke. He was worth the entirety of all the others, and now, I had neither.

The last push I needed was recalling my stop here a few days ago. He hadn't even let me in, sending me on my way without having the balls to even tell me that he blamed me. He said he associated me... or considered me... He didn't say he blamed me... but he did.

Rage built inside of me, and I was thrilled with its return. The drive to Spokane from Seattle had been filled with rage and anger, though when I actually stood at his door, all I could muster was agony and despair. Now, with the return of the rage came a return of the "fuck everyone, I can go it alone" feelings.

I knocked with the barrel of the gun and then stuffed it quickly back into my belt.

Everything started to happen in slow motion the second I tapped the gun against the door. The voices stopped immediately at the realization that they were no longer alone. They were right; there was a gunman at the door.

"What? Who is it, Daddy?"

"There's someone at the door," Luke's fiancé said, fear coloring her tone.

Footsteps were approaching the doorway. I waited.

I stepped off to the side, not wanting to be seen through the peephole. Luke, like me, had been trained to kill people when necessary, but more than that, we'd been trained to be suspicious. Granted, my marijuana intake during the Army years had limited my gung-ho-Joe syndrome, but I was still capable of bad things, even if I never became a hoo-rah screaming paratrooper. I wondered if the drugs had saved me from discovering some inner animal, if the brainwashing that some of the guys had gone through was lost on me because of the billowing clouds of pot smoke in my brain. I didn't know, but I feared that if they had saved me before, maybe they were killing me now, ruining me.

We'd been trained to be aware, to be suspicious, and now, standing off to the side of the door that I'd just knocked on, I realized that if not seeing anyone at the just-knocked-upon door didn't cause him any suspicion, nothing would. I saw the light in the peephole disappear and return again, meaning he'd looked through it and moved away from it. Either he had a fisheye lens in it, capable of seeing around the corner, or he'd assumed no one was there. Regardless, I was relieved.

Why did I bring the fucking gun? I asked myself, realizing that showing up here armed was nowhere near the same thing as showing up here unarmed. I was an assailant rather than a pestering friend who didn't seem to get the message that he was unwanted.

Oh yeah. That's why I brought it.

"Hello?" he asked through the door in the same voice that I had known years ago.

It was hard for me to hear that voice now. Since the last time I'd been standing here, I'd become an outlaw, at least in my own eyes. Maybe the military hadn't noticed my absence yet, or maybe they had, but I knew I was absent, and not only in the form of my physical being. Something else had changed, something had snapped... something that had been looking for a path for so long had found one, and here I was, standing right where it had led me.

"Hello?" he asked again through the door.

"Who is it?" Danielle asked.

"I don't know. There's no one out there," he said.

"Go out and see," she suggested.

I heard a sliding noise before the metallic thump of the locking chain swinging down and hitting the door. Less than a second later, I heard the door break its seal, and without a second thought, I reacted.

I jumped around from behind the corner, spinning in a controlled way to build momentum. I knew that Luke had a pretty good chance of kicking my ass if we started from scratch, so I was using the advantage of surprise to get the upper hand. As I spun, I grabbed my half-dressed friend by the throat, lifting him off the ground and throwing him across the hallway, where he crashed recklessly hard against the opposite wall.

The flash in his eyes as I grabbed him looked, at first, to be of terror, but by the time he'd hit the wall and had fallen to the floor, I realized that he was somewhat relieved to see that it was me standing there and not some fucking psycho killer from Seattle... though I was armed, considering murder, and had just arrived from Seattle.

His face didn't really soften, but I could see the relief wash over him at the sight of me. It was almost as if he was glad that I was there, tossing him around, as if he knew this was part of our cosmic plan. Not wanting to disappoint him, and in order to get my intentions straight with him, I straddled him and threw a right hook, catching him above his eyebrow.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up and listen to me," I screamed at him as he rolled to my left to absorb the blow.

He struggled to right himself, pissed at me now for punching him. He wanted onto his feet, wanted to wrestle me to the ground and take control back. I wasn't having it.

I landed my knee in his sternum as he tried to stand, causing him to fall back immediately. The fight was out of him at this point. Not many people, myself included, can rally back from a blow to the sternum; it's just one of those spots that is a showstopper, every time. He landed, sitting on the concrete walkway, his back against the wall opposite his own door, hunched over and trying to regain his breath.

He was a scrapper. I knew he was, and I feared him trying to stand again because if he did, I might have to pistol-whip him in order to keep him down. I didn't want to do that, yet at the same time, I didn't need this to become a fair fight. If it turned into a situation where he was beating me, the chances of him being shot with the gun he'd gone with me to pick up from Tony D would become significantly improved.

"Stay the fuck down and shut the fuck up," I demanded as he continued to hunch over.

I didn't like the way he was hunching. I knew the move was a decoy; I'd seen him do it on a number of occasions. He'd hunch over like that, allowing his rage to build to the point where it would overcome his pain, and when it did, he'd spring on me.

"Don't do it, man. I know what you're thinking and I'm telling you, it's not a good idea. Look at me."

He didn't.

"Look at me, asshole." I raised my T-shirt up enough that he could see the handle of my .45 sticking out.

His eyes came up, but before they met mine, they stopped on the piece.

"Jesus, Ved, a gun? You gonna kill me now?"

"Maybe. I haven't decided."

"A fucking gun? Really? The same gun I helped you get, to protect you from your crazy strippers?" he asked, staring at it.

"I tried it other ways first, asshole. Remember that. But you were too butt-hurt about Ryan. You were too... pussy," I said.

"You're going to fucking jail," he said.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I am, but the question is, for how long? I mean, simple assault might cost me a year or two, but murder..."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. You're about as capable of murder as I am of―"

"Daddy?" a little girl's voice asked from inside the doorway.

"Yeah, baby?" he answered her, giving me eyes that suggested I remain cool while his daughter stood there. I knew that the stakes were higher in the presence of his daughter, and I wanted no part of scaring the little girl who looked so much like him that I had to look twice.

She eyed me for a long second before deciding that I was not a threatening presence. I couldn't blame her for the scrutiny; I was, after all, beating her father in the hallway and just seconds away from brandishing a gun. The red mark above his eye was darkening already, as were the three knuckles I'd probably broken when creating his wound, meaning when his girlfriend came out, she'd certainly know what was up.

"Baby, this is my buddy, Ved, from the Army," he said, stretching out his hands as an invitation for her to sit on his lap.

The little girl went to her daddy and before she was completely seated, a taller, far more attractive woman was standing in the doorway. She looked at all of us in the hallway without saying a word. The look on her face looked like she was trying to swallow the last of a bitter bug.

"Luke? What's going on?" she asked without looking at me.

"Nothing Dani," he said, standing up to signify that everything was OK.

"Were you expecting company?"

"No. No, not really. Ved stopped by. Dani, this is Ved Ludo."

"Ved Ludo? From the Army? What are you... What is he..." Her eyes darted to Luke and back to me.

"I was stationed at Ft. Lewis, Danielle. Just got out here a couple of days ago. Thought I'd stop in to see Luke," I said, realizing that it didn't make much sense to me either.

"Really? In Seattle? Isn't that... awesome," she said, not trying to hide her sudden desire to vomit.

Even though this was the first time I'd ever stood beside her, I'd known her for a long time. She'd been the first thing that made Luke real to me. Luke fucked as many girls as I did. The only difference was that I had no moral compass to guide me; hence, I suffered far less guilt. Every time he slept with someone, he had to reckon with the ghost of Danielle, his longtime girlfriend. Luke always loved Danielle. There was never a time in the four years that he was at Bragg that he didn't love and pine over her, though only Ryan and I ever heard him say her name, or knew she existed. Whatever he did to get through the years away from her, he did with a heavy heart. Every time he'd have sex with some slut from the club, or sluts, he'd feel terrible about it in the morning. This is when he'd usually come to my room, sit on my futon, light the bowl, and unload his guilt onto my bedroom floor. I'd listen sympathetically to him tell me how he loves her. He'd ask me why he did it again... Why was he always fucking up... Shit like that.

Because he knew what he was, he'd broken up with her before leaving Spokane for basic. He'd cut her loose, and when she refused to go, he'd gotten nasty with her, chasing her away from him, hurting her just so she would run away. This was Luke's way of protecting her, of loving her.

Even when they would occasionally talk on the phone, he never said anything to her to suggest he was still interested, though she longed for him openly. He would tell her about this fight, or that girlfriend, keeping it casual, keeping her informed, but not of the truth. She'd say, "I love you" when she was hanging up the phone, to which he'd reply, "You shouldn't."

I'd heard more about Danielle in those years than anyone on the planet. Every time we were wasted and we started talking, Luke would bring her up. He was convinced that he was going to hell, if not for lying to her about how he really felt, then for fucking a hundred women despite those sentiments. I knew everything about her: her political leanings, her theological upbringing, what she was like in bed and in the morning... everything.

To me, she was a pretty photograph that I was always competing with. She wasn't there, I was! All that there was of her were pictures in a wallet, a voice on the phone, and a dependable topic of conversation when we were shit-faced. I was there, I was real, and I wanted Luke to set himself free of her, if not just of the guilt. I wanted Luke to be like me, loose and fast, but he was more considerate than that. He'd sleep around too, but all with less intensity than me. He didn't find the thrill of it, the connections coming and going... the fluids. He didn't appreciate the contact; he just needed the release. For this reason, he was somewhat callous with the women he took to bed. He didn't have any more emotional capacity to invest in them, no desire to know them.

We differed in that aspect. I was seeking something that I couldn't find; Luke had found it and released it, knowing that it wasn't out there any longer waiting to be discovered. So, for that reason, I was optimistic about my promiscuity, while he was jaded by his. I was excited to discover something new about myself through the use of someone's body, whereas he awoke to feelings of loathing, angst, and regret.

I didn't like Danielle before I met her, and now with her standing in the doorway, I didn't like her much more than I had. She was the reason; she was the death of him and me. He'd run back to her, where he needed to be, and I couldn't help but accept that. I'd crawled into Gemini's vagina in the aftermath of Luke leaving me, so who was I to point the finger at him? We'd both thought that life was a sunny day... until the rains came, and then we turned and ran to safe places to hide.

I knew when I saw her in the doorway, and when she'd spoken to Luke around me, rather than through me, that Luke had not impressed upon her the importance of our relationship. Maybe that was when I lost my drive to fix us, maybe it was in seeing that he was changed, domesticated, whipped. I don't know for sure, but I know that before she spoke to me again, I'd decided that I wasn't going to be her fucking whipping boy too; she'd have to fight with me.

He'd filed me away under "tragic conversations" and locked them and me in a vault, saying nothing to anyone about our friendship. Motherfucker. All the while I was considering him the most important of all the friends I'd ever had. That embarrasses me to say, but seems to be a theme in my life.

In these days, I still believed that a "best friend" was a once in a lifetime thing. I'd use it singularly, like "My best friend ever was..." That's not the way this world works. Friends are not forever; well, in a world that is not forever, how can a best friend be? People who have had one best friend, whom they cling to so tightly that the blood rushes to their heads when you mention the name, are people who have never released them onto the breeze of reality and time. Friends come along at critical times, they carry us through the minefield of our lives for a year or ten, and then they are gone, replaced by another person who is now relevant. Nothing is forever, nothing is immortal, and nothing deserves the benefit of the doubt―like the cosmic plan to provide us with what we need, when we need it. Learning to lean on destiny, learning to know that the world will catch you when you fall, is not something that you awaken to one day. It's only after being tested and testing back, it's only after you've had the courage to break away, to go it alone, that you find out that the world is still a benevolent place.

I lost Luke forever when I saw her standing there. It was in that second that the passion to rekindle our brotherhood disappeared from me altogether. It was then that I reckoned with what I was, what I am. Nothing and nobody was going to come with me to where I was headed because I was headed to the unknown. Maybe what I was really after here tonight was a partner, a pat on the back... some sort of assurance. Maybe I needed him to say, "You'll make it, Ved. You are strong and driven..." Maybe I needed someone who knows me to tell me to keep going. People always talk in generalities; they always say this can or cannot be done without measuring the person doing it. I needed someone to believe in me, to encourage me, to reassure me that I was different and capable... but there was no one there willing to do it.

"Luke, you need to come inside and shower. You have an early morning."

"Yeah, I'll be in there in a sec."

"Luke," she countered.

"I'll be in there in a fucking second!" he screamed in a voice I'd never heard before.

The little girl began to cry, so he lifted her up and stood her in the hallway. That's when Dani saw the bruise above his eye.

"What the fuck?" She looked at me. "You do that?"

"Yup."

"Luke, did he do that to you?"

"I said I did," I announced.

She turned back to me, fire in her eyes. "Go! Get out of here!"

"Go inside. I want to talk to my friend," I said evenly, suddenly aware of my gun again.

She reached out to grab me, but before she could, Luke was between us. He grabbed her, turning her toward the door, and urging her to go inside to leave us alone in the hallway. He wasn't angry at either of us; he just didn't want us to collide.

"Luke, get off of me. Tell him to leave, Luke David Jayson! Now, Mr. Ludo!"

"Go inside, Dani," I said again, my heart rate increasing.

"Don't call me Dani. You don't fucking know me."

"Yes, I do."

"Really? How in the fuck would you know the first thing―"

"What would you like me to tell you about yourself? How about a list of the guys you fucked when Luke was at Bragg with me? Hmm? Mike, the former best friend of Luke's cousin, Jeff? How about the plumber who was parking his van in front of the house while you were blowing him? How about the birthmark on your ass that looks like a donut? And the first date Luke took you on, to Ruby Tuesday's, when the waiter spilled red wine down your shirt? That you were raised Roman Catholic but were born again after hearing an out of town speaker at your sister Denise's church? Get the fuck out of here. I came a long way to talk to him, and I'm going to." I was resisting the urge to show her the gun.

"Oh my God," she said at my revelations of her recent life.

"Pleasure to meet you, miss," I said, dismissing her by turning my attention back to my former friend.

She went inside and closed the door gently. A second later, I heard the deadbolt lock behind her.

"What the fuck are you thinking?" he asked me.

"That you'd be better off dead," I said evenly, my false-desire to shoot him returning.

"Ved, look, I've already told you. The Army is behind me now. I need to have a normal life. I can't keep thinking about... I mean, you know what I fucking mean!"

"I had a lot to tell you, a lot I wanted to say to you, but now... none of it seems to matter."

"Really? You came here carrying a gun, tossing me around, telling my fiancé all the shit you learned about her in the―"

"All of it? Are you delusional, bro? I didn't tell her shit! Do you even know all the things I know about her? Do you remember all the shit you have told me about her?"

"Yeah... I remember."

I looked at him, standing still in the hallway. He looked largely the same, but I was having a difficult time placing my feelings for him. It was like a shell, a cover, that looked like it was something I once knew, but wasn't. He was a ghost.

"I brought you this," I said, tossing him a small gift wrapped in brown paper.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Have your fiancé open it for you; she seems to do a lot of your dirty work for you." I started walking toward the stairs, wanting desperately to get the fuck out of there, suddenly embarrassed that I'd even come back. He didn't deserve for me to be here. He didn't deserve to think I cared about him anymore.

I got ten paces away when I heard him running at me. I drew the gun and spun, just in time to have him crash into me. I almost dropped the gun, but I didn't, even as I landed flat on my back on the concrete. Before I could react, he drilled me with two shots to the same eye. I tried to roll to my right, but he was already returning to his high school wrestling techniques.

He went to swing on me again, but as he drew back, I shoved the gun under his chin. There would be no more swinging on me. I held it there, pushed into his neck, the skin wrapping around the end of the barrel. My heart rate was increasing; I was having difficulty breathing as I scanned his face for regret, fear... anything.

"Do it," he said.

"Don't fucking tempt me."

"I'm serious, Ved. Do it. I deserve it. I need it."

I looked at him more closely, trying to decide what we were doing here. It wasn't until I really looked at him that I saw the tears welling up in his eyes.

"Please, Ved. Do it."

I considered his request. Once again this was a case of Luke needing me to do for him what he couldn't do for himself. I considered it cowardly of him to even ask, to want to die so badly, but not wanting to be remembered the way we all thought of Forsythe. Suicide is such a powerful medium. It has such profound freedom attached to it, yet here we all are, afraid to reach out and take it for ourselves.

"Do it yourself," I said, dropping the gun onto the concrete, waiting for him to let me up.

"No, I can't."

"What the fuck happened to you, bro? What is all this about? Did you even mention my name to Danielle in the last nine months? Hmm? Was it that easy to just fucking forget?"

"I mentioned your name. Shit, she knew the name when you told her, didn't she?"

"Luke, after all that we went through, was I so easily forgotten? I mean, how am I supposed to feel..."

"How are you supposed to feel? You're Ved Ludo... the guy who tells everyone what they are supposed to feel. Don't act like you're all hurt now. It's too fucking late. For three years, every decision we'd make, every reaction was critiqued, and now you want me to feel sorry for you because you don't know how to feel? Fuck you. You and your fucking gift... You and your prophecies about life and living... Fuck all of it. I'm over it. When Ryan died, I thought you shot him. I still don't know who pulled the trigger. Hell, for all I know, you probably did, and then you probably talked Reed into believing it was him, letting him take the fall for you."

I scrambled for the gun, intent on doing it this time. I wasn't going to kill him; I was just going to shoot the motherfucker. All that had been holding me back all this time was our friendship, but just as I'd always assumed, he believed me a killer. What better way to prove him wrong than to shoot him without killing him?

Luke saw me scrambling for the gun, and in the wrestling around, he managed to kick it farther down the hallway. It was out of both of our reach, but as I flailed around trying to get off my back and onto my side, he was gaining control of me. I hate wrestling with wrestlers.

Despite his high school wrestling maneuvers, I got onto my side, and when he came for me, trying to pull me back down, I managed to drive my elbow into his Adam's apple. As soon as it hit his throat, he stopped fighting altogether, clenching his neck and gasping for air. I used the time to right myself, walk over and pick up my gun, stuff it back into my belt, and slowly walk back to him. He was making desperate noises, but they were so quiet that no one could hear him. I should have thought of this a while ago, I thought to myself as I squatted before him.

"You're OK. Don't get yourself all worked up, man. Save the oxygen. You know this."

He began to relax immediately, though he was trying to back away from me as I contemplated what to do next. When his back was against the wall, I squatted in front of him again, making it obvious that nothing had changed. I was still in control.

"This is for Ryan, motherfucker." I grabbed him by the jaw with my left hand and pounded on his face with three hard, straight, no bullshit punches to the side of his mouth. When the third blow landed, blood shot from the corner of his mouth. It made me think of Nic in the student parking lot, deliberately smashing Chad Brandie's eye sockets, and the likeness terrified me.

"You don't want to ever, ever, under any circumstance, see me again. Got it?"

He spat blood at me. Warm, wet blood, like a mist, landed on my face.

I threw another, this time to the temple, and with that, he slumped over and closed his eyes.

As I walked to the stairs, heading back to my car to get the hell out of there before the cops came or before Danielle came out into the hallway to see what was taking him so long to come in, I sang the lyrics to "Smile," the Pearl Jam song that he'd played for me before he left Bragg for the last time.

My foreseeable freedom was infinite that night as I started my car and left his parking lot. I turned onto the main road, headed back to I-90, and as I did, I passed a cop car with flashing lights. No sirens were screaming, but he did seem somewhat hurried as he turned into the parking lot I'd just left.

I looked at the gun again as I pulled it from my pants. I considered tossing it out the window, so I could at least deny I'd ever had it if I needed to. It was really a beautiful piece, layered and sculpted to fit perfectly into my hand, bought in desperation in the days when things still had the tint of optimism. Though there was little to be optimistic about now, I was surprisingly still worry free. I was a fugitive, an armed fugitive who was becoming something that the world needed to fear, and if you don't believe me, Luke is lying there unconscious as evidence. Who was I? What was I? I don't know, but I tell you now that I'm glad that in those hours nothing happened that would have tempted me to prove my carelessness because, without a doubt, I was a man in transition.

Upon reconsidering, I decided to keep the gun. I knew that it might get me into some serious trouble, but like my father always said about being right: it's better to be wrong than dead right. The only questions I had about its killing power was whether it would eventually be someone else facing off against the Colt semi-automatic, or me.

I drove across the county stopping often, sitting by myself in Dunkin' Donuts and Denny's restaurants, watching the people come and go with mild curiosity. There wasn't a more interesting person on the planet to talk to than myself while I was on that trip. I was enlightened, road tested, and ready for whatever the world brought me. I had the gift, I had the gun, and I had the willingness to die if it came to it. I was going to do what I was going to do; no one was going to stop me. For me it was easy: live the way I want to or die, all on my own terms. No one spoke to me; no one even looked at me. I just sat there like a fucking ghost, with the fucking ghosts of my past, drinking my coffee and thinking the most beautiful and profound thoughts about sex, drugs, and the short life of romantics...

Forty-eight hours later I was crossing into Louisiana, ready to get to Zach's place and tell him the story of Luke, knowing Zach would agree with me, even if I was speaking nonsense... and even though I knew his agreement would be about sixty percent lip service, I needed it. He trusted me, he believed me to be enlightened, if not a good decision maker, and I was prepared to be an example in life for him, or in death, if and when it came to that. There are so many people willing to live a life that can be respected; really, there are millions of them, begging people to follow their example... to tread on this or that... to worship here or there... but few ever die in order that they be immortalized.

I knew before I made it to Bogalusa, the nearest town to Zach's house, that when I was done with living, I'd die my way, allowing the concrete of my life to harden into a surface that is forever. No motherfucker was going to come along after me and call me a fake; I'd see to that with my last breath, my last words.

As I crossed into Washington Parish, Louisiana, two chicks in an old Ford F-250 passed me. They slowed down, allowing me to catch up, and then they flashed me. Breasts, not even attractive breasts, smashed up against the glass, making them look flat on top, a shape not usually connected with boobs. I smiled politely, uninterested in conversation, and lit a bowl.

I could feel the electricity of my life light me up, the adventure and the mysterious path I was now on, the un-guessable outcome of this flight, the almost certain death that was so close to me... Goddamn, it was a beautiful sensation. The last pioneer, abandoned by all, yet undeterred. If there was anyone capable of surviving the shit that was coming my way, it was me; though at the time, I didn't realize that all the things that had happened had been a preparation for what was about to come. In a month, I'd be so far gone that only I would be able to recognize myself. In a month, everything around me would fail, but I would not. I'd survive.

Learning to accept the idea that I'd soon be dead was the only thing that would eventually keep me alive.

I pulled into Zach's driveway and turned off my car. Sitting silently and still undetected, my skin felt like it was crawling, probably from the ephedrine I'd been taking. It would have concerned me, but if it was legal to sell these harmless pills at gas stations, they had to be safe, right?

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why Zach's family had agreed to let me hide here. I didn't know if aiding and abetting was really a charge that they could face for putting me up, but I decided before I even got out of my car that I wouldn't let it come to that. I wouldn't stay here too long. I was clearheaded when I decided to leave Ft. Lewis. I wasn't making a mistake simply because, like some other asshole, I hadn't thought it through. No, this was mine, I owned it, and if I were to survive this little stint, I'd do so with the sole intent of owning the stories for the rest of my life. I'd starve, dehydrate, bleed out... whatever it took, on my own. I knew I'd find an audience for my story, either in this world or the next. Ryan, Hailey, Jacob... they'd see me from wherever they were now, and, honestly, they'd smile to themselves, saying, "That Ved... he might be a nut, but, goddamnit, he wasn't afraid to live the way he spoke." And there was no higher compliment I was seeking than that.

Even in the early hours of evening, the sun just dipping behind the trees, I felt wide awake. I held the bottle of ephedrine, reading the label for the first time.

"Do not take more than four pills in any 24 hour period... May cause nervousness or increased heart rate..."

Oops.

I looked at the trailer home, hearing noises from within. Luckily for me, there were no windows facing my direction, allowing me time to reconsider this idea I'd had about laying low here. Maybe this was a bad idea; maybe I should just back out and head a different direction.

The trailer itself was sky blue, or had been at some point in its teens. Now, it was splotchy blue with classy duct-tape trim around the windows. Ironically, the duct tape matched the silvery tar that had been applied to the roof (and wherever it splattered in the process of applying it to the roof). The windows were all sealed, probably due to the window mounted air conditioners I could see sticking out of at least three windows, which looked to be about the same age as the trailer. The other windows had towels, or something of the like, taped into them, making multi-colored blinds that looked somewhat like the stained glass one might see in a low-budget church. Altogether, it looked like no one had touched the place since 1951. Decay and dilapidation were the first impressions the place gave off. The yard, however, was vast and somewhat beautiful. The lawn was green, the trees were enormous, and the expanse of the yard was immense.

From my previous visit, I knew that six people lived in the tiny three bedrooms; and by bedroom, I mean closet-like quarters. I wasn't excited about moving into the trailer, but beggars can't be choosers.

I'd called Zach from a gas station near, ironically, Leesville, where I'd spent the night swinging from a parachute in a tree not so long ago. In those days, I didn't understand the fragility of life, but two of the people that'd been swinging beside me were now dead and gone, making the realization that I was standing in Leesville hauntingly ironic.

Afraid that Zach or his dad, Toby, would come stumbling into the yard and find me contemplating my escape, I went into the house, where I was greeted with hugs and "atta boys." It's hard to accept gratitude when you are not so proud of what they're congratulating you on. I did have the presence of mind to appreciate their hospitality, though I knew I wasn't really myself, at least my former... I was a man in transition, a place that I usually prefer to be alone, unobserved.

I knew from the way he greeted me that Zach was far happier about me being there with him than I was to be there. He needed someone to guide him through his life, and I was all but done with Ved the prophet, the guide... the fucking life coach. The problem was, as usual, I've never been one to talk about the things that I keep inside of myself. Admitting your fears is the fastest way to expose your vulnerabilities, and the first time you get weak and break down in front of people, there is no getting that privacy back. I prefer to lie to people in reverse, rather than embellishing. I like to detract. Lying in reverse is the only way to manipulate people from a posterior position. Lying about being great at this or that is too easily disproven; lying in reverse is fucking foolproof.

Zach had no problem telling me all of his weaknesses, all of his fears and mistakes, and for his simplicity, I always thought him a fool. I didn't want to become him; I didn't want anyone else to feel about me the way I felt about him. I loved the kid, he was a good guy, but, man, he was made queasy by every single event that happened to him. He couldn't let things roll off his back, he couldn't internalize anything that ever happened to him, he was an open book, and for it, he always appeared weak.

After the hugs and "it's OKs," I answered a few questions from Zach's family, including his two little sisters, who both loved me but were confused by seeing me back there so soon. I couldn't blame them. When I'd left a week ago, they'd held tiny American flags as I drove out of the driveway, if you can call the dirt road that leads from the highway to their house a driveway. Their naïveté was a beautiful thing, making me reflect back on Shell, but I dismissed him as soon as I could, not wanting to remember the distances I'd crossed to get to where I was. If the sisters were older, say eighteen to twenty-four instead of eight and ten, they would have been victims of my selfishness, already used and abandoned, left in a perpetual state of "fuck Ved Ludo," like everyone else who'd given me access.

We'd finished dinner before I'd had enough of being cordial, and I finally asked Toby for some weed. I'd smoked the last of my stash, needing something after the flat-topped-tits incident, and in the three hours since, I'd reached for my supply a number of times, each time more depressed that the one thing I needed, I didn't have. I was so rarely out of weed that somehow not having any made me feel like I was suddenly incapable of meeting the demands of my own habits.

Toby was thrilled with my request, as if maybe he'd been waiting for me to ask ever since I'd arrived. Zach would smoke occasionally, but these days he wasn't a regular toker. Potheads like potheads, the way that being in a fraternity ensures relationships with strangers in the future, regardless of age or social positioning. By finding that one thing in common, friendships come easier.

Rather than simply going into his room and getting me a bag, he cryptically demanded I walk with him through the back yard into the dense woods behind the house.

"I got something I want you to see," he said.

"Something outside?" I inquired.

"Yeah, follow me," he said, waving his pudgy red hand toward the door.

We walked in the semi-darkness of the hazy Louisiana twilight, through the back yard into the trees that surrounded the yard. Once in the trees, he demanded I step exactly where he was stepping, foot for footprint, though he didn't immediately explain why... at least not until we came to the crops.

We came into a clearing, a place where all the pine trees had been whacked, and now in their place, scattered about recklessly, were about a hundred marijuana plants. When I first saw the crop, I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd never seen so many plants growing like this, not outside and in the wild anyway. Two things dawned on me as I stood there, trying to grasp the magnitude of what I was seeing. One, he'd made me follow his footprints because he probably had traps set. Two, showing me this meant that he wanted me to see it; he wanted to take credit for such a risky operation. Neither point was lost on me as I began to examine the buds growing on the tree-like plants. The fact that the plants were six feet tall meant that no one was really taking care of the crop. They were just growing in the wild; that realization was driven home by the aphids I saw on the underside of the leaves. I wanted the job of caretaker, immediately.

"Holy shit, Toby!" I said, releasing the bud I'd been holding.

The bugs, the seeds, and the height of the plants were all negative factors, meaning to me that Toby wasn't doing this for the money. Instead, he was doing it for the product, a product that he could have been making much better, but he was old school―he didn't know anything about genetically enhanced pot. I was somewhat disappointed in this, knowing that he needed the money, and he was missing out on it because of the plants' unfortunate state of being. Swag was a dying entity. It was quickly becoming harder and harder to come by, replaced with the more expensive and far more potent chronic. If he already had buyers lined up, which I assumed he did, they would only be interested in what he was growing until they experienced the more aggressive brand. Toby was going to be forced into either horticultural evolution, or unemployment. It was just a matter of time.

"Yeah, it's not the best weed you've ever smoked, not that chronic you hear about..."

No, it wasn't the chronic I have heard about, but it was pot, fresh off the plant, and I was ready to give hand jobs, if that's what it would take, in order to get high.

I tried to calculate how much product each ugly tree-sized plant was producing, but the trees were growing everywhere, some in better condition than others, some flat out dead, making it impossible to guesstimate.

"No, man, it looks good to me. Have you smoked any of it yet?" I asked, lying.

"That's why we're out here. Pick a bud and take it."

As I began to look through the plants, trying to lower my standards and find a good bud, I wondered if I could retrace my footsteps later, in order to steal some more.

"You have it booby trapped back here or what?" I asked, trying to keep him in the dark as to my thieving motives.

"Got to. People find out you're growing, and they start robbing you blind."

I considered Toby, a tired looking man who whistled through his nose when he breathed, with his red face and giant gut... He was in such bad health that I couldn't come to terms with him setting traps... Something in my frantic brain made me think ol' Toby here was bullshitting me. I mean, am I ever going to get away from this? Are people going to lie to me constantly for the rest of my short life? Am I going to be asked, time and time again, to buy these bullshit stories? If he didn't fucking trust me, why was I standing in the middle of his "secret garden"? Wouldn't it have been easier to just not tell me about it? Any time I needed weed, he could just walk into his room and come out with a baggie full of homegrown shit-weed, and I would have never known the difference.

"Like shotguns tied to trees and swinging spears aimed just right to stab a man's head? Shit like that?" I asked.

"Yup, like that. Zach helped me do it when he got home. Lemme tell you something, Ved. You don't want to come back here without me around. Just take enough to hold you over for a day or two. I gotta doctor's appointment tomorrow, so I won't be able to get you back here until the next day. Grab you a couple buds. I'm sure, right about now, you need it."

I loved this man, but, frankly, I was in no place to be hearing shit like this. I hate being lied to. No, I hate being lied to when the motive is petty. I could understand a man not wanting his crops pirated, but this passive aggressive "here it is, now forget you know" shit was suddenly making me unusually angry. There were no traps; he wasn't that kind of guy, and I knew better than he did that his son didn't know how to get all Rambo like that. I didn't want to dislike him, not yet, but this sort of assumption that I was retarded was not the way to win my affection. I was rather insulted by it.

"Thanks, Toby. That's awesome. I'll just take a bud." I paused a second before I added, "I'd love to help you keep an eye on this if you need any help."

He eyeballed me for a minute, thinking that over. "Nah. It's all good now, just gotta keep the goddamn deer outta here is all. Little fuckers'll eat the whole crop."

"Yeah, I see you have some nibblers."

"Yeah. You know, these plants are just about mature now. I didn't take as good of care of them as I'd hoped to... well, with my health and all. The weed could have been better, but... like I said, I've got one foot in the grave, the other on a banana peel." He laughed at his joke.

I snapped off two buds, the best ones I could find, thinking that Tim Weaver would shit the bed if I ever asked him to smoke this. It didn't matter to me: swag, chronic, dry, or wet... I needed some pot, and I needed it a few hours ago.

"Wanna burn one?" I asked the old guy.

"Hell yeah, let's get back to the house and put that shit in the dehumidifier."

"No, I mean now. You wanna smoke one now?"

"You got a bowl? You know how hard that will be to get lit, right?" he asked, his eyebrows arching.

"Toby, I will eat the shit if I have to."

"No need. Rayanne just made you a pan of brownies... homemade, homegrown brownies. She's uh... well, she's famous for her brownies."

"No shit?"

"No shit. That woman makes the best pot brownies you've ever tasted. They'll fuck you up good, too."

"I'll follow you, Mr. Toby," I said, using the customary southern nomenclature.

"Look, Ved, if you're going to stay here, I need to know I can trust you. I hope you understand. You've seen my stash; you're a guest at my house... I gotta know you're cool."

"Toby..."

"My friend down the road a piece, he's got about three hundred plants growing right now. He needs to get fifty pounds of it to Houston. What do you think about driving it there for him?"

My heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, I was nervous about all of this. Suddenly, I was facing years and years in prison on felony drug charges. Suddenly, being AWOL didn't seem so felonious. He'd come out of nowhere with this question, and he was moving closer to me as I pondered the idea of federal drug charges.

"Yeah... I mean, if you need me to. I assume it pays well?"

"It'd be great if you could. We do a lot of things together, he and I, and if I could tell him that you'd be willing to take it for him, you'd never need to buy pot again."

"That's part of what I was waiting for you to say. But, Toby, I want to be clear, I'm not transporting fifty pounds of weed for free. I want to be paid, lodged, and given as much weed as I can smoke. Is that fair?"

He smiled at me. "I like you, kid. You've got a good head on your shoulders. I'll talk to my buddy. I can tell him that you'll do it though, right?"

"Yeah, I'll do it."

We got back to the house where I was treated like royalty, well, trailer-style royalty, by both Toby and his wife, Rayanne. She produced the pot brownies that I noticed had four holes in the top of the brownies, as if candles had been put in there and then removed as an afterthought. Four, four holes, the number of years I was in the Army. I didn't know why she would have done that. To celebrate some official departure from it? No, I wasn't even out yet. I was still in the Army, in until I went back to get out. Where would I have to go? What would they do to me? How long would I be there?

These and about a billion other questions were still looming on the horizon, hanging in the air like mosquitos, waiting. Every minute of my life was clouded by this weight... this unknown. I might go an hour without thinking about it, but then I would think of military prison, about doing the ten years in solitary for every one month I was AWOL... that was always the rumor... a month of your freedom for ten years of your life. That thought was not a healthy one for me because I wasn't going to go away for ten years. I would kill myself long before it ever got to that. I'd live now and die before the consequences could ever catch me.

Presumably, I ate more of the brownies than I should have, unable to identify the taste of pot in them. They were so good, so moist. The problem I've always had with edibles is that they either taste shitty because of the weed they were made with, or the person baking isn't really a baker. These particular brownies were made from local hashish, and an hour after I'd eaten my third one, the high came on so strong that it made me absolutely immobile on their nasty, cloth couch. I felt like I became one of the couch cushions as I melted into it.

The interior of the trailer was just as bad as the outside, but outlaws can't be choosy. I had to constantly remind myself that I was fortunate to be indoors and stoned. Even if too stoned, it was still a luxury. The place seemed so much worse than it had sober. The smells, the dilapidation, the solitude of being so far away... being fucking helpless... and suddenly, lying on the old and worn couch, I was afraid of bug bites.

I sat up, which sent me into the dizzy pot spins, and then I immediately lay back down again. Lying there, trying to collect some sanity, I heard cars approaching in the yard, multiple cars; their doors were slamming closed in an uneven rhythm.

I was going to ask Zach who was here, but he went outside before I could ask. A second later, two girls walked through the door with him, both attractive, but one more than the other. Michelle Reda and Tethany Rosewood walked into the place like they'd been there a thousand times, addressed Zach's little sisters by name, and hugged Rayanne. I was trying to put a shirt on, which should have been easy, but I couldn't remember how to do it. Buttons or pull it over? I grew concerned, recognizing this as abnormal, and just when I was about to go back to the thought and figure it out, I forgot what I was doing in the first place. I sat up, hearing the voices in the kitchen, wondering who was here.

Yeah, it was pretty bad.

I hate having to act sober. Is it my fault that the world chooses not to take drugs? Is it my responsibility to denounce all the mysteries I have unlocked through drug usage in order to spare the feelings of the rest of the world? In order to not be labeled by the ones who don't know?

"And this is Ved," I heard Zach say as if I were the third baseman for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

"Hi, Ved. We've heard a lot about you," Tethany said.

"Pleasure, ladies," I said, wondering if I'd just slurred my words. Are you fucking kidding me?

"Zach's told us stories about you," Tethany said.

"I'm pretty sure we've heard all of them," Michelle added and then looked to Tethany.

I looked at the two girls wobbling and shape-shifting before me, like ghosts, trying to figure out which of them I thought was better looking. I knew one of them was. I couldn't get a focus. My eyes were swerving one way and then the other.

"Don't believe everything you hear," I said in just more than a whisper.

"What'd he say? Don't leave me here?" Michelle asked Tethany in a whisper.

"It's nice to have you here," Tethany said, as if she were talking to her grandmother with Alzheimer's.

"Thanks." I kept it short, avoiding further slurring.

A few minutes later, after Zach had taken the ladies to the Igloo cooler in the back yard for some refreshments, a man who looked like Waylon Jennings came into the trailer. I was going to try and really "wow" the crowd by showing them that I could stand on my own two feet, but when I realized the newest arrival was just a dude, I just remained where I was, not putting any effort into being cordial.

It went on this way for an undetermined amount of time: people arriving, me ignoring them wholly, except of course when Zach would purposely walk them over to be introduced, in which case attempts were made to appear sober. He was doing this sparingly at first, when my condition was at its worst, but as the night went on, he was doing it more, leaving me to wonder if I was getting better or if he was getting worse. I can't recall how many people I talked to during those couple of hours when even thinking was difficult and painful, but I remembered seeing women and men of all ages sitting before me for a few seconds, and then they were gone again. Soon someone else would sit down before me, shake my hand, tell me that they knew all about me, and move on.

It must have been a few hours after I thought I was getting better that Toby brought a nice man named Pete over to meet me. Toby had left me alone for most of my recovery, even as I dozed and pondered the great big world from my spot on the nasty couch. When he brought Pete over, I sat up, feeling marginally better. I even stood up to shake Pete's hand, knowing that if Toby was introducing me to him, he must be important. Only then did I realize that there were at least thirty people milling about, smoking weed, and drinking heavily. It was a full-on party.

"Ved, this is Pete, a buddy of mine."

"Pleasure to meet you, sir," I said, standing purposely and shaking with renewed strength.

"You too. I know that Zach fell in love with you while you guys were at Bragg..." He trailed off, not wanting to discuss my being AWOL upon our initial introductions.

"Yeah, that's what I keep hearing. Funny though, he never acted like it at Bragg." I smiled, wondering if that was insulting somehow.

"Ah, that's not important. What matters now is that you're here."

I didn't know what the fuck we were talking about anymore, so I said nothing.

"I see you tried Rayanne's brownies, huh?" He smiled.

"Uh, yeah..."

"Oh, they're good... strong as fuck, but good."

"Yeah, they seem to have adequate potency. Could use a little more kick." I laughed at my grand humor.

"Looks like they were potent enough for you, buddy," he said, not getting my joke.

Why is it that no one ever gets my jokes? I always think of myself as the funniest guy around, but no one ever remembers me that way. Why do my jokes always miss? I don't get what I'm doing wrong.

"You know how potent those things are?" he asked.

"Fucking potent," I answered blankly.

"They're 250 mg a piece. That's like eight bong rips per brownie."

I coughed, feeling both relieved that I wasn't being a complete pussy and terrified that the dosage I'd taken might kill me, give me brain damage, or really bad shits.

"How many did he eat, Toby? Three?"

"Yup. Three of 'em." Toby smiled.

"Jesus Christ, Ved. That's like... twenty-four bong rips... That's a lot. The fact that you are even conscious is amazing." Pete smiled at me.

"Conscious, but not completely sure that I'll be able to quote you on anything you say to me tonight."

He laughed. "If you can't, no one's gonna blame you for that, buddy. I've never eaten more than a half of one, and you ate three? Do you smoke a lot?"

"Every day that it was possible since I was about fourteen."

"Wow," he said and looked at Toby, smiling.

I was now feeling even more alert, and, frankly, the relief that I'd gotten from understanding the dosage made me feel a whole lot better. Zach was entertaining the crowd, and occasionally I could hear him say my name from the kitchen table, followed by countless eyes belonging to complete strangers gazing upon me. I needed to get out of this living room and be social, but first... where the hell is my shirt? When was the last time I had it on?

When he thought I wasn't paying any attention, Pete said to Toby, "Yeah, Toby, I think you found the right guy."

It was then that I realized that I'd just had an interview for my new career: trafficking weed to Houston, Texas.

"I told you. He's a good kid. A little fucked up right now, but after what these boys have been through, who can blame him?"

"Pete, I'll drive your shit all over God's green earth, but I want weed for free and two grand. I want half of the money up front, half when I get back. I want a hotel room to stay in for three nights. Oh, and don't forget, I want all of my weed for free," I said, more for Toby's sake than for Pete's.

It's not like I thought they were trying to dupe me into something. I knew that wasn't the case. Zach didn't smoke much; therefore, he wanted no part in being sent to prison for the rest of his life for the cause. I, on the other hand, didn't just smoke recreationally, I smoked for sanity. I smoked from six in the morning until I went to bed at night. I smoked pot for the principle of it, for the cause of it, and because high, I was a better person than I was sober.

I'd never trafficked drugs before, and, honestly, I'd have refused the job if it were coke, heroin, or even pills... That shit was bad for the user and for the community in general. Weed? Give me a fucking break, will you? I didn't have any problem (at least not yet) with distributing Pete's high-caliber weed all over the lower forty-eight as long as I was going to be paid.

"I'll be around if you want to talk to me about it," I said to Pete before he could respond to my previous statement.

"I like you, Ved. You remind me of me when I was your age. The women, the drugs... the carefree―"

"Tomorrow, Pete, or the next day. We'll talk about it more when I'm sober. Well, more sober."

With that, I left those gentlemen in the living room and walked into the kitchen, where most of the population seemed to be hanging out. When I entered the kitchen, I was greeted with applause. Everyone was obviously having fun with my condition. Granted, Zach started the clapping when I'd shocked him by standing on my own two feet, but the whole group of strangers, most of whom I was pretty sure I'd met earlier in the night, was in full applause.

"Oh my God!" people were exclaiming.

"He's alive," another said.

There were far more of the female variety than of the male. Some were attractive, and others looked like they'd been ridden hard and put up wet; but in their excited state, I became the same old Ved I'd always become when I had an audience.

"Thank you, thank you... I'd like to thank my years of hard-core training for this award..." I smiled, realizing, once again, I was too funny for the simpletons.

"Are you sure he ate three?" Tethany asked Rayanne.

"Swear to God. We all tried to warn him." Rayanne smiled, placing her arm around my naked shoulder.

"Oh, it was three." I smiled.

"Jesus Christ!" the guy who looked like Waylon said. "I ate a full one about a year ago... almost done me in."

"Oh, that's nothing for him. You should see this guy when he's in full party mode," Zach encouraged them.

Zach had built me up into this unstoppable party-boy type, something I was desperately trying to rid myself of. After the deaths, I'd done some soul searching in the months of living like a recluse with Gemini. It wasn't a pretty process, the depression being the worst of it, but most of that recovery went unseen by my remaining friends. What Zach did know was that I'd gone from the party animal to the recluse, only to show up in Louisiana a few months later, seemingly fine. He didn't ask too much about my mental state of mind, probably because he knew I didn't like to talk too much about myself, and I didn't say anything about it either.

I didn't mind being the proverbial dissident, but I didn't want to have to "perform." I wanted to be whatever it was that I'd evolved into, and maybe I was, in fact, still the same old Ved, but I didn't know that about myself. What I knew was that I'd just erased any lifeline I might have had in my family. I'd erased Nic and Luke, Ryan and Jacob, Ken Reed, and even Blythe. I was high as shit, standing half naked in front of a bunch of strangers, desperately looking for something or someone to cling to.

"I'm reformed," I said to the crowd.

"Really? You look stoned," Michelle said.

In a room full of people dressed in what must be called country casual, one woman stood out from the rest―a woman I knew had introduced herself to me earlier in the night, perhaps right in the midst of the cloudiest part, therefore making her name impossible to recall. She was in her late forties, wore expensive clothing, and spoke with a familiar Northeastern accent.

She obviously saw me staring at her, because as I did so, she stood up and walked to me, grabbing my hand and forcibly pulling me toward the door.

"Ved and I are going to go to the liquor store. What else do we need besides beer?" she asked the gathering.

"More beer," Waylon said, predictably.

"Right," she said, nodding to him and leading me to her BMW.

I sat in her car, feeling the spins coming back on, trying desperately to persuade the calm to return.

Never fight with a drug, I reminded myself.

She sat down in the driver's seat and said, "You don't remember me, do you? You don't remember talking to me about Blythe before, huh?"

I looked at her, trying to figure out if she was serious or not. I mean, she knew the name Blythe, so she had to at least know something about me, but as to whether or not I'd been the one to tell her that information, I wasn't sure.

"Sorry. Those brownies fu... really got me high."

At this, she laughed hysterically. She continued to laugh as she took the car out of park and drove toward the highway. "You are a riot. Let me tell you again. I'm from Harrisburg. It's not often that I get fellow Yankees to visit with down here."

"Why are you here? I mean, why Bogalusa?"

"My family bought a paper mill about twenty years ago. When they passed away, it became mine. I don't own it anymore. Sold it three years ago... never left."

"The paper mill in Bogalusa?" I asked, knowing that it was the job to have in this part of the world.

"That's the one, sweetie."

"Wow, that's impressive."

"I suppose. It would have been more impressive when I owned it. But I shouldn't complain; I did OK in the sale," she said, matter-of-factly.

"So, what do you do these days?" I asked her.

"Anything I want. What are you going to do with your time?" she, in turn, asked me.

"The exact fucking same thing," I said, showing a little color.

"Oh my..."

I looked at her. She was over forty with reddish hair, but she was also well-tanned, something I always find to be contradictory. Somewhere along the line, she'd picked up some new boobs, maybe a nose job; but, all in all, she would have been attractive even without the enhancements. She looked like old money, like money and aristocracy had been swimming through her blood all her life.

"What is your name?" I asked her, knowing she assumed I already knew it. It was better now than later. There is a window for asking someone their name, and an hour from now was going to be too late.

"Sandy, but everyone calls me Auntie."

"Auntie?" That wasn't a word that was familiar to me. Nic had called his aunt that, but he was a Scottish/English mix, so it was excusable. Aunt, which we pronounced as "ant," was what we called siblings of our parents, and I liked it that way. Auntie, pronounced "Onty," was a little stuffy, in my opinion. "I'm not going to call you Auntie. How's Sandy grab you?"

"I suppose that will be just fine. I think you and I are going to be friends, lifelong friends."

"Really? You sure about that? Didn't you hear? All my friends die tragically and unexpectedly."

"That's not true, and, actually, that's why I wanted to talk to you. I spent some time with Zach when he got home. He told me stories about you, and all that's happened to you... I'm sorry, Ved. I'm so sorry."

"Ah, fuck it. You know? What else am I supposed to do?"

"Ved, it's not happening to you. I know you feel haunted, or cursed... I know what you must be feeling. I mean, I can only imagine. When my first husband died, I went through similar feelings."

"Sandy, please. Let's not compare apples to oranges."

"OK," she said, pulling back a little bit.

"What happened to me, what happened to all of us, well... that's just God's sense of justice, I suppose. It's always the followers that get fucked, never the ringleader. That's the way it's always been, the way it's always gonna be. I can't wait to get to the afterlife and drop-kick some motherfuckers."

A long silence passed, punctuated with the tick-tock of the turn signal. "Ved?" she asked.

I looked at her.

"You want to sleep at my place tonight?"

"No," I replied, blankly.

"I have a good-sized place. You're welcome to stay. I have a room for you if you want it."

"Thanks anyway," I said, not knowing if this was a come-on.

"OK, I understand. I have a daughter; I'd like you to meet her sometime. Would that be OK?"

"Sure."

"She's beautiful. She was the beauty queen at last year's Strawberry Festival. She's at school in Baton Rouge, but she's home most weekends. She's already heard about you. We've all already heard about you, ya know, small towns and all."

"That's uh... daunting."

"No, honey, don't be silly. You're young; you have a long life ahead of you."

"No, Sandy, I don't."

"Yes, Ved, you do. You might need to tone down the lifestyle a bit. You know, try and settle down."

"Sandy, I don't know what you have heard about me, but I just caught my stride. The last fucking thing I'm planning on is settling down. I'm on the road; this is where I choose to be, on the fucking road, alone. I don't need any help. Don't need anyone looking out for me. I'm a dead man walking."

"I'm sorry you see it that way, hun. It doesn't have to be that way."

"Well, it is."

A second later we pulled into the liquor store where, because I was still unsure of my mental condition and motor skills, I decided to wait in the car while she bought the beer. When she returned, she handed me a bottle of Absolut Ruby Red.

"Here. This is for you."

"Thank you, Sandy. That was very nice of you."

"Oh, Ved, this is just the beginning."

"Of what?"

"Of our friendship."

When we pulled back into Zach's driveway, it looked like the fucking circus was in town. Cars were parked everywhere, and people wandered around the yard, trying to avoid being sprayed with diesel fuel, the propellant that was being used to keep the massive fire burning.

"What the hell is this?" I asked absently.

"I think this is your Welcome to Louisiana party. Zach's so excited to have you here. I think he believes you are going to rescue him from this place."

"I'm going to abandon this fucking place and leave him here, where he obviously belongs."

Sandy, for once, didn't have anything to say to that.

I got out, feeling the booze I'd been sipping on along with the now steady, but manageable, marijuana high. I just wanted to go to bed, but when someone noticed Sandy's car in the yard, the partygoers knew we were back.

"Zach, your boy's back."

"They're back," another yelled.

Zach approached with another handful of people for me to meet while Sandy did her best to slip away unnoticed. I hoped I hadn't upset her with my bluntness.

I shook hands with the guys I met and bowed slightly for the women before pulling Zach off to the side as soon as there was a break in the action. "Look, man, I appreciate what you are trying to do, really. It's just, I'm a little fucked up in the head still and this... well... this isn't really helping me right now. I think I need to go to bed."

All Zach had heard of that statement was "fucked up," which would have described his state of mind at the time as well. "You wanna get fucked up, bro?" he asked.

"No, I don't. Listen to me, man. I want to go to bed."

"Bed? Bed is for pussies."

I looked at him for a long second, trying to resist punching him in the throat. I hate when people don't fucking listen to me. I'm articulate for a reason: to win as many ears as possible without confusion. Not being heard means that the listener didn't put any effort into the conversation, and that was something I've never been satisfied with.

I walked away from Zach and headed toward the house where I'd seen Sandy heading. When I found her sitting cozily beside Pete on the couch, he greeted me with, "There's my new employee!"

I ignored him, wondering why he could talk about "the job" but when I did, it was like leaking CIA identities.

"Sandy? Is your offer to bed me still withstanding?"

"Definitely, hun," she remarked, standing and grabbing her keys off the sofa table. "Let's go."

"I'll follow you," I said.

"What are you two gonna do..."

"Fuck off, Pete," Sandy said, and as we left, she slammed the door shut theatrically behind her.

In her car, she put her hand on my thigh, the inside of my thigh. "I'm so glad you got me out of there. Those boys can definitely party, but I'm getting a little old."

There is only one reason a woman touches you for more than one second on that part of your thigh. For me, that meant that I had to play this one of two ways. Either I could pretend I didn't know she was coming-on to me, or I could use this new information assertively, being brazen, and shaping the memory I would become into something bolder and braver, more assured than what I was in real life.

We were in the last few minutes of time to shape her impression of me. Soon we would cross over into something else entirely, something where we had to pretend that we knew each other better than we did because of what we had just done. Now, I could still mold her, shape her, and literally bend her in any direction I pleased. I didn't know, nor did it matter, what direction I wanted to bend her, or if I wanted to bend her at all... None of that mattered to me. It wasn't about getting everything; it was about being offered anything.

Here, my friends, is the root of addiction. It's in the familiarity, the pretenses of familiarity. I have known drugs, which I have had romantic addictions to, drugs that I tried to tame, but ended up with a mutual-respect relationship with. I loved them, sometimes I fucked them down, and other times I romanced them, but what they unlocked is access to what I was looking for. They were the doorway: the thing lying between me and what I wanted me to be. When I reached out―wanting to push through, back to that beautiful place where I could touch the better me―they were what I had in my hand. The taste of that place, that certain place tastes to me like the pills or the lines I took in order to get myself back to them. I'd have eaten anything, swallowed anything, and snorted everything... to get back to there.

Wanting to fuck someone varies greatly with wanting someone to want to fuck you. Fucking, just to attain it, is far overrated. Fucking to feel the sensation of someone wanting you to fuck them... Well, there's the real sport of it. Once you cross that line, you are no longer predictable, and without being able to forecast, we translate the stimulation of nothing into darkness, and darkness into fear.

I craved the stimulation. I craved the adaptation, but when I really bathed myself in the spoils, it was all about the permission I was granted.

"You ain't twenty-two anymore, Sandy."

She eyed me, searching me for a give-away expression. "No. Would you prefer me to be twenty-two?"

"I'd have fucked you good at twenty-two, but I'm intimidated by what you've learned in the five years since."

She smiled, and with it, I knew I was the slickest motherfucker to sit in her passenger seat in a long time.

"Oh... You are something else, Mr. Ludo."

"Indeed. You've never met anyone like me, I assure you."

When we pulled into her driveway twenty minutes later, I couldn't help but stare at her house. It was giant, brick, and beautiful. The door to the garage opened without her pushing any buttons inside the car, as if the garage was also a slave to Sandy's will. She eased the car into an open spot in the four-car garage, between a Mercedes G-Wagen and something small, sporty, and without a roof.

When the car stopped, she said, "Come on. Let's get those wet pants off of you."

"Wet pants?" I asked, sounding incredibly naïve.

"Oops. Sorry, I'm the one who's wet." She smiled.

I didn't laugh at her joke. We walked into the amazing house through the garage, which put us directly into the kitchen. I followed right behind her, stopping to look at the thirty-foot ceiling, which was made up of mostly skylights, high above us.

She reached into a cupboard and pulled out a silver tray. She set it on the counter and removed a dome-shaped chrome lid. Beneath it was a huge pile of white powder.

I'd been sober too long; I was ready to forget again, to go back to my other self, the one who felt so fucking good. Fuck thinking about life and death, about right and wrong, I was so tired of the fight. I had new battles now, new issues hanging over me. I can't control it all. All I can do is keep a good heart, learn from myself, be kind to people, and be whatever I really was.

"Bump?"

"Of course," I said.

I hadn't seen that much coke... ever. There had to be ounces spread out on that plate. It looked more like someone had spilled sugar than prepped cocaine.

I took a huge line, more than I would normally do, especially for the first bump. I wasn't in great health: I smoked too much, didn't run nearly enough, and ate like shit, regularly. Doing a huge line right off the bat is always a bad idea, but I had the feeling that I wasn't here to simply spend the night. I was here to be blood, or come, for the vampire.

The coke had just hit my brain when Sandy walked over to the sink, grabbed the faucet with her hands, leaned over the counter, and pointed her ass at me. She just stood there for a second, holding the faucet, her face turned around to summon me closer. "Here," she whispered.

I stood there, intentionally looking contemplative.

"Here. Like this," she said, reaching back and unzipping the zipper of her pencil skirt.

I watched her unzip the zipper, from the small of her back to the top of her ass, revealing a very red pair of panties and an age-defiant ass. From behind, she looked like maybe she really could pull off twenty-seven, at least in this lighting anyway.

Before I went to her, I went back to the plate. I used a credit card and a butter knife to carry some powder over to where she was waiting for me. I stood silently behind her, holding the coke on the credit card for her to see. She turned around slowly, releasing her fierce grip on the sink faucet.

She looked at me questioningly, helplessly. She was starving for my touch, having allowed too much excitement to build. This, in tandem with the first bump, made her vulnerable. I was standing in front of her, close enough that our pelvises were touching. She almost looked scared.

She reached out for the knife, I retracted.

"You said I could have some," she pouted cutely.

"You can."

"Can I have it?"

"Yeah."

She stepped forward, reaching for it again. I pulled it away. With her trembling body close to mine, I could see her freckled chest and vivacious eyes. Her breasts pushed hard against me.

I held the coke above her head. She reached for my zipper. I didn't fight with her. She made quick work of the zipper and had me in her hand. Her hand was hot, sticky. It felt like heroin. Her hand, the coke, the night... I was a fugitive, a poet, a dreamer... a dead man.

I lowered the coke and dumped it onto my erection. She eyed it, and then she turned her eyes toward mine. A slight grin came to her mouth, while she managed to shake her head slightly. Without a straw, she took the line, licking off what she couldn't snort. She then took me into her mouth, liquefying the coke and swirling it around, creating the recipe for male invincibility.

I got the permission, and the Vampire got what she needed.

2

Pablo and the Pistola

When I woke the next morning, there were no feelings of regret. That may have been, in part, because Sandy didn't look nearly as bad as I'd thought she might. Of course, I only knew that after I ventured my first look in her direction. Not to sound petty, but waking up next to anyone on the morning after means I fucked up, simply because I'm still there. It's a terrifying act, looking over at her for the first time as the morning sun shines brightly through the windows.

Granted, I wasn't drunk when I finally fell asleep the night before, and by eliminating that particular issue, I was less likely to wake up next to something shockingly different than what I had gone to bed with. Alcohol is to blame for most of the early morning suicidal thoughts that befall a man, not cocaine. With coke behind the wheel, there is nothing that escapes you.

"Hey," she said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Oh, don't be bashful now. Too late to play coy, don't you think?"

"I'm not playing coy. I just don't know what to say right now."

"Start with either you want me to leave, or you want me to shower," I suggested.

"OK. Shower." She smiled.

"I will, but I really need some coffee."

"I'll go make us some coffee. You jump in, and I'll bring it to you."

I rolled out of bed, completely naked, which is always something that makes me uncomfortable. See, on the morning after, and depending on whose house you ended up at, someone has to be the one to get out of bed naked and walk across the room. The only reason I decided that person should be me is because I knew that Sandy was uncomfortable with the age gap between us. Even in the bright morning light, she was still attractive, though obviously there was a difference in the way our bodies looked. She'd been walking the earth for twice as long as I had been.

Sandy was almost fifty years old. She'd just had unbelievably candid sex with a man literally less than half her age, who'd (if I do say so myself) rocked her fairly admirably. She wasn't going to nitpick any blemish about me as I walked across the room, especially while she was still hiding under the covers, waiting for me to get in the shower so she could hurriedly dress and cover herself.

There was a confidence about her that I hadn't found in younger women, and though I wasn't yet ready to forego women my own age altogether, I decided immediately that I would like to keep this line open, in case Sandy ever called on me again. Furthermore, I wanted to know if Sandy was just some sort of freak for her age, or if I'd been missing a very giving demographic all this time.

I recall transitioning from sex with twenty-somethings to thirty-somethings and the huge difference I'd found when moving from one age bracket to the other. I hadn't even really considered it until it happened, but once it did, I decided I was done with college chicks and their beds that were sometimes decorated with stuffed animals and Hello Kitty bed sheets. Frankly, the gap between the Army lifestyle and the college lifestyle was too much for most civilian girls, though I always believed the two of them to be quite similar. It's not that we military types didn't understand them; rather, they sure as hell didn't understand us.

I rather enjoy the hours after sleeping with a stranger, the hours where I am still there with her, before I abandon her and refuse to answer her calls the next day. In those hours, she has to like me, or at least pretend to, even if tomorrow she knows she will feel differently. In those hours, after the drama and trauma of being naked and bending in very exposing ways has resided, there is no physical barrier left to reveal. All that remains is the real person underneath.

There are freedoms built into that specific time not afforded at any other time in a relationship. In this time, I am a man and I have won what I was seeking. She has given into my desires, offered herself as a sacrifice, as a meal, hoping to attract me back for breakfast, and then lunch, but I will not come back. She has used her most elusive and potent thing: her naked, wet body... If I do not come back, she will wonder why. If I do come back, she will turn into something I eventually answer to.

It is so much more poetic to leave and never return, struggling to remember her name as I jerk off in the shower, thinking about her, the beautiful stranger who I fucked here in the... (fill in the appropriate noun).

I will not even say, in an attempt to appease her, to relieve her, that I will come back. I will also not say what every other dumb-fuck guy would say, something along the lines of "You know, I'm not really looking for a..." (fill in the appropriate noun). Instead, I will paint with words; I will work a masterpiece for her, searing myself into her memory, before disappearing forever.

Because we both assume that there is a temporary nature to our status, I will use the act of having fucked her ears off as a means to pull on her heartstrings, dancing on words that drip with sadness and loss, reminding her of the frail nature of mankind, of the chance encounters we have, of the closeness that strangers can attain, and then simply walk away from.

She'll feel differently about me than she has about anyone else. She'll keep me where I want to be kept, safe and removed from the rest of the man-trash, in her beautiful memories.

Obviously, the older a woman gets, the more partners she is likely to have had. No matter how comfortable you believe yourself to be with your partner's prior experiences, the fact is, the more people she's fucked in her lifetime, the better she'll be. She'll know how to identify her own needs, she'll be more likely to demand that you fulfill those exact needs, and when you do, she'll accredit you with having satisfied her, even if you were only following instructions.

I have found that insecure men seek out younger women. They fear that very experience, wanting to believe that there is no one else that they are being compared to. For one reason or another, these men have something to hide, some shame or unspoken self-loathing, and by chasing younger women, they trade off maturity for lack of experience.

I had sex with a virgin once. Rather than having the normal "guy" reaction to it, I immediately missed the tramps and degenerates I usually ended up with. Having to explain, or maybe having to watch her wincing and moaning in discomfort rather than ecstasy, having to go through the general awkwardness that comes from someone who is doing that for the first time, was awful... not to mention the attachment from taking that away from someone... Everyone else around me was so confused by my displeasure. Everyone kept telling me how lucky I was to have a virgin, that she would love me forever... and all the other dumb bullshit men say about virgin girls. All the while I couldn't understand why anyone would want to pursue such inexperience. I considered it like playing tennis with someone who's never played before. Sure, you get the credit for the introduction to the sport, but you never get to really play. You never get to show her your favorite serve.

The only pitfall I found with women in their thirties is that they tend to get a little clingy. Whereas a UNC student in North Carolina might willingly swallow your semen or a shot of Tuaca without much differentiation, a woman in her thirties will also swallow your come, but then announce to her friends that she found her soul mate.

It's not her fault; it's just a tough time for women to be single.

Dutifully, I climbed into the shower, smiling when I saw footprints on the smoked glass doors. We'd been in here sometime last night. I'd almost forgotten about that, but seeing it for myself, I remembered holding Sandy in precarious positions as the two of us twisted beneath the water.

The shower was beautiful, marble and old iron. The water was hot, steam billowing from the two and a half foot, square shower head as I stepped in.

I grabbed the body wash and started my scrubbing with my genitals, which is unusual for me. I normally start the cleansing process with the hair, working my way down the body, the same direction that the dirt flows off. Today, however, I needed to get some soap onto my man-parts in a hurry. Saliva, come, coke, lotion, and lipstick were all present, even if unnoticeable to the human eye. I, of course, could tell; it felt like these might be the ingredients in super glue.

"Hey," she said, stepping into the bathroom.

"Hey. I was just looking at your beautiful feet." I opened the glass door to see her.

"My feet?"

"Yeah, look at the beauty of that print." I pointed to the portion of it that the steam hadn't covered up yet.

"Oh my God."

"Oh, don't be embarrassed. It was really a remarkable feat."

"Oh God, walked right into that one, huh?"

"I'm still impressed with your dexterity." I smiled.

"Oh yeah? That's good, I suppose. Usually, the guy would have run off by now, let alone know the meaning of the word dexterity." She smirked.

I knew what that reference meant. She was telling me not to get too attached, that this was for fun, not something to be taken seriously. It would be easier for her to deal with this now, before allowing it to turn into something grander only to end abruptly at some point because of the inescapable age difference. Sandy liked me; I could see it in her eyes. Most of what we did the night before was about her showing me that she could do this and that, not because any of it was needed to get her off.

Because I liked Sandy, too, I didn't let her defensive words get to me. I knew she was using them like hands held out before her, keeping me at a distance that made her comfortable. I didn't want her to think she had to do that, I didn't want her to think I was going to cling to her like a pile of dog shit to her shoe, but to tell her that would have sounded insulting, so I endured it, silently.

I settled on, "You drove me here, and, honestly, I don't even know where here is. I couldn't leave if I wanted to."

"You're all mine then, until I decide to return you."

"That's what I assumed. I've never been a sex slave to a rich, older woman before. Seems I could do worse... my every wish, and all that."

"Yeah, all that." Sandy smiled.

Sometime after a wonderful brunch, Sandy drove me back to Zach's place. The aftermath of the party was apparent, being mostly in the form of beer cans and miscellaneous clothing scattered about. She kissed me on the cheek and said simply, "Thanks. See you soon."

Toby, who was most excited to see me, offered me a glass of sweet tea before informing me that Pete was getting ready for me to make a run.

"He's down at Enterprise right now, renting you a car."

"Wait... today? Now?" I asked.

"Yeah..." He looked perplexed by my sudden discomfort. "You said you'd do it, right?"

"Yeah, man, but I didn't know you meant today."

"Why wait? You need the money, don't you?"

And with that, I agreed. I did need the money, mostly because if I ever wanted to get the fuck out of here, I couldn't do it poor. Today, however, I was having a cocaine hangover, which isn't nearly as bad as one from drinking, but it still feels better to relax in front of the TV all day while popping Tylenol every couple of hours to dull the annoying sinus headache.

The hangover itself could have been worse, but when we'd begun doing lines the night before, I'd refused beer and wine, opting for water alone. I'd put a gallon of water through me, and though I could have felt worse, I definitely could have felt better. Nothing can stop the sinus headache; that's just part of the cost of "dancing with the devil." All that blow that goes up through your nose moistens, turning into a glue that seems to reach all the way into your brain... It takes twenty-four hours to rid yourself of the congestion, though with some Sudafed, Percocet and Tylenol, you can rid yourself of the symptoms temporarily.

An hour after the glass of tea, I was standing in Pete's driveway, preparing myself mentally for what lay ahead. I could feel the Percocet coming on, bringing me that euphoric bliss that suggested that anything I tried to do could be done.

It wasn't until Pete closed the door to the trunk with a dismissive shove that I thought I might have a heart attack. Until that point, it was all something that I might do, something that I assumed I could eventually tackle, but after he sealed the freezer bags of weed into the rental car, it was something I was about to do.

All that disguised it from being anything other than just a trunk full of weed were a couple of tents, and a few blankets and sleeping bags hastily thrown on top in some futile attempt to make it appear as if I were going camping for the weekend. Even though I appreciated the effort, if I got stopped, I wondered how I would explain to a Louisiana state trooper why a man traveling alone might be carrying three sleeping bags and two tents. I decided I didn't have the answers now, but I could use that as a starting point for the many thoughts I would digest on my merry way.

There is little that can be done to ensure the driver makes it safely to his destination, other than tell him a million times to drive cautiously, obey the speed limit, and draw no attention to himself―all of which Pete had told me repeatedly. He went over and over the same three things: don't talk to anyone, don't stop more than you have to, and the most important rule of all, maintain three miles an hour over the speed limit. Apparently, three miles over the limit was enough to make you look like you had nothing to hide, but wasn't fast enough to warrant a speeding ticket.

"If you don't get pulled over for a ticket, you won't get caught."

"Why three miles an hour though? I don't get it."

"That's the national average speed on highways. Jesus Christ!" He sounded annoyed.

I still didn't know exactly where in Houston I was going. All I knew was that I was supposed to call the phone number written on my hand when I was within Houston city limits. Whoever answered the phone would give me the rest of the directions, or so said Pete.

"If you break down, call the number. If you're going to be late, call the number... if anything at all happens and you don't know what to do... call the fuckin' number. It's important that when you're dealing with this customer, that everything go right. Got it?"

"Wait, why with this customer? Is there something I need to know about him?"

"Yeah, call the number," he said flatly, rolling his eyes a bit.

"Got it."

"All you need to do is drive safe, three miles over the speed limit, call the number, drop off the car, and drive the new one back, that's it."

"I got it," I repeated, my nerves making me edgier than I wanted to be.

"You'd better get it. You only get one chance with these guys. They're serious."

"I said I got it, man. Jesus."

Pete reached into his coat pocket and produced a white envelope, bounced it in his hand as if he were weighing it, and handed it to me. I must have looked at it quizzically as I took it because he snapped a reply to a question I hadn't asked. "It's your money. Half of it up front, as demanded."

"Oh, thanks," I said, having guessed what it was before Einstein revealed it to me.

"Don't spend any of it until you make the drop. If you don't get it there, I want the money back."

"I'll get it there."

He looked at me for a long second, as if deciding how to respond. "Get it there. Call the number," he murmured.

"Toby, if he tells me to call the number one more fucking time..."

"He's just a little nervous, Ved. That's all, buddy. Don't let him upset you," Toby said, his eyes on Pete, answering me, but speaking to him.

"This is just as much on you as it is on him," Pete said to Toby.

"He'll be fine, just wait and see."

"He'd better be," Pete snapped at Toby in a way that I wouldn't talk to my friends.

I pulled the 1911 from my belt, the first time either Pete or Toby had seen it. "Be assured, I'm not going to prison. I won't be alive long enough to narc you out, so shut the fuck up about it. If and when the cat is out of the bag, I'm gone." I looked at him, locking my eyes on his so he could see how serious I was.

"OK. I respect you for that," Pete said as if he owed me.

"I'm not martyring myself to protect you. It's about me." I stuffed the gun back into my belt.

"How long you had that?" Toby asked me.

"Long enough."

"You're gonna get yourself into trouble with that thing one day," Pete chimed in.

"No, I'm gonna get myself out of trouble with it. It's my chrome-plated escape plan."

One of the reasons I have always stayed in contact with drugs, even during periods when I wasn't using, is simply because of the exclusivity of the dealings. There are few systems as pure and true as buying and selling drugs. The culture of desire is met with the reality of consequence, making people understand that what you want can be had, but in the process of attaining what you want, pure character is required.

It's one thing to get popped with a quarter ounce of weed on you, a situation where no one is asking you who and where you bought it from, but it's quite another to be running fifty pounds of weed across state lines. If I got stopped for a routine traffic violation, I was all but done. Giving up my supplier was a death sentence and would warrant an eternal lack of respect for myself. Everyone wants to believe that they have the fortitude to say nothing during hours of police interrogation, but I knew I didn't have the strength for that. That's why I had my chrome-plated escape plan, and I was dead serious about using it.

The purity of the business, the foundation of it, demands heavy consequences if I get popped, both on the side of the law and on the side of whomever I am running for. If I were to try and save my ass by giving up my employers, I would probably be executed for it, as I should be. See, the deeper in you get with drugs, the more your character applies. There is no one to pass the buck to, no one to take the fall for you, and that is the reason people get paid to do what I was doing. There is still honor among drug dealers, even if the world is too blind to see it. If politicians were held accountable the way that a drug runner is, what we'd have are solid, honest men running the country.

This business is pure because it remains untouched by society and its softness. If you fuck up here, you go down, and if in order to prevent yourself from going down, you rat on the next guy, all bets are off for you, my friend. Simply being offered a job like the one I was taking meant that someone, somewhere, told someone else that I was a man, a man who still has honor. It's complimentary to even be asked to shuttle this shit, let alone to be given two grand for twelve hours' worth of work...

I climbed into the driver's seat and started the car, surprised to be able to smell the weed as well as I could. It wasn't what I would call blatant, but the smell was definitely present. Twice, before I even left his driveway, I turned around to look in the back seat for an open bag. Nothing.

The second time I checked, Pete raised his hands and dropped them in an impatient gesture, asking me why I was still here.

"Man, that shit's not even wrapped tight," I complained out the window.

"It's wrapped tight enough. All you have to do is not get pulled over," Pete corrected me.

"Fuckin' reeks in here, man. If I get stopped, I won't have a chance."

"Probably not. So don't get stopped."

I thought about getting out of the car right then and there and saying no, officially, but decided against it. If there was a person to drive the shit from A to B, I was the guy. I'd been driving with drugs in my car for a long time; granted, they were far smaller quantities, but when you have coke and acid in your possession, it doesn't matter how small the amount is, there is federal time waiting for you if you get busted.

I understood weed, I understood the demand for it, and who the demand was coming from. It was from people like me, but living in the Houston area. Morally, I was unwavering, and by that I mean I didn't give a fuck about the morality of trafficking. All I cared about was not getting busted; beyond that, I didn't care.

People and their war on drugs... I say how about a war on gossip? If you really want to make the planet a better, safer place, let's start with gossip.

A thousand bucks in my back pocket, a three night stay at the Hilton, and unlimited possibilities were all the reasons left in the world that mattered. This was my time.

"See you in a few days," I said, interrupting their conversation.

"Be safe," Toby encouraged me.

"Yeah," I murmured, realizing that they'd already said their goodbyes. Now, they just wanted me to go.

I zoomed past the trailer where Zach was probably just now getting home from work at the cabinet place, and I considered stopping in to tell him where I was going. I would have loved for him to volunteer to come with me, but I knew he wouldn't. Rather, he would tell me that I didn't need to do it, that the risk wasn't worth the payment, and that it wasn't too late for me to back out. I'd have to grumble that I'd already given my word. He'd say that he'd call Pete and tell him it was off... Fuck it, I'll just keep going.

When I finally got onto I-10 Westbound, I was relieved. Pete had rented me a car with cruise control, something he was adamant about me using, so I did. I set my speed at 68, exactly three miles over the limit, lit a cigarette, and tried to tell myself that everything was going to be OK. Each bend in the road seemed like the perfect place for a cop to be sitting, waiting for me to come cruising along, but I forced myself to not touch the brakes even when I did occasionally see one.

I went over my emergency plan again, reiterating to myself that I wasn't going to go to prison. All I needed was a moment, just long enough to get the gun out of my belt, hold it under my chin, and aim for the top, back corner of my head. Then all I'd have to do is pull the trigger. My worries would be over; well, on this planet anyway. Yeah, the cop would get the weed, but he wouldn't get me, and we all know that half the fun for the cops is in the apprehension of the bad guy.

The drive through Louisiana wasn't as boring as the drive through most states. The landscape is so green, and the stretch from Baton Rouge to Texas offers plenty of water crossings, giving me views of lives I would have never seen otherwise. I was amazed by the houseboats I kept seeing. They looked like nothing more than shacks, floating on wooden platforms, on the water. They were in such disrepair that I couldn't imagine being able to sleep at night while staying on board.

By the time I crossed into Beaumont, Texas, I was a little more relaxed. By relaxing and imagining life on a houseboat, I drove much better. Sometimes driving is easier when you are concentrating on anything else, allowing your natural ability to navigate to takeover without over focusing. I did, however, need some gasoline. I'd made it into Texas, but figured I should stop now rather than in Houston, which wasn't far away. I knew that once I made the phone call, I would be nervous again, so I figured it was best to do it now. At the next exit, I saw a sign for a Flyin' J truck stop and decided to pull her in.

Pete had given me a hundred dollars, all in tens, to get gasoline with. The cheap bastard even asked me to give the change from the gas, and the receipt, to whomever it was that I was meeting in Tomball. I wondered if they were going to write the fuel off on their income taxes. I didn't care about the fifty bucks, or whatever would be left, I had a grand in my pocket and another grand coming. Really, he could have negotiated the gasoline into the deal, and I wouldn't have even thought twice about it; but still, the idea that I was supposed to give the receipt to the people he trusted, obviously more than me, bothered me.

I pulled into the mega-station and scanned for an open pump. The place was crazy busy for the middle of a weekday afternoon, which didn't lessen my fears. I'd been driving the car that reeked of weed for the last five hours, to the point where not only did the car stink, but I, too, smelled like I'd been rolling around in Toby's crops. Now the only question was would anyone else notice it, or was it all in my paranoid head?

I forced myself to relax, remembering that I had a gun and two magazines in my possession. If the shit hit the fan, all I needed to do was pull the gun and aim; the rest would happen fast. Anyone who confronts me, anyone who decides today is the day to play the hero, will make all the difficult choices for me. There would be nothing else to do, no other route to take. The idea of a high-speed chase was intriguing, but everyone knows that such antics never work out the way you hope they might. No, the only answer was to draw and fire, to let momentum take over and see us all to our graves. I'd have to live with dying as the villain, which sucks for me in a sense, but those who knew me would hopefully justify my means at my funeral.

Not knowing how large of a gas tank this Camry had in it, I decided I'd just toss thirty bucks in. This, too, required some thought, the way prepaying at a gas station always does. If you under guess the amount when prepaying, not that big of a deal. If you over guess, you have to go back in to get change. With the goal of being invisible, I wanted as few transactions at the counter as possible. I certainly didn't want to have to go back in afterward. I wanted to pay and leave, but at the same time, I wanted to be sure I had enough to get me all the way there and not have to repeat this process again a couple hundred miles down the road. I wasn't really sure where Tomball was, except that the nearest big city was Houston; regardless, I figured thirty bucks would get me there.

At the pump―leaning as casually as possible against the car, trying to look thoughtful or anything but guilty―I waited as the car swallowed the gasoline. As I waited, people milled about, probably not noticing me per se, but in my delicate condition, I assumed they did. Could they smell the weed? Were my eyes bloodshot? Did I look guilty?

I pondered these things until the nozzle clicked off at $28.76. Are you fucking kidding me? After all that, I needed to go back in there and get my change! Goddamn Japanese and their goddamn efficient cars!

I debated leaving without collecting my change, but wouldn't that make me look more suspicious than anything? Do people leave their change? I had a thousand dollars in my pocket, and seventy dollars change with a prepaid receipt... I didn't have to go get it... As far as Pete's accountants at the drop spot went, I was good... But what about that cashier? Had she been eyeing me? Was I already suspicious to her? Fuck!

I went back in to get my change, deciding that maybe I should use the toilet while I was there... The only problem that created was my distance from the car. I was not able to see and control the situation. If things went south while I was in the shitter, I wouldn't know until the cops came into the bathroom on a manhunt for the owner of the Camry. I wouldn't get to shoot and escape. I'd shoot and be shot... or, worse yet, I'd shoot and they'd use the fucking stun gun on me. I'd wake up a few hours later in the can, awaiting my federal trial...

I stepped up to the counter, making sure to watch the attendant's reaction this time. She didn't even look at me as she was still wrapped up in a conversation with an older man wearing a JB Hunt hat. I even had to remind her who I was, and what pump I was on.

I walked to the bathroom, feeling a bit ridiculous. I did, however, hold my gun in my hand as I sat there listening to bathroom noises, wondering why every bathroom in the country doesn't have a radio playing and an exhaust fan running.

I meandered nervously back to the Camry, looking it over to see if it had been tampered with. I didn't see any evidence of tampering, but the Ford Explorer that was parked behind me had a couple of bad looking dudes emptying trash and pumping gas. I nodded at the guy pumping the fuel. He nodded back, but his buddy, the guy emptying the ashtray and tossing Sonic cups away, didn't. They were both close to my age and brothers, I guessed, as they both had the same strange blue eyes: a pale blue that you could see from twenty-five feet away. Somehow, I knew that if anyone would be able to identify the smell of weed, it was these two dudes.

Feeling the pressure to get out of there, I hurriedly started my car and pulled out of the pump area. I thought about my trunk full of felonies as I started easing my way out of the gas station parking lot, wondering if I should stop before I get back on the highway and check on the goods. I hadn't locked the car when I'd gone in, and now I was wondering how I could have been so stupid.

Just as I was pulling out of the gas station, my gun shifted in my belt, making it poke and prod me in uncomfortable ways. I reached into my belt and removed the gun, holding it in my hand to reassure myself that I was safe, no matter who tried to get me. I leaned down to slide it under my seat, where it always rode when we were driving together. Just as I was trying to ease it under my seat, into a little clear space between the wiring harnesses and seat frame, it became difficult to slide into position. I looked down too long and hit a curb, just before I got back out onto the street. As I hit the curbing, the gun jolted, and suddenly there was a bang!

The gun went off with a flash of light and sent a high pitched tone to my ears as my heart rate tripled. I patted myself down, conflicted about whether or not it had shot me. Sometimes people say that they didn't know they'd been shot until they saw blood bubbling out of them, while others say that the force of the bullet is enough to level a two-hundred-pound man. I didn't know which was accurate, and though I assumed that I was unharmed, I needed to be sure.

When the gun had gone off, I automatically locked the brakes up, making a skidding sound. The people who were pumping gas heard both noises, I'd assume, because as I was patting myself down, reassuring myself that I was OK, I looked in my mirror to see if anyone was lying dead in the parking lot. I didn't see any obvious dead bodies, but I did notice a handful of bystanders walking toward my car to see if I was OK.

All that was left for me to do was punch it out of the lot, which I did immediately. The people who were walking up to check on me were close. Well, close enough to have gotten my license plate number, and soon one of them would be on their way into the store to call the cops. I needed to be gone, fast.

I couldn't decide whether or not getting back on the highway was the right thing to do. Obviously, anyone getting gas in this station was traveling on I-10, so the cops would know where to start looking for me. However, if no one could be certain that it was, in fact, a gunshot that they heard, maybe the police wouldn't have enough cause to hunt me down.

I was frantic, swearing at myself, not only for being an idiot, but for almost killing myself unintentionally with a gun. I was a fucking paratrooper, trained with weapons, trusted to walk in a squad with ten other armed men and engage the enemy without shooting a fellow trooper in the back. Now, like a fucking rookie, I'd shot a hole in my car, or my seat... something had been shot, just not me.

I decided that I would stop at the next exit and find some hiding place to chill for a while until I was sure that the manhunt was over. Of course, that would affect the time that I arrived in Tomball. It was just after 5 p.m. I guessed that I could be in Tomball in three hours, making it still daylight when I arrived, which I preferred since I was more nervous about whom I was meeting than any other aspect of the delivery.

As I turned onto the on-ramp, getting back onto I-10 Westbound, the tires squealed, doing their best to hold onto the road despite my high rate of speed. I needed to pull it back, relax a little.

I got onto the highway, eager to put some distance between myself and the gas station. I stomped the pedal into the floor, feeling its engine roar to life. I smiled as I reached for my stash of weed, perhaps never needing a hit as bad as I did at that particular second. I grabbed the wooden box I carried my shit in and reached for one of my eight pre-rolled joints. Just as I did, I heard a noise.

The car was losing power. I didn't notice it immediately, but when I pushed again on the gas pedal, I heard a gurgling noise and a sputtering somewhere in the engine compartment. I pushed the pedal in a third time, begging God for a mechanical miracle. Each time I pressed it, the car reacted less. I was dead in the water, no power at all. I put my right turn signal on and began rolling toward the shoulder, no more than a mile from the on-ramp. The car finally rolled to a stop, crunching on the loose gravel. My heartbeat was loud and persistent as I begrudgingly reached for the gun. It was time.

Suddenly, I didn't want to make the decision I was facing. All the while I'd thought of suicide as an escape. Now it was feeling more like a consequence than an exit strategy. It wasn't quite time. I needed to write a letter, at least start one, before the cops pulled in behind me, not needing a warrant to search my car due to the gun blast that had been reported and the strong smell of pot.

My plan was to write my mom a letter, trying to make sense of what I was doing, trying to make her understand, which was a long shot, no doubt, but I had to try. The cops would paint me a young criminal, on the run from the Army, running drugs because of the lifestyle I'd chosen. I'd just be another common criminal, living outside the law. They'd say I was a disappointment, that I had no honor... that I died doing the wrong thing. Sure, they'd be right, but they didn't know me. I wasn't a criminal... Well, yeah OK, I suppose I was, but that's not who I was; that's what I was. Captain Dillinger would eventually be interviewed. He'd, no doubt, reference my drug usage, my sexual prowess, and make me into a monster, telling the world that I betrayed him, slept with his wife, had gay sex... Fuck, man, I had to survive this, just so I could clean up my own fucking mess.

If and when the cops pulled in behind me, I'd have just seconds left on earth. I had to do it then, before he approached my window to ask me the redundant question they all ask, "Sir, do you know why I've stopped you?"

I didn't need to play the ego challenge with the state patrol. Those guys are second only to fighter pilots in ego, and I'm not known for being an easy interviewee. I'd ask God to forgive me. I'd ask Him to remember me, who I was, what I meant to be... Maybe I'd ask Him why he'd chosen such a complex individual to exist inside of me. I'd hold the gun under my chin, sending the bullet upward, rather than side to side. That side to side shit is like slitting your wrists: the chances of you missing something vital is too great. I needed a one-shot, one-kill style homerun. I wanted the cop to feel guilty, to be haunted by nightmares of me lying still with the top of my head removed, blood splatter all over the Camry, a note to my mom in my hand; you know, something to tug at his heartstrings...

After all this time, I now knew when and how I would die, which is one of those questions you never know until you do, and when you do, it's almost always too late. All my talk about being close to the end, being in the final days and all that shit, was no longer just philosophical toilet paper to wipe my ideals on. It was my reality, and there, on the side of the road, Ved Ludo realized that he was, in fact, ready for the end.

I'd tell you about the thoughts I had for my mother, all the things I didn't say to her that, suddenly, I wanted to, but those things are not so easily described. I was thinking in pictures more than words, and some of the images I had in my head were complex, multi-layered, and among the most private images I've ever had within me. I didn't want to cry, or even say goodbye to anyone other than my mother. I had no thoughts about being cheated out of life, out of years that we Americans believe we deserve as if life is a guarantee. I was finally prepared. Tranquility came over me as I looked for paper, remembering Ryan and the gestures he'd made at the end of his life, hinting that there was a peaceful place out there, before he closed his eyes for the last time.

There was just enough hope remaining in the situation to keep me from absolute preparedness, but what could happen now to save me from the seemingly inevitable? Ironically, all I can remember hoping for, the only regret I can recall, was something I didn't expect. I'd fucked the prom queen, I'd fucked a bunch of them, and nothing was shallower than that. I'd never craved money... never wanted power. The only thing I wished I could have attained was normalcy.

I wanted to have outgrown my immaturity, to have settled down into a routine like most people... to turn the gift off... I wanted to wake up unafraid of what my mind might ask of me that day. Throughout my life, I kept thinking that normalcy was just around the corner, over the next mountain, in the green valleys below. Every green valley I'd ever seen was no different than the vaginas in between: suitable, but not for the long term.

I guess I didn't mind dying here in Louisiana, though what a strange thing to be thinking of. I wanted Blythe; I wanted to die seeing that sky. Even Ft. Bragg would have been better than this place; here I was a stranger, a no one... I'd be dismissed as a native of Pennsylvania on the run from Washington State and North Carolina... I wouldn't even make the fucking local news tonight. I wanted Blythe dirt to fill in my grave, the dirt I was raised from, the dirt I wanted to return to...

On the back of a Hardee's bag, I began writing my final note for the world.

I'm so sorry that it appears this is who I am. I was a good kid once, an innocent kid, passed over by everyone, never excelled at anything. Now, I am writing this down as a last statement in order that I accomplish one last thing: forgiveness from my mother, who will no doubt be humiliated by these last actions of mine.

I hope that my family can understand that I will simply not go to prison; I will not compromise quality of life for the longevity of it. I wanted to live a good life, a full life; I never set out to live a long life. I think it's ignorant to fear death as, inevitably, we all have it coming. In my last moments, I thought of my sister, my loving sister, and my mother, my father, my friends... I set out to be such a good kid, and I did try... Apparently, I was cursed from the beginning.

I don't expect anyone to pity me, or even understand me. Death, I believe, is a place where we no longer care about this world or its people, so don't think that I care what is said of me, not anymore. It's a departure, and by the time you read this letter, I will be beyond your concerns, your disappointment. I want to forget you all.

All my life, I should have written this letter. I should have invested thousands of hours into this, making sure to summarize my feelings for every last person, but we all have so long to live, right? There's time for all that tomorrow...

Mom, will God forgive me?

I hope so.

I have tried to be a good person, and maybe that didn't come through clearly enough, in which case, I need there to be an all knowing God, someone who did know who I was on the inside, behind all the bad decisions. I hope that He understands...

If the only magic trick God can truly do is know my heart, I will be OK.

All I can do now

I heard tires hitting the gravel, making the same crunching noise that my tires had made. Before I could even look in the rearview mirror, I knew it was the cops. I knew it was the end. I held the gun tentatively and forced myself to see the end happening. It was tragically sad and unbelievably exciting all at the same time. After all these years, I was going to finally know the rest of the mystery... The truth that cannot be trusted to mortal men was about to be mine.

Bravely, I allowed my eyes to follow the path they so desperately wanted to take. They looked into the mirror.

It was a Ford Explorer, driven by a man with tattoos and pale blue eyes.

The sensation wasn't relief, as you might expect, but rather it seemed to complicate the issue a bit. With the cops, I didn't have to fear piracy, I didn't have to expect a beating... With these two guys from the gas station suddenly behind me, I didn't know what to expect. Now, I made the transition from preparing to hurt myself to preparing to hurt someone else. Somehow, at the end of my rope, it didn't make much difference.

So much for the best-laid plans.

I held the gun, dropping the magazine and exchanging it for the fresh one. I need all the rounds possible, so I slipped the other one into my back pocket. I'd take head shots; I'd have to. I didn't want to hurt anyone, I didn't want any problems with anyone, but if these motherfuckers were looking for a solo victim, I'd splatter their fucking brains all over the highway. I was sure, now, that I had the fortitude for it.

In telling these stories throughout the years, people have always asked me if I think I could have really done it. The answer is yes. I could have. Life is a delicate thing, something you cling to when push comes to shove. By nature, I'm not capable of such brutality; however, like the rest of the population, in a do or die situation, I now know where to find the willpower for such things.

I slapped the magazine into the gun, not even bothering to hide it as I saw the passenger's and driver's doors open behind me. A boot appeared from behind the door and landed on the ground, followed by the same face I'd seen pumping gas behind my car. He had no idea how close to the afterlife he was as he approached my vehicle.

I opened my car door also and stepped out as quickly as I could, positioning myself to face him. I didn't want to offer him a split second glance at my back; I wanted him to face me the entire time. As I exited and spun around, I held the gun in my left hand, hiding it as best as I could from the view of traffic roaring past me.

He noticed it immediately.

"Whoa, partner. You don't need that," he said with a southern accent.

"Ah, you never know," I yelled over the roar of cars.

"We just saw that you were broken down. That's all. Take it easy, huh?"

"Just saw me here? Really? What if I think you had other ideas?" I asked him after waiting for two rigs to pass by.

"We saw you at the Flyin' J, heard your gun go off in the parking lot. There was a trail of gas leaking out of your car as you drove off... figured you wouldn't make it far... that's all. If you don't want help, fuck it, we'll get out of here."

"Trail of gas?"

"Yeah, you must've shot a gas line or something. Fuel was dripping from under the car somewhere, figured you wouldn't get too far."

As much as I didn't want to admit it, I could smell gasoline even as we talked about gasoline. It made sense, but I wasn't going to take my eyes off of these two for long enough to look.

"Yeah, well... I'm pretty fucked here, man. As soon as the cops come, I'm in some serious shit. I can't go with you anyway; I have a ton of shit in the trunk... I just can't go with you. Thanks, though, for stopping."

"Look, we're headed to Houston. We can give you a ride if you need one. Other than that, I don't really feel too bad for a guy with a gun in his hand. If you don't want a ride, good luck to ya."

I decided right then and there what to do. "Come here for a second, bro. I want to show you something. It'll help clarify where I'm coming from and why I've got a gun in my hand, OK? I'm not gonna hurt you; I just want to show you something. Cool?"

The other guy who was standing beside the passenger door finally spoke, "Evan, come on. Let's go."

"Shut up, Bear," Evan said to his partner. He looked at me, trustingly. "All right, let's see it."

I waved him toward the trunk as cars passed us noisily on the highway, sending tiny stones into the whipping air. Evan walked over to my trunk. When I raised the lid on it, he said nothing, that is until I removed the blanket.

"Holy fuck!" he said with a smile.

"Understand now?" I asked, still clutching my gun, still ready to blast the fucker if I had to.

"Where is it headed?" he asked me evenly, without a hint of dismay.

"Tomball, outside of―"

"Houston," he finished my sentence.

"Yeah, exactly."

He looked at me for a long time, trying to scan my brain from the outside in.

"Let's load it up. I'll drive it. We can deliver it together."

"I can't, man. It has to get there in this car; has to."

"I don't know what you're thinking you're gonna do, but it looks to me like you shot a hole in your car and now it ain't running. So you can either call a wrecker to come get ya and hope that he beats the cops here, or you can come with us. Either way, I'm leaving here before the cops get here."

"All right, let's load it up."

With their help, we got the shit loaded in less than a minute. We wrapped the bags in the blankets while they were still hidden in my trunk, carried them over to his Explorer, and dumped them out. I didn't like not knowing if they were being honest with me, but what was I supposed to do? At this point, getting the weed delivered was the least of my issues, but leaving it in the car was a terrible idea. It was, after all, a rental left on the side of the highway.

When we had it loaded, I wandered back to his Ford. I'd looked over my car for anything that I might have forgotten that would give my identity away. I figured that Pete was on the hook for the car, not me, and if that bastard gave me up, it'd be the same as if I gave him up... unacceptable.

Bear had already gotten into the back seat of the Explorer, so I took the passenger seat without asking.

"Where are you coming from with that?" Bear asked me.

"I'd rather not say."

"Bear! Don't open your mouth without asking me first!" Evan corrected him.

"Nah, it's cool. I just don't want to say too much, ya know?" I said to Bear.

Evan answered again, playing the mouthpiece for his friend. "Definitely. Don't worry about him; he's got a mild form of autism. He's cool, my cousin and all... but he's annoying as fuck!"

"I'm not annoying, Evie," Bear said, laughing at his pet name for Evan.

"See?" Evan smiled at me.

"Yeah, it's cool," I said, feeling better that only one of these two presented serious potential for harm.

"He's like my brother. Been takin' care of him since he was just a pup."

"That's awesome, bro."

"He's not my brother! He's my cousin! Evie!" Bear was laughing hysterically behind me.

"So... you from around here?" Evan asked me.

"No. Pennsylvania. I just got out of the Army. A buddy of mine lives down here. I came to see him and now, somehow, I'm running drugs for his father's friend."

"The Army, huh?" Evan asked.

"Evie was in the Army! He jumped out of airplanes. All the way from up there to down here. Woooop!" Bear pointed to the sky and then the ground.

"Yeah?" I asked, intrigued by this development.

"Yeah, 82nd, at Ft. Bragg," Evan commented nonchalantly.

"No way!" I said, but before I could continue, Bear commented again.

"Yeah, he was!"

"That's fuckin' hilarious. I was 82nd."

Evan looked at me as if he were deciding if I was serious or not. "Really? What unit?"

"The 82nd Sig, hoorah!"

"First of the 325, infantry," Evan said with a head nod.

"No shit?" I asked, smiling.

"Yeah, '90 to '95."

"I got to Bragg in '95, bro."

I looked at him, knowing that I liked him better immediately because of this. It was like by knowing that he was at Bragg, I could trust him better than I could have a few minutes ago. I knew him. The Army is such a fraternal group... The problem with it is that when you get out, no civilian can understand what it is that you did for all that time. By knowing that Evan was in the Army, I knew what he was, even if not all the unimportant details of his stay at Bragg. We'd been to the same bars, the same strip joints, the same restaurants... Evan and I weren't so different after all.

"Eleven Bravo?" I asked.

"Yep."

I smiled, thrilled to have discovered this about my new friend.

"I'm Evan," he said, sticking his hand out.

"Ved. Damn glad to meet you."

"You too. How long have you been out?" he asked, skirting the issue that he really wanted to talk about.

"Not long. A few days."

"Wow. Feel good to be out?"

"Uh... it's uh... different." A moment passed before I offered, "This job was a one-time thing. I mean, there's more work if I want it, but I'm learning that I'm far better at smoking this shit than I am at delivering it."

"Right," Evan said with a smile.

I didn't really know how much I was supposed to say about it, how much was safe to tell these people. Now that I knew who he was, what he was, I trusted him. Trusting him was something spawned by inexperience in dealing with this sort of thing, but I felt good about him. I employed my gift as we drove through the flattest land on earth, listening closely to what he said, watching him drive, seeing him scanning his mirrors and driving reasonably fast, without making us conspicuous. I even thought maybe Evan and I could do this for a living for a while if it came to it.

I could see that he liked the rush of it; that it sat better with him than it did with me. He showed no signs of nervousness as he changed lanes, signaling and talking to me as if we'd been best friends for the last ten years. I could tell that he liked the responsibility of both trafficking and being my rescuer, and I added those things to the computing of his character.

"What are you gonna do about the car?" Evan asked me.

"Honestly, I don't know. It's a rental, obviously. I guess that when the cops tag it and tow it, they'll get word to Enterprise that they have their car. My boss will probably get billed for the towing and shit, but he won't care, assuming that I get the shit to where it belongs. If I don't, well, I don't know what happens if I don't, but that's the other reason I carry the gun."

He laughed. "Oh, he's a dangerous man? I get it. And don't worry, we're gonna get it there."

"If you can get me there, get the shit there, I'll pay you half of what I got paid to do it. A grand, as soon as we leave there alive." I smiled.

"Alive? What, do you not know the guys who you're delivering to?"

"Nope. I don't even know where I'm delivering. All I know is that I have to make a phone call when I get close. Whoever answers the phone is supposed to give me directions where to go from there."

"Wow, that's some serious James Bond shit. I like it." He looked in the mirror, scanning for cops as he spoke. "Bear is staying with some friends of his from an autism camp he went to last summer in Houston. We'll drop him off, and if you really want me to, I'll help you deliver this shit later tonight."

"Uh... I don't know what to say to that. But fuck it, I'd love the company if you're serious."

"Fuck yeah, I'm serious. Even got a .380. It ain't a 1911, but it'll do in a pinch."

I smiled at my new friend. "Hoorah."

He looked at me. "Hairbone!"

Two hours later, we'd dropped off Bear at a facility for the autistic, a place full of trampolines and gym ropes. Bear hugged us both like we were never coming back, asking over and over again if we were going to be friends. I assured him that we were, and that I'd be back with Evan in two days to pick him up. That seemed to be the best answer I could have given him, as he hugged me for the third time.

I was somewhat jealous of the relationship these two had. Being a lifelong Steinbeck fan, I couldn't help but think of the two of them as George and Lennie, two troubled souls out in the world together, trying to make a go of the few cards they'd been dealt.

After Bear was distracted by the friends he'd come to see, we snuck out the front door and headed back to the Explorer. The fucking weed smelled potent, more so than it had in the Camry, making me wonder, for the three thousandth time, if we had a broken bag.

We crossed the street and pulled up to a pay phone at an Exxon station. I jumped out and dialed the number, tapping my foot nervously while the phone connected. On the first ring, someone answered.

"Yeah," A man's voice said gruffly.

"I'm here."

"Where?"

"Outside of Houston."

"Is everything OK with the car?" he asked.

"Well... you wouldn't believe it, but the car didn't make it to―"

"Where's the fucking car?"

"On the highway, or at least it was the last time I saw it." I smiled once again at my quick humor. I'm just a fucking riot!

"And the lumber?"

"I have the lumber with me. Where am I supposed to go? Can we talk about this later?"

"How do you have it with you if you don't have the car?"

"I have it, man. Everything's good."

"No! Everything's not good!" The man on the other end was screaming so loudly that his voice was distorted on the phone.

"You want me to meet you or not?"

"No. Go away. I don't trust you. Lose my fucking number!" And with that, he hung up.

That wasn't the reaction I was expecting. I set the phone back into its cradle and turned to Evan. "That wasn't what I was hoping for."

"What'd he say?"

"He doesn't trust me. Told me to hit the fuckin' road."

"Shit. So now what?"

"I call my boss. See what to do."

"Is he gonna be pissed?" Evan asked.

"No, yeah, I don't know... Fuck him. I'm the one who's pissed."

I dialed Zach's house and Rayanne picked up on the third ring.

"Rayanne, Ved... is Toby around?"

"Hi, Ved. Where are you?" she asked.

Rayanne didn't know what I was doing? Wow, this really is a secretive operation. "Houston. Is Toby there? It's important."

"Sure, hun. Hang on a sec." I heard her scream for Toby at the top of her lungs. A second later, Toby answered the phone.

"Ved?" he asked.

"Toby, write this down." I gave him the pay phone number, told him to get ahold of Pete, and then call me back with instructions.

Hesitantly, he agreed, sounding more nervous for my sake than I was.

A minute later the phone rang. It was Pete calling. "Hey."

"Yeah."

"It's me. What happened?" He sounded cooler about it all than I was expecting.

I told him the story, turning the fatal gunshot the car had suffered into mysterious mechanical issues. No need to be too honest, I decided.

"OK, OK... good. So you have everything?"

"Yes, I have everything I need. Where am I going?"

"Let me make a phone call. I'll call you right back."

I hung up the phone, and when I did, I happened to notice how eagerly my new friend was waiting. He looked like he'd been hanging on my every word while I was talking to Pete, making me wonder, why? Why would this guy, who would have done this even if I hadn't offered to pay him, want to help me run drugs across the South? What was in it for him?

The answer was as easy to identify as the question. Evan was bored. People don't give boredom any credit, but, really, being bored is a negative state to be in. No one likes the sensation of being bored, yet it doesn't really have any painful or adverse symptoms. It's just that being bored sucks. For some people, that sensation is harder to grow accustomed to, especially people who once lived exciting lives. Feeling bored is bad enough, but having the rush of excitement once upon a time and losing it is far worse, like the difference between being born blind and losing your vision at twenty-five.

Evan, like me, was out here because he was bored. He was looking for something. Together we'd tempt the goddess of happenstance, begging her to send us something, anything, as long as it was unexpected. The problem was, what she was about to send our way was a first-time crisis that neither of us could have ever imagined.

"What'd he say?" he asked me, panting with anxiety.

"Sounds like we're on. He's gonna call me back. He wasn't even too much of a dick about it."

"Oh my God," he exclaimed, bringing his hands up to his head and running his fingers through his hair.

This was so drastic, so over the top, I couldn't help but laugh at his hysteria. "Jesus, man... You're really into this. You can hardly control yourself!"

"It's just... I want to do it. You stumble into the gas station at the same time we're there... Then you come out and you're parked right in front of me... Then you leave and... the gunshot... You break down... Come on, don't you see it? It's destiny."

"Destiny, huh?"

"Gotta be. Last week I went through some serious shit. I was ready to off myself..." He looked at me cautiously, then added, "You know, women problems... Anyway, it got me thinking about how much I missed my life. I've just been sitting around waiting for something to happen to me for so long. I haven't done anything interesting since I got back from Bragg."

"And by anything, you mean like... running drugs across the South?" I smiled.

He didn't smile. "Anything. I'm bored outta my fuckin' face. Let's do this. We'll deliver the pot and head to the titty bar. That sound cool?"

"All right. I get it, bro. We're not so different. I guess that anyone willing to do this job has a reason, though you and I might be the only two in the world to run drugs for reasons other than the money."

"You're not doing it for the money?" he asked, intrigued.

"No."

"So why risk it?"

"Like I said, bro. We all have a reason; none of them are fucking good enough."

The phone rang; I answered it on the second ring. "What's up?" I asked, proud of myself for not using his name.

"Go to 12548 East Rochester Ave. Pull into the garage door that's open," Pete said flatly.

"OK? And who am I looking for?" I asked, realizing that Pete didn't sound as "cool" now as he had a minute ago.

"You're not looking for anyone, goddamnit! All you have to do is pull into the garage. That's what I told you. That's all there is for you."

"OK, OK... but it's safe, right?"

"Just do what I told you. OK? Is that so hard?"

"I don't know. I haven't been there yet. If it is hard, I'm coming back to take it out of your ass. I hope you understand that," I threatened.

Click. He was gone.

"What was that about?" Evan asked me.

"It's about Pete being an asshole, and me getting tired of his country-cryptic instructions. Something feels off to me, man. Something feels bad about this. He gave me some fucking address, told me to pull into the garage door that's open. I'm guessing it's like a mechanic shop or something. He said just pull in, that's all I need to know." I looked at Evan, hoping his excitement was fading and the reality was setting in.

"So? What's the problem? We pull in, open the back, give them the fucking goods, and roll out. Easy. It'll take five seconds."

"Man, I talked to someone there. When I called, he wanted no part of this. Said he didn't trust me."

"Nah, Ved. Don't over think it too much. Besides, what the hell else will you do with that guy's pot? Keep it?"

"Sell it?" I asked, my eyebrows arched.

"Fifty pounds? No way. To who? You know people around here who'd buy it?" he asked.

"No... I don't know anyone."

"So, let's go deliver it." He smiled.

"Fuck it, let's go."

"Atta boy! Let's get this done. I need a lap dance!" Evan slid across the hood of the Explorer like he was Bo Duke.

I was into joint six of the pre-rolled joints I'd brought with me, passing it back and forth to Evan while he drove in his ever-cautious way, scanning the mirrors as if he were expecting the CIA to be tailing us. It wasn't a long jaunt around the beltway, and before too long, I was baked out of my face, and we were in Tomball, looking for a map at a gas station.

"Ved, you gotta just be cool. Don't look scared. Don't look... anything. Stay neutral, keep your gun concealed, but be ready in case we need it," he said to me as he tossed the map onto the counter for the clerk to ring up.

"I got this, sir," I said, handing over a ten-dollar bill to buy the massive, book style atlas.

"Thing is, you just have to stay cool. No matter what, look cool, and they'll treat us cool."

"OK, Pablo Escobar," I said, wondering where he came up with this insight.

Half an hour later, we pulled onto East Rochester, though we were fifteen blocks west of the address we needed. The street was residential, and I thought maybe we'd gotten on the wrong Rochester. It was 9:17 p.m. when we turned onto the street, and at 9:23, I was looking at the numbers 12548 hanging above the three-car garage attached to a house that looked as if Martha Stewart might live inside.

"This has got to be wrong," I said to no one.

Pablo answered, "You sure he said 12548? Maybe it was 15248?"

"Maybe it was 18452, 12845... Fuck, man... there are shit-tons of combinations that it could be. He said 12548. That's what I wrote down."

"Yeah, and the door is open."

"So... should we pull in?" I asked Pablo.

"I guess. I don't know. You sure this is right?"

"No, goddamnit! If I knew this was right, we'd be in there already." I reacted.

"OK, Ved... remember, cool..."

"Right, cool... pull in."

"All right, if it ain't them, we'll just say we're at the wrong place, apologize, and leave," Pablo said, sounding like he was the one who was nervous now.

Pablo made the left, eased up the driveway, and pulled into the garage. The light from the garage door opener was the only source of light in the massive space, and with a minivan and a Ford Escort also parked in there, I thought there were too many shadows.

He stopped the car, killed the ignition, and turned to me, wild eyed. "I don't know... This has got to be wrong."

"Too late," I said as the garage door roared to life, closing behind us.

We were alone as far as we could tell. I didn't see anyone push the button; I didn't see anyone at all. The door was closing, sealing us into this garage, and suddenly, I was so nervous I almost shit myself.

"What the fuck do we do now?" I asked.

"Get out?" he suggested.

"I guess," I said, opening the door. I was glad to be doing something, anything.

We were parked in the far west door, but the door that went from the garage into the house was on the east side. Our eyes were fixed on it, waiting to see who and how many people were going to come through it. Bicycles, strollers, and skis decorated the walls, as if the fucking Bradys lived there. I scanned the garage, releasing my stare on the door, trying to see if we were alone out there or if someone was hiding behind a vehicle, waiting to surprise us.

The place smelled like a spaghetti dinner. The scents of tomato sauce and garlic were hanging in the air as we stood by the Explorer, wondering what we should do next.

The door into the house opened, and as I waited for what seemed like an eternity to see the shape of whoever opened it, I heard Pablo open the back of his vehicle. A woman stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the brighter lights behind her.

"Hello," I said.

"Hey, guys. Come on in," she said in a thick southern drawl.

Pablo looked at me, and I looked at him. This was definitely not what either of us was expecting. We came around the vehicle from different directions, walking carefully toward her.

"Lock it," I announced to Pablo.

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. Lock it!"

"You ain't gotta lock it, fellas," she said.

"Lock it," I repeated.

Pablo looked at me for a long second, as if I was being a freak, before deciding to err on the side of caution. He stopped and went back to the car while I approached the woman.

"Y'all ain't got to lock it. Nobody's gonna steal anything from it," she repeated.

"Yeah, I get that. It's just... Well, I'd feel better if I knew it was locked."

"Suit yourself, honey."

I was just close enough to see her, to see that she was attractive, though not as young as I'd thought initially, when suddenly, I heard footsteps moving quickly at me from somewhere behind the minivan. Instinctively, I drew my gun and swung it toward the noise. Two men stopped dead in their tracks, not expecting the muzzle of a .45 to be pointed at their faces.

"Whoa, man!" one dude without a southern accent said. "Take it easy, buddy," he said, showing me his hands.

"Pablo... I need you over here, bro."

"Leri... he's got a fucking gun, a big one," the Yankee said, glancing at the woman.

"OK, easy guys... We just want to talk. We were expecting one guy, not two. We're reacting to you. This isn't what it looks like," Leri said.

"What it looks like, is a fucking robbery. I swear to God, you take another step toward me, if anyone takes another step toward me, I'll empty your skull," I said, sounding genuinely badass.

"Guys... Guys! It's OK. This is my husband, Billy, and his brother, Robert," Leri said.

"I don't give a fuck if it's your fairy godmother Latifa. He's a fucking dead man if he makes another mistake like the last one."

"Ved, relax. Everything is cool," Pablo assured me from his position behind me.

"I don't know what is happening, but my nerves are shot. OK? It's been a long fucking day, and I just want everyone to understand exactly where I am coming from. I've been awake for a long time, had a long night last night, and have been nervous for too many hours to count. So... to make me feel better, I don't want anyone any closer to me than ten feet. I want to see your hands. I want everyone to move fucking slowly around me. Don't upset me... please. Don't upset me."

Leri spoke next, using her soft voice, "OK, I hear you. I'm just going to explain this as slowly and carefully as I can, OK? I just want you to understand," she said, waiting for a reply from me.

I nodded, the barrel of my gun shaking a bit, but still pointed at her husband's face.

"OK, Pete called me and told me that you had a problem. He said that you had car issues and were delayed. That made us nervous. We'd been waiting for a few hours by then, so when you showed up here in a different vehicle than what we were expecting, and with an extra person, we got scared. We've known Pete for a long time. Used to live in Franklinton... We knew the last driver pretty well, but this is as scary for us as it is for you. OK? Does that make sense to you?"

It made sense to me, yes; however, two guys creeping around from behind the minivan still didn't. I wanted to look at Pablo, to see his take on the events, but I didn't dare take my eyes off of Billy. He had something in his eyes, something malevolent.

"Pablo, open the back. Give them the shit. Let's get the fuck outta here."

"Now? Is that a good idea?"

"Goddamnit, man. Open the fucking back and give them the shit. We need to go, now!"

"All right... fuck!" he said, wild eyed and more nervous than I was.

I heard him moving around in the echo-chamber of the dark, sealed garage. I heard the door to the back of his Explorer opening and then the sound of cellophane slapping against concrete as he tossed the five pound bags onto the floor.

"Guys, relax. Come inside. You've been driving all day. I'm making spaghetti; I'd love for y'all to eat with us," Leri said in her kindest voice, though I heard agitation somewhere beneath it. She didn't like not having control of me... That was the alarm that kept sounding in my head.

"I'm not hungry."

"He ain't hungry, Lar," Robert said, tauntingly.

From that point, things went south fast. Being in a strange new environment without any kind of compass to guide me through the events, I relied on instinct, praying that the Army had more of an effect on me than I'd ever considered.

I swung my gun toward Robert, and as I did, Billy lunged at me.

Bang! My gun exploded.

The noise was fucking deafening. My ears picked up the same high-pitched tone as they had when I'd fired the gun in my car. The recoil almost jerked the pistol out of my hand altogether.

The shot went wide of Robert's head, exploding against the Sheetrock wall. Dust and debris flew out of the wall, sending a cloud of shit to the floor.

Billy ducked his head when I spun the gun around, lowering himself to collide with my torso. Instinctually, I stepped to the side and drove the handle of the gun down on his head. It hit his skull with a dull thud, and he fell to the ground in a way that conscious men cannot replicate. Hair and blood stuck to the handle of the gun, confirming that he'd been hit pretty hard. Fuck, who knows, maybe I killed the bastard.

I stepped to the side, recovering my balance just in time to bring my gun up against Robert's face, who'd tried to scramble toward me in the split second it took me to collapse his brother.

"Well, now that we understand each other..." I said, staring at Robert.

He looked at me as I looked at him, his eyes like slits in his face. He wasn't happy with me at all. Everyone in the room understood where we were at now, for sure. There were no more pleasantries to be had, no more need to talk.

Shlack. I heard another bag of pot hit the ground, and then another... Pablo was trying to get the trunk empty as fast as possible, knowing that we were now in life and death territory.

"That's all of it, Ved. Let's get the fuck out of here," he said to me as I kept my eyes locked on Robert.

I spoke to Leri, never taking my eyes off of Robert. "Open the door."

No answer. Leri was gone, in the house somewhere. Only then did I hear the footsteps in the house, somewhere above me. All I could do was assume she was looking for something to shoot back with. I thought of her like a Labrador retriever, on her way back to present me with the thing she'd retrieved, though I had a hunch it wasn't something I wanted to see.

"Come on, Ved. We gotta go... This is bad. This is very bad!" Pablo said, starting his Explorer.

I agreed wholeheartedly, but with Robert standing less than three feet from me, I didn't dare turn my back on him. Leri would be back in seconds, and I had a feeling she was more eager to shoot me than I was to shoot her.

"Step back," I instructed my hostage.

"Fuck you. Shoot me!" Robert replied.

Oh, so it was going to be that way, huh? "The weed's on the floor. All I want now is to leave here. Step back and let me leave. You have everything."

"Yeah, I'll have everything in a second, just a few more seconds..." He looked at his brother who was squirming around, obviously alive. "Fuck you, pussy. Shoot me."

I'd been nervous for too long. The day had been too much for me. I'd tried to tell them. I'd tried to be peaceful. Nothing was going to work, other than the obvious.

When you get to this point, pulling the trigger isn't as hard as it seems. At this point, the world is one place, and you are in quite another. My hands shook and my mind raced as I considered his plea. I lowered the gun from his face, pointing it at his legs.

Before the echo from the gun stopped bouncing off the walls of the garage, a red splatter exploded from behind his leg, almost appearing like it'd been there the whole time. The force of seeing a bullet rip through flesh is daunting, giving you a new perspective on just how ruthless and primitive these weapons are. It seemed like there was no delay from when the gun went off to when the back of his shin exploded, kicking his leg out from beneath him before he fell to the floor.

I was so shocked at what I'd done; I don't think I freaked out immediately. It didn't come until later, when Pablo and I had time to reflect on the night. I did realize, however, that this had brought things to a different level. There was no innocence left in this for me.

Once you open that can of worms, you understand that you have just given people a reason for revenge. This was the kind of thing that people never forget, and as soon as Leri got back to the garage, she was going to be seeking it. For me, being the aggressor was odd. I knew that Leri had heard the shot; I knew that she was getting her gun, and now she was justified to use it, especially in the state of Texas. I'm sure that, legally, the fact that we were all involved in a drug deal would complicate the gray area of the "Make my Day" law, but if I were her, I'd shoot, trusting that I could get off the charges, eventually.

The scream that came from Robert was not human; it was animal. He was whining through his throat, only when he inhaled, and he seemed incapable of words. Not that I was going to stick around for too long, but I wanted to hear him say something. I'd just shot a man for God's sake. I needed to know he wasn't dying.

I heard the footsteps coming from in the house. She was almost to the door. "Come on, goddamnit!" Pablo yelled.

I spun toward his Explorer, turning my back on my two victims, and as I did, I simultaneously heard the house door open, followed by a pop! Pop!

Tink. Something metallic echoed.

She had fired two rounds, missing my head and hitting the track that the garage door rollers followed. Her gun wasn't nearly as loud as mine, something small, maybe a .22 or a .25, not the kind of gun that generally kills a man in the first shot, unless it was to the head, of course, which apparently was her intent with the first two rounds.

I ran behind the minivan, hoping to put it between her and me, as Pablo decided that being trapped by a closed garage door was only a matter of perspective―mainly, who had to pay for the door. He had decided, as the driver, that it wasn't his burden, and all he had to do was drive through it.

He rammed the door in reverse, separating it at the seams, sending a horrific noise and a shit-ton of debris into the air. Instinctively, I spun toward the door Leri was standing in and fired a round, intentionally missing her. My bullets, in comparison to hers, were like cannonballs. When my bullet hit the door frame, less than a foot from her torso, the boards came apart.

She recoiled pathetically late, affording me an opportunity to run through the gaping hole of a garage door in pieces, without being fired at. Pablo, the thrill seeker, kept backing down the driveway, not stopping immediately for me to get in. It dawned on me, just for a split second, that if he left me there, I would be in some serious shit. As his Explorer dropped off the driveway curb onto the street, his bumper hit the pavement, sending up sparks and a terrible thump. I chased after him as he spun the car in reverse, shifted into drive, and stopped, waiting for me.

As I ran toward him, I saw his reaction to something happening behind me. There was only one thing that would make a man look scared like that. (Well, after the excitement of a gunfight anyway.) That bitch was coming for me. Without even turning to face her, I fired another shot behind me, then another. After my thunderous rounds flew, I heard a pop and then another tink as it hit Pablo's truck somewhere.

He opened the passenger door with his right hand, pushing it open and stepping on the gas just as I reached the ride. I went in head first, my face in his lap, my feet sticking out as he squealed the tires getting us the fuck out of there.

We stopped at a gas station somewhere near Houston, still in shock from what happened. My hands were shaking uncontrollably, my mind racing. We'd talked about it the whole way in something of a terrified giddiness. Something about being shot at; no, something about shooting somebody... Fuck... I didn't really know which one was making me shake like that. The terror that came from having my back turned to someone while they tried to take my life wouldn't relent, even as we smoked the last two joints down to the last red ember.

I was out of pot, out of a job, and afraid to return to Zach's house. Beyond simply hating to have to admit failure, especially at this... I was worried about what failing like this would mean to me physically. Was Pete capable of hurting me? Could I spin this, making it seem like I was the victim? Probably not. I already knew that the Brady Bunch and Pete had a partnership for some time now, Leri had said so herself.

Pablo and I talked about it nonstop, of course, as we drove back to the city. We were in various states of emotion, some fluctuation between ecstatic, disbelief, regret, surprise, terrified, and grateful to be alive, making the ride back to the city seem fast. I'd been looking for a spark, something to ignite my death wish, and though I would have settled for something like a tire blowout on a narrow road, or a house fire that I barely escaped... a shoot-out in a garage, where I was outnumbered and escaped unscathed, wasn't a bad way to ignite the fire. I'd shot a man through the leg!

We stopped at a Denny's for dinner and decision making time. While we ate, we recalled the entire series of events, seeing what they would sound like if we had to tell the same story to the cops. We thought that maybe, if we heard ourselves recall it, there would be something in it that would make us sound like anything other than two gun-toting, weed-running ex-soldiers. All we came up with was that we needed a bullet hole in the Explorer somewhere, proof that she had fired at us even while we escaped.

After we'd paid, we nervously walked around the Explorer, looking for a bullet hole. Just to the right of the tire, almost unnoticeable, was a tiny hole. I opened the back of the SUV, hoping to see where the bullet had finally lodged itself.

I couldn't find the resting place of the bullet, but I did see something else that helped ease my nerves about the future. It wouldn't keep me out of jail, it wouldn't make going back to Bogalusa any easier, but, still, seeing it there made me feel optimistic, like maybe I could run away right now and survive, at least for a while.

In the back of the Explorer, was a five-pound bag of pot.

Well, at least I wasn't out of pot; there was that.

3

Into Thin Air

Most of us are workers because we have always been workers. We plug along, day after day, accustomed to working like some sort of self-indentured servant to ourselves, thumbing our noses at the "lazy" or the "rich" simply because, unlike us, they don't work.

We say things about these lazy types that comfort us, things that make us feel good about the fact that we rise with the sun and sleep with the darkness, but really we haven't made articulate judgments; we are just reacting to what we do not know. It's just jealousy.

I don't doubt that for some people, work is necessary. I think this stems from the need to feel productive, and I think that the people who intentionally choose to work their lives away cannot find that feeling of productivity in any other place. Though, I would also argue that some of these people, if given an opportunity to not "work" for a living but rather fill their time doing things they wanted to do, could find a substitute feeling that would overpower the euphoria of sitting in a fucking cubicle all day.

Imagine being given a year to do nothing. For that year, you would be paid exactly what you made the year before, but you don't have to work to earn your salary. The conditions of the agreement would be that you could not work another job trying to double your money, but you could experiment with self-employment, as long as it fell into the category of self-discovery.

What would you do with your time? After your TV began to bore you, where would you invest the endless hours you had? Surely, some people would not be able to find the things that intrigue them. They would grow bored, they would miss the feelings of accomplishment, and before long, they would want to return to work.

On the other side of that, some people would have an endless agenda. For the creative types of the world, they would begin to discover things they always wanted to do but never had the time. They would invest in themselves, trying out things like painting or home improvement. Maybe they would get into shape, riding out the year high on endorphins they discovered under the fat they'd been carrying for decades.

The bottom line is that you never know what type of person you are unless you are, at some point in your life, afforded the opportunity to do nothing for an extended period of time.

Being AWOL from the Army meant that, for the first time in my life, I couldn't work. Even in 1997, the technology to locate someone from the use of his social security number existed, therefore limiting the job opportunities I was capable of entertaining. I didn't want to drive a car for fear of being stopped for something stupid like a tail light out. I didn't want to be out and about at all...

At the time of this hiatus from working, I didn't know how much I would enjoy sitting on my ass. I mean, I'd been working with my father since I was seven years old. I was always responsible for buying my own clothing, providing my own funds for entertainment, and certainly buying my first car. I hadn't been handed anything for as far back as I can remember, and to me, working wasn't just a means to an end, it was what men did. Hell, if it had been up to my mother, I would have had to come up with the entire year's insurance money before I could drive.

See, that's just the way it was in my family. I think they thought that tough love was the best love. My parents believed that if they trained me to fend for myself young, it would come naturally to me when I was older. It did. I never looked for handouts, never asked for help... I learned early to do for myself: a lesson that I am more thankful for the older I get. The downside to their philosophy was that without dependence on them for things, I became disconnected a little. I didn't have to seek out their permission for things; I had to work for it. It gave me emotional calluses; it made me think of my parents as landlords more than as providers.

Compounding those feelings, my mother and my stepdad created a rule that they thought was somewhat funny, though I never did.

"When you kids turn eighteen, you either go to college, or you pay market-rate rent."

First of all, I never, ever, ever had intentions of sticking around after I reached an age where disappearing was viable. From the time I was twelve years old, I was ready to get the fuck out. I was raising myself, essentially, leaning on myself to work harder to make the money I needed for the movies, or for gas... Now, suddenly, they decide to make a rule designed to get me to leave? This rule applied only to me, and they told me this, over and over again. I was in the ninth grade when they came up with it. My sister was a senior and had already been accepted into college; they knew she was leaving... My stepsiblings, however, seemed to hover around the house for months at a time, depending on who they were, or were not, dating; but I was always planning on going.

They didn't think I was capable of leaving. They thought that because I was a bad student, I didn't have the opportunities that the others had, and therefore would spend my twenties working at the pizza place in Blythe.

I found it insulting that they would assume that I would even want to stay there. Do these people even know me? I would lie awake at night, thinking about their rule for me, knowing that my mother and her new husband were so hot for each other that they were blinded by the desire to be alone at all hours of the day. Alone to do God-knows-what behind closed doors. All they could fixate on was how miserable having fucking grown kids living there made their sex lives. And for that, they repeated the rule to me, day in and day out.

By the time I was fifteen, I was tired of the rule, tired of hearing it, and by that age I would lay in bed, thinking that I was going to make them regret pushing me away. I would disappear one day, and when they were old and lonely, wanting me to come back, I'd remind them that they did this... I'd let them lay awake wondering where I was, why I'd gone.... no mercy. I'd teach them. I'd teach them all.

Weeks after returning from my botched drug run to Texas, I simply lived each day as if they were all Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. I spent most of my days alone, riding Zach's family four-wheeler on the endless country roads. I'd swim in the water moccasin infested creek, or "crick" as it was called by the natives. I'd climb the Washington Parish fire tower at least once a day and smoke a pre-rolled joint while looking down on the flattest piece of earth I'd ever seen. I was alone with myself, and my thoughts, and it didn't take long before the boredom started to recede and I began to appreciate the lonely hours in the middle of the day: the hours I'd never known before. I read The Fountainhead and East of Eden, wrote long pages in my journal, played Zach's guitar... it was lovely.

After a while, I had a routine that involved a lot of shit, but when people asked what I was doing, the honest answer, at least as far as they were concerned, was nothing. Zach worked long hours at the cabinet place. Toby and Rayanne were home, but I didn't want to be in their way, so I made a point of gathering up my books, some acrylic paints, my journals, my Discman, some loose leaf paper, a few joints, Zach's guitar, and some suntan lotion, and then I'd toss them into a backpack and speed off on the four-wheeler. I made rope swings that swung from cliffs and went over deep parts in the river, built tree forts in the pine trees, painted murals on old dilapidated barns... I spent hundreds of hours lying on the seat of the four-wheeler, sunbathing and listening to music... I did whatever I wanted to do, and it suited me just fine. I was content doing nothing. I was actually happy then.

I'd discovered trails that went everywhere, and when there were no trails that went where I needed to go, I just made them. I knew every inch of the land that surrounded Zach's family's houses, land that belonged to the Bureau of Land Management... hundreds of thousands of acres of pine treed rolling hills and open expanses of grasslands.

Discovering the massive, hundred-foot-tall fire tower that looked to have been abandoned for the last twenty years was a discovery I was excited about. It sat not too far off of BLM Road 113, just beyond the creek, somewhat hidden by the pine trees that surrounded it, though, obviously, the Tower rose above most of the treetops. It had reminded me of the Hill in Blythe and the times I'd spent smoking joints from on top of the power line towers there with friends who had long since forgotten me.

I began to make the BLM tower a part of my daily routine, and when I finally brought the forty pound cable cutters with me and chopped the padlock that had been keeping me from the upper platform, I had a real fort to play in.

I brought cigar boxes each day, filled with things I needed like a joint rolling machine, pens, coins, cigarettes, and stacked them in an organized fashion. I added my own padlock to the trapdoor, keeping any potential hoodlums and/or BLM employees from stealing my stuff and sitting in my fort. Now I had a place to nap, jerk off, smoke pot... Anything I wanted to do, I could do at the Tower.

One day I discovered another trail that headed out from behind the Tower. It meandered through a few nameless fields before dipping down a steep grade, crossing a fairly deep river, rising on the other side, and meeting up with a paved road. I had no idea what road it was because I didn't drive my car in the area. Besides, the trail turned and twisted so much, there was no real sense of direction. The thing about that trail that made it special wasn't the road it took me to, it was the fact that about hundred feet from where the road and the trail intersected, an old run-down gas station advertising the "best po-boys in the state of Louisiana" sat waiting for me.

I hadn't been prepared for this on the first day I discovered it, and, of course, I had no cash on me. So I made a mental note to return the next day with some money and an appetite.

The next morning I mounted the four-wheeler, double checking that I had all the necessities for a day of fishing, smoking, reading, guitar playing, and journaling. I tapped my right breast pocket to be sure the twenty-dollar bill was there. I stopped at the Tower, climbed the ten sets of ten stairs, opened the tiny door at the top, and stepped into my fort, excited about the hot lunch I was going to enjoy later in the day. I organized the day's provisions before riding down to the river crossing where I threatened to catch a fish.

I fished until the high from joint number one wore off, and then I remembered why fishing was something one must do inebriated. I rode back to the fort and read Into Thin Air until I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was after one o'clock, so I hurriedly locked up the fort, jumped on the four-wheeler, and sped down the trail, famished. I crossed the river at an outrageous speed, sending a wall of brown water twenty feet into the air and ripped up the dry dirt trail on the other side, desperate to get to the gas station and try a po-boy.

When I got to the paved road, I turned toward the gas station and drove slowly, cautiously, not wanting a local sheriff to pass by and stop me. I didn't need to have those kinds of problems today. When I turned off the four-wheeler, I stretched, still baked and feeling relaxed from the sunshine and the nap.

I opened the old door to the little gas station and country store, smelling the fresh bread and seafood immediately. The place had that timeless look of well-worn boards that creaked and cracked beneath my feet. There were old shelving units that were overstuffed with things like sugar and flour, pickles and jams... anything you might find at a modern day convenience store. The lighting was dark, coupled with the fact that my eyes hadn't adjusted from the bright sunshine I'd been in all day. I could hardly see a thing, but I knew where to go by the smells of the bread and shrimp somewhere in the back of the store.

"Hey there," a woman said from somewhere on my right.

I strained to, unsuccessfully, see her face. "Hey."

"Somethin' I can help you with?" she asked.

"Yeah, a po-boy?" I asked.

"Straight back. Ask Sam," she said not so pleasantly.

I stumbled through the cluttered aisle, desperately trying to see the path in front of me so I didn't knock an entire shelf over. Finally, the aisle ended and there was a sandwich bar. It was smaller, but similar to what you would see at a modern day Subway sandwich shop. It was brighter in the sandwich area than in the rest of the place. I saw a girl, or the back side of one, who initially looked to be in her twenties.

"What can I git fer ya?" she asked in what could have been a different language.

"Uh... roast beef po-boy?" I half asked, half stated.

"Aunt dem fixins, I spose?"

"Huh?"

"Want dem fixins?" she repeated, obviously inconvenienced.

"Uh, yeah, thanks," I said, not knowing what I was agreeing to but terrified about making her say it a third time.

"Here a go?"

"Yes, please," I said again.

"Here a go?" she repeated, her frustration apparent.

"Oh... here or to go... Got ya... whew... uh... go."

"Yeah, go. Dem yanks," she snuffed, turning around to face me for the first time.

She was a black woman, mid-fifties probably, wearing a loose fitting T-shirt, and she had a handkerchief in her hair. She was pretty, prettier than I was expecting, but blacker than any human being I had ever seen.

"Three piece even," she said, her eyes locked on mine.

"Yes ma'am," I agreed absently again.

"Yanks..." she scoffed, before really articulating the words for me again, "Tree dollars, Yank."

"Oh... sorry," I said, handing her the twenty and grabbing the cellophane wrapped sandwich.

She handed me the change silently. I made a point of showing her as I dropped two bucks into the tip jar.

"Habba g'day, yank," she said, turning back around to the tiny sink.

"Yeah, you too," I said, turning toward the door.

As I turned to leave, I crashed into a beautiful, blonde girl who was rushing up behind me. I hit her with such force that had I not caught her, she might have fallen backwards and knocked over the entire aisle. Of course when I caught her, I grabbed her just below her armpits, my palms blatantly touching her breasts.

"Holy shit! I'm so sorry," I said after righting her. I was apologizing for both the collision and the subsequent groping.

"Oh God, no! Completely my fault," she said, graciously forgiving my hands.

"Jesus, I didn't even hear―"

"No, really... I was just rushing in... totally my fault," she said, looking at the floor where my sandwich had splattered like a dead armadillo.

She looked up. "Roast beef?"

I looked into her eyes and was taken aback. She was absolutely, without a doubt, anywhere in the country, a solid ten. She had perfectly clear skin, blue eyes, and disproportionately large boobs. Her tank top dipped low, showing golden brown skin and a well-defined breastbone.

I knew immediately that I was in love for the second time in my life.

"Sorry?" I asked.

"Roast beef po-boy?"

"Oh... Yeah, it's OK. I'll buy another one."

"Don't be ridiculous. It was totally my fault. I'll make you another."

"You'll make..." I was going to ask, but she sidestepped me and walked around the counter like she owned the place. The black woman stepped aside after asking if she wanted her to do it, and then she disappeared into the back. Holy shit, she owned the place!

"Do you own―" "You new around―" we said at the same time.

"Yes." "Yeah," we said at the same time, again.

"Hi, I'm Samantha, Sam," she said, sticking her un-gloved hand over the counter top.

"Ved. Nice to meet you, Sam," I said disbelievingly. I wanted to say something that would make our grandchildren laugh when we told the story of how grandma and grandpa had met, but nothing was coming to mind immediately.

"How'd you end up here?" she asked while pulling a ladle full of dripping roast beef out of the huge pot.

"Uh, I got out of the Army with a buddy of mine who lives down here."

"Oh yeah? That's cool. Thanks for your service." She smiled.

That hurt. That was the first time I'd heard that expression, and to be honest, I wanted to puke. I wasn't going to say anything about the Army ever again, never wanting to have to hear another American say that to me, ever.

"Yeah..."

"Who?" she asked.

"Uh..." I stuttered, wondering what she was asking me. That comment had hit me hard, something like shame, surfacing quickly. I swallowed it back down, trying to get back into the conversation with my future wife.

"Wait, what?" I asked in typical asshole fashion.

"Who'd you get out with?"

"Oh... sorry... Zach Finley. You know him?"

She smiled. "Oh, little Zach? No kidding? Yeah, of course I know Zach. We were in a couple of grades together, back in elementary school."

"Really? Bogalusa?"

"Yeah. Well, only in elementary school. My parents put me in private school after that, but I know Zach. I see him at parties sometimes."

"Oh, that's cool. I suppose it is a small town... People probably know each other."

"Yeah, it's definitely like that. I can't wait to get out of here."

"Out of here? Don't you own the place?" I asked, suddenly panicking. I could feel my grandchildren, my beautiful grandchildren disappearing, like the photograph that Marty's holding while he's playing Johnny B. Goode at the dance in Back to the Future.

"Technically, my sister and I own it. That's my mom, Linda, up front. I work here during the summers, but I go to school in New Orleans."

"Oh... high school?" I asked, cautiously, praying that if there were a merciful God out there, He would possess her body right now and answer with a definitive no.

"No. College." She smiled as if that should have been obvious.

I was so happy with her answer that I didn't mind if she was a little put off by the question.

We made small talk for the next half an hour, while my roast beef got cold and soaked through the bread, making it an unsightly mush that I knew I wouldn't be able to eat later. Her mother, Linda, who kept interrupting our conversation with her annoyed remarks about Sam needing to do this or that, looked at me as if I were a hemorrhoid, every time she would get the chance. Linda wasn't kidding around. She wanted me to know that she didn't like me, and she had no moral objection to glaring at me in a hostile manner.

I hadn't really had too many of these situations in my life. None of the girls I'd been with ever had a mother in the area, so this was new territory for me. I knew it was probably a good idea to play the Eddie Haskell role with her, but, frankly, I didn't really want to.

There are two kinds of girls in the world. One kind loves her mother and father more than anything else and wants Mom to love her boyfriend as much as she does. Then there are the other ones, the ones who want their parents to hate their boyfriends, and if there isn't animosity from her parents toward him, she needs a new boyfriend.

I didn't know exactly which type Sam was, but I had been observing her when she spoke to her intrusive mother. It was apparent to both Sam and I how her mother was reacting to our impromptu conversation, and though her mother all but demanded she stop talking to me, Sam continued.

"What do you do all day?" Sam asked me after a moment of dead space in our otherwise full conversation.

"Uh... well, I stay up insanely late, preferring the cooler nighttime to the hot daylight. When I do get up in the morning, I don't do too much until about lunch time, sometimes earlier. Then I roll a couple of joints, jump on the four-wheeler, drive to a remote location, sunbathe naked, contemplate my complex existence while smoking said joints in succession... Then I ride the four-wheeler around, swim with the poisonous snakes in the crick. Sometimes I fish, sometimes I write, sometimes I even paint, but I'm not very good at painting... Before long, Zach gets home from work and we play music on the porch, drink beer, and smoke more pot. A lot of the time people stop by and hang out for a few hours... Then he goes to bed. I stay up, usually journaling until late into the morning. Then I start the process all over again."

I was a little concerned about mentioning the weed thing, especially so early on into our budding relationship, but, honestly, as hot as she was and as convinced that we were destined for each other as I was, I would have chosen the pot over her. If she didn't like the idea of marijuana, we wouldn't have much of a future together.

And then there was the idea that I was unabashedly unemployed. That had been another thing that wasn't all that well rehearsed, but, again, what was I supposed to say? The truth was out of the question, and, really, as bad as being unemployed might have sounded, the truth was much worse. So, for me, it was better than the worst I could have done.

"How do you survive without working?" she asked demurely.

"I sell pot," I said without a hint of embarrassment, though quietly enough that I didn't think Linda would hear me.

That was, after all, the truth. An eighth of an ounce was worth $50, and I had pounds to sell. There was no rent to pay. I wasn't communicating with my family, who'd probably begun to wonder where in the hell I was, so I wasn't paying my father back for the car; I was on an unofficial loan deferment. I was living $50 at a time, and I was living quite comfortably, I might add.

I watched her face when I told her that. She went from dismay, to looking at her mother, to smiling―all in a flash of the eyes.

"So, you gonna come see me tomorrow?"

"No. Tomorrow I have some very important papers to take to my accountant... Yes, of course I am, Sam."

"Good, I come in at one."

"I'll be here, milady." I smiled, wondering if I should toss my sandwich in the big garbage can I'd been leaning on for most of our conversation. I did.

"After all that, you're not gonna eat it?" She smiled.

"No, hell no."

With that, I left the little gas station, passing Linda and giving her a pleasant smile, still not knowing if they were really the best po-boys in the state. It didn't matter to me either way. They were made by the hottest girl in the Parish, of that I was certain.

That night, when Zach got home, we played some new songs we'd been working on, out on the porch. I didn't tell him about Sam. I didn't really tell him anything about my days, enjoying the time as my own. I was the one wasting my felony on doing absolutely nothing, so it was up to me to either share or not share. He didn't ask, so I didn't reveal anything.

We were really getting into a new song called "The Hierophant" when an ugly Jeep Cherokee came rolling into the driveway. The reason it caught my attention wasn't because of the SUV, or the fat bastard driving it, but because of the girl riding shotgun.

I'd been living there for three weeks when the Jeep pulled in, and in that time, I hadn't seen too many good-looking girls, though the one thing I did notice was that when I did see one of these elusive creatures, they were usually accompanied by a man of a far lesser caliber. Finding your aesthetic equal wasn't as pressing as finding someone with the means to support you throughout the years. If you had a good family, a place to live, and the means to provide your would-be wife with a decent car, you could easily out-do your own physical shortcomings when selecting her.

"Ho-lee-shhhit," Zach said and stopped strumming midway through the song.

He was looking at the Jeep as if he'd not seen whoever it was in a long time.

"Zach!" the girl shrieked, stepping down from the Jeep.

"Tiffany? You look good, girl," Zach said.

"Easy nah," the big man said in an almost indistinguishable accent. "Eew now that there's my ollady nah."

I looked at Zach, who apparently had no problem understanding that he meant something about the young lass being spoken for.

Suddenly Zach put on the same accent, as if slipping into a pair of boots. "Beal, nah eew knows I's always had a thing fer this here sis."

I rolled my eyes, feeling suddenly excluded and bewildered.

The girl looked at me and walked toward me, her eyes locked on mine. "You must be Ved."

I didn't smile, somewhat shocked at her intelligible remarks. "Yeah. Ved. Good to meet you."

"Tiffany," she said, skipping the shake I was offering and opting for a breasty hug instead.

"Pleasure to meet you," I said, obviously confused about who she was.

She turned to Zach. "Zach... you didn't even tell Ved who we was? What's wrong with you, boah?"

Only then did I realize that this accent thing was a joke, a funny way that they were talking to each other, on purpose. Now that I could recognize it for what it was, it took on the feeling of a very old, very inside joke. I guessed that they were relatives.

"Ved, this is my cousin Bill. Bill, this is Ved Ludo."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ved," Bill said in a very clean Yankee accent.

"Likewise," I replied with a firm shake and a nod.

"This is Bill's wife, Tiffany," Zach continued.

"Right," I replied with a nod. "We already introduced ourselves while y'all were playing Deliverance."

Everyone got a chuckle before Zach decided we needed to smoke a joint. I was given the nod, which meant that I was supposed to go inside and retrieve my stash of stolen weed from Pete's drop and then roll a joint for everyone to smoke, which I eventually did, but not before Zach pulled me aside and asked me properly.

Recently, he'd been becoming more and more of a pot smoker. As much as I appreciated the camaraderie, I was now depleting my stash of stolen weed faster than I wanted to. Granted, Zach used the smallest fraction of pot imaginable, but this was my weed. Weed isn't free, weed costs money, and to smoke someone's stash, day in and day out for a month, without offering anything in return, gets on a man's nerves. In my particular case, I couldn't very well say anything about it because he knew where the weed had come from, though he didn't know where it was kept.

That was by design. I brought it into the house in increments, leaving the rest hidden in a very safe underground place. The lies I'd told Pete and Toby were biggies, and if I wanted to keep a reputation of honesty (one I knew I didn't really deserve), I didn't want to ever have more than an ounce on me.

I rolled a big spliff and returned to the porch, where we all smoked and made pleasant small talk. The giant pterodactyl-mosquitoes that haunt those humid lands eventually became too much so we moved inside, getting more comfortable. Of course, by that I mean we started drinking, and with the drinking came a little flirting, and with a little flirting, I knew that Tiffany wasn't a very good wife. To complicate matters, Bill also took a liking to me, though not in the same way that his wife did, and promised to come back again the next night.

They did.

Night after night, they came back over to "hang out." Hanging out, as it were, meant that they came over to smoke my incredible weed, of which I seemed to have an endless supply. The more familiar Bill got with me, the more he seemed to relax about his wife rubbing my shoulders and finding reasons to talk about her breasts. It would have been uncomfortable for me, but Bill was absolutely clueless as to what was going on with Tiffany and me.

My heart wasn't into Tiffany, though I'm not going to be dishonest and say that I didn't plan on sleeping with her. It was a sure thing, anytime I wanted it to be, but I didn't initially want it to be. I needed a muse to write haunting love songs about, and Tiffany was not the one I was looking for.

I'd begun to frequent Sam's po-boy shop almost every day. Slowly, as the days passed, we became friends, though I couldn't seem to get her to cross over from friend to lover. I didn't want to end up in the eternal abyss of "guy friend," so I varied my tactics, depending on the day. My approach was subtle. I'd skip days in between my visits, pacing myself. I didn't want to scare her off. The problem we were having had more to do with what I did say, than what I didn't.

I'm a dreamer. I've always been on the philosophical side of normal, and in this particular time in my life, this may have become more apparent than it had in years past. I was on the run, living on the opposite side of the country, hiding from the government, ready to forego my family for the rest of my life, willing to die at any time, and using an incredible amount of hallucinogens, almost on a daily basis. I might have seemed a little philosophical.

I wasn't clingy, spooky, or even pursuing of her. I kept the conversation respectful, light, and funny. The problem was that Sam, like me, asked questions. She liked to probe my mind with dark, somewhat complicated questions that really mattered to her. Knowing that she was a smart girl, I pondered her questions before I would answer, thinking long and solidly on them. Most of the time, I couldn't answer the questions that she would ask me on the same day. I'd go home, with my homework ahead of me, thinking them over while Tiffany and Bill smoked my pot.

I was perplexed by Sam. In a sense, she seemed into me; but, on the other hand, she never objected when I'd announce that I had to leave her shop and go back to my world of nothingness. Often, I would leave just to not be standing there. Once I would get back onto the four-wheeler, I would sit silently for long periods of time, thinking about her, not wanting to leave, but needing to.

Sam was different than any girl I had met before her. She was young, twenty-one, and in college, which made her feel as if she was always just about to slip away. I knew that in a few weeks she would be returning to college, coming back only on the weekends. I assumed it wouldn't be every weekend and was preparing myself for that, though she swore she would.

Things with Tiffany were developing... quickly. One night she showed up, unexpectedly and alone, while Zach was out with some buddies of his from work, and I was home alone. Zach and I had moved out of the trailer into an abandoned general store a couple of doors down from Toby's trailer. The place was owned by Zach's grandfather on his mother's side, and for a hundred and fifty bucks a month, we could rent the place, so we did.

The store was essentially a three hundred square foot studio apartment with some glass, refrigerated display cases that we used for a refrigerator. It had a toilet and a sink, but no shower. A single air conditioner stuck out of the one and only side window, and the place had huge, retail-style glass windows in the front. There was a tiny covered porch off the front, and a steep "U" driveway. All in all, it was perfect for the two of us.

Since we'd moved in, Bill and Tiffany had been coming over even more frequently than they had before. I never really talked to Bill. He usually just wanted to watch movies and drink beer until he fell asleep on the couch, while his wife smoked pot with Zach and me. Zach and I would perform songs for Tiffany, who was our one-woman fan club. She was a great audience in that when we really nailed a song, she'd flash her breasts at us. She learned the words pretty quickly and would sing along with me, song after song, while Zach played the guitar.

Usually at around ten, Zach would go to bed, leaving me and Tiffany alone out on the porch, where we smoked more pot and talked into the wee hours of the night.

I didn't mind her company. Any sort of artist will tell you that sex and art are like coffee and cigarettes. You can have one without the other, but it's not nearly as good. Tiffany was a good conversationalist and the exact opposite of Sam. Whereas Sam would ask only deep and meaningful questions, Tiffany kept it light and topical. Tiffany's concerns involved getting older and how that affected her makeup choices, who her friends were sleeping with this week, and, of course, a little husband bashing.

Now look, you don't have to have a gift to know that when you are in the company of a woman who is married or otherwise spoken for, and she starts talking shit about him, to you, you are on dangerous ground. During the Army years, this was my cue to leave the conversation immediately. That wasn't my instinct, however. That was what I learned time and time again. I am not good at avoiding sex, at walking away from opportunities to partake, so when a woman starts complaining to me about her boyfriend, I either have to leave the conversation or fuck her. There is no middle ground. Women understand this. They are telling you their problems to send you signals that they are not fulfilled, giving you the opportunity to decide if you are the remedy or not, all from a very safe statement. In the Army, I could have been killed, literally, for fucking the wrong woman. I learned that they're not all worth the risk.

Bill, however? Well, he didn't scare me. Not only was he severely overweight, he was somewhat of a pussy. I didn't know Bill all that well, but what I did know was that he was connected to a very big farming family in the area, making his last name far more important than his first name. He didn't seem to concern himself with Tiffany too much, even when she was at our place, leading me to even speculate that they had some sort of agreement between them.

It was obvious to me the first time I'd met Tiffany that she was a "small town hottie." This sort of thing matters more to the locals than it does to the newcomers, like me, as I don't know the stories behind her that cultivated such a reputation. Maybe she was a knockout in high school, or maybe she just blew every dude she met... I didn't know, but I did know that she thought of herself as hot. I thought she was a little better than average. She was thirty-three years old, more than a decade older than I was, yet she still presented herself as superior to me somehow. She was getting crow's-feet around her eyes and mouth, probably from twenty years of relentless smoking.

I reminded myself to quit smoking.

No doubt, in high school she was a nine, or better. In a town like this, I bet she thought she could have become anything she wanted, or at least married anyone she wanted. Somehow though, she ended up with Bill as some sort of consolation prize, and yeah, he had some money, but she'd have to sacrifice the fairy tale of being physically attracted to her partner in order to survive. She was on the downhill side of attractive. Her age was catching up with her, and she'd gone as far as she could alone. She took on Bill as a safety net at the last minute she could have.

After a couple of weeks of knowing her, we were pretty friendly, though I didn't cross the line. Tiffany didn't work either, so she stayed up late with me on the nights she came over, giving me much needed company and conversation, even if it was painfully shallow most of the time. She wasn't afraid to take drugs of any kind, she was funny, she was attractive in the ways mentioned earlier, and she didn't matter. I felt nothing for her emotionally.

I wanted Sam, and I was saving my emotions for her.

I was sitting alone in the Stouse (what we called our store-house), writing in my journal, when I heard a car pull down the steep driveway. I looked out the huge windows and saw their Jeep, frowning immediately at the thought of having to entertain the two of them without Zach around to handle Bill and his odd personality. It was too late to close the window and pretend that I was asleep, so I begrudgingly got up and walked to the door, doing my best to smile at them. It wasn't them; it was just her.

"Hey," she said, jumping out of the Jeep while it still rocked from her abrupt stop.

"Hey. Where's big Bill?"

"Sleeping, of course. Lazy shit."

"Well, it's late for him. Some people have to work for a living, unlike us." I smiled.

"Right? I know. It's just that he's sooooooo boring, Ved! My God, what was I thinking?"

"About security, stability..." I ventured.

"Yeah, that was definitely it. That see-through, huh?"

"Tiffany... the differences between you two are... well, noticeable."

I saw her light up at that comment, and I knew she was going to be looking for me to expand on what I meant. I felt myself crossing into dangerous territory.

"How're we different?"

Not playing into it, I steered it back toward the straight and narrow. "Well, Bill works for a living. That's one thing."

She smiled at me, stepping into the light of the porch. "How else?"

"You're not a nerdy recluse?" I asked, seeing if that was out of line.

"Hell no, I'm not! I'm a southern hottie! That's a business down here, Ved. Being a hottie affords you a lifestyle... We're raised up understanding that."

I was surprised that she told me that, mostly because of the lines one could draw between her situation and prostitution. Tiffany apparently didn't see those lines.

"I get it. I figured that out." I smiled.

"I was the prom queen at Bogalusa; did ya figure that out too?"

"No, but I was closing in on it."

"Yeah, then high school ended and so did the possibilities."

"Happens to the best of us," I mumbled.

"Yeah. Well, come on! What are you doing? Let's do something fun!" she said, jumping up and down three times to show me how bouncy those boobs were.

"I was journaling... not really entertaining."

"Oh God, you're worse than Bill. Journaling? Jesus. Gay much?"

I didn't reply to what I was getting used to as "the dumb shit that you cannot react to." I didn't really like gay jokes anyway, still feeling a deep connection to my gay friends from Fayetteville. Beyond simply being insulting to homosexuals, she was demonstrating for me just how ignorant she could be.

Somewhat angrily, I said, "That's what I'm doing. Sorry if you don't approve, but watching you bounce up and down isn't really doing it for me. I'm sure you have a standby audience for that. I'm not your fucking audience, Tiffany."

I'd sounded a little more serious than I meant to and had struck a little closer to the nerve than I intended, but immediately decided that it needed to be said. Might as well be now.

Rarely, if ever, do I say things that I don't mean. It's part of the gift and the way it works in me. I like to think before I speak, and I take pride in my ability to control my tongue, but on the occasions when I'm just winging it, I'm usually spot-on. The gift sets perimeters on how deeply I will cut, depending on the person I'm after. As long as I don't intentionally step outside of those boundaries, I cannot slip up or say too much.

With Tiffany I wanted to seize her attention immediately. I wanted her to respect me and understand that I will not be blindfolded by friendship or lust, or anything else she might mistakenly assume. I liked the girl, I'd even fantasized about really putting it to her a few times, but I wasn't going to spend my time with anyone who talked as if being stupid was cool and journaling was "gay."

"Whoa, take it easy. I know you're not my audience, Ved. Jesus, if anything, I'm yours."

She was exactly right. "Don't make gay jokes either. I'd rather be gay than..." I caught myself.

"Than what?"

"Nothing. Just leave the gay shit alone."

"Oh my God. You're gay!" she exclaimed.

I was about to react, not angrily, not as if the idea of being gay was insulting, but with a serious series of ego-cutting insults. By no means did I think being gay was something people should be ashamed of, and believe me, had I been gay, I would have worn it proudly.

Before I could react, she said, "I'm so sorry. I should have known. When you didn't try to fuck me, I couldn't figure out why... I get it, Ved, and it's completely cool."

Some transition took place in my brain, and I decided that pretending to be gay might work out well in this particular case. Rejecting a woman blatantly is a difficult thing for them to swallow, and Tiffany wasn't what I'd call above the rest of the pack intellectually. Being gay for a while might play nicely. I wanted the company at night, the friendship and the interactions. I even wanted to bang her a few times. The only thing I didn't want was to form some sort of relationship.

"I'm glad you figured it out. Now you can understand me better," I said, theatrically sheepish.

"Oh, Ved, it's totally cool. Can we talk about nails and hair, stuff like that?"

"I'm not that kind of gay."

"Oh..." She looked perplexed. "What kind of gay are you?"

"Guy gay. I'm a giver."

"Oh..."

"Yeah, the gay men you're thinking of are the ones who like to be the getters."

"Right. That makes sense." She thought for a second. "So that's what you're attracted to?"

"Yes."

"Really? Are you putting me on?"

"No."

The next day I went to LBPB (Louisiana's Best Po-Boys) and told Sam the story. She laughed incredulously as I recounted the events for her. At first I think she didn't believe me, but after I finished the story, it was just too ridiculous to be untrue.

"There go your chances of sleeping with her." Sam smiled, making a shrimp po-boy for a construction worker.

"No, not at all. I could still do it."

"Miraculously changed?" Sam and the construction guy smiled.

"Even better, I'd tell her that she was so provocative that she brought me back from my sinful ways."

"Oh my God. If she believed that, she'd have to be a real piece of work."

"Do not underestimate her, dear lass. She is the one who asserted I was a homosexual."

"Well, that I could understand. I mean, I see why she might think so." Sam smiled and Bob the Builder laughed out loud.

"Touché." I smiled mischievously, loving her immensely.

I watched Sam working behind the counter. She was like an angel in a very dark gas station. I wasn't alone in thinking of her this way, I noticed. Every man who came in to order a sandwich was smitten with her. I closely watched them watching her: the way they smiled at her, the way they eyed her ass when she'd turn around to grab something, the five-dollar bills they'd leave in the tip jar...

Sam was iconic. She was the reason that the people came in. Maybe some of them just stumbled into the place initially, but after seeing the beautiful blonde girl who worked there, they'd be back. They all knew her name, though she never wore a nametag.

I could tell that Sam was looking forward to my visits. She'd run around and give me a hug if there weren't people waiting to order, and if there were, she'd wink and blow me a kiss. I'd eat a sandwich while I talked to her, and sometimes if she was really busy, I'd go over and talk to her mom, Linda, who was begrudgingly starting to like me.

"What are you doing tonight?" Sam asked.

"Oh, you know... all that important stuff I do."

"Really?"

"No, Sam, I don't do anything important. Remember?"

"Wanna do something?" she asked.

Bob the Builder turned to walk out and winked at me as he went. That was funny, I think.

"Yes. More than anything in the world," I said, wondering where the honesty had come from.

"OK. You want me to come over to the Stouse?"

"Yeah. What time?"

She pretended to be calculating the hours, squinting and looking up. "I'm going to Mike's at four, Jeff's place at five... shower, change underpants, swing by Frank's... How about seven?"

I really did love this girl. "Perfect. That gives me time to choreograph a dance routine and straighten my hair," I remarked.

"Nice. You can braid mine when I get there."

"I'll do anything you want me to."

At six o'clock, Zach was just getting home from work. I gave him a brief run-down of Sam and what was going on. I explained the Tiffany thing, too. I told him that I was, for all purposes, gay, until otherwise notified.

Zach agreed, making some comments about how smart Tiffany must be to have come to these conclusions, and how he'd missed the signs. "I guess it was the eighty or so girls I know you to have fucked that threw me off."

"Yeah, did that on purpose to get you off my trail."

"So, is Tiffany coming on to you?"

"No, not really. We talked about it for a few minutes, then I told her it was making me uncomfortable. The bitch asked if you and I had a thing."

"What'd you tell her?" he asked.

"I just said you blow me a lot."

Zach laughed out loud. "Oh God, I hope you did. I hope she believed it and told Bill. That'd be awesome."

"I don't know. I get the impression she doesn't talk to Bill a lot."

"No, hell no. She hates Bill."

"Well, she married the guy... She made the fuckin' bed."

"Yeah, and you told her you're gay so you wouldn't have to fuck her in it... unbelievable."

"Look, bro, with Sam, can we just pretend that Tiffany doesn't even exist? I don't want to talk about her with Sam; she's different. She's smart, and philosophical for that matter."

Zach looked offended. "Bro... you think I would mention Tiffany the Hooch? Come on. Anyway, how in the fuck did you get Samantha McCoy to ask you out? You have any idea how many people have tried to hit that?"

"I'm not trying to hit that, bro. I'm just trying to mindfuck her. I want her to be mine; I want possession of her, not to have to share her with anyone ever again, even for an hour."

He looked at me. "Whoa... heavy words from Ved Pimp Ludo. You wouldn't know what to do with her if you did have her permanently. I know you to be good at a lot of things, Ved, but relationships are not one of them."

"Z, I swear, with this girl, I could do it. Everyone else I meet makes me feel like I'm just moving in circles, circling back to them... They're all the same to me. They all make me feel shitty. Sam is the difference, man... I know how gay that sounds, but rather than the angel of death looking over my shoulder, with her it feels like light."

"You really are a fag." He smiled.

"I'm gay for a girl named Sam, that's for sure."

We were interrupted by Sam's car pulling into the driveway, though when I looked out the window, I was surprised to see that Sam's car looked just like Tiffany's... and Sam had brought a big fat guy with her?

"FFFFUUUUCCCCKKKK!" I yelled at the realization.

"What's the mat―" Zach saw the car, and knew.

Ten seconds after Tiffany and Bill pulled into the driveway, a white Chevy Tahoe pulled in tentatively. I knew it was Sam; I could feel it was her.

"I'll entertain Tiffany and Bill. You get out of here," Zach said, springing to action.

"Roger that, over."

It was too late though. Sam was in the driveway introducing herself to Tiffany. Of course, Sam already knew everything there was to know about Tiffany as I'd been venting to her for weeks. Zach and I stood on the porch welcoming everyone in. Tiffany pinched my nipple as she walked by. For what reason, I do not know.

"Hi." Sam smiled.

"I'm so sorry," I mouthed to her.

"Don't be ridiculous. It's perfectly cool."

"Ved! Smoke me up!" Tiffany yelled, after Bill had found his place on the couch. We had Girls Gone Wild on DVD, and though Bill had seen it about five times, he didn't hesitate putting it in again, despite the female company. He was just a classy guy like that.

I looked at Sam to see how annoyed she was going to be about this, but Sam was talking to Bill. Of course she knew Bill, I reminded myself. It's a small town.

I rolled a joint while Sam talked to Bill, and Tiffany discussed my homosexuality with Zach. I'd never heard Bill talk so much, though the dumb bastard was watching Girls gone Wild, in typical asshole fashion, while he chatted with Sam.

I heard Tiffany say to Zach, "I never would have guessed, but anyone else would have tried to fuck me by now, or at least let me blow him."

Zach nodded until Tiffany was distracted, and then he looked at me and smiled, shaking his head.

Sam was back, and she put her arm on my back as I twisted the ends of the joint, completing it.

"This weed of yours any good?" Sam asked, taking the joint from my hand.

"Not too bad, milady. I'm sort of a connoisseur. I only steal the best." I smiled, then remembered I hadn't told her that story.

"Steal?"

"No... that's what we call buying, in Pennsylvania," I said, wondering how fucking dumb I could possibly be.

"Right. Sounds like you have a story to tell me later."

"I love you passionately," I said blatantly.

"Do you now? In a girlfriend-girlfriend kind of way?" She smiled, snapping her fingers and bobbing her head side to side.

"Yes, exactly that way."

We all smoked the joint, even Bill. When it was done, the sun was setting and Zach was plugging in his guitar, while Sam read through one of my books of random thoughts called Ved's Philosophy of Shit. She was smiling as she turned the pages, and as I talked to Tiffany, I kept looking over at Sam lying on my bed, reading my thoughts.

She was fucking beautiful.

"Come on, bro. Let's play a couple," Zach said, obviously excited to perform for Sam.

"No, bro, not tonight."

"Yes, tonight," he said, his eyes looking back at Sam every couple of seconds.

"No, man. It's weird."

Zach looked at Sam and asked loudly, "Sam, don't you want to hear Ved sing?"

She sat up on the bed and said, "Yes, indeed. Well, if he's any good."

"He's good," Zach said. "But most gay guys are, right?" he said, looking at me.

"Right."

"Sing, Ved," Sam said, walking out to the porch that we played on almost every night.

It was cooling down outside, and the fan that we'd plugged in on the porch made a perfect breeze. The sun was just about completely down, the humidity lit in reds and oranges by the setting sun. Sam sat directly across from me in Tiffany's usual spot. I think Tiffany might have been offended that I'd invited a girl over to witness "our thing," but being gay removed any feelings of competition.

"I can still flash you, right?" Tiffany asked Zach.

"Of course," he said.

"Flash, huh?" Sam asked Tiffany.

"Yeah, it's kinda funny. I sit here with these two every night when they play. I've heard all of these songs like a hundred times... When they play one really good, I flash them."

"Oh my. How often do they play one really good?" Sam asked, eyeing me.

"Rarely―" I tried to interject.

"All the time!" Tiffany said at the same time as I spoke.

Sam smiled at me accusingly, and then she asked Tiffany, "So, do gay guys look when you flash them? How's that work?"

Tiffany smiled. "Oh God, I'm so glad you know." Tiffany turned her eyes to me and said, "I didn't want to say anything, in case she didn't know."

"I appreciate that. I'm out of the closet entirely now," I said evenly.

"Ved looks occasionally, but he's definitely gay. Believe me, I would know." Tiffany looked at Sam earnestly.

"I see," Sam said. "Let's hear one. I have to see if Tiffany thinks it's good enough to flash her boobs at ya."

Zach started playing "The Daisy," one of our favorites. Tiffany clapped with glee; this was one of her favorites, too. I sang with renewed emotion, sunglasses on, so I could close my eyes and imagine Sam in any application I wanted. We added an impromptu extra verse, where I made up words on the fly...

"And perfection is so soothing, after years of being burned.

Everything I have to give is from the scars she said I earned.

I opened up my empty hand, 'that's all I have to show.'

She took my empty hand in hers, 'the sun, it loves you so.'

Twisting now in a deepening, lays a hatred of my past.

She whispers to me, 'take all I offer, and find your peace at last.'"

When the song ended, I was afraid to open my eyes. When I finally had to open them, stepping from the place where music shaped the world we're in back to the silence of an ended song, the first thing I saw were tears in Sam's eyes.

She nodded. "I had no idea."

"Thank you."

"Ved!" Tiffany yelled my name.

When I turned to her, she was holding her shirt up for me.

We played two more songs before I called it quits and asked Sam if she wanted to go for a ride with me.

"Yeah, definitely. Where do you want to go?"

"I have somewhere in mind," I said.

Sam grabbed her purse off of my bed and fished her keys out of it.

"You don't need those. I'm driving," I said as she came back out onto the porch.

She looked at my Accord that I hadn't driven in over a month. "Wow, you really do have a car... And all this time I thought you were a deadbeat that my mother would hate."

"Yes, I do. Yes I am, and sorry, I'm wearing your mother down."

"Oh no... you have a ways to go, buddy. You're from the North, which is almost as bad as being from the fiery abyss."

"Well, at least I have that working for me... or against me... Anyway, we're not taking my car." I pointed to the four-wheeler.

Instantly she knew where I was taking her. "I thought it was your private place."

"It is. That's why I have to blindfold you." I smiled, joking of course.

Sam climbed on behind me and wrapped her arms around me. We nodded at Zach and Tiffany who were very angry that I wouldn't tell them where we were going. Besides Sam, I hadn't told anyone about the Tower. I considered it my place, my secret place where I could go anytime I wanted, day or night.

Taking Sam there was the best gift I could think to give her. No matter what transpired between her and me, I wanted to think of her when I was there. She was that kind of girl, the kind you know you want to love for the rest of your life, even if she breaks your heart.

A few minutes later, we were there. We dismounted and looked at the outline of the Tower in the starry sky.

"Wow," she said.

"Yeah. It's awesome, huh?"

"It's amazing. I can't believe it's been here all this time, and I didn't know about it."

"When I'm gone, you can have it," I said without thinking.

"Gone?"

"Well, I can't stay in the Stouse forever."

"You're not going anywhere, buddy."

Sam turned and walked under the massive tower, looking for the steps. When she found them, she started up without hesitation. A few minutes later, we were at the top. I opened the hatch after unlocking the padlock.

"How'd you get a key?"

"Oh, no. This one is mine. Theirs broke."

"Of course it did."

When she stepped onto the top platform, covered by only a roof, she was in awe. "Holy fuck! This is amazing, Ved!"

"Right?"

"A-may-zing," she repeated.

"Yeah, I always wanted a tree fort."

"You have the coolest tree fort in the state, I promise you that." She stepped to me and hugged me.

I was taken aback by the gesture. I had real feelings for this girl. The last thing on my mind was trying to fuck her up there.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she asked rhetorically.

"Bad places."

"I believe that."

"Good. It's true. I've been a bad man."

"Oh, Ved, stop being melodramatic. You're just a player. You can't help yourself."

"Correct. But that's not what this is."

"I know," she said matter-of-factly.

I pulled away from her, smiling, looking at her. "Oh really? How do you know?"

"That's why I hugged you. It was a test. Congratulations, you passed."

Whoever Sam McCoy was, she was unlike anyone I'd ever met.

For five hours we sat on blankets, talking about our families, our dreams, and the terrible failures we'd experienced. I learned that Sam had a sister, Lana, who was getting married in six months to a wonderful man who was from the area, and that her mother couldn't have been happier.

Lana worked at LBPB during the school year, while Sam was at college, making the po-boys and managing the gas station. Sam described her as a slightly older, but hotter, version of herself.

Admittedly, I was excited to meet her.

Sam also informed me that her parents owned a 10,000 head of cattle dairy farm, and that was where the family really made their money. Apparently the little gas station was for Sam and Lana to put themselves through college with. They'd been running it for eight years, after getting the deed to the place for Christmas one year.

Her parents didn't get along so well anymore, but Sam didn't know the reasons why. She assumed a divorce was coming sometime in the near future, but didn't know if they'd actually do it or not. They were more likely to just build Dad a house on the farm somewhere so he could live on his own.

"Divorce is still looked down upon around here," she explained. "My dad's a total pothead though. He's cool as hell, almost too cool. My mom used to be cool too, but something happened between them a few years ago, and nothing has been the same since. He smokes cigarettes in the house, which I know drives my mother crazy, but she used to smoke too, so they just fight about it now. I don't know, maybe she had an affair or something."

"Maybe," I agreed.

"I don't know. I don't know if I even want to go to school. I want to travel."

"Yeah, I get that."

"What's your story anyway? Why are you here? Why are you just hanging out?"

"Just tired of conformity," I lied, hoping she would buy it.

"OK." She nodded. "The Army's tough, huh?"

I lied again, "Yeah."

I stood up, walked to a cigar box, and pulled a big piece of white chalk out of it. I walked back to her. "Lie down for a second."

"Why? Are you about to mount me?" She giggled.

"No, dear. I'm going to trace you on the floor." I held up the chalk for her to see.

"Awesome idea. Will I be in the same position when the cops find my dead body?"

I laughed and shook my head.

She lay back, her feet straight out as far as they could go, her hands pressed palm to palm and raised out straight above her head. I traced her caringly, running the chalk under her, dragging my hands across her body as I moved the white chalk. She was wearing short track-style shorts and a white tank top with a nude bra underneath. On top, she had a blue, zipper-front hoodie.

I was immensely turned on as I traced her outline. When I traced around her breasts, I could feel them, warm and soft.

"Like that, tiger?" She giggled.

"Not too shabby."

When I was done, she held out her hand for me to pull her up. She turned and looked at the outline. "Wow, you gave me a nice chalk-figure."

"No, your momma gave you that; I was just smart enough to capture it."

She spun on me and kissed me with such force, I fell over. She fell with me, not stopping, even with the crash. Lying on my back she straddled my chest, holding my face as she kissed me.

"I'm on the rag," she said, fearing my disappointment.

"I'm off the rubber," I said evenly.

"What's that mean?" she asked, bursting out laughing.

I began to laugh hysterically as well. "I have no idea... Something to do with not having a condom with me."

"You are such a weirdo sometimes."

"For sure."

She started kissing me again and holding my face like that. When a woman holds your face while she kisses you, something happens. It adds tenderness to the act, making a kiss feel as sentimental as a hug.

Samantha was implying that she loved me.

When she got in her Tahoe to leave the Stouse, sometime after 3 a.m., we kissed goodbye. "Two days, I'll be a go," she said in what she thought was Army lingo.

"Roger that," I complied.

"Two days," she said again.

"No rush."

"Fuck that. I'm in a rush."

She informed me that her mother was taking her to a play in New Orleans the next night. They wouldn't be back until after midnight, but if I wanted her to, she would swing by. I told her not to worry about it, that I'd stop into LBPB the day after.

She was about to pull out of the driveway when she suddenly stopped the Tahoe, put it in park, and ran over to give me another kiss. "I don't care what you've done in the past, Ved. None of that matters to me. All I care about is that you be good to me, be real with me. I don't know what you're hiding from, but I know there's something you haven't told me. You will eventually. I just want you to be honest with me, to be true to me."

"I will be. I promise you, Sam. You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

"I'll give you everything, anything. But if you hurt me or break my confidence, I'll never forgive you."

"I won't. Even thinking about breaking your trust makes me sick."

"Come see me on Thursday."

"I will."

She started walking back to the driver's side of her truck. "Oh, and bring your wallet. You can potentially get me to sleep with you, but no free po-boys!"

We both laughed out loud at the same time. Then she sped away, shooting rocks out from under the tires.

Wednesday I went to the river and fished for a while. What is it about fishing that brings people back? There is nothing as boring as fishing. I can understand fly-fishing, though I don't know how to do it. At least there a technique is involved, a strategy.

Fishing with a rod and reel is the most boring activity on the planet. The only reason I was doing it at all was because I needed time to process my unexpected night with Sam. Tomorrow I would see her, and her Aunt Flo would be gone, clearing the way for me to do what I always do, but, see, that was the problem.

I didn't want to sleep with her.

I don't recall ever feeling this way before. Maybe I was trying to just do things differently than I always did in order to make some sort of declaration to myself. I always slept with the girl, and that had yielded the same results time and time again. I couldn't even imagine things ending with Sam. She was perfect.

I had to possess this girl; I had to find a way to not fuck this up. This train of thought sparked an investigation into why all of my relationships failed, so I studied them on a case by case basis. I was thrilled to discover that I was usually the one who intentionally destroyed things. At least I wasn't routinely a victim of happenstance.

All this meant was that if I was careful, committed, and focused on being a real man for once, I could potentially sustain my relationship with Sam. I'd not been dumped before, well, not without avoiding my significant other for long periods of time, sleeping with her friend, or disappearing in general... When those women dumped me, I didn't consider it rejection.

With Sam I wanted to be proactive. I'd invent new ways to show her I loved her, all the time. I am a creative genius; I could do for her what no one else had even come close to. I would use my gift, my need for expression, and my magnificent creativity for the sole purpose of becoming irreplaceable.

Sam would never get over me, never fall out of love with me. I'd see to that.

That night, after fishing the day away, I rode the four-wheeler back to the Stouse. I found Tiffany and Bill there, sitting at the counter, talking with Zach. I was glad to see them, glad to see people to talk to, after such a long day of solitude.

I came in, and they all smiled. "What?" I asked.

"We brought you something," Tiffany said.

"Yes, they did," Zach said with a goofy grin.

"What'd ya bring me?" I asked.

"Hold out your hand, sexy," Tiffany chided.

I held out my hand.

"This."

I felt two tiny things fall into my hand. I looked down and saw two tan pills. "Mescaline?"

"Yes, indeed!" Tiffany said.

"And y'all have tried them?" I asked, obeying the third rule of using substances from unfamiliar drug sources.

"'Bout an hour ago... just starting to kick in," Zach said.

"You take two?" I asked Zach.

"No, I took half. She took two though." He pointed at Tiffany.

"Yes I did." She smiled a distant smile.

"And? You OK?"

"Yes, sir. It's starting... It's going to be a ride, Ved... You have to come with us."

"Us? You took two. He took half. You're going for a ride. They're going to watch."

"I took the other half of his," Bill informed me.

Never being able to resist hallucinogens, I tossed them in my mouth and swallowed them down with Zach's beer. I immediately questioned the wisdom of this, but it was too late.

Time to obey the first rule: Never fight with a drug. Relax and let it run its course.

I hadn't eaten very much all day, and the drug started to come on quickly. Half an hour after swallowing them, I could feel the telltale symptoms of a strong trip coming on, somewhere in my back or neck. I felt good. I was comfortable. I was familiar with mescaline. It didn't scare me, which saved me the first hour that most occasional mescaline users have to endure...

Suddenly, I was talkative. We started talking, even Bill. Before long, I opened up about the Tower, about the po-boy shop, and about what I'd been doing with my days, something that until then had been sort of a secret. Not that I didn't want people to know what I did, but I preferred them to speculate. I liked being the mystery, the puzzle.

"Take me to the Tower," she said.

"Yeah, let's go," Zach agreed.

"No way... Not in this condition," I said, exaggerating about how fucked up I was. I knew that being really fucked up was coming, but not yet.

"Let's go," Zach said, suddenly excited.

I noticed the glossiness that always came to his eyes when he was fucked up on something. He couldn't bullshit me. When he was altered, be it weed, booze or even mescaline, his eyes showed.

"Nah. Let's just hang out here."

"Come on! Pleeeeeease?" Tiffany asked me again, rubbing her tits against my arm.

An electric shock went through me, straight to my balls. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. A turn on so quick, so out of nowhere... My balls ached suddenly and my dick was instantly in that weird limbo between erect and flaccid.

Oh fuck.

"No, guys, look... not tonight, please," I begged.

The mescaline was pushed through my bloodstream due to my sudden adrenaline rush, and a minute later, I could feel it coming on like a Peterbilt. It was coming in waves, everything amplified and intensified.

I lit a cigarette, trying to slow my heart down.

I looked at her tits again.

Same shocking reaction.

Oh fuck.

Ten minutes later we were in the back of Zach's pickup headed toward the Tower. Bill rode shotgun with Zach, who was taking directions from me through the tiny slip-open window behind the bench seat.

Tiffany stared at the sky while I tried not to look at her. What was happening to me? Tiffany wasn't the one I wanted; she drove me nuts most of the time. What did I want? Come to think of it, I wasn't sure anymore. What I didn't want was to do something stupid with Tiffany, something that wouldn't bring anything good, anything healthy.

Yet there was something about her, something that demanded that I fuck her. It was like she was built for it, made for contact. The more I thought about that idea, the more I started to reason with myself that it was OK to think that way. I began to contemplate the consequences of such actions, trying to think about what doing this might cost me.

There was Sam, obviously. That was a big one; well... if she found out. There was Bill to consider and whatever reaction he might have if he could muster up the energy to react, which I sort of doubted. Of course, these reactions were only relevant if the story were to come out. If Tiffany could keep her mouth shut about the affair, none of it would ever have to even come to light. Of course, I'd learned long ago that women cannot keep quiet when it comes to affairs. Actually, that's not fair to say. It just so happens that I'm like a fucking vault... That's just me. It has nothing to do with gender. I've known some women who have revealed some things to me that they'd never spoken of to anyone else, things that I would have struggled to withhold. It's just that in my dealings with women, I've never had any luck with them keeping secrets.

Again, it all goes to motive. If you are sleeping with the one you want to spend your life with, and he/she happens to be committed elsewhere, it's in your best interest to play whistleblower. Even as logical as that is, I had to learn that lesson about ten times before I stopped thinking, OK, I can really trust this one.

We got to the Tower and began climbing the steps. The mescaline was intensifying exponentially by the minute. We were laughing and joking as we negotiated the steps, and the whole time I was thinking about what a mistake this was.

I outlined her up there... This is Sam's place.

When we got to the trapdoor, I opened it without concocting some bullshit story about losing the key. I didn't think I had the brain capacity to really put on a show, to really sell a lie. That was the last chance I had to change paths, and I knew it.

As we crawled into the room at the top, I could have told you the story, the way it would all happen... Well, most of it. How many times had I done this? How many times had I fucked up a good thing? Was I subconsciously making bad decisions in order to accomplish something? Was there something in the chaos that I was attracted to? As prophetic as I liked to think myself, why was I led around by my dick? What was in this fucking mescaline anyway? I wouldn't have taken ecstasy. I'd have been smarter than that, knowing that ecstasy and I make very bad decisions when we're together.

"Holy shit!" Tiffany exclaimed, taking in the view.

"Oh my God! This is insane!" Zach agreed.

Bill didn't speak, but he did walk around the platform, taking in the view from each side.

"How long have you been coming here?" Zach asked.

"Couple weeks."

"And you didn't tell us?" Tiffany asked.

"No, it's my spot."

"Now it's our spot, honey," Tiffany corrected.

As much as I wanted to kill her for saying that, I didn't speak. She was right. I'd given it away and there was no getting it back now. When I'd had Sam up here, I'd told her that she was special because of it, and now, given enough rope to hang myself, I didn't disappoint my bloodthirsty audience. I'd already betrayed Sam on some level by bringing them up here. Not to mention my contemplating how to fuck Tiffany and not get caught...

I'm a fucking monster.

"Let's get this straight right now. This is my place, and you're guests of mine. It's not our place, it's mine."

Everyone looked at me, suggesting perhaps I overreacted.

"Okaaaay," she said.

"Yeah, OK, bro. No one's trying to steal your secret garden," Zach said.

Tiffany laughed.

"Good. It's mine."

They looked at each other and nodded. I wondered if I was acting crazy. It was getting hard to tell.

We all lay on our backs and looked at the stars for what felt like half an hour, but probably was two hours or more. The depth of the stars was incredible, and each time something in the sky would move, we'd all see it. We had eagle-sharp vision, intensified and amplified by the drug, turning ordinary light into a starburst of shooting colors.

"What do you think happens when we die?" Tiffany asked the group.

"Ved?" Zach asked, sending the question my way.

I wanted to talk about it, I really did, but not with these dimwits. I wanted to talk about it with Sam, someone who would understand my complicated answer. "What happens to a mud puddle?" was all I said.

No one spoke.

"I'm going to go climb on the railing," Zach said.

"Go for it," I said absently.

"Be careful please," Tiffany urged.

"Of course. I just have to do something; I'm going nuts."

Bill went through the trapdoor with him, leaving Tiffany and me alone.

God help me, I wanted to walk away so badly. I talked myself through the process a hundred times in the next five minutes, but I could feel her beside me, breathing. I ran my hands through my hair, trying to shake myself back to reality, trying to reason with my balls that were aching for her.

Some women are just built for this... It's what they do... It's what they are...

"Are you really gay, Ved?" she asked as if she could sense my thoughts.

"Obvi―" I coughed and cleared my throat. "Obviously."

"It's just that you don't really seem it, not to me."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"Are you scared of me?" she asked.

"Why would I be scared of you, Tiffany?"

"Because you know I want you... I mean, I think you know why."

"No, I'm not scared of you."

"So why are you lying about the gay thing?"

"It's safer."

"What is?"

"Lying to you."

"You can trust me, Ved. I wouldn't ever say anything about anything that ever happened."

I laughed out loud. "Right. I used to go for that one: hook, line and sinker. Life has taught me otherwise."

"Well, you just met me."

"Yup. But I've known you before in other people. I know exactly who you are."

"Oh really? And what do you know?"

"I know that you aren't happy. You're unfulfilled, longing for something that you can't have."

"And you think that's you?"

"No, I think that's love, passion, excitement."

She was silent for a long time. Finally she spoke, "I'm not a whore. I didn't marry Bill because I'm a whore."

"I know."

"Oh bullshit! You don't know shit! You just assume I'm a whore... Please... the whole gay thing? Really? You have to lie and say that you're gay to keep me away? Grow a pair, Ved!"

"I have a pair. I also have a brain, and I don't think it's uncool to use it. Use yours, Tiffany."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you see who I'm married to?"

"Yeah, I do. Bad fucking choice, but there again, you fucked up. You waited too long to pick. Should have done better when you were younger."

She sat up on her knees and faced me, glaring at me. "You pompous fuck." Then she slapped me across the face.

Rage ripped through me in a flash. The drug was making me uncontrollable as I thought what to do about it... Nothing. Relax, Ved... Relax.

I stood up to leave, taking a deep breath. Walking back to the Stouse sounded like the right thing to do. It wasn't that far of a walk, but it was dark, and I was incredibly fucked up. She sat on her knees, in the same position she'd been in when she'd slapped me.

I walked to the trapdoor and opened it. She never even looked at me. We were both so out of our minds by this point that nothing made any sense. I could hear Zach and Bill talking far below me, somewhere. I could hear their voices sharply.

"It's the one with the four-wheel drive?" Zach asked.

"Nooooooo, maaaaaan. It's the other one," Bill replied in his best impression of what he thought he was supposed to sound like stoned.

I looked back at Tiffany and stepped to her, unzipping my fly. I pulled out my dick as I walked to her. She saw me coming and grabbed me around the ass, pulling me into her mouth. I was still pulling my pants down as she started to suck me. Her mouth was hot, and she moaned as she did it. I reached down her shirt, grabbing the breasts that had been driving me crazy all night. I slid my hand under her bra, feeling her nipples harden.

I held her breast with my right hand and held her head with my left as I came with a force that I have never been able to duplicate. Semen came from somewhere deep in my guts, fuck, maybe my feet, as I just kept coming. Tiffany didn't stop the motion; she just kept swallowing as I kept coming.

When I finished, she looked up at me and said, "Aah," smiling.

I'd committed a sin, again. See, those are the kinds of things I call sin. I don't think that swearing or smoking or, God forbid, drinking are sins. Sins are when you know you are doing something wrong, when you make a conscious decision not to do the right thing, opting instead for the thing you "want" in the temporary. I'd solidified the idea that what I was doing was wrong when I'd contemplated leaving, and didn't.

The guilt wasn't there. I'd almost hoped it would be. I almost wanted to feel bad about what I'd done, but I wasn't done yet.

"Take them off," I said to her.

"What?"

"Your pants. Take them off."

She didn't argue. I slid a piece of metal that looked like it used to be one of the braces for the frame of the Tower through the handle of the trapdoor, keeping it from being able to twist to the right and open. Once it was sufficiently jammed in there, I undressed Tiffany entirely, marveling at her body that truly was built for what I was about to do.

She wasn't a skinny girl. She was built solidly. She had just a tiny little belly that was still cute; large, full breasts; and a completely shaved mound. She wasn't the least bit concerned with being naked in front of me, or the fact that I was staring at her as intently as I was.

She never rushed me to start, or finish. She waited for me to look her over for a long time, allowing me to touch, kiss, and lick anything I wanted. When I slipped my fingers inside of her, she was sloppy wet.

"Do anything you want to me," she said, not smiling, her eyes locked on mine.

Under the clear black sky, I fucked Tiffany to the best of my ability. No one tried to come up, and Tiffany didn't put too much effort into being quiet while I did it.

I laid her out in Sam's silhouette and came into her. As I did, I noticed the sky was flashing orange and gold, red and blue as if heaven itself was opening up before me... Lights flashed in the humid sky as Tiffany clawed at my back, pulling me deeper into her as I shook the last of my powerful orgasm into her. I marveled at how this woman had turned me on beyond anything I'd ever felt before. I still had no desire to form an emotional bond with her, but decided immediately that this was what I always wanted out of sex. She was exactly what I've always wanted sex to be, but never was. She desired me absolutely.

We dressed without saying a word. I was speechless at my ridiculous behavior, but didn't regret my decision. When we were clothed again, she kissed me, and I kissed her back.

"Get rid of him. Spend the night with me," I said, shocking myself.

"Done," she said, starting down the stairs to a clueless husband. "You realize that the night's almost over, right?"

"Not for us."

We got back to the Stouse and waited a painfully long time for Bill to fall asleep. All of our attempts to get him to go home and sleep off the half-pill he'd taken failed. He was adamant that he wasn't tired, but when we saw him yawning an hour later, we were hopeful.

Tiffany and I were lost in that place that being really fucked up in the middle of the night takes you. We'd already done something very exciting, and as we waited for Bill to get tired, our anticipation grew. We'd give each other longing looks: she at my crotch, me at her chest. As Bill labored to stay awake―first fully awake, then sleepy, and eventually fighting sheer exhaustion―we grew more and more antsy.

Zach resigned and went to bed, stating for the record that he wasn't a pussy, but he had to work in the morning. Poor bastard.

When Bill finally lay down on the couch, I grabbed Tiffany's ass and squeezed it hard, demonstrating exactly how bad I wanted it. She was elated with the attention, eyeing me and then the door, as if to suggest, "Let's go."

"He's still awake," I whispered.

"He'll be out cold in a second," she said.

"Well, that may be, but he's damn sure awake now." We both burst out laughing.

She held up her index finger as if to say, "Wait a sec, watch this," and then she turned to him. "Bill, I forgot my purse at the Tower."

He turned his head toward us slightly but never looked over at her. Uninterested, he mumbled, "You better get it."

"OK, we'll go get it. Be right back."

"I'll be sleeping."

"All right. Goodnight," she said obligatorily.

"Night, Bill," I said.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

Jesus, I've never met anyone so clueless.

We ran excitedly and jumped on the four-wheeler. I fired it up with the push of a button and tore the driveway up, leaving in a cloud of dust. As I flew down the road in the last of the darkness, Tiffany reached around me and unbuttoned my jeans and then pulled down my zipper. She was stroking me as I whipped the four-wheeler around corners, headed for the trail. I saw headlights coming in the far distance, but with the drug just now starting to level off, distance was hard to judge. Tiffany was pulling harder on my man-parts as the vehicle approached, until finally she yelled, "Ved!"

It dawned on me how close the truck was, and I veered to the right, just in time to miss the truck and hear the horn being blared at me. It was a fire truck.

"That would have been ironic," I said after I skidded to a stop on the shoulder.

"That would have been a mess."

"There's gonna be a mess if you don't cool it." I smiled and accelerated again.

The sky was just starting to lighten in the east when we got back to the Tower. "Wanna go back up?" I asked.

"Oh, stop," she said, pulling me around to face her.

I tried to lay her down on the four-wheeler, but it was too hard with my feet on the handlebars.

"Here, try this," I said, making her reposition herself with her back to the handgrips.

She pulled her shirt off, and then she stood on the four-wheeler seat and took off her pants and underwear. In the dim light of the rising sun, she looked even better than she had in the darkness. I was more convinced than ever that she was the perfect match for me sexually. If only she had a bigger intellect. Everything else was just big enough.

"How do you want me, Mr. Ludo?"

"Badly."

She smiled. "I think you might be bad news."

"Oh, make no mistake about it, I am bad news."

She lay down on the seat, putting her feet on the fenders above the rear wheels. I straddled her missionary style, using the handlebars to pull hard into her. A number of other variations of four-wheeler sex took place as the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky. I came into her repeatedly, and then I went down on her.

At about eight, we dressed and kissed, started the four-wheeler, and drove home. When we got there, Bill's Blazer was gone, and we were alone. I pulled the thick blinds, making the house cold and dark, and started a pot of coffee. She undressed again and crawled into my bed on the floor.

I handed her a cup of coffee as I crawled into bed with her, but we had to put the coffee down as I started fondling her. We made love for the sixth time that night.

The coffee was lukewarm when we finally sipped it. "Ved, what am I going to do?"

"About what?"

"I don't know... my life?"

"Change it."

"How?"

"Leave him. Free yourself. You're a beautiful girl, Tiffany. You could have anyone you wanted."

"Yeah, for a night."

"No, forever."

"Right," she scoffed.

"You have to come to the realization that your life is exactly that―your life. You can't let other people set your terms for you. You have to decide what you want, and get it. Cut the excess, cut anything that doesn't fit. Lie in bed and dream of what your perfect life looks like, and then go get it."

"Oh right... it's that easy, huh? That's why so many people have the perfect life?"

"It's not about having the perfect life; it's about seeking the perfect life. Freedom, Tiffany, freedom. Passion, romance, adventure... It's about late night talks, naked, in a lover's bed. Coffee and mescaline and near death experiences with fire trucks..." We laughed. "You have to be seeking better, all the time. You cannot settle for less. One day, you will be lying there dying, thinking about your life, about what you were, not what your life was. You won't be mad at the things you blew. You'll be mad about what you didn't try to change. You're here with me because something is missing from your life, something that you can't live without. So you sought me out; you made a physical connection with me because you haven't made that kind of connection in a long time. Look at you." I raised the blanket to look at her naked body. "You're flawless. You're the sexiest thing I have ever seen. I wish I could crawl into your vagina and eat it, or live in it... You're passionate, you're beautiful, and you need to be loved like a woman, fucked like one... That's not something to be ashamed of. Everyone is so busy disguising their sexual desires, so busy chasing money or things, trying to lock all the things down that they fear losing the most. You can't do it. You're leaving it here when you leave this earth. All you're taking with you are the emotions, the memories. Whatever it is that you are looking for, find it. Fuck the rest."

"Wow. You really believe yourself when you talk, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. I have my priorities in order. I know what matters to me, and I'm at least looking for it."

"Have you found it?"

"No, but I don't expect to."

"Hmm."

"You know what the biggest disappointment is to me, about Christmas?"

"Getting coal because you've been naughty?" She smiled, but looked at me seriously.

"Opening the gifts and having nothing left to look forward to. When the presents are wrapped, they are different things than they are when they are unwrapped. A gift wrapped under the tree is a question mark; it's anything and everything you want it to be. Once you open it, even if it was something you wanted, it's not all the other things it could have been. Anticipation... that's the magic of Christmas. It's the magic of life. Waiting to see what will happen next, and knowing yourself well enough to trust yourself to handle whatever 'it' is. Plotted lives, chained up love, settling for less than adventure, anything less than perfect or awful... that's a waste. You have to realize that everything that befalls you becomes a tale, a story of your existence, proof that you were ever alive. What are you? Find a man who will worship you. Find the place that will make you happy when you open your eyes in the morning... These are your minutes, days, weeks... years. Fuck Bill and anything that gets in your way. This is your life; these are your minutes, Tiffany."

"I've never met anyone like you," she said, tears in her eyes.

"Good. That's all I want. I want to be remembered. That's all I've ever wanted from people. Simple really, right? To have people remember me? It's not. As unique as I think myself to be, I am just as easily forgotten as the next guy, just as replaceable. That's the journey I'm on. That's my destination... to be remembered."

I woke up to a panicked Zach, shaking me violently. I went from sleeping erratically to trying to focus on a familiar face in a brightly lit room in a matter of seconds. I felt a pressure in my temples that I immediately identified as a dehydration headache.

I knew that Tylenol wouldn't touch it, only massive amounts of fluid and patience. Fuck.

He was frantic, his face red and scared. I hate seeing that look. Every time I see that face, something life altering is about to happen. I knew before he could even speak the words that I didn't want to hear what he was about to say. I wanted to stop him, but everything happened so fast.

"Wake up, fucker! Your world is imploding! Get up!"

I stirred, and an overwhelming sense of dread and guilt came to me immediately. Beyond Zach's obviously bad news, the guilt that I was waiting for was finally here.

What had I done? Where is Tiffany? What time is it? Fuck, what day is it? Why is Zach home in the middle of the day? What had I done?

My legs were cramped and hurting from lack of water and too many strenuous orgasms. It was all the reminder I needed about what I'd done last night, all the decisions I'd consciously made. I couldn't regret them now; that's cowardly. It's no good to call yourself a decision maker day in and day out, and then when the shit hits the fan, cry that you fucked up. A fuck up is when you do something you didn't intend. Nothing I'd done last night fit that category.

This is what made me Ved. These are the situations where I define myself, to myself. There are a million things I do a day that I do in order to prove that I am what I say I am, to others. I do plenty of things for show, for demonstration purposes. I want people to see me do them; I want them to know that I am what I say I am. In situations where I am reckoning with guilt, or decisions I'd actually pondered and moved into, no one can see the battle within. It's these times when I say to myself, "Buckle up, asshole. Here you are, where you took yourself... Now it's time to hold your ground and go it alone."

I looked at Zach and held a finger up to stop him from saying whatever he was about to say. I needed a second to get my blood flowing, to take a worthless Tylenol or Percocet.

"Wait a second," I said, interrupting him.

"No! You don't understand! There was a―"

"Please! Just give me a second. I see your fucking face; I see it's important! I can't handle it right now... I just can't..."

"Man up, Ved! The world isn't waiting on you to resolve your fucking issues! There was a fire last night. Sam is dead!"

Samantha was found in the hallway, between her mother's bedroom and her own, sitting between her mother's legs, her mother's back against the wall. The firemen speculated that Sam had awoken, and rather than immediately saving herself, she'd gone farther down the hall to wake her mother. They knew that the fire had started in the downstairs living room and moved out from the center, isolating the wings of the big house. They said things like, "It's unlikely that anyone would have been able to stay conscious long enough to escape. The fire was massive, and the house was made mostly of pine, inside and out. By the time we got there, no one could have still been alive. It's a tragedy."

I found out from a postcard Zach later sent me that Sam's father had fallen asleep on the couch, smoking a cigarette.

I played the events in my head, seeing them take place, and I have continued to do that for the last fifteen years. I can see Sam, startled by the smoke filling her room. She thinks about what to do. She thinks about all the things she knows about house fires, but the smoke... it's so thick she's having a hard time breathing... thinking is impossible, so instinct takes over.

She realizes that Mom is alone in her room, even farther down the hallway. The fire is coming; it's already on the second floor of the house, working its way toward her on the third. The smoke is getting thicker, blacker. She's navigating the familiar halls now with her hands, unable to place herself. Oxygen is getting short.

She finds the room. Mom is awake. They hug, terrified. Someone suggests leaving the house via the hallway, rather than jumping. From that point on, there's no chance of survival. There is no escaping. The hallway is black, impassible. Consciousness is slipping away, choking and gagging... sweating, burning in the furnace. They sit down. Mom leans against the wall, daughter sits between her legs, lying back against the woman that gave her life. They say their goodbyes in the black terror of suffocation. And then the fire comes. It swallows them whole.

That wasn't all Zach had for me. "Tiffany left Bill. She's gone, fucking gone!"

"What? What day is today?" I asked, trying to compute, feeling dizzy.

"Thursday! What did you say to her? She's gone!"

"I didn't―" I stopped, remembering my "free yourself" speech. "I didn't say... I just..."

"Goddamnit! You told her to leave, didn't you! It's not enough to fuck my cousin's wife. You have to tell her to fucking leave the poor bastard!"

"I told her to do what she wanted, and if she wanted to leave, then to do it!"

"I hope you like your own advice, asshole! He's gonna subpoena you! He's going to have you testify in court that you slept with her! He's filing for divorce and doesn't want to have to pay alimony! Now what are you gonna do, Mr. Prophet? Huh? What are you gonna do? You know what happens when you get a subpoena? The cops are going to find you and my family's gonna get fucked for hiding you..."

"OK!" I screamed, tears out of nowhere coming to my eyes. I thought my head was going to explode. I was frantic. I looked around the room, looking for an answer, looking for a gun.

I spotted the 4/10 shotgun leaning up against the back door. I lurched to get up, the headache blinding me. Zach followed my eyes and grabbed me. I slapped his hands off of my right shoulder. He countered with an elbow that struck me on the bridge of my nose.

Crack. I heard it break, and then came the white flash and pain.

I blacked out.

I woke up and the room was still. My brain was shut down. I couldn't think. Nothing. No feelings, no thoughts. It was hard to see out of my right eye. I could see black below my eye, skin puffing up where there normally was none in my field of vision, and remembered I had a broken nose, and, apparently, almost an entirely swollen-shut eye. Zach sat at the glass refrigerator case reading something. When he saw me awake, he started reading the paper in his hand aloud.

I tried to sit up, but couldn't. I looked at him, tears coming back to my eyes.

"Ved, I'm sorry for leaving like this. You are sleeping and I don't want to wake you. My world is changing, and I can't sleep. All I can do is think about what I am, what I've done to myself. It's hard to find the right words for you, but I think you understand. Know that what you said to me had an impact on me. It was the most important thing anyone's ever told me. Don't regret it. I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, but my life starts again today. I'll always think back on today and either think this was the best, or worst, thing I've ever done. Only time will tell. Know that you will live forever in my memory. Mission accomplished. Tiff."

I thought I might pass out again, but, unfortunately, I didn't. When Zach finished reading, he said nothing for a long second, and then he spoke very softly and evenly, pronouncing each word, "I hope you're satisfied. You are a disease. I want you to leave and never come back."

I nodded.

"I'll call Bill and tell him that you're gone. I don't know where you went. I won't know where you went because you're not going to tell me. You're going to pack up your shit and leave. You'll be someone I once knew and only that."

"How long do I have?"

"Tomorrow morning when I leave for work will be the last time I ever see you."

"OK."

He looked at me again and shook his head slightly. "I wish I'd never met you. You make me sick."

I lay back down and closed my swollen eyes. Tears streamed down both sides of my face, seeping into my pillow silently.

Sam? Her name brought me a pain that I couldn't escape. Just for the hell of it, I looked for the shotgun. I knew it would be gone. It was. Zach had left me a suitcase on the floor. My gun was in my car, but the idea of walking into the daylight to get it was daunting. Besides, I'd reached a calm from sheer overload.

Images of the golden sky with flashing red and blue as Tiffany lay within Sam's chalk outline, naked, with me on top of her... Images of the headlights that almost smashed into the four-wheeler...

The fire truck...

What if she'd seen me? What if, on her way to the afterlife, she'd seen me on the Tower?

The imagery of that was too much. My mind began to shut down again as I stood tentatively and began throwing my belongings toward the suitcase on the floor. I couldn't think of anything. I was locked in a mental numbness that made me function without telling my brain to do so.

When I'd gathered most of my things, I walked out into the evening. It was Thursday night, somewhere near seven o'clock. Thursday... I was supposed to go to LBPB today and see Sam. I'd failed a commitment to her.

That was unacceptable. No matter the destruction I seemed to cause to anyone who came near me, I had to go. I jumped on the four-wheeler and pressed the ignition. When the quad lurched forward, I almost fell off it. The throbbing in my face and nose were killing me. I had no strength. I'd eaten nothing, hadn't had water in at least eighteen hours, and had slept like shit, twisting and turning with my unsettling dreams.

I drove slowly to LBPB. When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw flowers scattered everywhere. Hundreds of bouquets covering the asphalt between the door and the gas pumps. I could smell them, even through a broken and blood-clogged nose.

I sat there on the four-wheeler, thinking. As I did, a car pulled in and stopped. The driver stayed in the car, but a woman got out and laid a bouquet of daisies on the ground. She nodded once at me and got back into the car. They were gone a second later.

Something died inside of me that day, something innocent. I am still afraid of the animal I am inside. As I was driving back to the Stouse, I couldn't help but stop at the Tower. I pulled the four-wheeler underneath it and looked up at the expansive metal puzzle of braces and stairs. It was such a beautiful structure...

It dawned on me that it wasn't just a structure, it was an altar. It was where I took people to worship me.

It was my Tower of Babel. It was my Jacob's Ladder, but for me, God wasn't descending the steps to talk to me. God wasn't looking at me. I was an embarrassment, even to an infinite God.

I climbed the steps with an agony that surpasses my ability to describe it. Each step intensified the migraine, yet I labored on. I didn't even know why I was climbing it. Maybe it was to say goodbye to it, maybe it was to understand what had happened to me there... maybe it was to jump, head-first, off of it.

I unlocked the padlock and dropped it, smiling as I heard it bang off of the steps and metal frame over and over again. I pushed up the trapdoor and poked my head through. The metal beam I'd used to secure the handle last night was the first thing I saw. I winced at the sight of it.

I pushed it over as I climbed up onto the platform. It made a screeching noise that was deafening. I didn't close the door, meaning for my visit to be a brief goodbye.

I walked over to the silhouette and lay down in it. It was no longer Sam's shape. It represented all the things I was. It was me. It was her. It was Tiffany. It was the state of Louisiana, the fire, the orgasm... It was a golden statue I'd built to myself.

It was dark as I looked at the sky. It was, I thought, my last night in Louisiana. I pressed my palms together and stretched them above my head, easily stretching a foot longer than her tiny outline. I tried to remember her face as I'd traced her, but I couldn't. Terror, or something like it, was all I saw in her eyes. Maybe it was hatred...

I was closing my eyes, resigning to the gripping sleepiness that comes from hours of uncontrollable nervousness, when I felt something light and frail on my wrist. A monarch butterfly had landed on me. Slowly, I brought my arm to my face to see it better. I'd never seen a butterfly up there before, nor could I ever recall seeing a butterfly at night. It didn't fly away as I slowly rolled my hand around. It walked around my hand, looking at me. I stared at it for a long minute before I lowered my arm to the floor, trying to coax it off of me. Finally, it stepped from my hand to the platform, still staring at me. I was suddenly afraid, suddenly gripped with terror. I recoiled, turning to my side. My head pounded with the movement. I closed my eyes to let the migraine pass.

It felt so good to close my eyes. I wondered if this was what it felt like to die on the top of Mt. Everest, like I'd read in Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air. Only days ago, I'd finished the book, though now it felt like a lifetime ago. Jon had so poetically described his returning to a hotel room after the tragedy and the reconciliation he sought through smoking a joint. He was haunted by his events, as was I by my own. I wished I had a friend who I hadn't maimed. I wished that I was half the man I'd always thought myself to be.

Somehow, despite my good intentions, I'd dragged everything I ever loved about myself, about others, into tragedy and disaster once again. I realized that no matter where I went, this was always going to be the case. Love me, hate me...

I turned back to the monarch that still stared at me. I moved my hand slowly above it, making a flat surface with my hand, and smashed that motherfucker into a bloody pulp. I didn't even wipe off my hand. I just closed my eyes and fell asleep.

Sometime before I woke up at three in the morning, I had a dream.

I was in a hot room, unbearably hot. I was dying of thirst, but there was nothing to drink. It took me a few seconds to realize that the room was on fire, and when I realized it, I was relieved. I waited for the smoke to begin choking me, but there was none. The room was without a roof. All the smoke just climbed up the sky, leaving me unmolested. The floor was concrete and the walls wide. I realized I was in no danger of burning. The fire couldn't reach me. One wall was not burning, a wall that offered a door.

I wandered to it, rather casually given the conditions. I touched the handle to the door quickly to see if it was hot, but it was not. It was cool to the touch. The room was getting hotter behind me, but the temperature of the room seemed to have no effect on the door I stood in front of.

I opened the door, half expecting to see my dead friends behind it. They were not there. Sitting on the floor of what looked like a closet was a wooden barrel. I looked closer at it, trying to figure out what it was. From a tiny hole about halfway down the body of the curved container, I saw a fluid leaking. It stained the wood below it a dark red. I put my finger in it and pulled it to my nose.

Whiskey.

My thirst was reignited with the realization. Perhaps that was the moral of the dream. All there was to drink was whiskey... I'd drink it. I'd have to, but it wouldn't quench my thirst... I'd return to it. I'd drink it out of desperation, but it wouldn't help. It would only add to my pain; yet time and time again, I'd come back. Cycles of destruction, cycles of taking what's being offered, always without a solution.

Afraid to face the thirst, to go without. My life, epitomized in my dreams.

A noise.

When I spun around, I saw a silhouette in the fire behind me. At first I thought it was a man. There was only the naked shape of a hairless soul, standing too close to the fire to be a friend. I wondered if it was the devil himself, here to collect his favorite fuck up.

Then she spoke.

"Where do we go when we die?" she asked in a familiar voice.

4

Easy Riders

I read the hastily scratched directions as I drove. I didn't know the town of Slidell very well, so it was all pretty foreign to me. Pablo had given me the directions over the phone, but I was so distracted by him wanting to travel with me that I didn't pay nearly enough attention. I didn't even have a destination to offer him, an ending point. Yet, unwaveringly, he'd agreed.

Initially I'd thought all the talk we'd had about driving across the country together, living like Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider, was just post-life-threatening-adventure talk. You know, the excitement still coursing through our veins, our hearts hammering away like the one-armed drummer from Def Leppard, but when he'd dropped me off at Toby's, Pablo had leaned over and said again, "Seriously, call me if you leave here. I want to go."

I'd been hanging on to that idea in my mind. Though I wasn't in a hurry to leave Bogalusa, I knew I wouldn't be staying for a long time either. It was just a matter of time until I had to go, probably after government agents started arriving. I imagined it like a Chuck Norris movie... Me, sleeping peacefully beside a topless beauty in the moonlight, lying awake because some sixth sense in me was telling me that danger was at hand. Suddenly, the windows explode, shooting glass shrapnel in every direction as I rise from bed shirtless, scarred from the torture camp in some unspecified oriental country I'd undoubtedly weathered without giving up a single secret.

Secret government agents, who refer to themselves as Black-Ops, come swinging through the windows on tiny nylon ropes as flash bombs and smoke grenades explode. That's OK though because I got gassed every day at the torture camp and have built immunity... Helicopters are circling, their spotlights tracing figure eights on the wooded land beside the Stouse...

"You'll never take me alive!" I scream as I begin hand-to-hand combat with twenty or more trained assassins, perfectly choreographed to display my abdominal muscles and electric blue eyes. The large fans off-screen turn on, swirling the smoke within the room, giving my long locks more body and volume as I do backflips and ninja kicks, destroying one secret agent after another...

I hadn't heard a thing from any officials. No phone calls, nothing.

It'd been peaceful for the most part. It'd been fun.

My expectations of life were pretty shallow at the time. I didn't expect very much, and the richness of the lessons I'd learned from Tiffany and Sam struck true with what I'd already decided. There are always multiple ways to view a scenario. There are always more perspectives to seek, though they never come from the sources you want them to.

I'd shaped Tiffany's life. The two of us were like blindfolded cattle, bumping into each other in the pasture of life, altering our courses just by just a fraction, but drastically changing our destination miles down the road. How many times had I done that? How many times had I said something to someone that really got through to them? How many times had I even tried?

The answer was: not enough.

I'd been so intent on impressing my face, my mind, and imagination on people that I'd been neglecting to really use the gift to touch them. I could have been trying to help shape my world, rather than just taking what I needed from it. What'd happened between Tiffany and I was meant to be. It wasn't a one-night stand like the others; it was cosmically timed, cosmically designed.

I'd like to say that God designed it, but the religious folk of the world cannot seem to grasp that God is bigger than simple sin, that God can use sin as a tool. Right and wrong being so easily defined to the super-religious, they cannot grasp how a timeless God who has created the heavens and earth, who is and always was, could use sex with a woman to help shape the outcome of our lives. These folks can accept that He transformed Moses' staff into a snake, that He parted the Red Sea, that He turned water into wine; but tell Christians that God used sin as a tool to make more important things happen, and they'll scoff at you. They claim that God is limitless, infinite, all knowing; yet, they can't accredit Him with being smart enough to design and carry out His plans. I used to ask my Christian friends, "You think God answers the prayers of the Muslims?" I mean, one of the largest religions in the world is out there praying for things every day, and my Christian friends wouldn't speculate as to whether or not God answered their prayers... narrow minded idiots. They know what the answer is, but they dare not speak it. This is where Christians have failed God, not where God failed Christians.

My problem isn't with God; it's with the people who serve their denomination, not their own sense of logic. God made us in His likeness. He gave us the ability to speculate, to make complicated decisions, and yet ask a Christian to step outside of the doctrine and what you get is a lot of silence.

"If a baby were born in the woods, a place where no missionaries could reach him, and lived to be ten years old, worshipping the old standby god, the Sun, would he go to heaven?" That's another favorite of mine. The beauty of these sorts of questions isn't about getting a right or wrong answer, it's about seeing good ol' God fearing folks refuse to speculate.

I don't know for certain how that night shaped Tiffany's life. I don't know if it turned out that I saved her, or destroyed her, but for fifteen years, I have been proud of myself for what I told her. It'd been the truth then, and was still the truth now. I'd spoken those words to her in the hours of after-sex euphoria and closeness, riding the mescaline on good waves of honesty, and whatever I said to her, I said without any malicious motive. I didn't want her to leave Bill for me; I wanted her to leave Bill for her. I wanted to tell her that sometimes you have to look at your problems from a bigger perspective. That was all.

The fact that my life was also shaped by the events of that night made it seem like a more fair trade-off. We both paid for our sins, not just Tiffany. I'm glad now, as I was then, that I'd been forced to pay the price for what I'd said to her. I'm happiest when I've earned my things, and I earned the Tiffany story.

Sam, on the other hand, I don't deserve. Looking back on it from where I sit now, I can see that her death didn't affect me as much as it should have for three reasons:

  1. I didn't have a long term relationship with her.

  2. I was distracted by the news I'd received on the same day about Tiffany, and how it would affect me. It seemed to have a more immediate consequence attached to it, though in comparison to Sam's death, it was trivial.

  3. I left so soon afterward that the transition from the Stouse to the open road ahead distracted me further.

For those three reasons, I was somewhat unaffected. Did Sam deserve better than me? Absolutely. Could our relationship have developed into something bigger? No, I'd already fucked up the innocence. I would have abandoned her, not because I wanted to, but because it would have been the self-inflicted price of my actions on the Tower that night.

Death had sort of lost that spooky-haunting feeling for me. I wasn't ever prepared for it to come close again, but I accepted it, the way you learn to live with wasps when they build a nest on your front porch. You are cautious, but you don't live in a constant state of paranoia. Familiarity breeds comfort.

"Evan?"

"Ved!"

"I'm fulfilling my obligation to notify you if and when I leave."

He laughed. "When?"

"I have to be out of Bogalusa today."

"Did something happen?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

"Yeah. Something always happens."

"You have the most exciting life of anyone I've ever known. You should write a book."

I laughed this time. "Yeah, maybe I will one day."

I still hadn't discussed being AWOL with Pablo, mostly because I didn't know how he'd feel about that. He didn't worry me physically, nor did I think he was crazier than I was, I just didn't want it to go bad between us. Pablo had, right from the beginning, seemed like another character placed directly in my life path. There weren't things about him that I disliked, which is difficult for me to say about most of the people I know.

Pablo was patient, funny, and he put off a harmless feeling, allowing me to let my guard down and not have to show constant bravado. There was no one else I would have rather set out on a journey with, even if I'd known then that the journey ahead would be far more dangerous and unpredictable than anything I could have imagined. Had I known then that it would end the way it did, I would have missed him, but I would have left him home where he belonged.

"So, you gonna come here and pick me up?" he asked.

"Yeah. I have someone I need to see on the way out, and then I'm on the road."

"All right. Look, it'll be seven by the time you get here. Let's crash for the night at my place, hit it in the morning. Or are you dying to go now?"

"No, fuck no. I have all the time in the world, bud. The only place I can even think to go is San Francisco. I have a friend out there. She got out of the eighty-deuce a year before I did. She's in Alameda, somewhere just outside of San Fran. How's that sound?"

"Fuck yes!" he said in the same tone he'd used beside the pay phone in Houston that night. "Is she hot?"

I considered Pablo. He wasn't the kind of guy Luke was. He wasn't blatantly attractive, yet he did have something about him that I thought must help him get laid, at least occasionally. If any woman took the time to get to know him, he was pure gold and could have any woman he wanted. However, in a world where you are afforded thirty seconds to impress a girl enough to buy you another hour of her time, Pablo didn't seem like a strong batter. He lacked self-confidence, or ego, and did better in one-on-one conversations than he did in groups. I never even heard him talk about women, not the way I did anyway, but God knows I'm excessive.

We'd gone to a club in Houston together the night of the gunfight and had a pretty good time, but I'd had a little more fun than he had. Even though my fun had a cousin who liked Pablo, he couldn't seem to close the deal. It was particularly disappointing since the girl was a "gimme." It was a done deal. All he had to do was pull the trigger.

In a sense, I envied Pablo. He was a lot like a guy I used to know, Shell Ludo. He had that sort of awkward, sort of struggling to hang-in-there-kid, just on the outside of cool vibe, but was gifted enough to manage. Pablo wanted love, not sex. He wanted commitment, not freedom, and I honestly believe now that the only reason he'd agreed to come with me was because he thought that through me, he could find it. If he'd known who he was dealing with, he would never have agreed to come.

"She's cool, too. You'll like her," I said, not having the heart to tell him that Viah and I had a weird connection that spanned sexuality, friendship, and some sort of long-term love for each other. He'd know soon enough, I thought.

"I'm just excited to go somewhere. I don't care what happens!"

I should have told him then not to tempt the gods with that kind of talk. I didn't think it wise for anyone who was in my proximity to make an open-ended statement to God about not caring what He sent our way.

"All right, bro, I'm gonna get going. I'll be there later."

He gave me directions, and we said goodbye. I was thrilled to have company for the road ahead, knowing that no matter what happened, my strengths lie in people. I had to remember that my ability to talk to people was a tool, and not just any tool, a very effective and profound tool.

It took me an hour to get the rest of my crap together and into the trunk of my Honda Accord, which I'd affectionately named Ladybug. I started the car for the first time in a month and a half, and when it did finally fire up, a concerning cloud of blue smoke shot out of the tailpipe.

I drove over to Toby's trailer and parked my car, allowing it to run while I went in. I didn't know how much Toby knew about the events of the day before, but I understood that it was a small town and Bill was Toby's sister's son... I guessed he knew the whole story.

He was a good man, earnest and trusting, and even when I'd lied to him about the events surrounding the drop in Houston, he'd gone to bat for me with Pete. I think that Toby knew that there were a few holes in my story, but he never made mention of it. He'd actually hugged me and said, "I'm just glad you made it back OK."

Rayanne and the girls were sitting at the kitchen table playing Crazy Eights when I came into the trailer sometime around 3 p.m. Zach worked until 5 p.m. each day, so as long as I was gone by 5:30, I doubted I would see him again. Rayanne looked at her watch when I walked in, as if she, too, were afraid that Zach would come home and find me there. She tried to be discreet with the glance at her wrist, but I caught it, and she saw me catch it.

The girls were too young to understand the complexity of the situation, but they knew something bad had happened. They knew that their stepbrother had demanded I leave, and they were torn about how they should feel about it.

"Crazy Eights? I love that game!" I said, smiling to break the silence.

"You wanna play, Ved?" the older girl asked earnestly.

"No, honey, not today."

"You can't play tomorrow. You won't be here," she replied, without intending to be abrasive.

"Girls!" Rayanne chided them, "Mind your own damn business."

"Oh, it's cool, Rayanne. They didn't mean to sound like little brats," I said, poking them on their sides.

They squealed as I tickled them for a second, and then the younger sister asked, "Ved, where will you go?"

"I'm going to go to San Francisco. You know where that is?"

"California, duh," the older one replied.

"Duh? Really? Duh? You guys grow up in the valley?" I joked. They didn't get it.

"You don't have to go, Ved. Seriously, we can work this out," Rayanne said earnestly.

"Nah, it's probably best I go. I don't know who'll be looking for me, but I don't need to go dragging y'all into my mess."

"It ain't a mess. That girl's a hooch," Toby said, walking in from the living room.

"No, man. She's not. She's just unhappy," I surprised myself, defending Tiffany.

"She sure ain't that McCoy girl... She was something special." He looked at the floor with his words.

Hearing Sam referenced unexpectedly was just awful. I hadn't even had the time to begin processing her death yet. I couldn't. I was just starting to get over the fact that I was leaving, heading into a world that neither knew me, nor wanted me.

I'd ignored calling my family entirely. The only communication I'd had was in a postcard I'd sent to my sister. She was the neutral party, evenly divided between my mother and my father. I didn't know for sure whether my dad even knew I'd left the Army. I sure hadn't told him.

He'd always harped on the idea of reenlisting, every chance he got. Even in my first year, he'd been telling me to stay in for twenty years. It didn't matter how dangerous it was or how much I liked or disliked it, he just wanted me to stay put. I didn't know for sure if it was because his life had changed to the point where there was no longer room for me in it or because he'd finally been able to answer people's inquiries about me with something respectable and didn't want to lose that.

I doubted that my sister had told him about my impromptu vacation. Not only did I not want to be the one to deliver that news, my sister wouldn't want to either. Her relationship with him was better than mine, but still far from wonderful. Nobody wanted to tell Dad, and it was rather unfair of me to put that on my sister, so I never asked her to. I told her how I was doing, that I was alive, and left it up to her to decide what to say to the rest of the family.

I knew that to my sister this was just the next step in a lifetime of fuck ups her brother would make. She neither had the passion for life that I did, nor did she understand why irresponsibility came so easily to me. She was a great student and athlete, and a shoo-in to any college she wanted. We'd grown up in the same house, but the four years that separated us seemed bigger than that. We rarely spoke on the phone while I was at Bragg, and I hadn't called her since I'd been in Louisiana, but I decided sending her postcards occasionally would suffice.

The automatic payment I was making to my father for the Honda had probably stopped by this point. If he hadn't heard the news from my sister, he would soon be asking her if she's heard from me as the payments would stop arriving by mail. I knew that the money issue would be huge; it would divide us forever, even if eventually he could forgive me for going AWOL.

Being reminded of Sam was proof of just how shallow I was. In all of the events that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, she'd somehow slipped to the bottom of the "to digest" pile. Her death was still so shocking and unreal to me that I'd just sort of placed it behind the other things, the things that affected my well-being immediately.

It's incredibly shallow to admit that the affair going on with Tiffany seemed vastly more important to me in those initial hours than Sam's death. I feared the police coming out to greet me with papers, or Bill coming out to greet me with his twelve gauge shotgun... There would be plenty of time to digest the Sam tragedy later, if I could get out of here fast enough to survive until later.

"Yeah, she was something all right," I said solemnly.

"I heard you knew her, that you'd befriended her at Louisiana's Best," Rayanne said sullenly.

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry," Rayanne replied quietly.

"Me too. Anyway... I guess I'm gonna―"

"Were you two dating?" Toby asked, interrupting.

"No... Yeah... well, we were gonna try it."

"Too bad. She was the top tier. All the boys out here were in love with that girl. Absolutely beautiful."

"Yeah, she was that kind of girl." I looked at the door standing between me and my running car.

"You don't have to go. You can move back in here if Zach has a problem with you staying. Kid thinks he runs the town, I swear." Toby held my shoulder as he spoke.

"No, it's for the best. Thank you though, for everything," I said, hugging the red-faced man.

"You're a good boy, Ved. Don't be too hard on yourself. Bill's a fuck up." He patted my back as he consoled me.

"One of us is."

I turned to Rayanne and hugged her, then the girls.

"Bye, Ved. Be careful," the younger one said.

They stood on the porch and waved as I drove off. I turned onto the highway and punched it. It felt good to be putting that place in the rearview mirror. It's not that I didn't like it there, I did. It just never really felt like home, like I belonged. It was Zach's place in the world, not mine.

Fifteen miles later, I turned off onto the dirt road that led to Sandy's house. I'd decided to say goodbye to her before I fled. I'd only seen her a few times since our night together, but never under the same context. One night, she'd made Zach and I dinner, and the other times were when she stopped by our place unexpectedly to chat with us. She never spoke of our night together, or showed a single sign that she was hoping for it to happen again.

I was a little hurt by that, actually.

I'd been so proud of the sex we'd had. Honestly, I thought she'd be on the phone with her girlfriends the next day, recounting the legend of Ved Ludo... When the days passed and I hadn't heard from her, I assumed she was trying not to seem clingy. When a week had come and gone, I began to wonder what was going on. By the third week of silence, I felt like an asshole for being so presumptuous.

For a time there, I was really looking forward to going back over there again, to enjoy the fruits of her aging body. She was so different from anyone I'd ever dated or, more realistically, fucked that I was perpetually intrigued by her. I'd had a pleasant time with her, finding her to be both good sex and a good conversationalist... The fact that she had a fucking kilo of coke to offer? Well, that was incredible also. All in all, Sandy was fun.

Now that I was actually driving back over there, uninvited, I began to second guess the wisdom in this. I didn't know how she would feel about me just popping in on her. She'd never invited me to just come on over whenever, but I speculated that it wouldn't be that big of a deal. She didn't work for a living, but I knew she had a pretty busy social life, and there was no telling how many other guys she shared her bed with.

As I knocked on the huge wooden door, inscribed with flowers and Latin wording, I thought that it looked as if it belonged on the other side of a moat. I pictured men with metal helmets and long swords riding horses, burning torches beside the massive wooden door, and speaking with almost unintelligible English accents, "Ew gau's thare?"

I really began to regret my decision, even before a Hispanic man opened the door and looked out at me, obviously put off by the intrusion.

Thinking quickly, I almost asked him if he'd like to donate to my little-league baseball team and then run away.

Too late for wit. He asked me gruffly, "Can I help you?"

I looked at his ill-fitting jeans, mustache, and muscular chest, briefly trying to recall all of the Village People, just to be sure I wasn't in the presence of a famous man. "Uh... I was just here to see Sandy. Never mind. Sorry."

"She's right here," he said as he opened the door.

There she was, looking ironically similar to how she had the morning after we'd spent the night together. "Ved?"

"Hey," I said, wondering if it was too late to run away.

"Ved, come on in. What are you doing all the way out here?"

She shouldered the man out of the way and pulled me by the arm into her house.

"I uh... well, I was leaving the state, probably for forever, and wanted to stop in and say goodbye."

"You are so sweet," she said, her face close to mine.

I knew before I even looked at him that her friend wasn't going to appreciate her proximity to me, and when I finally couldn't control my curiosity any longer, I let my eyes wander towards his. His expression proved me correct.

"Yeah... look, I gotta go. I just wanted to say hi, that's all, or bye..."

"Your face looks awful, honey. Is that from Zach?"

"No, it's from his elbow."

"I see. Well, given the circumstances..."

"Yeah."

"He is known to have a bad temper."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. Especially with his father."

"Huh. That's a new one to me. I never saw that before."

I was going to tell her the story of what happened, explaining that Zach wouldn't dare hit me, not while I was sober, but decided to let it go. Sandy didn't need to know the story, though I figured she'd find out eventually if she didn't already know it.

"Well, I just wanted to say bye. Thank you for..." I remembered her visitor, "Everything."

"Don't be ridiculous. Come in and have some coffee."

I looked at her guy friend, who stared at me and shook his head almost unnoticeably, almost. It was only for me to see. "No, really, I should go. Gotta get to Slidell. I'm meeting Pablo there."

"Oh good. I'm glad you don't have to go alone," she said, without asking me why I was leaving.

"You know the story, huh?"

"I do. Zach called me yesterday. Toby called this morning."

"I see. And? Any thoughts?"

"No. Who am I to think anything about it? Did it surprise me? No. Did it upset me? No. I've known Bill for a long time; I was just as surprised as anyone when Tiffany agreed to marry him. We all were, believe me."

Her friend smiled at this. "Oh shit! Is this the guy?"

Sandy turned to him rather rudely and snapped, "Donovan! Go make some coffee!"

I thought for sure this would send Donovan into a tantrum, but, lo and behold, he did as he was told. Well, after one more shake of his mammoth head at me.

When he was gone, I asked Sandy, "Who's Donovan? The housekeeper?"

"My keeper. Guy has a cock like a horse."

Wow. That was sort of a shocker to me. Not that I thought she and I had any hope as a couple, but I didn't realize that sometime in the last several weeks I'd been sent to the "guy friends" bin.

"Hmm. Well..." I stammered a little, and wouldn't you know it, she caught it.

"Oh, Ved, you're so cute. Don't get all bent out of shape. Donovan and I have been seeing each other for five years, off and on. It's nothing new."

I understood the situation as soon as she'd mentioned Donovan's massive man-parts. Sandy was a player, and I'd been played. I never even saw it coming, never once ran that motive through the computer. It all made sense to me now: the car ride to the liquor store, the forwardness of her hand on my thigh... Sandy had a routine for this; she had an M.O.

My goal of being noteworthy or memorable was completely destroyed at this new realization. The fact that Sandy was being as blunt with me as she was meant that she respected me as a player as well and was giving me the courtesy of not saying to me what she and I both said to one-night stands in the days or hours that follow the tryst. She was letting me in, letting me know that I was a test run, and, frankly, she'd had better.

Sandy had probably heard Zach telling wildly exaggerated stories of my sexual promiscuity and decided that she needed to know if it was all hype, or if I was the real deal. She'd fucked me for some sort of science experiment. I wondered if Zach had told her to get the coke―that when I was coked up, I couldn't resist.

Motherfucker...

The whole time I'd been thinking that I made some sort of indelible impression on Sandy when, really, I was the one who was left with an impression. She wasn't impressed with my mediocre-at-best sexual techniques. She wasn't thrilled when I held her so precariously in the shower, leaving footprints on the steamed glass... Donovan could hold her like that with one finger!

Now look, I have stated before that I am anything but wonderful in the sack. Even when I was practicing often, I was still, at best, average. I've never been much better than that, except for a couple of times, usually with help from amphetamines of one sort or another. I've even increased my potential with desensitizing condoms, which is somewhat redundant because of the way they desensitize both the male and the female, turning what normally amounts to thirty-five seconds of pleasure into an hour worth of work in order to capture the same orgasm.

No, I'm not John Holmes, but hearing from a sexual partner of mine that Donovan is hung like a horse translates to me, simply, "You are not memorable." For the most part, when I sleep with women, it's simply a matter of me giving into an act that essentially nullifies my mental games. I don't sleep with women easily, and maybe that has been a common misconception about my past. I work on the minds of women most effectively when I am not trying to fuck them. By the time I break down and do it, I've surrendered my ability to manipulate them further.

You draw the most curiosity while you are doing things opposite of normal. By surrendering to them sexually, I have essentially turned from walking against the current to swimming downstream with the rest of the assholes.

I tried to recall if I'd said anything cocky the next morning... something that she would have rolled her eyes at secretly. Nothing came to mind, but I was panicking now and it wasn't the right time to really start digging through foggy memories. I'd come back to it.

Now the dynamic had been changed. Mostly, I wanted to get the fuck out of there as soon as possible, trying to save as much face as possible if there was any left to salvage. I didn't want to be some guy she'd fucked, just some guy. Where she and I differed was that at least when I fucked a girl, I could remember what made her important enough to me. I remembered them!

"I'm gonna get going." I stood up, straightening my jeans.

Sandy rose, not trying to stop me from leaving. "Ved, you're a special guy. I don't know what you said to Tiffany that made her finally leave, but whatever it was, I'm sure it was on target. You have a way with women, a connection or something... I don't know if it's as well-intentioned as you pretend, but I know it's real. She would've left him eventually. Honestly, the girl is beautiful, gorgeous... it was just a matter of time."

"I didn't need to rush it."

"You're just saying that because she left and you got stuck holding the bag. Give it a few years; you'll be proud of yourself one day for setting her free... even if she wasn't yours to free."

"She was mine to set free."

Sandy's eyebrows arched. "No, she wasn't."

Seeing Sandy so resolved on this issue pissed me off. It pissed me off that she would try and argue something like this with me. "Are you implying that because Bill was married to her, she was his to free?"

"Bill wouldn't have freed her, Ved."

"And, in your majestic opinion, what are the prerequisites for freeing someone?"

"Commitment, pure intentions, an investment in them."

"Very well. Let me explain this to you as clearly as possible. Tiffany had never been invested in the way I invested in her. She's just tits and ass to everyone she's ever fucked. It's obvious in the way she shows interest in men―"

"But―" Sandy tried to interject.

"You know how she does that? You know how she shows interest?" I didn't wait long enough to let her answer. "She draws attention to her tits. She talks inappropriately about sexual behavior, planting seeds. You know what I do to show I'm interested in a girl? I talk about the world, I sing, I write... We use what we are best at, or what we have seen work in the past, to bridge the gap between friends and lovers... You dare speculate about how Tiffany felt about me when you are so hollow inside that feeling, really feeling anything, is out of the question? Who are you, with your man-servants and village of trailer-ridden peasants you lord over? Don't pretend to understand human interactions. Don't pretend to understand freedom. You know nothing about either. You drive your seventy-thousand-dollar car into the slums of Bogalusa occasionally to check in on the people small enough to you that they don't dare expect you to be human. See, for you it's your car and your house... Those are your tits... That's what you present to suitors..."

I noticed that Donovan had come back to the room, and he didn't seem to like my tone. With my face in the condition it was in, I really didn't want to feel what a punch from Donovan felt like, but I was in no mood to stop ranting either.

"And here you are, quietly nodding when we're talking about a girl who was trapped, a girl who I told it was OK to reach out and touch freedom... You playing judge... what a fucking joke. All the money in the world won't buy you freedom, Sandy. You're a fucking slave yourself. You wake up every morning and wish you could turn back the clock... but you can't. So you buy boys to feed on―"

"That's it, you little fuck!" Donovan stepped toward me just a little too predictably, just in time to catch the vase that I had been clutching, with his face. I'd seen this coming, and today I was too tired, too worn out, to fight fair. I expected the goddamn thing to shatter, but Waterford really does make some quality crystal.

I'd had just the perfect amount of windup with the heavy vase. The thump that came from the contact of it and the right side of his face was just awful... It was that sound of something hard hitting against flesh, that crunching thump that always means unconsciousness. He didn't go straight down. First he sort of hunched over, as if he was looking at his shoes, his arms stretching toward the floor as if he felt the consciousness fading. Then he fell straight down, landing on his belly and face.

Sandy didn't even look at him. She just stood there, calmly watching me.

"Well..." I said, looking toward the door.

"You'd better go before he wakes up. He's not going to like that."

Blood was soaking into the white carpet, probably from his nose, when I looked back at him. "Yeah, I can see how that might upset him."

"Yes, it will. But... you were probably right to do it; he would have beaten you to a pulp for talking to me like that."

"Yeah, well..." I looked at Donovan again, making sure he wasn't stirring. "Ya know... my face is already fucked; couldn't chance it."

"Oh, I understand, dear. I do."

"All right, well, I'm gonna go. Gotta meet Pablo."

I turned to walk away when she stopped me. "Ved." She sounded desperate to tell me something.

"Yes'm?"

"You really are special. Forgive me for sounding so cold earlier. Donovan is a grown man, but acts like a little boy most of the time. My night with you was..."

"Yeah." I nodded, trying to save her the adjective.

"Rejuvenating."

I smiled. "You're a fucking vampire."

She bared her fangs at me, and then she hugged me. "I'm glad it was you who set her free. It was meant to be. I'm just glad it was you. You can at least leave, and no one will hold a grudge... If it'd been one of us, it would've been messy."

"Thanks, Sandy. I'll see you again."

"I know."

I opened the massive door and stepped out into the cloudy day. I'd just gotten to my car when Sandy called after me, "Ved?"

"Yeah?"

"When you do come back, call first?"

I laughed out loud and then started my car.

I sped out of there, desperate to get away from them all. Everything that had happened to me since arriving in Bogalusa a month and a half ago, I could explain. I could rationalize Tiffany leaving, and it seemed to me that others could too if they really thought about it for a minute. Sam, well that was something different entirely. Like with Hailey, no one knew about our budding relationship. She hadn't told anyone other than her mother. Once again, I was a man who'd lost someone but wasn't afforded a shoulder to cry on. I wasn't even acknowledged as a victim of tragedy. Zach knew of my pending relationship with Sam, but the Tiffany thing was all he was concerned about. That, too, bothered me. He'd known the whole time what was happening between us, and he had even enabled it to some degree. If I'd just slept with her and not given her my speech, he would have high-fived me for my success.

Fickle motherfucker.

Zach had no mercy towards me for a very simple reason. I'd never been one to ask for mercy or even accept it when it was offered. When it really mattered, when it was time to stand for his friend Ved, he'd chosen Bill.

I wasn't in a hurry to get to Slidell, but I was somewhat hurried leaving Sandy's place. God forbid Donovan wake up. There was no doubt in my mind that he'd make quick work out of me. My face was still killing me, but the three Percocet I'd popped before arriving at Sandy's were definitely helping. They were also helping me feel somewhat removed from the idea that I'd just smashed a man in the face with a crystal vase. I felt good; no, I felt fucking great! No matter what drugs I experiment with, nothing has ever been able to take the place of pain pills. They bring on a unique euphoria, delivering happiness and sunshine to even the darkest and most depressed individuals, reliably, every time.

I pointed the car south and leaned my head back against the seat. I sang along to some songs on the Vs. album as I sped recklessly down the half-paved, winding country roads. An hour and a half later, I was pulling into a Wal-Mart parking lot, somewhere in the vicinity of Pablo's apartment. I called him from the Wal-Mart pay phone, which I scrutinized closely, fearing multiple blood-borne pathogens and potential skin viruses. After I talked to Pablo, I bought some .45 ammo, Brut aftershave, and a stick of Old Spice deodorant.

He gave me more accurate directions, which I scribbled down on a napkin, and off I went. When I finally found the place, I was pleasantly surprised. For some reason, I'd imagined that Pablo lived in a dumpy apartment, but what I saw was the last thing I'd been expecting.

The large Victorian home had interesting turrets and spires, too much intricate trim work to describe, and an awesome widow's walk visible from the driveway, far below. I parked where he'd instructed me to and found my way up the steeper-than-I'd-ever-seen stairs to the third floor, which was all his. Even from outside his place, I could tell that all of the really uniquely shaped rooms in the house were his as they were all on the top floor.

The door to enter his crafty abode was smaller than a normal door; it was nestled under a low hanging roof and even lower hanging trim boards. I could tell that the massive structure of wooden steps I'd just climbed had been an add-on, probably when the owners decided to transform the place from a single family home into apartments.

I knocked on the door and turned around to see the view from up there while I waited for him to answer. The deck I was standing on didn't connect to the widow's walk, which was situated even higher on the house. The widow's walk was accessed from an even smaller door somewhere in the house. I hoped, for his sake, that it was from his bedroom.

Below me was a just average looking run-down suburb. I noticed that there was a bar less than a mile from his place, ironically called McCoy's. Just seeing the name brought a wave of uneasiness, and by the time Pablo opened the door, I knew I'd need to talk to him about it.

"You found it!" He smiled, hugging me. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

"Yeah," I said, turning my attention back to him.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm OK. I've got a good story for you later though."

"Ved Ludo's got a story he wants to get off his chest? Wow. I'm intrigued. You shoot a man's leg off and don't need to talk about it, but whatever's happening now, you do... Must be a good one."

I smiled. "Yeah, it's quite a story."

"Well, come on in. Get comfortable. Want something to drink?"

"Jesus, yes. What do you have?"

"Beer, Jack Daniel's, Sprite, and Coke."

"A Jack and Coke sounds fantastic."

Pablo went into the kitchen, while I wandered around looking at the place the way strangers always do in an unfamiliar home. Pictures of Bear and Pablo made up the majority of the framed photos, though there were a few shots of older people I assumed must be his parents. They were a happy looking family, I noticed as I cruised the hallway, looking from picture to picture. I stumbled upon one that was of a young Bear and a young Pablo, sitting on carpeted platforms with two very attractive young women. The cheesiness of the photograph and matching outfits meant only one thing... Pablo had sisters. He'd never mentioned having sisters to me before, though I couldn't recall ever asking him. Still, it seemed to me that at some point in our three days together, it should have come up. Was Pablo intentionally keeping that away from me?

"Here ya go," he said, walking into the narrow hallway with a bubbling drink in his hand.

"Sisters?" I asked, nodding at the picture.

He looked guilty for a second, and I suddenly knew that, in fact, he had been keeping them away from me. "Yeah."

"Really? You never mentioned them to me before."

"You never asked," he said, turning back toward the living room.

"Huh..." I commented before I turned to join him in the living room. "I love the place, man. It's fuckin' awesome." I'd get to the bottom of this later.

"Yeah. Thanks. I love it too."

"How long have you had it?"

"Moved in as soon as I got back from Bragg."

"It's awesome. I'm impressed."

"Yeah. My grandfather owns it, so he gives me a pretty good family discount."

"And what about the rent while you're gone? Will he charge you?"

He looked almost embarrassed. "No, I don't really pay rent. When he dies, I'll inherit it, so I've been helping him remodel the place for the last few years. Two years ago it was a single family home. We've added walls and shit, turning it into an upscale apartment building."

"No shit? That's awesome. Yours, huh? What about your sisters?"

He gave me that weird look again, something like distrust or guilt. "They're getting cash. They don't want the house." Then, changing the subject, he asked, "So, what's the story? I'm dying to know."

I drained my Jack and Coke and poured myself another before going into the details of the last four weeks. I recounted the tale for him the best I could, touching on all the highlights. When I finished the story, he looked at me incredulously. I skipped the part about fearing the subpoena because of my status with the Army.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No."

"Holy shit. That's the most incredible story I've ever heard. You have to write these stories down; people need to hear them."

"You need to see a copy of my high school transcripts. I wasn't what you'd refer to as a scholar. Seriously, I barely made it through high school, and I took the retard classes."

"Doesn't matter. You're a good storyteller. You animate well... That's a valuable trait. You should try it."

"You should get your bowl out. Let's burn one," I said, changing the subject. Obviously Pablo didn't realize exactly how bad of a student I was.

We smoked a bowl, or four, and then wandered over to a pizza place, where I devoured the majority of a very big pizza. I hadn't really eaten since the mescaline thing, being either too fucked up chemically, or emotionally, to pay much attention to food. The taste of a plain cheese New York style pizza was exquisite on my tongue. I could have eaten the whole thing, but Pablo's facial expressions suggested I stop. Besides, eating massive amounts of pizza always gives me a serious case of the shits.

"What's McCoy's like?" I asked.

"It's all right. Tonight's karaoke night. They get a pretty good crowd for that."

"Wanna go?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Sure."

We wandered into the bar, which was set up more like a club than a bar, and the clientele was certainly dressed more for the club than the bar. By that I mean rather than jean jackets and wallet chains, there was an abundance of halter tops and bootie shorts.

We stayed long enough for me to sing "Black," by Pearl Jam, which, I must admit, was pretty phenomenal. Maybe it was because I'd sung it so many other times, both at karaoke and alone in the car, or maybe it was because the words matched so closely the emotions I was feeling, here in the aftermath of the disasters I seemed to create.

We got back to Pablo's and talked for a while, smoking pot intermittently. While we talked, he packed up his stuff for our exciting road trip the next day, asking me repeatedly, "Do I need this?" while holding up the article of clothing or camping gear.

Most of the time, I answered, "No."

We were taking a road trip, after all, not hiking the Appalachian Trail, right?

Ironically, Pablo was the first to get tired that night. We'd been in the living room drinking and smoking for hours, and for some reason, I felt better than I had in a long time. Most of that was because of the distance I'd put between myself and the events of the day before.

People always told me, "You can't run away from the pain, Ved. You have to turn and face it; it'll just follow you," which I tell you now, is all bullshit. Don't we human beings always think we are so clever?

Human instinct is to run from problems. We were engrained with the instinct to run when we become afraid of something, and only in the case of not being able to escape it, do we turn and fight. To suggest that all matters need to be addressed from a stationary position is ludicrous. People who feel trapped stay and fight. These people are trapped by possessions or occupations. They are afraid to leave what they have accumulated, making the fight their only option. When you have nothing invested in a place, or have no one keeping you somewhere, flight is therapy. Don't tell me that you can't outrun your problems, because, unlike most people, I know that you can.

Now I'm not suggesting that every issue is the kind of issue that resolves itself by running away. Some of them are not. Some things do follow you, but the change of scenery distracts you from the other issues. It's a matter of prioritization. We are always seeking comfort, and being somewhere new is so uncomfortable that it takes us out of our element, allowing the one thing that truly heals us to take place: time. It's similar to suffering from a sprained ankle and then having your nose broken. Even though the injury to the ankle still exists, your focus is on the more acute pain. By the time your nose heals, so has your ankle.

How many times have you said that you wished you had the balls to quit your job? How many people dream of moving to Hawaii but never do? Look, I know that life has a way of attaching chains to our proverbial legs, anchoring us down for longer than we wish, but what comes from thirty years at a job that you've always dreamed of quitting? A job that you have loathed for more than half of your life. Retirement? A comfortable couple of decades spent waiting on death? At some point one must ask himself if driving that Porsche at sixty-eight years old was really what he had in mind when he dreamed of having one decades ago.

We spend our lives "earning" the right to be happy, suffering through the best years in order to make the last years of our lives more tolerable. Is life so important that simply being alive is better than being dead? How do you know? Have you ever read a single book about near-death experiences? If you had, you might believe that whatever comes next is actually better than the now. You might believe that your job, the one you loathe, the one that drains the happiness from your entire existence, is worth the years you are putting into it. But, what will you think when your days are almost over, as you're lying there alone in a nursing home bed, watching Maury Povich reruns, waiting on the Grim Reaper? What could possibly matter more than finding happiness while you're alive enough to enjoy it?

I was a runner, tested and true, and I believed in my methodology. Anyone who came within earshot of me got a dose of my philosophy, and in the two years that our impromptu road trip would last me, I made changes to people's lives, both emotionally and psychologically. I was a relentless witness for life, for life as it happens, not as we plan it.

"I'm gonna hit the hay, Ved. You gonna be OK on the couch?"

"Of course. Thanks for everything, Pablo."

He smiled. "Pablo... I like it when you call me that. I've always wanted a nickname."

"Good. It suits you." I laughed.

"Nicknames are funny, ya know? It takes a nickname maker to assign one. I think it requires the right combination of creativity and confidence to assign someone else a name."

I smiled now, thinking about this for the first time. "I suppose you're right. It takes an egomaniac is what you really mean."

"You, an egomaniac? No way! Not you!" he said in his most sarcastic tone.

It was 10:47 p.m. when he went to bed, and Pablo had cable, which meant it was time for Cinemax After Dark. I've always had a fondness for soft porn, even when I had a fondness for real porn. It's not that I really like either sort of porn, not like some of you freaks out there, but occasionally, when a man is alone, he prefers to have sex for the sake of the feeling, not the performance. In tight sweatpants, blue socks, and a Simpson's T-shirt, I can make love to the hottest women on the planet, all without leaving the La-Z-Boy.

I was flipping through all the variations of Cinemax, waiting for Jurassic Park to end and Naked Island to begin, when there was a faint tapping at the door. I wasn't expecting visitors, and it seemed to me that Pablo wasn't either, as he'd already been in bed for a half an hour on the opposite end of the apartment.

I reached into my JanSport bag and grabbed my 1911. I dropped the magazine and pulled the slide back as quietly as I could, making sure my hollow-points were still loaded.

I stepped to the door, but, of course, there wasn't a peephole. I stuffed the gun into the back of my sweatpants, which didn't work out well at all. The gun fell through my pants, slid down my right leg, and landed on the floor with a clack.

"Jesus Christ!" I swore, thinking that could have been the second time I accidentally discharged my gun.

The visitor tapped again.

"Who is it?" I asked quietly through the door.

"It's me, asshole," a woman's voice replied.

I don't know why, but I ran through all the people who knew I was in Louisiana, eliminating them one by one. Obviously whoever was out there thought I was Pablo.

"Hang on a sec," I said, picking up the gun and setting it on a small table beside the door.

"Come on!" she said impatiently.

I opened the door tentatively, peering out like I was operating a meth lab. There was a good-looking girl standing on Pablo's porch.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked, startled by my unfamiliar face.

"Ved. Who are you?"

"Mandy. I'm Evan's sister."

"Oh... shit... come on in."

She stepped into the room, looking at the TV. I was instantly thankful that Jurassic Park was still on. She peered around the room, as if she were expecting to see her brother duct taped and bound on the floor.

"Pablo... Evan's asleep," I said, looking at her quizzically.

"Really? Mind if I go see him?"

"No. Why would I care? Go ahead."

She walked around me as if there was an odor coming from me that she wanted to keep off of her khaki, light summer coat. As she stepped into the hallway, she said, "Jurassic Park... love this movie."

I smiled. "Uh huh, me too."

She went down the hall and disappeared into his room. I straightened up the living room, taking the dish towel back to the kitchen and the lotion back to the bathroom medicine cabinet, not wanting her to put two and two together. I snuck the gun back into my JanSport, zipping it quietly.

I was seated casually on the couch when she came out of his room a minute later, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself a Jack Daniel's on the rocks. "Want one?" she asked, suddenly pleasant.

"Sure."

"Neat?" she asked as if it were assumed that a man drank his whiskey neat.

"Definitely," I replied, rising to the challenge.

She walked back into the living room and handed me a glass, then she sat with a whoosh in the big, soft leather recliner. She reached down and pulled the lever, shooting the leg rest up just in time to catch her feet that were already headed for it. Obviously, she hung out here a lot.

"So, you're Ved?" she asked.

"Uh... yeah. I'm Ved."

"I thought you'd be smaller, shorter."

"I get that all the time." I smiled.

"Really?"

"No. Why would anyone expect me to be shorter?" I laughed out loud, and then she did.

"I have no idea. Sorry, that was retarded."

"It's cool."

Mandy watched the end of the movie, while I studied her out of the corner of my eye. She was attractive-sexy... not so much pretty-sexy. Her face was oval, and in that, something was off a bit. The skintight stretch pants she wore were sweatpants grey, and had a white line that started just below her ass and wrapped once around her leg, ending on the top of her knee. She wore tall, black cowboy boots; a long, blue T-shirt that covered just the top of her ass when it was stretched as low as possible, something she had to do over and over again; and the khaki cotton jacket.

She had short, blonde hair and striking blue eyes, magnified by the blue shirt she kept tugging at. Her accent was thick, but her manner was graceful.

"So... you guys are heading out of town tomorrow, huh? San Francisco?" she asked, staring at the TV instead of me.

"Yup."

"Why?"

"Why not?" I asked.

She glanced at me for a second, maybe annoyed. "OK, how about Evan needing to be here to work with my grandpa on this place?"

"I don't know anything about that. I'm going, Pab... Evan... wanted to go. That's all I know."

"That's great for you, I suppose. You get to take your trip, or whatever, and Evan gets to leave grandpa all alone working on his future apartments."

If I didn't act quickly, she was going to get more and more aggressive with me, even though, obviously, I had little to do with the issues between them. I took my hardline look and said, "Look, Mandy, I don't know what is going on with you guys, but I have little to do with it. I called Pablo, like I promised I would, and he said he wanted to go. I had to leave immediately, so I wasn't expecting him to say yes. He did. Here I am. That's all I know."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you have to leave?" she asked, less intrusively, more interested.

"You want the Reader's Digest version or the whole story?"

"Uh..." She looked back at the movie, grabbed the remote, and put it on mute. "Give me the whole story."

It was 11:23 p.m. when I began, and when I finished the tale for the second time that day, it was 1:04 a.m. Mandy had laughed out loud, cupped her hands over her mouth in shock, wiped tears away with sadness, and balled up a fist with anger. My point being, after I was done with the tale, Mandy thought of me differently. I hadn't spared her any details, being as graphic and detailed as I was in writing my account of the events for you good folks.

"That's an incredible story, Ved. Oh my God, that's great. Is that really what happened?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh my God, that's awful. I feel bad for you now." She eyed me for a second, then made a fist and smiled. "You bastard! You made that up, didn't you?"

"Really?" I laughed out loud. "No! That's why I'm here. That's why I had to go so fast!"

"Why's it sound... so well-rehearsed?"

"I just told your brother the story, like six hours ago."

"What'd he say about it?" she asked.

"That I needed to write it down, like make a book out of it or something."

"Ha!" She laughed. "Figures that's what he'd say."

I didn't know what that meant, so I just smiled.

"He's not really a lady's man... He's uh... sort of a guy's guy."

I thought about that for a second. What was that supposed to mean? He likes NASCAR and hunting big game? Or... was she implying that he was a homosexual? I'd never really gotten that vibe from him, but I had gotten that feeling of a sexual void, a silence about women when there shouldn't be one.

There are plenty of straight men who don't comment on every girl they see, taking more of a laid back approach to women. I've known plenty of guys like that over the years. I've also known a lot of homosexual men who haven't come out of the closet, lost in that place where they don't talk about women, and when they do, it's awkward. Now, obviously, I know that the fact that I try to fuck anything that walks points to my heterosexuality and embarrassing immaturity, but I never did it as an advertisement of my preference. I've sort of always wished I was gay, so I could wear it, so I could accessorize more freely.

Pablo hadn't made too many comments about women, but I assumed that he had some sort of developmental issue with them, a shy and slow moving sort. If he was gay, I don't know why he wouldn't tell me, or, more importantly, why I hadn't noticed the signs. I'd told him about my gay friends in Fayetteville and how I would have defended them to the death, but looking back on it, maybe I made it sound like I was trying to get him to admit something to me, rather than allowing him the freedom to tell me on his own.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, her eyes glancing around the room quickly.

No, it wasn't obvious. "I haven't seen him in drag or anything."

"No, not in drag, but he's definitely..." She stopped talking at volume and whispered, "He's definitely gay. He just needs to admit it to himself."

Whoa. Where was this conversation going anyway? Did I now understand that Mandy assumed that Pablo was a homosexual, but he'd never told her that? Was this something she was guessing at, or was this something that a sister knows because of a lifetime of watching her brother avoid dating women, noticing his fondness for the gardening channel, and realizing he knows all the dance moves to the New Kids on the Block? If this was real, if Pablo was gay, I was offended that he hadn't told me.

He'd probably assumed that the Army in me wouldn't like homosexuality, which was about as far from the truth as possible. The last thing on earth that I'd call myself is a homophobe.

"Are you sure about this?" I asked.

"Ved, I'm his hot sister... Trust me, I know these things."

"Ho-lee-shit," I said, baffled with how I'd missed that about him.

It all made sense to me now: the fashionable apartment, his comfort with me, the fact that he didn't close the deal with the "gimme" in Houston. Oh shit! I'd put that in front of him, like I was tossing him a bone. I realized then that I looked like an ignorant asshole, just like every other dude he knew.

"It's OK. No one knows. It's a small town; it'd be tragic for him if people found out. Probably why he wants to go with you. He's been looking for a way to get out of here forever. Either that, or he thinks you're..."

"I doubt that. He knows too much about me to mistake me for anything other than what I am. I'm positive about that. I just can't believe I didn't catch it!"

"No one does, Ved. Seriously, he's a chameleon. He's learned how to hide it. He was in the Army with you for God's sake!"

Technically, that wasn't true, but he was at Bragg. It's true, however, that Fort Bragg is not a great place to be openly gay. I wondered if Mandy was telling me all of this because she was trying to dissuade me from taking him along, or if she was trying to encourage me to take him and help him get it out in the open. Either way, my relationship with Pablo had just gotten more complicated, not in the least because he was gay, simply because I wasn't supposed to know he was.

Mandy had brought the rest of the bottle of Jack Daniel's into the room with us, and as the night had gone on, she was moving closer and closer to me. We'd abandoned the sofa and recliner altogether and had been sitting on the floor in order to keep our voices low. Mandy was working the remote when she stumbled upon Naked Island. She watched it for a second, muted, as a not-so-handsome man grinded hard against a not-so-hot girl on what was supposed to look like a deserted island.

"Oh my God! Who watches this shit? Are you kidding me?" she said, staring at the couple getting quite busy in the sand.

"I was going to. I was waiting for Jurassic Park to end!" We burst out laughing hysterically.

"You were not!"

"I was."

"No, you weren't! Oh my God! You wouldn't!"

"Really? Then how do I know that Evan has a rosemary colored dish towel on the right side of the sink, and lavender scented hand lotion in the medicine cabinet, second shelf, third bottle from the right?" As soon as I said that, I wondered how I'd missed the clues to his sexuality in that.

"My God!" She was laughing hysterically. "You're disgusting!"

"No, I just like watching movies about happy couples in love!"

"Oh my God!" She punched me in the arm, laughing riotously. As she did, she leaned toward me, and I saw the tops of her breasts through the low cut shirt. That same sensation of instant desire came over me again.

Mandy looked at me, smiling. She was close. She was going to kiss me.

"I have to go to bed. We're leaving early in the morning."

She looked surprised, and then she quickly tried to cover that expression with a nod. "OK. Really? Now you are suddenly tired?" She slid toward me, her hip bumping mine.

"Yeah, I really have to."

"You're kidding me, right? Tell me you're kidding."

"Mandy... I need to go to bed. I need to; I don't want to. What I want is to..." I stopped, realizing that most of the time when I verbally say what it is I want to do, I end up doing it shortly thereafter.

Women really like to hear an articulate man describe what it is, exactly, that he wants. It gives them a foreknowledge of what's coming, what parts of her he is most attracted to, and that he is capable of forming well put together statements. They say that men are turned on by sight, women by touch, but I have found that women respond equally well to verbal descriptions of sexual desires when expressed by a non-threatening, attractive, and somewhat eccentric male.

"Suit yourself," she said, standing rapidly and walking into the kitchen.

"Hey," I whispered as loudly as I felt comfortable with. "Seriously... it's just that..."

She walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway before returning a second later.

"Here." She threw me the dish towel that was wrapped around the lavender hand lotion. "I would have given you the best blow job of your life." She peeled off her shirt as she turned her back to me and walked down the hall to her spare bedroom. She didn't live with Pablo, but she stayed over often enough to warrant having her own room there.

I did as instructed, unabashedly.

The next morning, Pablo woke me up while he was making coffee. Of course he had to grind the beans, making sleep impossible. The smell of coffee is the second best thing I can hope to wake up to, after bacon.

I stirred on the couch when I heard Mandy's voice. "Good morning. How was the island?"

I smiled, but then Pablo asked, "The what?" from the kitchen, assuming she was talking to him.

"Wonderful," I said with a smile as I stretched. I'd left the dirty towel beside her bed.

"Thanks for leaving the proof in my room." She smiled.

"Oh... no need to thank me."

"I'll make sure you get it back," she said.

"Huh?" Pablo called out from the kitchen."

"I wasn't talking to you," she said, pouring herself a cup.

"Is Ved awake?"

"I'm up. Kind of hard to sleep when you're grinding coffee at seven in the morning. Sounds like a fucking tree chipper."

He laughed. "If you want shitty coffee, there's a 7-Eleven down the street."

We drank our coffee and talked in the living room for a couple of hours. Mandy did her best to insult me jokingly whenever she got the chance. I felt like I'd known her for a long time as we all watched TV and talked. She was prettier in the daylight than I'd thought the night before. I was, however, glad I'd called it a night when I had. For once I didn't have to wake up and reconcile with myself.

It took us over an hour to load the car. I'd lightened my load a little, leaving what I deemed unnecessary in a closet at Pablo's. Mandy helped us carry shit back and forth, complaining that we were like a couple of women.

I took more than one opportunity to slap her on the ass when Pablo wasn't looking. Every time I did, she'd give me the "Don't touch me" look, but never said a word. I understood that she didn't want Pablo to know anything about the two of us getting to know each other the night before.

I don't know why I was slapping her on the ass. I don't know why I was so compelled to touch her ass, lovely as it was. There was nothing I could do about her and no way to change the decision I'd made to go to bed the night before.

I couldn't understand what had happened to all my strategizing. It's as if, suddenly, I wanted to sleep with women, just to not have missed the opportunity. It was a step in a different direction for me, a step away from what I knew to be true about myself. Now I suddenly wanted women in order to experience them, in order to say I was there, like writing my name on the walls of the bathroom stalls with a Sharpie.

Ved was here '97.

Pablo was trying to organize a bag in the trunk of my car while Mandy and I were upstairs cleaning up the dishes from the night before.

"Why are you grabbing my ass? You had your chance; you blew it."

"I'm not grabbing your ass. I'm spanking your ass."

"Could have done that too... but you were soooooo tired," she said in a baby voice.

"I wasn't tired. I just... I told you..."

"I think you woke up this morning and instead of feeling like you made all the right choices last night, you regretted not doing what you really wanted to do."

"I'm impressed by your hypothesis."

"So, is that what happened?"

"Something along those lines."

"Hmm... too bad. Now you and Evan are going to ride off into the sunset... All you'll be able to do is remember the time you blew it, or let him blow you." She laughed.

"Or we could..."

Just then Pablo was back in the doorway, announcing that everything was loaded and ready to go. He looked at me. "So... we ready?"

"Yeah." I coughed when my voice cracked. "Yeah, I'm ready."

"So am I. Let's roll out."

I glanced at Mandy who arched her eyebrows and smiled as if saying, "Ha-ha... told you so," before I looked back at Pablo. "I'll go start the car."

A few minutes later, we were in the Ladybug, preparing for departure. We were just about to pull out when I happened to look up at the apartment and see Mandy standing inside the door, looking down on us.

"Bro, I need to take a piss before we go. Sorry."

"Jesus, are you serious?" he asked.

For the life of me, I could not walk away from the girl. Something about the incomplete desires I had was killing me. I had tried over and over again to just walk away, to let it go in my mind, but, suddenly, I couldn't do it anymore.

I ran up the steps after telling Pablo to keep an eye on the gun, figuring that would keep him in the car while I did what I needed to do. When I came up the last set of stairs, she opened the door for me, allowing me in.

"Something I can do for you?" she asked.

I pushed the door closed with my foot.

Pablo and I talked for the entire duration of our eleven-hour ride, rolling into Oklahoma City at about ten that night. I'd almost hoped that he would fall asleep at some point so I could think about things on my own for a while, but he was a good enough conversationalist, so I didn't mind the endless chatter.

We talked about everything from growing up in small towns to jumping out of airplanes in the 82nd. Pablo did his best to keep away from the homosexuality issue, and I did my best to present lots of stories about my gay friends in Fayetteville, just in case he was on the fence about telling me.

He seemed intent on not discussing it with me, which upset me, but I suppose I could understand. Pablo had never told a soul about this issue, and I knew that admitting it out loud for the first time wasn't just a declaration to the person he's speaking to, but a declaration to himself. It'd be a hard one for me to get out of him, but I was sure that I could over the course of the next few weeks. Now that I'd been clued in by Mandy, I saw signs all over the place in our random conversations.

He went to the prom with some guy friends. He'd seen the theater version of Oklahoma three times, and every time I said the word "Oklahoma," he'd sing it. He thought that white socks on a man's feet was sheer laziness, something I wholeheartedly agree with. I hadn't worn white socks in ten years, and when I told him that, he simply said, "I know."

Now empowered with a gay man's acknowledgement of my foot fashion decisions, I really wanted him to come clean. I wanted more accolades. There were signs all over the place, things that I should have caught but didn't. On the other hand, they were subtle; these were the things that he had carefully decided were OK to release to the world, after years of weighing them. He'd learned how to be the perfect closet gay, and that annoyed me to no end. Once he stepped into the light of liberation, he could wear anything he wanted and be excused for any comment he made toward men and women alike. If it was the town of Slidell that was keeping him afraid all these years, why not leave there forever?

And then I remembered... the large Victorian that was soon to be his. He'd be in Slidell forever once he inherited that place. It wasn't so easy for Pablo to leave. He'd have to leave the house, his inheritance, his years and years' worth of work he'd been doing with his grandfather. Why didn't he choose the money? Why didn't he say he wanted cash, like his sisters?

We pulled into a Denny's and went in for some late-night breakfast food. After we ate, we pulled around behind the diner and set up a heavy two-man tent in the grass. I don't know if it was made of canvas, or elephant skins, but the fucking thing weighed like thirty pounds. We eyed the area behind the restaurant from different angles, determining that we'd be pretty well concealed back there, assuming we got up early and rolled out.

I parked the Ladybug so it blocked the tent from the busier part of the parking area and opened the trunk. It took Pablo and I a few minutes to set up the tent, trying to figure out which pole went to which stake... Finally, we had it erect and tossed our sleeping bags in. We were somewhere on the south side of Oklahoma City near the I-35 and I-240 interchange, that much we knew. We didn't know that there was a storm coming, and when they get storms in Oklahoma City, they get real storms!

At three o'clock we were awake and scrambling to get out of our collapsed tent. The rain that was coming down in horizontal sheets was relentless. The gusts of wind were enough to almost blow us off our feet. We'd just made it into the Ladybug when the hail started.

We went back into the Denny's sometime around four and took bird baths in the bathroom sink. When we were done, we decided that we might as well eat something while we were there. Denver was still a long way off.

We left for Denver at five thirty and drove all day. While we were driving, we started talking about the Army again and some of the stuff that had gone on there. I ended up telling Pablo about Hailey's death at Benning, Jacob's suicide, Ryan's accidental shooting, and Reed's guilt, leading to his suicide later. I talked about Luke and Nic, making myself intentionally three-dimensional to him, wanting him to understand that if there was ever anyone to admit his sexuality to, I was the guy.

He didn't.

I revealed the Genie/Monica story, which led to the party, which led to the Oscar incident. I tried to make it sound funny, and, really, by this point it was becoming more humorous to me. I explained how the worst part was the relentless gay jokes I'd had to endure, how they just went on forever. "I didn't really care too much though. Most of my real friends at Bragg were gay, so the insults didn't really hurt me like they were intended."

"Did people know you were hanging out with fags?" he asked.

"Whoa." I looked at him, trying to drive a two-sided point home. "Don't refer to my friends as fags. Gay is fine, homosexual is fine, queer is even OK, but fag is crass, bro."

He looked at me, his face bearing an expression that I couldn't interpret. "Got it. Sorry."

"It's cool. Look, it's just that I learned a lot about homosexuality in those days. I know what it is. I mean, I understand it better than most people probably do. People don't choose it; they become it. I've seen them fight with it, and I've seen them come to accept it..." Fearing that I was getting too close to home, I withdrew a little. "They're good people."

"All right, I get it. Sorry," he said.

My heart sunk. Even after bearing my dark secrets, he was still refusing to pull the trigger.

I had us lined up to spend the night in Denver with my stepsister Gracie and her new husband, Matt. I hadn't met Matt yet. I'd only heard about him through the family grapevine, which wasn't well known for portraying accurate depictions of people. For example, I was a heathen sinner who was known to fornicate and use drugs habitually... Actually, maybe I'm not a good example of how off-track they could be at times.

Anyway, Matt was disliked initially because of his lifestyle. That made me like him more, immediately. He'd been a ski bum for years, living in the mountains, skiing his life away. He was single and free, and he happened to enjoy working a shitty job as long as it afforded him the opportunity to ski as much as possible. I couldn't think of a better lifestyle for any single man myself, though Gracie's father and my mother apparently could. They'd been against Matt and Gracie being together for as long as I could remember, but there was something about Matt that Gracie couldn't resist, and she continued to defy them.

Eventually they'd gotten married. It'd happened while I was in basic training, so, obviously, I couldn't attend. I would have liked to, however. I wanted to meet Matt, and I wanted to see my parents' faces when it all went down. I wanted to see what they looked like when God didn't answer their prayers. Oh yes, they'd been praying for God himself to stop this union. I don't know exactly why they were so against Matt and Gracie marrying, but I'm sure it had to do with his easy lifestyle and lack of religious convictions.

I always had a decent relationship with Gracie. Of course, I am eight years younger than her, which means I was young enough to never step on her toes. She'd been in college when my mother married her father, so when she graduated, she ended up moving into my house. That must have been tough for her. Her home was sold, her father remarried, and now she had to live with his new family in their house. I could empathize with her difficulty at adjusting. None of her friends were in the area, there were no bars for her to meet people in, and my sister didn't exactly go out of her way to make Gracie feel welcome.

Despite the sometimes tense living conditions, Gracie and I bonded. She was cool: she drank alcohol, smoked the occasional cigarette, and was definitely having premarital sex, making her and me more alike than anyone else in the family. Gracie taught me about music, secular music that is, and even bought me the Guns N' Roses breakthrough album, Appetite for Destruction. We'd hung out quite a bit, well, as much as a twenty-one year old could hang out with a thirteen year old.

The summer before I went into tenth grade, Gracie packed up a trailer and headed off to Colorado to be with Matt. Some members of the family were relieved when she was gone; I wasn't relieved, but I was happy for her. I knew what it was like to feel trapped, and I was proud of her for having the balls to go, even if her family was dead-set against it.

She and Matt survived the years together, eventually marrying and moving to Englewood, Colorado, south of Denver.

I'd heard so much about Matt that I was excited to meet him. I was glad to have Pablo with me for the event, but, of course, there was the issue of being AWOL. Matt and Gracie knew this already, though Pablo did not. I figured it was time to have that talk with Pablo, preferably before we arrived at their house. All of a sudden, I didn't know exactly what to say to him about it.

We were traveling west on I-70, coming into the Denver Metro area, when suddenly from out of the boring plains we'd been crossing for what seemed like an eternity, a rock wall unlike anything I'd ever seen before rose up.

I tried to imagine the pioneers crossing this part of the country a couple hundred years ago. There they were, headed to California to search for gold, making good time across Kansas, when all of a sudden they crested this point and saw the mountains I was now staring at. In my mind, that was how Denver came to be a city. All of the people with golden dreams seeing this nearly impassable nightmare and saying, "Fuck it. Looks nice right here."

On my way to Ft. Lewis, I'd driven most of this stretch in the dark, so I'd never really seen it like this. Now, stoned and floating comfortably on Percocet, I'd never seen anything so impressive. I was excited by the sight of the mountains, something about looking at them made my stomach swirl with butterflies and my balls tingle with thoughts of adventure. They were the physical embodiment of absolute freedom, the ability to hide forever...

"I have something I need to tell you before we get to Gracie's house, bro," I said out of nowhere.

"OK..." Pablo looked at me.

"I didn't exactly get out of the Army... so to speak. I left."

"Whaddya mean you left?"

"I mean, I just fucking left."

"You went AWOL? Are you shitting me?"

"No, I'm not shitting you. That's why I had to jet when Bill started talking about subpoenas. I can't afford to be hauled into court to testify; otherwise, I might have done it for him."

"You mean to tell me that people are looking for you? It's been longer than a month?"

"Yeah, more than a month. I assume people are looking for me, but I haven't seen any actual evidence of that."

"Does your family know about this? Does Gracie know?"

"Yeah, Gracie knows. The rest of the family... well, I'm not exactly certain what they know. I told my mom. I called her the night I left... before I left."

"And she said OK?"

I snapped at Pablo, not liking his reaction to this so far. "I don't ask my parents for permission to live my life, bro. I don't live fuckin' rent free. I answer to myself."

That all sounded so in-your-face to me, but Pablo, being the patient man that he was, simply said, "I see. So, when're you going to turn yourself in?"

"I don't know if I am. I don't know what I'm going to do."

"You know that for every month you are gone―"

"Pablo, do you really believe that? Seriously, does that sound reasonable to you?" I snapped, familiar with the rumor but refusing to admit that it was a possibility.

"That's just what I've heard. I don't know if it's true, but if it is..."

"Yeah, well, I've heard it too, and I think that's a bunch of bullshit."

"OK, maybe it is. Fuck, I don't know. Why'd you do it?"

"I have my reasons. I'm not trying to justify it to you, Pablo. I'm just informing you. If we get pulled over along the way or something else happens, they'll take me away. I'm just giving you a heads up. All right?"

"All right, I guess."

I decided to let that go, even though I was still pissed at his reaction to the news. It sort of reaffirmed what I already knew: this was something that I needed to carry alone. The public wasn't going to feel sorry for me. I decided right then and there to keep this a secret, to speak to no one about this from now on. It was nobody's business what I was doing with my life, and with my time. If people made themselves feel better thinking that I was going to do ten years in prison for every thirty days I was gone, let them soothe themselves that way. I doubted the truth of that the same way I doubt that people who commit suicide go to hell... or people who skip jury duty go to prison... it's just something for the law-abiding citizens of the world to cling to.

When we pulled into Gracie's apartment complex, the sun was going down on Denver. The sky was amazing with reds and oranges shooting upward in linear rays that expanded as they crossed the sky. I stared at the mountains the sun was setting behind, wondering if I'd ever seen anything that looked so magical. The people who lived here, I realized, were lucky to do so. The climate was dry, the sun was bright (especially in comparison to the haziness of Louisiana), and the air felt clean, as if it'd never been breathed. I was in love with Denver immediately.

Gracie came to the door first, and after we hugged and made small talk for a few minutes, Matt came out from the office to introduce himself. He didn't look anything like I thought he would, which, I admit, was based mostly on me drawing conclusions from the name Matt.

He had curly red hair, very pale skin, and the sort of beard that looked like he'd been growing it for a long time, but it never quite filled out. In the places where the beard was long, it was really long, and the places that hair didn't grow, the skin looked to be baby soft. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, a hemp Kangol cap that was too small for his big head of hair, and Birkenstocks on his feet. He was way more hippie looking than what I'd pictured Gracie with, but it was a pleasant surprise.

He spoke like a Northeasterner, had an easy smile, and seemed conflicted about what to say in reference to me and the Army. I appreciated the fact that he at least considered what was appropriate to say and what wasn't, even if sometimes the things he found appropriate to be what I'd have considered the opposite.

"You guys want to smoke a joint?" Matt asked, obviously informed by Gracie that I was a toker.

Having never refused a joint in my life, especially when offered as a social gesture, I agreed. Pablo decided to sit it out, for reasons unknown, which pissed me off, not just because it was rude to do so, but because he didn't offer an explanation to Matt.

"Is everything OK with your buddy?" Matt asked me when we were alone in the garage.

"Yeah... I think so."

"He seems a little... well... down or something," Matt said cautiously.

"Matt, I think some people are just born pussies. That's not meant to be a slam on him; it's just the way it is. I noticed it yesterday, and it's getting worse today."

Matt smiled and looked at me inquisitively. "And you're going how far with him?"

"I don't know. The funny thing is, he made me promise to let him know when I was leaving Bogalusa. So I did, and he asked me if he could come. I said yes. So here we are... I was gonna go without him. I should have."

"It'll be nice to have the company, I guess," Matt said, inhaling and handing me the joint.

"Maybe, but if it gets any worse, I'm sending him back. I'm not wasting my felony on crybabies." That was the first thing I'd said about being AWOL to Matt. I figured he needed to hear something about it, just to be sure things were as he thought they were. I also wanted to let him know that what I was doing, I was doing on purpose. That I was traveling now because I wanted to be, and that I wasn't going to be feeling sorry for myself while I was out here. I was on an adventure, and I was not going to tolerate Pablo being moody and whiny. If he didn't like it, he could always go home, and I would go on alone.

After the joint, Gracie made spaghetti and meatballs. We ate our fill and drank multiple bottles of Merlot while I narrated the last six months of my life for everyone. Most of the events were news to Gracie, and I could see that whatever she'd learned through the "family grapevine" wasn't at all what I was telling her. Matt laughed hysterically at my stories, commenting over and over again that I had to write these stories down. Even Pablo seemed to loosen up a little with the wine, returning to his old, fun self.

We all stayed up late drinking and smoking joints, not wanting the night to end. Eventually we all went to bed, and I slept like a baby. The next morning, hanging over hard from too much red wine, we loaded our shit back into the Ladybug and said our goodbyes.

Matt made a point of shaking my hand sincerely and looking me in the eyes as he told me, "Enjoy your time. Don't waste it. The consequences are still unknown. You don't know how much the days will cost you, so be sure to enjoy the time. Make it worth it, no matter what it ends up costing you... If you live the days well, you'll never be disappointed."

"Wise words, Matt. Thanks for everything, bro. For what it's worth, I'm glad to have you in the family."

"You might be the only one," he said with a severe smile.

"Oh, I am. Be sure of that."

We laughed out loud as I got into the car with Pablo, who was already leaning his head against the window with his eyes closed. I knew it wasn't going to be long before I sent his ass packing, but I couldn't deal with this now. I was excited about what today would bring. I was dying to know what adventures were coming my way, while it seemed to me Pablo was missing his apartment and his town that seemed completely capable of forever suppressing his sexual identity.

I drove all day and evening. We'd gone through Salt Lake City at dinner time and were into Nevada by the time it was dark. At eleven o'clock, we came into Elko and decided that we needed some food and ephedrine pills if we were going to keep on pushing. I was exhausted from the day, from too many altitude gains and losses. I'd been driving all day, squinting as we drove toward the sun, through canyons, and then the desert.

Pablo came in and out of consciousness all day long. His attitude had gotten better as the day went on, and I thought that maybe his prior grumpiness was simply from exhaustion or the abrupt altitude change. The night we'd spent behind Denny's was, for the most part, sleepless, so I couldn't blame the kid for being tired. I was the one escaping, the one fleeing a place where my life had become unsafe, to anyplace else. It wasn't the same situation for Pablo. He'd done just the opposite, leaving safety and familiarity behind in order to run away with me. I'd have to make an effort to be more patient with him. I needed to put myself into his shoes more often, understanding that he and I were looking at the issues from opposite perspectives.

"I'm gonna stop in Elko, man. I need to stretch my legs."

"Me too," he said, sitting up and adjusting his seat back to the upright position, for possibly the first time all day.

"I need some ephedrine pills and a Mountain Dew," I noted.

"I'll drive. Seriously, you've been driving for like eleven hours straight." He looked at me.

He was right. I had been driving for that long, mostly because I have issues with riding shotgun. Part of me really believes that in a past life, I died riding shotgun. I believe that it's a remnant fear, left over from a former life.

I think that when a life ends, your memories are essentially wiped clean. All of the people and things that mattered to you once upon a time are removed, allowing you to start over again, fresh. However, I believe that the events that took place at the time of your death are sometimes so traumatic that they cross over with you into your next life. How else can I explain people with a paralyzing fear of things they've never experienced, like sailing on open water, or riding in trains?

Even if I was terrified to let Pablo drive, it was time. I'd been driving long enough that I was becoming a zombie. I wasn't as alert as I should be, desensitized by the grueling hours of staring out into nothing but the salt flats and high desert. I was starting to hallucinate, seeing things running across the road or turns ahead that didn't really exist.

I could let Pablo drive if I went immediately to sleep, and in order to do that, all I needed to do was not take any more ephedrine. I was exhausted. Mentally, I was beaten. I'd been reviewing my life and all of my recent decisions while Pablo slept, causing me more anxiety than I needed. Now I needed to close my eyes and sleep. I needed a fresh perspective on what was happening, where I was going, and how the fuck I was ever going to rectify my life.

The next exit after we'd passed Elko was for a service road that seemed to run parallel to the highway. There was nothing but open land. No service stations, no food... nothing. I just needed to stretch my legs and switch seats with Pablo. We found a dirt road that led out into an open expanse of nothingness and turned onto it. It looked like out there in the distance, the road connected directly to the starry sky above us. I don't think I'd ever seen such a brilliant sky, lit so brightly. I was in awe as I drove down the road a mile or so, staring at the magnificent sight through the open sunroof.

"Wow. That's crazy," Pablo said.

"Yeah. I don't think I've ever seen a sky like it before."

"I know for a fact I haven't."

"Well, we're a lot higher than you are in Louisiana, and God knows a lot drier."

"Yeah, it's incredible," he agreed.

I pulled off the road and drove into the grass and tumbleweeds. I didn't anticipate any traffic passing us by, so as I stepped out of the car, I immediately took a piss. I stared up as I did, trying to put this image of the sky in my long-term memory. The breeze was gentle, the night was cool, and I wished that I was there with someone I loved, or at the very least, someone who loved me, if there were any of those people left in the world.

Well, there was Pablo, but something was happening to us. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what was going on between the two of us, but the dynamic was definitely changing. I wished for just a second that Mandy were here with me instead of her brother, but there was no time to process her right now either... I'd just keep pushing these issues back, refusing to deal with them until I went to jail for being AWOL; then I'd have time to think all these issues through.

"You ready to go?" Pablo asked me as I was shaking it off.

"No, I need a minute to relax."

The night was absolutely perfect. Silence surrounded us for the first time all day, like God was covering my ears with his majestic hands. There was nothing but absolute darkness in my peripheral vision and a brilliantly bright sky above me. It was clear to me that the moment was lost on Pablo, but it seemed to me that most of the moments I'd had since leaving his house were.

"All right, let's go," I said, somewhat frustrated with him, and got into my car's passenger seat.

"No hurry. We can chill for a bit."

"Nah, let's go. I need to sleep," I said, taking off my shoes and socks for the first time all day. The air on my sweaty feet felt wonderful. I sat with my feet out the door, rubbing them in the cold dirt and stone of the rugged desert. Pablo jumped in and started the car, putting it into reverse while my damn feet were still outside.

"Jesus, man! Gimme a second," I snapped.

"Sorry, bud. I didn't even realize you weren't in."

"It's cool," I said, feeling a little bad about my reaction. "What's the deal, man? You in a hurry to get somewhere?"

He looked at me like that was crazy. "What? Where would I be in a hurry to get to?"

"I don't know, but you're acting like you don't have time to smell the roses. What's your deal?"

"My deal? Now I have a deal?"

"I don't know. Do you?" I asked, looking him in the eye. This wasn't good; things were heating up between us.

"What could possibly be between us, Ved? You have a guilty conscience about anything?" He looked at me, and I couldn't help but come back to the conclusion that he had an issue with me.

"I don't have a conscience."

"No, you don't," he said, turning the car off.

Oh, so now it was coming down to this? Were we going to fight? I was ready, but decided before it even got to that point that I wasn't going to fight this one fair... I had a nose to protect. Maybe I'd introduce Pablo to my brass knuckles... It seemed a little harsh, but besides the gun, what else was I supposed to use?

"I talked to Mandy while we were at Gracie's."

Oh shit... I swallowed hard, trying not to look guilty or surprised. "So? What's that have to do with anything?"

"You tell me," he said, staring at me evenly.

"What are you talking about, bro? What did Mandy say that has you so pissed off?"

It was time to call his bluff. From what I'd gathered about Mandy, I didn't think she was the type to kiss and tell. Not that I had any solid proof of that, but usually I could find that trait hiding in how freely they give away other information. I recalled that Mandy had told me about Pablo's potential homosexuality, but even in that revelation, she'd done so discreetly and with understandable motive. At the time, she was trying to keep me from taking him with me.

However, for the life of me, I couldn't imagine what else she might have said to him that would have him so upset with me. What else had I done?

"If you can't remember, I guess it doesn't matter."

Normally, I have no problem with leaving a near-confrontation off right there, but this was different. I wanted to know. "What, fucker? If you have a problem, tell me."

"Fuck you, Ved."

"Fuck you, Evan. Get out of my car," I said, switching techniques.

"Get out of your car? Yeah right. Make me. I have the fuckin' keys."

"Evan, let's not do this right now. My nose hurts. I'm tired."

"Oh, you're tired, but... you're going to throw me out of your car in the middle of fuckin' nowhere? Fuck you. Maybe I'll throw you out of the car," he said, turning serious.

My turn to be serious. "If you think you can get me out of my car, try it. Even with a broken nose, I'll fuck you up."

"You think?" he asked.

"Don't be stupid, man. I'm not in the mood for this shit."

Too late, Pablo threw his right elbow at my face, aiming for my nose. Jerking backwards, I just barely got my head out of the way of his arm; I almost fell out of my car. Pablo started the ignition, and I knew that he was intending to leave me there. I jumped back into the passenger seat and reached for the keys dangling from the ignition. He blocked my hand with a slap and again tried to connect his elbow with my face.

My gun was under the seat he was sitting on, so there was no chance of getting to it, but this was becoming a life and death situation. Everything I owned was in that car, and if Pablo left me here, wherever here was, I'd be alone in the wilderness without even a gun. That just wasn't going to happen.

I recoiled from his second attempt to re-break my nose and grabbed the Snapple bottle that was rolling around all day on the floor of the passenger seat. I swung the bottle, connecting first with the roof of the car, causing me to miss.

Pablo understood what was happening and tried to reach under the driver's seat. The son of a bitch was going for my gun!

The second I saw that, I knew it was do or die time.

I dropped the bottle and threw a hard, solid punch that connected with the side of his jaw. It dazed him for a second when his face bounced off of the driver's window, but when I connected in the same place a second time, he was struggling to continue his reach. He threw a wasted elbow at me again, hoping to connect just once with my face, but I saw it coming. I slipped my hand into my jean's pocket and threaded my fingers through the brass knuckles.

I might not have hit him, but he shifted into reverse and was preparing to drive recklessly backward, hoping that he could bounce me out of the open passenger door.

A second later, Pablo was bleeding from a gash that went to the bone, right above his eye, and struggling to remain conscious. I turned the car off and stepped into the night, wondering how it'd come to this with a guy I liked so much.

What did Mandy tell him?

I walked around the car, opened the driver's door, and pulled him out into the night. I took off my shirt and pressed it to the wound. Pablo opened his eyes and smiled at me.

"Goddamnit. What'd you hit me with?"

I smiled too, relieved with his humor about the events that'd just transpired. "Knuckles. I almost always have them in my pocket."

He laughed out loud, wincing at the pain. "Of course you do. Jesus Christ."

"You would have left me here!" I said, thankful that things were getting back to normal.

"Damn right," he said, his smile fading. "You fucked my sister."

My face dropped. My pulse quickened with the fear that he might lash out at me again, but I quickly realized that he wasn't going to do that. He couldn't. He was just regaining control of his motor skills.

"Yeah, I did," was all I could say. No sense in crossing over into shameful lying. It's one thing to deny something that no one is sure of; it's quite another to embarrass yourself lying when the truth is already known. One is simply omission; the other is character deformation.

"When did you do it?" he asked.

"When I ran back up to take a piss. I couldn't help myself, man. I know that sounds fucked up, but I actually resisted her the night before."

He closed his eyes, wincing at the pain. I didn't know if it was the pain in his head, or the one associated with imagining me fucking his hot sister.

"Look, Pablo... I'm just wired that way, man... I actually like your sister. She's a no bullshit kind of chick... I... like her. I'd like to see her again."

He laughed with his eyes still closed. "You already fucked my head up once. Don't keep doing it to me."

"Sorry," I said, picking up a piece of tumbleweed and crunching it in my hand. "What did she say about me?"

"That's what she asked."

"Huh?" I looked at him.

"That's how I knew you fucked her. She asked me what you said about her."

"Oh," I said, taking that in.

"It's all right. My sister isn't a whore though. She doesn't sleep around. She's not like that."

"I don't think that," I said, unsure of whether I believed myself or not.

Apparently, I hadn't sold Pablo on it either. "She's not like your other whores, Ved!"

"All right! I get it. She's your sister; you have to stick up for her. She's not mine, bro... We're seeing this from different perspectives, that's all."

"No, you fucking asshole! She was raped two years ago! She doesn't sleep with anyone, believe me! I found her that night... I saw what they did to her!"

Wow, I'd really stumbled into that one. "They?"

"Four guys, leaving McCoy's. My sister was coming over to visit me. They caught her in the driveway... four of those motherfuckers."

"Sorry, bro. I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't."

"I'm sorry. Am I supposed to ask the women I sleep with if they've been raped recently? I didn't rape her! She's a grown woman, Evan. She's twenty-five years old!"

"No, but you never even considered it, did you? Did you even consider that she'd been abused, hurt?"

I was tired of this conversation. I could understand that Pablo wasn't thrilled about me and his sister hooking up, but was he suggesting that I should have known about her past? If she'd told me that, I would have definitely not slept with her out of compassion or sympathy... something. Mandy was probably stigmatized in Slidell as the girl who'd been gang raped, deterring people who knew her from sleeping with her. I hadn't known that, and she knew I didn't know that. Come to think of it, she wasn't going to like finding out that I was now aware of her past. Someone was in trouble for letting that cat out of the bag.

As if he were psychic, Pablo then said, "Ved, you can't tell her I told you that. She'll freak out. Promise me."

"I won't tell her. Besides, man, I doubt that I'll see her again, at least not for a while."

"Yeah, you will. She's gonna fly out to San Fran to see us."

"Why would she do that?" I asked, worried about the wisdom in that.

"She just wants to. She told me the morning after you guys stayed up... doing whatever."

"All right, I guess."

He didn't say anything for a long minute, then right when I stood up from the hard ground, he said, "I didn't fuck that girl in Houston."

"I know," I said, surprised at his confession.

"You do? I thought she told you guys we did?"

"Yeah, she tried to say you did, but I saw right through it."

He looked worried. "What'd she say about it?"

"That you weren't interested... in her."

"Oh," he said. "And what did you think about that?"

I looked at him earnestly. "Pablo, I don't care who you fuck, man. I like you. It's your business, not mine."

"I'm gay," he said quickly and without emphasis.

"I know."

"You do?"

"Of course," I said, trying to sound like I'd always known.

"And you don't care? Sleeping in a tent with a gay―"

"Not at all, man. I'm shallow, but not that way."

A half an hour later, we were back on the highway. Elko behind us; the future before us. I was back in the passenger seat, reclined and ready for a good night of sleep, when I heard the Dave Matthews Band song "Two Step" begin to skip.

Pablo fumbled with it for a second, and then I heard the noise.

The front left tire had drifted off the road and into the salty sand lining the highway. The car lurched to the left, pulling it hard toward the median. Pablo screamed, "Shit!" and overcorrected to the right. The car began to slide. The noise of driving over bumpy dirt at eighty miles an hour was deafening.

Suddenly, we were jerked hard to the left, and then silence for a long second while the headlights on the highway flipped around twice. Suddenly, there was a crash, the roof of the car collapsing down on top of me, and then... silence again as the car flipped over again in the air... Crash!

We rolled over four times before the car stopped; the passenger door against the ground. Slowly, the car rolled over onto the tires with a thud.

We were stopped.

The same beautiful night was out there waiting for us; the same starry sky and listless breeze.

"Oh shit. Are you all right?" Pablo asked, squeezing my arm but unable to see my head because of the smashed-in roof.

"I'm all right, man... It's OK," I managed, feeling myself to be sure I wasn't severed in half.

"Holy shit, Ved! Oh my God! What did I do?" he asked, crying softly.

"It's OK, homie. We're alive. We're not fucked up... It's OK."

Cars were stopping, and people were running down to us. A man with a flashlight and a yellow reflective vest was the first to arrive.

"You guys OK?" he asked, reaching in through my window.

"Yeah. Yeah, man... We're OK," I said, feeling his hand in mine.

"Cops and ambulance are on the way. You guys just sit tight. They'll get you out of there. Just sit tight!"

"Are they OK?" a woman was yelling from somewhere nearby.

"They say they are, but you never know... They could be in shock."

"Are they OK?" another person was yelling and running toward us.

"Yeah, they think so. Call 911. Tell them where we are!" the woman yelled.

A minute later, I decided I needed out of the car. All of the good citizens were talking up by the road so they could direct the emergency vehicles. In the distance, I could hear sirens. We were in the middle of the desert, twenty miles from Elko. I realized that sound carried a long way out here.

"Pablo, I gotta get out of the car, man. Sirens. The cops are coming."

"Good, I don't know if I can get out," he said, and then the implication of the cops coming hit him. "Oh shit! Cops! What are you gonna do, Ved? Oh man, oh man... I fucked this up bad. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." He was crying again.

I began climbing out of my window, which had been smashed completely out. I was just about to jump out when the good citizens began racing toward me, trying to stop me. The sirens were getting louder, the cops and ambulance were getting closer, but that was only good news to them, and to Pablo.

I slid my ass out of the window and touched down, immediately recognizing the mistake in that. My window that had been planted in the ground before the car rolled over one last time had shattered right where I'd landed on my feet. Glass went shooting into my feet as soon as I stepped onto the ground. The pain was so odd and sharp that I immediately collapsed onto my knees, repeating the process. Now my hands went to the ground to unburden my knees... When the guy in the yellow vest got there, he asked if I was OK.

"I'm kneeling on the glass from my window. Help me up," I said as calmly as I could.

The man reacted very cautiously, lifting me up off the ground. He set me down too quickly and I repeated the process all over again: feet, knees, and hands.

"Oh shit! You're barefoot!" he said, lifting me back up.

"Uh, yeah," I said, trying to control my rage.

I was in the grass now, standing, and I could feel the glass embedded in the soles of my feet. I began picking out the glass that was buried in my hand first and then I moved on to my knees. The police were pulling up when I looked and saw Pablo coming toward me. He'd freed himself somehow.

"Now what?" he asked, panicking.

"Now I go to jail."

"Holy shit. Your car is fucked! You're gonna go to jail! Ved, I'm so sorry."

"It's all right," I said calmly, watching the first cop get out of his car. "Get yourself home, bro. Tell your sister that she wasn't just another number to me. Tell her I'll come find her when I get out, whenever that might be."

"I'll tell her; I promise."

The cop walked up to us after the guy in the vest pointed in our direction. He approached and whistled, "Wow. That's quite a crash. You guys OK?"

"Yeah, we're OK," I said calmly.

It was all sort of surreal. Even though I knew what was going to happen to me, I didn't panic. It was almost calming to know that it was out of my hands, that there was nothing left for me to do but whatever I was told to do. For the next few months or years, all I had to do was relax and think. I didn't have to look over my shoulder anymore; I didn't have to worry about getting people who tried to help me in trouble. It was out of my hands, and it felt good.

"So, what happened?" the cop asked me.

I nodded to Pablo, so he could explain the story.

"The CD started skipping, and I reached down to go to the next song. When I did, the driver's side tire went off the road and just sucked the car right off the road," he said, shaking and eyeing me.

"That's all it takes. One tire hits the dirt; the rest is inescapable. Happens all the time. Good thing you boys had your seatbelts on. This could have been a lot worse."

We both agreed. Another squad car pulled up and another cop jumped out in a hurry, expecting the worst. The ambulance was right behind him. The bystanders were all telling the cops how we'd rolled eight times, and that they thought we'd be dead. Everyone was amazed, not only that we were alive, but that we were mostly unscathed.

After a few minutes, the cop walked back over to us. "All right, fellas, I need your driver's licenses so we can get this mess cleaned up."

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I removed my license and handed it over to the cop, knowing that from here on out, he wasn't going to be so cordial to me.

5

Viah, Me, and the LSD

"Fellas, I have good news and bad news."

"What's the good―" Pablo started.

"What's the bad news?" I interrupted him. I've always been a bad-news-first kind of guy.

"There's normally a program in Elko to help people that break down out here. They would've put you up in a hostel, fed you a couple a' hot meals, and helped you get on your way. We know how remote we are out here, so a few of the local churches get together to sponsor the program. It's pretty cool, really. Problem is, they're all booked up tonight with homeless folks, and the one guy that could make other arrangements for you is probably in bed. He's not answering the goddamn phone. I tried him three times." He looked at us, expecting faces of disappointment.

"That's it? That's the bad news?" I asked cautiously.

"Yeah, that's it." He handed us our licenses back casually. "I can drive y'all to town if you want. They'll tow your car down to Ernie's junkyard in the morning. You can get the rest of your stuff then. Up to you."

I looked at Pablo, trying to determine whether or not I understood the trooper correctly. He'd run my license and nothing had come up? Otherwise, he'd be holding me, or at least saying that he was aware of who I was and what I'd done, right? I was completely thrown by this development.

Digesting this while I was trying to hide the shock I was feeling was difficult. I suddenly had other things to consider, like what I was going to do about my car, or how I was going to get out of here―shit that hadn't mattered five minutes ago. I wasn't the wanted man I'd been so convinced I was for the last six weeks. I'd been imagining government agents riding on horses, following a long-haired Indian up steep cliffs, stopping to smell the leaves and branches I'd broken along the way, or poking their fingers into my footprints to determine how many days ride ahead of them I was. Now I find out that I've been running from my paranoia? Did this news mean I didn't have to be quite so cautious?

"So, you could take us to town and just drop us off?" I asked, remembering the four pounds of weed in the trunk of the car.

"Yeah, I can take you to town and drop you off by the casinos. They have pretty cheap rooms and pretty good food. Elko isn't quite Vegas, but the food is good," he said, smiling.

"Right..." I said looking at my car and trying to confirm that the trunk hadn't popped open during the rolling. "Hell yeah, we'll take a ride!" I said, speaking for Pablo who'd remained very quiet during the last five minutes.

"All right, grab the stuff you need for the night out of your car. I'll tell Ron we're headed back to town. He'll get Ernie's guys out here to retrieve your car," the trooper said, walking off to talk to the other trooper who'd arrived later.

I could hardly breathe as we walked to the car, eyeing the trunk the whole way. Pablo went to the passenger side of the car first, concerned about his man-purse, while I headed straight to the trunk. It must be nice to be Pablo, I thought, as I finally exhaled, seeing the trunk still secure.

I opened the trunk, moving the spare tire as quickly as possible, and found the weed hadn't budged a single inch. I smiled, seeing it in there, tightly packed in multiple freezer-size Ziploc bags. Quickly, I replaced the tire, situating it just right and really cranking down hard on the wing nut that secured it. I grabbed the stuff I wouldn't need for one night in a hotel and crammed it tightly into the trunk, making sure that when the flatbed truck came to hoist my broken car up, everything would stay put. After that, I grabbed my JanSport bag with the essentials inside and turned to Pablo.

"Ready?" I asked, exhaling dramatically so he'd know the weed was OK. I wondered if he was even considering the fact that we were carrying enough weed to go to prison for at least twenty years.

"Yeah, I've got my shit. So... are we really gonna ride back with the cop?" Pablo asked me.

"Well, yeah. You wanna walk all the way back? It's like twenty miles."

"You still have the other shit in your bag?"

By "other shit" he meant a little coke and three bottles of Percocet. "Fuck yeah, he's not gonna search us, dude."

"What if it's a trap? What if he's waiting until we get to town to arrest you?"

I looked at him to see if he was serious. "Pablo, have you ever seen a single episode of COPS? Generally, they don't wait to arrest you. They either arrest you, or they don't."

"You don't know that," he said, annoyed with my condescension.

Apparently, he was serious. "Uh, you're right. I don't know that, but since I'm the one who's gonna potentially be arrested and not you, it's customary to agree with me. I'm pretty sure we're going to be OK."

"All right, fine by me," he said, shaking his head and putting the risky decision on me.

I rode shotgun in the car while Pablo took the back seat, all without any discussion. I thought it was indicative of our personalities, the way we sat. Maybe I'm a bit alpha, but Pablo was definitely a bit bravo... I was the social one. Pablo was... well, he was the other one. I honestly felt like this was a great big adventure happening to me, the star of the show. Pablo was like the guy who tags along with the star, the actor you recognize but can never recall his name... like what's his name, in Gladiator...

Despite the fact that Pablo had completely destroyed my car, or, more accurately, my father's car, I was in pretty good spirits. I didn't have a single idea about what we were going to do, but I assumed that Pablo would be calling Mandy for a flight home tomorrow morning. I wasn't sure if Elko had a major airport, but I figured they had to at least have a regional airport with service to Vegas. From there, he could catch a flight back to New Orleans.

Pablo's family definitely had the means to rescue him, and except for a brief window of optimism, he'd been having a shitty time out on the road anyway. I tried to think of reasons he wouldn't bail out on me, but nothing came to mind. The only feasible reason he might stay was out of guilt for destroying my ride, but if that were the case, I didn't want him with me. He needed a plan; he needed something definite, something I couldn't or, even if I could, wouldn't provide him with. I didn't need him staying because he felt guilty; I needed him to stay because he wanted adventure.

This was the first time since leaving Louisiana that I realized for sure that I was going on alone. He had other options available to him. He had a lifeline if he needed it, and I guessed that to Pablo, being stranded in the desert without a vehicle was what he considered "needing it."

I had no options. I could call my mother and beg her for a bus ticket back to Pennsylvania, or even make some calls to friends in Fayetteville, but both of those options were out of the question. I can honestly say that I would have rather died alone out here than call in a favor from the people I was done with. This was it for me; this is what I'd been wanting since I'd driven out to Ft. Lewis. All along I knew I wanted to be out here, actually in the mix, stranded, thinking on my feet, winging it. I just hadn't known exactly how to achieve desperation. Now that I was in it, I was thrilled. It seemed to have happened cosmically, as if I'd subconsciously set a course for this very destination.

Being stranded and abandoned really only hurts when you have somewhere else to be. When you have no agenda weighing you down, being stranded and abandoned feels almost cozy.

"I'm Ved," I said, sticking out my hand to the trooper.

"Ved?"

"Yes, sir. Family nickname," I lied.

"All right, Ved. Mike Lawrence," he said, shaking my hand.

"Pleasure to meet you, Mike," I said, choosing the name that suggested more familiarity.

"Yeah, you too. So what are you guys doing all the way out here anyway? You're from Pennsylvania, and Evan's from..."

"Louisiana."

"Louisiana... right. Boys are sure a long way from home."

I answered before Pablo had a chance, "I'm on the run, Mike."

He looked at me; his eyes looked like he was surprised to have heard that.

"No... not like that." I smiled. "I'm on the run from being subpoenaed."

He laughed out loud. "I don't know if that's any better than being on the run, Ved."

"Whoa!" I laughed. "I realize how that sounds... It's not like that. I was in the Army with this guy from Louisiana. He got out just before me, so when I got out, I went down to stay with him for a while. Long story short, I ended up sleeping with his cousin's wife, who then decided to leave her husband. Naturally, he then decided to have me subpoenaed, wanting me to testify that she was the adulterer. I decided that wasn't something I wanted to do... so before he could get me served, I bolted."

He was smiling, a broad and genuinely entertained smile. "And Evan is the guy you got out of the Army with?"

"No, I'm―" Pablo started, but being the better storyteller, I decided I'd just go ahead and take it from there. Fuckin' supporting role actors, always wanting more lines...

"No, Zach was the one I got out with. I met Evan, Pablo as I call him, on my way to Houston at a gas station. Turns out, we were both in the 82nd Airborne Division, just at different times."

"You guys were at Ft. Bragg?" Officer Mike Lawrence asked.

"Yeah. Were you?" I asked.

"No, I was in Texas. Ft. Hood, Chemical Corps," he said.

"No shit? I was a 54 Bravo!" I said, looking at him.

"McClellan?" he asked, excited by the coincidence.

"Hoo-rah! The 82nd Chemical Battalion! '94."

"I was there in '89. I got out in '95."

"You in a chemical unit?" I asked.

"Signal unit."

"No shit! Me too!"

"No way! Were you the battalion NBC guy?"

"No, company NBC. That was enough for me, but I was in Alpha and Headquarters Company, so I still gassed the brass."

"That's great! Why'd you get out?" he asked as he drove.

This is a fairly routine question, though at the time, I didn't necessarily understand that. The Army makes life so comfortable, as far as living on a day to day basis, that the question is warranted. What the question really boils down to is, "How'd you escape?"

From the moment you enlist until your final day, everything is intentionally designed to ensure you stay right where you are. Even when your first enlistment is up, you are still in control of your career. If you want to stay in the Army, but you don't want to be transferred somewhere else, you can stay put right there for another three or four years. If you hate where you are and want to be transferred to the state that you are from, no problem, they can do that for you too. If you happen to marry a nice young lass during your enlistment, you are provided housing and given what essentially boils down to a raise, which is really just a psychological game to get you to settle down and get comfortable. Comfortable families have a much harder time transitioning back to the real world than single Joes.

It's all a game. It's all a ploy to keep you in until you have the privilege of dying for your country. It's like going to a timeshare presentation in order to get that free trip to Mexico. If you can go to the presentation and withstand the pressure to buy the fucking timeshare, they'll pay up and fly you to Mexico. The problem is, of course, until your flight actually leaves for those sandy beaches, they are relentlessly up your ass to buy their product. Once you do buy into the farce, they don't have time for you when you're calling to complain about cockroaches in your condo.

The Army is the same way. First they lure you in with the promise to send you to college, which they will do if you can make it out and go. They make going to college sound easy, but before they let you out to actually start studying, they offer you the world. They let you steer the ship, or so it feels. After your second term, you get to see the real Army. By that point, you have about eight years in, and with a retirement pension available at twenty, you only need twelve more. This is when you get sent to Haiti, or Alaska, or even worse, Ft. Polk, Louisiana... If you stay in long enough to enlist a third time, they know that now you're hanging in until retirement. This is when they start looking for reasons to boot your ass out.

"I wasn't going to get trapped. I know too many guys who reenlisted once, just to get sent to east bumfuck."

"Yeah, me too," he said.

"Me too," Pablo chimed in from the back seat.

Mike glanced into the rearview mirror, making eye contact with the guy we'd completely forgotten back there. "So how'd you two end up traveling together?"

"Well, after Houston we got to be pretty tight. I told him I didn't know how long I was going to be in Louisiana for, but I knew it wouldn't be too long. Of course, I didn't imagine the whole cousin thing going down... Anyway, when I had to leave there, I called him. He said he wanted to come with me."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm thinking San Francisco," I said.

"You don't even know where you're going?" He laughed.

"Well, I know we're not going to Pennsylvania, North Carolina, or Louisiana."

"And you just agreed to go with him?" Mike asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

"Something like that," Pablo said, sounding unconvinced.

"So did you just pick him up on the way?" Mike asked me.

"No, I went down to his place for a night."

"Just like that, huh? Gone the next morning?"

"Yeah..."

"There was time for him to fuck my sister!" Pablo said out of nowhere from the back seat.

He was really hanging on to that one. I couldn't believe he was airing our dirty laundry in front of Officer Mike, but at the same time, I took it as a precursor to his leaving me tomorrow. He had to make unrest while he could, so it didn't feel like abandonment out of nowhere. If he had a reason to dislike me, or if there was a deep enough rift between us, it would be easier on him.

"No! You didn't!" Mike said, hitting the steering wheel with his palm and smiling incredulously.

"Well, yeah, I did. But it wasn't like I raped her." Oops, I shouldn't have said that. Not only was I insinuating that she was easy, I'd used the word "rape" around a cop, and in reference to a girl who'd apparently been raped in the not too distant past.

"Nice, Ved, fucking nice!" Pablo said in a less than happy tone.

"Oh shit, man. I didn't mean it like that!"

"You're a real piece of work, asshole! I can't fucking believe you!" he said, getting madder as he spoke. A second later, he punched the metal cage behind me that was installed to prevent outbursts like that from getting cops hurt.

"Whoa! Cool off back there!" Mike said to Pablo.

"No offense, officer, but this fucking guy is the root of all his own problems! He doesn't even deserve a ride to town. The guy fucked my sister who'd just been raped! What kind of guy does that?"

"Evan, is this really the time to get into this?" I asked, wanting to kill the bastard.

"Whoa, guys. Everyone take it easy," Mike said, exiting onto a ramp that said Elko.

Silence fell over the car; no one knew exactly what to say. Silently, we rode while Mike navigated the city streets. When he stopped, we were in front of the Commercial Casino. He pulled off the road and stopped the car. We were all very silent.

"You guys gonna be OK?" Mike asked as he got out and opened the back door for Pablo.

"Yeah, we'll be fine," I said.

"I'll be fine. I'm calling my sister and getting the fuck out of here, tonight!" Pablo said as he got out of the car. "Thanks, Officer Lawrence." He slammed the door and walked down the sidewalk as if he knew exactly where he was going. I just sat there in the car for a minute, watching him in the mirror as Mike climbed back into the driver's seat.

"What are you gonna do?" Mike asked me as if we'd been friends for ten years.

"I'm gonna go into that casino and get some lobster tails. Then, I'm gonna find a room and go to sleep. I have a ton of shit to deal with in the morning, mostly my fucking car."

"Yeah. It'll be at Ernie's by sunup. He'll give you a couple hundred bucks for it. He'll part it out."

"Yeah, well, that's good news because I don't have any extra cash on me."

"You still gonna go to San Francisco?"

I looked at him. "Hell yes. Man, I'm so excited to be out here. I have no idea what I'm going to do to get there, but I'm gonna get there."

"How is it that you have no money, and here you are on the other side of the country? Did he have the money?" He pointed with his thumb toward Evan.

"Yeah... he had some. I have..." I stopped, realizing I was about to tell a state trooper I had pot to sell. "I have other means of making money," I said, looking at him quickly.

"I see."

"Anyway, thanks for the lift, Mike. Really appreciate it."

"No problem; it was my pleasure."

I closed the door and looked at the casino, suddenly wondering if I was too underdressed to go in there. I'd never been in a casino before, but in the movies I'd seen about casinos, Robert DeNiro always wore a suit and a pocket square. I wasn't sure if that was just because they were overdoing how Italian he was, or if that was the standard attire at such places. I was looking around to see what else was in the area when Mike rolled down the window.

"Ved?" he called, leaning over into the passenger seat.

"Yeah?"

"Here. If you're around for a day or two and you need anything, gimme a call."

I leaned in and grabbed the business card he was holding out to me. I looked at it briefly. "Thank you. That's very nice of you."

"If your other means of making money isn't still in your trunk when you get to your car, call me. I know where it will be if he finds it before you get there." He smiled and pulled out into the street.

"Ho-lee-shit," I said, watching him drive away.

I decided that I was in the mood for good food―seafood. Even if I was standing in the middle of the desert, as far as a man can possibly stand from the ocean, it sounded like a treat. I walked into the Commercial Casino and ate myself stuffed for $9.99. After dinner, I walked across the street and down a few blocks to the Days Inn, which I could see from the Casino. It was 3:34 a.m. when I rang the bell. A haggard looking woman came through the door behind the counter a minute later, looking none too pleased for my late night visit.

"Can I help you?"

"I'd like a room."

"For how many?"

"Just me."

"So... one?"

I looked over my shoulder, seeing if I was being followed. "Well... can my imaginary friends stay for free?"

"What? How many sir?" she asked annoyed.

"One!"

"OK, sir... you don't need to be rude," she informed me.

I said nothing.

"All right, that's forty-seven sixty-five," she said without looking up from her ancient computer screen.

"What time is check out?" I asked, after reading the sign behind her that read Check out 10 a.m. No exceptions!

"Ten a.m., sir."

"It's almost four in the morning. Any way I can get a late check out?"

"Ten a.m., no exceptions," she said again without looking at me, pointing to the sign behind her.

"So... even though it's four in the morning, I have to be out in six hours? That's ridiculous! If I checked in at six, could I stay later?"

This time she looked at me, potentially for the first time since I entered. "No exceptions means I can't make an exception. I don't own the place."

"OK," I said, trying to hold it together. "What time is check in?"

"Ten a.m.," she said with a sigh.

"And the price is the same? Forty-seven—"

"Sixty-five, yes," she was kind enough to finish for me.

"Well, that policy is fuckin' genius. I'll be back at ten. What time does your shift end?" I asked without disguising my loathing.

"I work all day. I live in the apartment on the other side of the wall, and I'll have to ask you to refrain from using that kind of language."

"Right. You live here, but you don't own the place," I said, turning to walk out the door. I looked at the door. "This glass is disgusting; looks like you cleaned it with a slice of pizza."

With that, I left.

When I walked out into the street, I noticed just how barren it was. I remembered Mike saying Elko wasn't Vegas, and I thought to myself, you got that right. I wandered around for a few minutes, roaming a few blocks off of the main road Mike had dropped me off on. I was looking for a place to relax for a few hours, until ten, so I could go back to the Days Inn. Cruising around aimlessly, I spotted a baseball field and headed for it. It had a covered dugout and wide bench inside, meeting all the requirements I had set.

I looked around, seeing if anyone was watching me or living in the immediate vicinity. After I realized I was alone and removed, I went in and lay down. My eyes were heavy, and my stomach was full of shrimp and crab legs as I closed my eyes. I realized it was getting chilly, so I pulled my Widespread Panic sweatshirt out of the JanSport and covered my chest and face with it. I rolled up a T-shirt and used it for a pillow, smiling to myself pleasantly. This is all I need. Oops, one more thing. I pulled a Parliament Light out of my pack and lit it. Now, this is all I need.

I woke up later that morning to the sensation that I was being sprayed with water. The sprinkler made a rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat sound as it spurted a one-hundred-foot stream of arctic water from its mouth, just enough to reach through the dugout and hit my arm and chest. The sun was out and the day already hot, but I quickly realized that the sprinkler wasn't what had woken me up.

"You got ID?" a man with a mustache and a blue uniform asked me.

I sat up, trying to remember where I was. "Yeah, sure," I said, reaching into my back pocket.

"Easy now," the cop said.

"Whoa, buddy, slow down," another man said, standing outside the dugout. I hadn't even seen him.

"My wallet... it's in my back pocket. Pretty standard place for it..." I ventured.

"All right," the mustache said.

"What are you doing out here?" the other guy asked.

"Sleeping. My car flipped over on the—"

"The Honda? Late last night?" the mustache asked.

"Yeah," I said, surprised they knew about it.

"Ooooh-weeee. Heard that one on the scanner. Guess you boys were pretty lucky, huh?"

"I guess. My buddy was luckier than I was. It was my car. He's on his way home, and I'm sleeping on a park bench, waiting for check-in time at the Days Inn."

I held out my ID, but the mustache shook his head. "Nah, it's OK. Look, you can't sleep in the park. I don't care what happened. You just can't. People see you on the bench, and they call us. You got money for the hotel?"

"Yeah, I have enough for the room."

"All right, let me take you over there. I'll tell Linda to let you into the room early. It won't be a problem. But look, buddy, you can't sleep in town. You have to be in a room. Ernie has your car?"

"That's what Mike... Officer Lawrence said."

"Mikey was out there last night?"

"Yeah. Said Ernie will have it by sunup."

"All right, let's get you out to Ernie's to get your shit, and then I'll bring you back to the Days. Sound good?"

It would have, but I had four pounds of pot in my trunk that I thought would be best left unknown about to the police. "I'm exhausted, guys. I'll get the stuff from the car later. Can you just take me to the Days?"

"It's about three miles from there to Ernie's. Hell of a long walk with all your shit later."

"Mike gave me his number. Told me to call him if I needed a ride."

"Mike gave you his number? Why'd he do that?"

"We were in the Army together," I said, stretching it a bit.

"No shit?"

"No shit."

"How old are you?" he asked, loosening up a bit.

"Yes, sir," I said, dodging the question.

"How old?"

"He's twenty-six," I said, winging it.

Mustache looked confused for a second, and then he dropped it. He and the younger guy drove me to the Days and went in to speak to Linda on my behalf. She was an entirely different woman when they were talking to her. Now, she was all smiles and "no problems."

"Poor thing. He was sleepin' out there in the park?" she asked as if I wasn't standing in the room.

"Yes, ma'am," the younger guy said.

"I don't see why he didn't just ask me if he could stay here a little longer. You know Bob... he wouldn't stand for me turning a stranger away," she said, eyeing me, daring me to say anything.

"That Bob's a real saint," I commented.

"As long as it ain't no trouble," mustache said, grabbing the room key off the counter and handing it to me.

"No problem at all," said Linda. "It ain't Christian to send a man out into the cold, not over just a couple a' hours."

I shook my head while I locked my eyes on her. "All right, I'm going to go to my room," I said, shaking the mustache's hand. I turned back to her, "before fucking lightning bolts come out of the sky. Thanks, Linda. You really are a good Christian."

"Take care, partner," the new guy said.

"Right. Thanks, guys."

I went to my room and closed the door. I set my cigarettes down on the table, noticing the sign that read in bold lettering no smoking. I lit my cigarette and lay on the bed, contemplating a hot bath and where the fuck Pablo was. It didn't matter now; I was alone. I should have always known I would end up this way, and maybe I needed the time. Maybe I could prove something to myself if I actually made it to San Francisco alone. I knew Viah would be thrilled to hear from me, the way she had loved me before. I got to thinking about the lovely Viah Abendana.

Viah was one of the few girls I slept with who didn't hate me within a week afterward. She had her own boy problems and didn't care that I was sleeping with other people while the two of us were sleeping together. She was, after all, doing the same to me.

Viah was Israeli, with dark skin and hair, but with eerie green eyes that penetrated deep into my own when she focused on me. She said her eyes were from her Irish-Scottish mother, who'd died while giving birth to her in 1975. Her father was a wealthy and powerful international businessman of some sort with dual citizenship in both Israel and America. Even though Viah was a citizen of the U.S., she'd spent almost all of her life in Israel.

She'd gotten out of the Army almost a year before me. She'd left to go travel around the country with her boyfriend Shawn in some piece of shit van with tear-drop windows in the back. Apparently, he was a hippie with a desire to wander (or so he said), though in the Army, I always found it hard to accept people who claim to have been hippies. Without the hair or clothing to prove it, they all seemed like fucking wannabes to me. I mean, if anyone was a hippie, it was me, and the last thing I ever did was walk around calling myself one.

Viah was, by anyone's standards, way out of my league. There were guys in the barracks who had been trying just to talk to her for years, all without Viah ever returning a single sentence. She was aloof, if not unfriendly, to the people she didn't know, and her philosophy was simply that she knew enough people and therefore had no desire to know anyone else. I wouldn't have met her either had she and I not been in the same platoon, and even with that linking us, we weren't immediate friends.

Naturally, I detested people like her. I made no effort to befriend her, not even to speak to her, for the first three months at the Sig. She was the company armorer, meaning that she was in charge of the weapons being issued, serviced, cleaned, etc.... Because I was essentially the same position, but with the chemical masks, we were always working at the same time, receiving weapons and masks in whenever a jump was over, usually in the middle of the night. Our offices were across the hall from one another and I think we had a mutual appreciation for each other because of the shit we both took, from the same assholes, every time we refused to accept a dirty mask or gun. It wasn't our rule that they had to be clean when they were returned; we were just tasked with enforcing it, usually with soldiers that far outranked us. Though we weren't friends, we did have the same enemies.

One night I was in my office at about 2:30 in the morning, getting ready to lock up after third platoon had returned from a jump, when I heard an argument coming from the armory. I peeked into the door across the hall to see an E-7 standing menacingly in front of Viah's desk. At first I couldn't hear what he was so angry about, but it wasn't really any of my business. She'd never been friendly to me, so I assumed she'd just been unfriendly to Sergeant Ford, who I recognized by his greasy, over-length hair.

I went back to hanging up the last of my masks, deciding to stay out of it, when I heard Viah say in a different tone, "Sergeant, you need to step away from me, now!"

That piqued my interest, not only because she was an attractive woman telling a male soldier to leave, but because I, too, understood that she had a difficult job to do, and these areas we worked in were considered secure areas, meaning that we and we alone made the decisions about who could be in them.

I stepped out of my office into the hallway. "Everything OK in here?"

"Go back to work, Ludo!" Sergeant Ford said, without turning his head to look at me.

"No, Ved, Sergeant Ford is refusing to leave the armory. I've asked him multiple times," she said.

I was sort of shocked that she even knew my name, let alone the fact that she was talking to me. "Sarnt (this is how we pronounced Sergeant), if Specialist Abendana asked you to leave the armory, you need to do so."

"Private Ludo, this matter does not concern you."

I thought about what I knew about Sergeant Ford, remembering the trouble he'd gotten into earlier in his career somewhere for sleeping with a lower enlisted. Stigmas like that follow you wherever you go, no matter how long ago or how far away they happened.

"Sergeant Ford, I'm gonna ask you one more time to leave this room, or I'm gonna fuckin' help you out. We understand each other now, Sarge?"

He spun and looked at me, and as soon as he did, Viah was on her feet and headed to the telephone that went directly to Captain Dillinger's office.

"Private Ludo, are you threatening a non-commissioned officer with violence? You wanna get tossed in the brig?"

This didn't faze me in the least. Secure areas such as the armory and the NBC room require secret-level clearance. It doesn't matter if a four-star general is standing in my NBC room; if I say he has to leave, that is a direct order. Some E-7 with itchy pants didn't even give me an adrenaline rush.

"Get the fuck out! Now!" I said, stepping toward him.

Viah hung up the phone. "You better go, sarge. Captain Dillinger is on his way."

"Good, I'll wait till he gets here. Then we'll iron all this out."

He was staring at me. "You missed the window, sarge." I grabbed the greasy white guy by his collar and spun him hard, tossing him toward the door. He landed on his side and slid about five feet on the tile floor before he stood up again and lunged at me. I was ready for him, side stepping and hitting him square in the forehead with my right elbow. He spun completely over backward, feet coming off the ground, and landed with the back of his head first.

Thonk. The sound that came from his head hitting the floor was loud. He struggled to right himself again. While he was doing so, I stepped over him, grabbed him by his boots, and dragged him into the hallway. I left him there and went back into the armory, closing the door behind me. Now, only Captain Dillinger could get in. The room was literally a giant vault.

"Is Dillinger on his way?" I asked, looking at her.

"Yeah, said he'd be right here," she said.

It was the first time I'd really gotten to look at her without pretending to be looking elsewhere. She was flustered by the drama, and her face was red around the mouth.

"You OK?" I asked, looking at the side of her mouth.

"Yeah. That fucker kissed me."

I was stunned. Everyone wanted to kiss her, partly because she was gorgeous, partly because she was so inaccessible, but no one I knew had ever tried to actually do it. There was something about her that suggested she wasn't interested in even being our friend, let alone romantically interested in us.

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, out of nowhere. He just grabbed me and kissed me. I tried to pull away, but he grabbed my face and stuck his tongue down my throat."

"Gross!" I said, turning back to the door and punching in my security code. I opened the door and looked at him sitting there, dazed. I scanned the hallway for Captain Dillinger, knowing that he'd be coming at any second.

I squatted down in Sergeant Ford's face, looking him in the eyes and speaking very clearly and calmly. "You fell down and banged your eye. Got it?"

His eyes squinted, not understanding me.

"You fell down and hit your eye. Do you understand?" I repeated.

"My eye is fine," he said. "It's the back of my head―"

"Do you understand what I told you? Do you think Mrs. Ford would like to know what happened in here tonight, asshole?"

"Nothing―"

"Sarge... don't fuck me around. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

Just then I heard the doors on the other end of the long hallway opening. I nodded my approval that he understood, reached back, and drilled him in his right eye. His head thonked once more against the cinderblock wall. I stood and jumped back into the armory, closing the door behind me just as Captain Dillinger rounded the corner. I ran across the room, jumping onto Viah's desk and trying to look like I'd been there for a while.

I heard the code being punched into the door, and a second later, Captain Dillinger was standing there, looking confused.

"What the hell happened to him?" he asked me.

"I don't know. Ask him. I think he fell down."

Ricky spun around and looked at Sergeant Ford. "What the hell happened to you?" he asked

I couldn't see Ford, but I was pretty sure he was going to play ball. I heard an inaudible mumble, and then Dillinger's eyes came back to mine. "Yeah... apparently he fell down and landed on his eye."

"Whatever happened to him, he deserved it," Viah said, looking at Dillinger.

Even Captain Dillinger, who had a beautiful wife at home, wasn't immune to this girl. She was, without a doubt, the hottest soldier on the post, and even if Dillinger was a professional, which he was, he couldn't help but show off for her a little. "Are you OK? Did he touch you?"

"He kissed―" I started.

"No! He didn't touch me. I'm fine. He just wouldn't leave," Viah said, raising her voice and staring at Dillinger.

Captain Dillinger looked at her mouth for a second, studying the side where the red mark was apparent, and knew what I'd known. He spoke softly, evenly, as he stepped toward her, trying to use a tone that suggested she trust him. "Specialist Abendana, are you sure he didn't touch you? I want you to tell me the truth. No one is allowed to touch you, no one."

Despite his trusting tone, the ease with which she lied impressed me, and I consider myself to be an easy liar. "Sir, he didn't. He scared me because he wouldn't leave. If Ved... er... Private Ludo hadn't been here, I don't think he would've ever left. I was scared, that's all."

Dillinger looked at me and then turned back to her, obviously disappointed that she didn't trust him. "OK, if you say so, I'll believe you." He turned to me. "Private Ludo, did you two get into a physical alterca―"

"The motherfucker was getting loud. I could hear him from my office. I came in to see what was up. He told me to fuck off, so, naturally, I told him to hit the road. Then the bastard pulled rank on me, which didn't scare me, so I tossed his ass around, dragged him into the hallway, and had a talk with him. I asked if he needed me to call his wife and explain what was going on; ya know, to see if she'd come and get him... He said he didn't need her to get involved. Then he just fell over and landed on his eye." I couldn't help but smile at my own witty self. It's not that I thought Ricky would do anything to me for hitting Sergeant Ford, but it was better for both him and me if I told him the lies. He knew how to read between the lines.

Ricky smiled. "OK, but Viah, if anyone ever refuses to leave, or, even worse, if anyone ever touches you, use one of the nine millimeters and shoot the bastard. This is a secure area. You're in charge of this room. I don't give a fuck who comes in here. This room is yours. Good work, Ved. Good lookin' out."

"Airborne, sir. Thanks."

I walked Viah across the field, back to the barracks, where we went our separate ways. "Thanks, Ved. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, of course. No problem."

That was all we said. She turned left, and I turned right, headed back to our respective rooms.

It'd been three days since the event with Sergeant Ford when there was a knock on my NBC room door. I'd been napping peacefully on my desk, the lights off in the room to make it appear to passers-by that I was not in the office that day. I'm not sure where I expected them to think I was if I wasn't there, but uncertainty about my whereabouts seemed safer than knowing I was sleeping in my office, though by how much, I'm not sure. My heart skipped a beat, hoping that whoever it was out there would go away after I didn't answer. I waited for a minute, approaching the time when they would either knock again or simply go away, making the assumption I'd suggested with the darkness and silence...

No luck. They knocked again.

Goddamnit!

I'd already been warned twice about sleeping in my office. Once, by the first sergeant who'd never really liked me, and certainly never agreed with my lifestyle, and the second time by the Battalion XO. He'd been especially pissed to find me lying on top of my desk, using a company mask bag as my pillow. The nerve of the guy! If he thought a heavy canvas bag with metal buckles all over it was the most comfortable thing in the world, he'd never tried it! I was sacrificing my soft facial skin in order to use it!

Anyway, Major Williams had found the door unlocked, and when I woke up, he was standing over me, getting ready to snap a picture on his 35mm camera. I almost had a heart attack when I realized who was standing there photographing me.

Just then, the flash went off. My right eye was still partially closed, my hands outstretched as if I were trying to grab the camera... He later posted it on the company area bulletin board with a note below that read sleeping on the job will not be tolerated. this is not what your momma's tax dollars are for!

Of course, he just had to get Ricky involved, who proceeded to make my life a living hell for over a week. They'd even threatened to remove the door from its hinges during business hours, but, fortunately, it was the XO himself who said that'd be a violation of security procedures. I was warned, however, that if I was caught sleeping again during duty hours, I could look forward to another Article 15.

In my defense, I'd been working two jobs and partying with Captain Dillinger's wife most nights until two or so, making me like a zombie during the day. How was I supposed to be productive if Monica always wanted to hang out? I didn't dare use that as an excuse though, knowing that Ricky could fix that problem for me with a single declaration.

"Yeah, just a second," I said, trying to sound awake. I straightened out the creases in my uniform and ruffled my hair.

"Come on. It's just me," she said.

I thought it was Monica at first, and I was relieved and thrilled by the unexpected visit. She and I had been friends for over a month or so at this point, and despite her beauty, I wasn't trying to get in her pants. Every now and then, she would come to the company area and bring lunch for Captain Dillinger and me, and then she would hang out for a while with me while I did nothing work related in my office. Sometimes I'd wear a mask and do my impression of Darth Vader, which Monica always said was the worst impression of all time, but it still made her laugh.

When I opened the door, it was Viah Abendana.

"You were sleeping again, huh?" she asked with a smile.

She rarely ever smiled, at least not when I was in her proximity. "No, I was working on... What do you mean, again?"

"Really? I've heard Captain Dillinger bitch at you for it like five times."

"Well I... No, I was seriously working on the masks..." I turned and pointed at them, as if they were going to testify for me.

"You have sleep lines on your face and a huge indentation from a button!"

I reached up to my face and fingered the mark she was talking about. Damnit! I'd been sleeping on my arm, resting my face against the cuff of my sleeve.

"Fuck! All right, I was napping between jobs. Come on in. I don't want anyone to see me in here. It's supposed to look like I'm not in."

"Yeah, that might work if most of the time it looked like you were in. Your office is always dark," she said with a laugh.

"It has to be. I'm always sleeping! I can't sleep with the light on," I said, closing the door behind her and smiling at my candor.

She looked around the room that really was immaculate. I might not be productive at "servicing" the masks, but I sure kept a clean office. "So, what exactly do you do all day?" she asked. "And why don't you sleep at night?"

"I do."

"Really? I don't need a nap in the afternoon."

"My job is especially tiresome... These masks really take it out of me." I smiled.

She smiled back. She was so beautiful that I didn't have a sexual urge for her. The only way I can rationalize that statement is to explain to you that she was so far out of my league that sex with her would be more about me feeling unworthy and terrified about what she'd think of me.

"Right..." she said, looking at the office and feeling the awkwardness of nothing to say for the first time.

"So what's up?" I asked her, sitting at my desk.

She sat in the only other chair in my office, the one reserved for Captain Dillinger, or Monica Dillinger when she came to visit. "What kind of music do you listen to?" she asked.

"Uh... well, I like Pearl Jam, but that's the only band I listen to in that genre... Other than that, I'm a Dead fan, Widespread Panic, uh... a little techno when I'm thinking... shit like that. I like Oasis, I guess..."

"Phish?" she asked.

"Ya know... I have some friends in Pennsylvania who are diehard Phish fans. I don't know Phish all that well, but I like a few songs of theirs. I'm definitely more of a Widespread fan if we're talking jam bands."

"Would you be interested in going to see them?"

"Who? Phish? When? With who?"

She smiled, and if I wasn't mistaken, she seemed a little nervous. "Phish. Yes. Next Thursday. With me."

My heart almost exploded at the thought of it. "Uh... yeah. Of course. Where they playing?"

"Walnut Creek Amphitheatre."

"Hell, yes. I'll go. Wait, why are you asking me?" I asked before I could stop myself. The truth was I didn't want to know why. I didn't want to hear that she'd asked eight other people first and they'd all been busy, so I was the only one left to ask.

"I'm kind of seeing this guy from third platoon. He bought the tickets for us to go, but now he's got something else going on. So... I thought maybe you'd want to go with me. He's a hippie... Anyway, I was trying to think of people who I thought might have also been hippies in their former life, and you came to mind. I mean, I know you smoke pot, so I just assumed."

"He's a hippie, huh? Did he tell you that?"

"Yeah." She laughed. "He has a Bob Marley poster in his room and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. I guess that's all you need to call yourself a hippie."

"I see."

"Anyway, you wanna go? Really?" she asked, looking into my eyes.

"Yeah, I'll go with you," I said, backing off a little bit from my previous enthusiasm. I was sort of the consolation prize, maybe not the eighth one asked, but number two is just as bad as number eight in my book.

"You sure? If you have something else to do, I understand."

I thought she was trying to get me to admit my excitement for being asked by Viah Abendana, something I would flat out refuse to do at this point.

"Yeah, I'll go."

"All right, I'll talk to you about it early next week to make sure you still want to."

"OK. Sounds good." I smiled politely.

"Are you still going to want to?" She smiled in return. "That's the point in the conversation where you're supposed to convince me that you really want to."

"I know, so my answer is: most likely. I shy away from formal commitments."

"Too bad, but I'm not surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She turned to the door. "Nothing. I'll see ya."

With that, Viah was gone.

The next week, on Tuesday, Viah came to see me. This time the visit was in my room and at night. Derrick, my roommate, almost shit himself when he opened the door, wondering who in the barracks was cordial enough to knock first.

"Is Ved here?" she asked.

"Ved? Uh... yeah... he's uh..."

"I'm here. Come on in," I said, sitting up on the futon.

"Wow," she said, looking around the room.

I was twenty years old at the time, so my room was decorated accordingly. Posters covered almost every square inch of the room. They were mostly pictures of Pearl Jam concerts, live shots of the band, mid-song... The intensity of Eddie Vedder in 1995 couldn't be described, but it could translate through photographs.

The prize picture of them all was a six-foot tall by four-foot wide shot of Eddie Vedder leaning against Jeff Ament at Pinkpop, in Seattle, sometime in the early nineties. It was one of their first big shows, an ocean of people as far as you could see beyond the two of them. It was sepia toned and taken from a vantage point nearing backstage. The crowd looked unruly, and it was apparent from the sky that it'd been raining... It was my absolute favorite picture of all time, and Viah took a minute to look closely at it.

Beyond the posters, there was an old-school, orange stop light that we'd stolen from an antique store in Raleigh hanging from the ceiling. The thing must have weighed four hundred pounds, and it had taken three of us to hold it up while two more dudes attached it to the chains we'd lag bolted into the concrete ceiling. Intentionally, it'd been hung in a corner of the room where no one ever sat. We were never really convinced that we'd secured it well enough, and sometimes we found ourselves staring at it, as if it were going to crash down at any second.

A guy from the Engineer Battalion had rewired it for us, turning the wiring nightmare that came out of the top of it into a regular outlet plug, and he set it to alternate from red to yellow to green constantly. It looked enormous in that tiny room, and the light it produced was blinding if you looked at it from up close. You never really notice these things when you are driving under them, but everyone who entered cell 117 couldn't help but notice just how impressive they really are.

The really cool thing about the traffic light was a feature that took a while to discover. Alex, the engineer, had removed all the excess wiring from the back of the light box, thereby leaving an empty space that was secured by a lockable door. We bought a new locking mechanism for the door, aged it by dragging it behind our cars for a few days, and then soaked it in water. It looked as old as the light by the time we remounted it. What I ended up with was the perfect place to hide drugs. If anyone asked about the panel, we just said we didn't have the key for it.

Every so often, we'd get what was called a "health and welfare" inspection. This is when the cadre would come through our barracks rooms, looking for contraband items. They were always unannounced and conducted at three o'clock in the morning. They wanted to take us by surprise, though most of the time Ricky would give me a heads up. At times, I had thousands of dollars' worth of shit in the "nook," but I never once worried about it being discovered. My crew of friends was airtight, and unless one of them broke down and gave it up, no one would ever find it.

"Holy shit. They let you keep that light in here?' she asked, looking it over curiously.

"Yeah. Well, first sergeant wasn't thrilled about it at first, but he doesn't care anymore. Thing weighs like four hundred pounds. It wasn't easy to get it up there."

"I'd imagine not."

"We put it in that corner because we weren't entirely convinced that it wouldn't fall one day. We're still pretty convinced that it has a destiny to fulfill." I pointed at the floor below it. There was an "X" taped to it, marking the spot where eventually contact would be made.

"That's comforting," she said, stepping out from underneath it.

Just then the door burst open. "What's up, motherfuckas?" Ryan said, with Luke and Zach right behind him.

When they saw Viah standing in the corner, I saw the look of panic cross their faces. Ryan looked at Luke, who looked at me. I looked at Viah to see if she knew how shocked they were, but she was looking at Ryan. You could have heard a pin drop while everyone surveyed the situation.

"Soooo, this is Viah," I said to the group.

Everyone breathed again and started talking. "Pleasure to meet you," Ryan said, shaking her hand.

"Hey," Luke said, as if they knew each other. "Sorry about that. I thought Ved was holding you hostage or something."

"Hey," she said, smiling politely. "No, believe it or not, I'm here of my own free will."

"Why? What's everyone doing? The world doesn't make sense anymore," Zach said, causing us all to laugh.

"Jesus! We're just hanging out," I said, feeling the awkwardness of everyone looking at the new girl in the room.

I wanted her to stay and get to know these guys, but I knew that the staring and awkward silences would be too much for her.

"OK... I'm gonna go. I was just making sure we're still on for Thursday."

"Of course."

"I was thinking that we need to leave here by like... two. Did you ask if you could get off early?"

I hadn't thought about that. "No, but I'm sure Sergeant Walker won't care."

"I'm taking Friday off too," she said, eyeing the door.

"That's a good idea. I'll do that too. That way we don't have to stress about getting back early." I looked at my friends and winked.

"I'll come see you tomorrow. I'll knock twice." She smiled.

"I'll be working hard."

She opened my door, took one step into the hallway, keeping her hand on the door handle, and turned back to me. "Do you have anything we could take at the show?"

Everyone laughed. "He's got anything you want," Luke said.

"Yeah. We'll talk about it tomorrow," I suggested.

She smiled. "OK, goodnight. Nice to meet you guys."

"You too." "Yeah," everyone replied too eagerly.

I stuffed a sheet of paper acid, which I'd wrapped in tinfoil, into John Steinbeck's East of Eden like a bookmark and tossed it into my JanSport. Beyond that, I brought two hits of ecstasy, an eighth of chronic, four grams of blow, and an eighth of mushrooms, just to be sure I had all the bases covered.

I wasn't planning on using all of these substances; I just wanted to have them in case we met people there or wanted to trade for something else. I'd never been to a Phish show, but I'd been to see the Dead with Nic a few times. Those shows were like a smorgasbord of eclectic drugs, anything and everything gathered in one place. More than money, you needed substances to trade for substances. That's what always made the Dead shows so cool.

I walked to Viah's room, wearing jeans, boots, a T-shirt, and a beanie. I had my JanSport on one arm and a navy blue zipper-front hoodie on the other. I knocked on her door, hardly able to believe that she and I were actually going to go to a Phish show, alone.

"Hey," she said, opening the door.

Viah was wearing jeans, sandals, a black V-neck T-shirt, and a hemp necklace. It was the first time I'd ever seen her with makeup on, and even though she didn't need it, she looked even better than she had before, something I would have said was impossible a month ago. She looked tall in her civilian clothing, with long, slim legs that worked those jeans better than they could have possibly imagined when they'd been sewn together.

"Look at you," I said, trying to sound cool and collected, "with your hemp necklace."

She touched it self-consciously. "Is it too much?" she asked.

"My dear, compared to the rest of the people you're going to see tonight, you look like a school teacher."

She smiled. "Perfect. School teacher is exactly what I was going for."

"Mission accomplished, specialist." I smiled.

"So, you ready? You have everything?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so..." I looked confused. Was I missing something?

"You have something for us to..."

"Ooooh... yes, indeed. I have what you're looking for."

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes. "How do you know what I'm looking for?"

"Doesn't matter what you're looking for. I have it."

"Would it shock or disappoint you if I told you I was sort of a cocaine girl?"

I smiled at her, looking at the V in her shirt. "The gods have been kind to me."

"No, really... do you think less of me now?"

"Seriously? If you asked me for crack, I'd be disappointed. Coke on the other hand... I couldn't be prouder."

"And you have some?"

"Why yes, indeed, I do."

"Let's roll. I'll drive," she said, grabbing her bag and keys, suddenly excited.

I'd never seen Viah coming or going from the parking lot before, so I didn't know exactly which car was hers, but when we approached a white BMW M3, I wasn't in the least bit surprised. Besides being a little small, the car was absolutely beautiful and smelled like a girl.

When she started the car, a rumble came from the engine, the rumble of a mean car, a fast car, but this wasn't some brutish muscle car, this was a BMW, so it was refined muscle.

"You want a bump now? Want me to key one up for you?" I asked, not knowing if it was too soon.

"Oh my God, yes! What do you mean 'key it up'?"

"I have it in a little bottle. I can stick a key in there and scoop some out onto the tip of the key. All you have to do is suck it in."

She turned the wheel and accelerated. My head went back against the headrest, like I was in the space shuttle. The powerful car was so much like the beautiful girl driving it, I was amazed. They were classy, strong, sleek, and sexy. I watched her hands maneuver the gear shifter as if she was working from memory. The car cornered out of the parking lot without floating an inch, the seats contouring around my body for exactly that reason. They held me in place while we drove across post, taking corners way too fast.

The untouchable beauty who spoke to almost no one was driving me to a concert an hour and a half away in her M3, waiting for me to feed her cocaine. It dawned on me before we'd gone a mile that sometimes in life you have days that are magical. The wise man can spot one of these days immediately, while the rest of the population can only identify it in retrospect. Tonight, the possibilities were endless. Tonight, for one night, Viah Abendana was all mine.

I keyed up the coke and held it for her while she steered with one hand. She leaned toward me, lining up her nose with the key, and inhaled. The car jerked a little bit as she regained her focus on the road. She rubbed her nose quickly and said, "Whoa."

Not to be excluded, I keyed one myself, joining her in the high.

We drove as fast as we talked, the coke making everything so much more interesting. I told her about my job at Books-A-Trillion, which she'd hadn't known about. She thought that was the coolest thing ever, and I promised to take her over to Eli's place and introduce her around. I explained the Genie situation and how that had just recently ended, all of which she took in with recognizable awe.

"You have the most interesting life of anyone on this post."

"No, not really. I think I'm missing something."

"What do you think it is?" she asked, looking at me with a strange look.

"I don't know, someone who challenges me, maybe."

"I can see that about you, but your friends all love you. Seriously, they do."

"Yeah, I have great friends. I love them too."

"You're lucky just to have that," she said.

"Why are you so reclusive, Viah? Why do you hide yourself away like that?"

"I don't do well with people. I just don't really know how to be." I held out another loaded key for her, which she took down without even thinking about it. The coke hits the brain so fast; I could instantly see it affect her. "I just don't really know how to be a people person."

I took another bump. "So how'd you hook up with your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend. We were hanging out for a while, a few months ago, but all he wanted to do was sleep with me. Maybe that's why I don't do well with guys... They all just want to fuck me."

"So, are you guys..." I didn't want to sound like I was asking for myself, because I really wasn't. Was I attracted to Viah? Yeah, every man was. Did I want her to be a girlfriend? No, I had my hands full already.

"No, we're just friends."

"Did you fuck him?" I asked, unable to resist.

"Once. It was awful," she answered, surprising me with her candor.

"Tell me about it."

"Tell you about what? The sex?"

"Yeah, I want to hear all the details," I said, taking another bump.

"You gonna give me another one or what?"

"Yeah, as soon as you start giving up the story, yo," I said, preparing to do another one myself if she didn't start talking.

She laughed out loud. "You wouldn't withhold on me, would you?"

"Damn right." I looked at her seriously, or tried to.

"Come on, give me some, asshole!" she said, putting her hand on my thigh.

"Where were you when it happened?"

"My room."

"Set the scene up. What were you doing before that? How did it go down?"

"We went out to a movie, Mortal Kombat of all movies. We actually left early because it was so bad. He didn't want to, of course, but I did. I insisted."

I looked at her. "No way! That's the only movie I've ever walked out of!"

"Yeah, it was that bad. Shawn loved it though. I don't know how. So we went back to the barrack and he was still pissed about the movie thing, so I fucked him out of feeling guilty, I guess."

"Did you blow him?" I asked.

She looked at me, shocked. "Oh my God. Did you really just ask me that?"

"Did you?" I repeated the question, dangling the bottle of coke from my fingers.

"That's none of your business! I can't believe you asked me that!"

"Suit yourself," I said, keying myself up another one.

"So that's how it's gonna be?" she said, eyeing the little bottle in my hand.

"Yup. No truth, no blow."

"Fine. Yes, I blew him for a minute, just to get him started... He was having difficulties with it."

"Really? Difficulties, huh?"

"Yeah, it was a first for me; not blowing him, but him not being able to get it up. I'd never had that problem before."

"He was intimidated. That's all. I guarantee it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a hottie, and you know it. Everyone's been trying to fuck you for so long; you're like the Mt. Everest of girls to fuck. That's a lot of pressure on a guy, especially some dorky, little hippie dude."

"Thanks. I guess. That was a compliment, right?"

"In a sense."

"He's not dorky."

"I don't know him. I can't argue with you."

We arrived in Raleigh and went straight to the bathrooms at the venue. I loaded my pockets with the drugs, including the acid that was wrapped in tinfoil. We found a place to stand and watch the show, and we settled in.

"You want something else?" I asked her.

"Like what?"

"I don't know... I have X, acid, shrooms..."

"I'll roll if you do," she said.

"I have a hard time keeping my hands to myself when I roll. I could just trip if you want to roll."

"Roll with me," she said, pretending to plead.

"Did you not hear me?"

"I heard you. Roll with me and do the best you can."

With that, I produced the pills, which we promptly swallowed, sipping the beers that we'd snuck in.

The show was amazing.

The band played for three and a half hours, or so it seemed, and Viah and I danced like a couple of idiots the entire time. Not that we were the only ones dancing, we weren't, but in our minds there was no one else there except us. We laughed and held each other like we'd been friends forever, occasionally taking bumps from the little bottle to keep everything moving along. We drank beers that people bought for us in exchange for tabs of acid I was handing away like candy.

First, we were hot, and I was dancing in my jeans, barefoot. Viah was dancing in her jeans and bra, which may sound risqué or provocative, but in comparison to the women dancing beside us who were entirely topless, she seemed conservative. Later in the night it started to cool down, so we put on our sweatshirts. We were pretty well dehydrated, so we switched to water and kept taking bumps. Before long, something was happening to her and me. Whether or not it was just the drugs, I don't really know, but I leaned over and kissed her, just after dark. She kissed me back. We danced and touched each other, the sensation of physicality magnified infinitely by the ecstasy.

The show was ending just after it started to rain. At first it was a pleasant sprinkle, but before too long it was a downpour. We ran for the car, along with thousands of other people, but we were so fucked up, we didn't mind. Sopping wet, Viah looked even better than she did dry, and in my altered condition, I wanted to sleep with her more than I have ever wanted to sleep with anyone.

We got to the car, dripping wet and completely exhausted from the mile and a half run through the mud.

"Holy shit, that's cold," Viah said, gasping for breath.

"No shit. I thought it'd feel good, but that's just cold."

"You bring anything to change into?" she asked me.

"Nope."

"Me either."

She started the car and turned to me. "I don't know if I should drive right now. I'm pretty fucked up."

"I hear ya. I can't drive either, if that's what you're suggesting."

"No, not at all. Want to get a room somewhere? We're both off tomorrow; we don't have to drive back tonight. We can just crash up here."

"We could," I said, my trip seemed to be intensifying.

I couldn't figure that out. I should have been coming down if anything. I was going to be rolling for another five hours, I knew, but this was different. I got that weird creeping feeling on the back of my neck, or the back of my throat... some weird spot that acid always seemed to start with. It's an unmistakable sensation, unlike any other drug. As soon as I felt it, I knew what was going on, though it took us a few minutes to really figure it out.

I wondered briefly if it was from mixing the coke and the ecstasy together, something I'd never done before, but the difference between the two drugs seemed vast enough to assume they wouldn't affect each other that way. I knew coke better than I did X, but the combination of them should have made me feel the way we did when we were dancing, not as if I was tripping on acid.

"You feel OK?" I asked her curiously.

I was starting to freak out a little, feeling something really strong coming on. I was trying to play it cool, not wanting to look like I couldn't handle my substances, especially when she was handling hers so well.

"I feel fantastic. I need a back rub or something, but other than that, I feel fucking great. You OK? You look a little pale." She noticed.

"No, I feel like I'm tripping, or starting to trip. I can't figure it out. The coke and X seemed to work perfectly well before. I didn't take anything else. I should be fine."

Her face got serious, her eyes looking at mine closely. "Where's the acid?" she asked with gravity.

"In my... oh fuck!"

I reached into my pocket to find a completely saturated sheet of acid that had fifty-seven hits remaining. As I pulled it out of my pocket, it dripped onto my pants leg.

Here's what I know about acid, which has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. All you have to do is touch it to your skin to induce a trip. Jimi Hendrix was rumored to put tabs of acid into his headband so that as he played, the sweat would saturate the drug, allowing it to seep in through his skin. Effectively, I'd just taken a fifty-seven tab dose of acid by having it in my pocket as it rained. The paper saturated, the drug was now seeping into my skin and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

"Oh shit! What do we do? You want to go to the hospital?"

"Fuck no! I need to get somewhere where I can trip without worrying about people seeing me. This is going to be bad; this is going to get crazy!"

"Let's go to a hotel. There is a Hampton Inn like two exits from here. Let's go!" she said, squeezing my hand.

She drove the M3 like the badass car that it was. We flew down the narrow roads that led to I-40, and once we were on the highway, she floored it. I looked over at one point, taking a second glance at the speedometer―147 mph. She was swerving in and out of the slow moving traffic as if it were standing still.

When we got to the hotel, she pulled under the awning in front of the place, leaving me in the car while she went in and got the room. When she had the key, she came back to the car, jumped in, and started driving around the building. "You OK, honey?"

"Yeah, it's actually not so bad."

"OK, hang on. We're on the first floor, just around the other side."

She stopped in front of the room and ran around the car to help me, but I was OK. Actually, now that I knew what I'd done, it wasn't so bad. I considered that for a second, wondering why knowing that I was on acid made me feel better than I had when I didn't know what was going on... Was it that I understood acid, that I had a familiarity with it that gave me experience to cling to even if the dosage was greater than anything I'd ever taken?

Once, I'd taken twelve drops of liquid acid, which is the equivalent to probably eighteen tabs of paper... I'd survived that trip; I'll survive this one. I remember reading somewhere that even if you were dropped in a bathtub of acid, you wouldn't die. Somewhere I'd read that even in ultrahigh doses, it wasn't fatal. Actually, I think there was something about dementia and/or brain damage, but it's not fatal. That made me feel a little better.

In the hotel room, Viah began to undress me, saying that we needed to get me into the shower and wash my leg off as soon as possible. "We need to wash off anything that hasn't already saturated the skin. Sorry, Ved, but I have to do this."

She pulled off my shirt and undid my belt buckle. She unsnapped my pants and pulled the zipper down, discovering the most incredible hard-on I'd ever produced. Even to my familiar eyes, my cock looked humongous.

A weird silence found her, and then she looked at me and said, "Whoa, wasn't expecting that."

I burst out laughing, deciding that maybe I could handle this trip after all.

She, too, laughed hysterically. "Jesus Christ! How is it that you have an entire sheet of acid running through your veins and still have the fortitude to produce that thing!" She pointed at my slightly bent appendage, and we laughed hysterically.

"I have no idea, but look at that thing! It's amazing! Take a picture of that!" I said, barely able to say the words I was laughing so hard.

Viah slapped it down, and we almost fell over from laughing so hard when it rebounded like a diving board. It was the most rigid, veiny, and disgustingly bluish my dick has ever been.

Viah turned to grab her purse, out of which she produced a camera, and took a few pictures. We were laughing so hard my stomach hurt as we found objects to place next to my erection to give it scale.

"Jesus! Are you serious?" she said, ten minutes later. The thing hadn't budged or dipped a fraction. It was still just as rigid as it had been initially.

"You need to get in the shower," she said, pulling me by the arm to the bathroom.

"All right," I agreed.

She turned the water on for me, and instantly it was hot. She slid the door open to let me climb in. I suddenly wanted to tell her to get in with me. I was tripping hard, but careful about what I said. I didn't want to upset her, or make this feel any weirder than it needed to. The truth is I was tripping so hard that I didn't even need to fuck her. I was so entertained in my own head that I was pleasantly not aggressive. If Viah didn't get in herself, I wasn't going to suggest it. It was the horniest I can recall ever being, but I had no desire to initiate sex. I wish I could say that I've always had that sort of control.

She asked me if I wanted the lights on or off, and after much contemplation, I asked her to bring the nightlight from the hallway and plug it in. We'd just been using it a few moments ago to give my erection scale.

She plugged it into the socket by the mirrored sink. The light was perfect. I sat down on the tub floor, turning the water up as hot as I could stand it, and lay my head back. The water felt magnificent. I closed my eyes and the trip really took hold. I could feel every drop of water hitting the surface of my skin. I was actually trying to count how many streams were connecting with me at once. Something magical was happening in my brain, something that comes from really rolling the dice and taking ecstasy, acid, and coke all at the same time. The dim, warm light reflected by the mirror was perfect for my condition. It was then, lying alone on the tub floor with the water pouring down on me, that for the first time in my life, I began to hallucinate.

I've taken acid hundreds of times, and only that one time have I ever hallucinated. Other than that night, I have never seen anything unreal produced by LSD. I've seen the same movies you have seen, Hollywood's impression of what LSD is supposed to be like, and I tell you, it's not that.

Acid is an incredible body high followed by uncontrollable laughter that lasts for hours and hours. Marijuana is always portrayed as the laughing drug, but, again, that's not the case. Sure, every now and again weed will give you the giggles, but more often it brings on intense concentration. It helps you to focus intensely on one thing rather than your normal state of minimal concentration on lots of things. Weed is like focusing in on something with a microscope. Everything else is left blurry, but the one thing you can see, you notice details you've never noticed before. Perhaps that's why stoners are always portrayed as dumb and oblivious when they're stoned. They're really not either, but they cannot focus on more than a few things.

Acid is the real laughing drug.

As I lay on the floor of the tub, I closed my eyes and the most important and crazy images I have ever experienced began to dance before me. I watched silently as I saw images of my life, feelings I hadn't yet experienced, places I wouldn't be for another three years... It was like being in a time machine and given a glimpse into myself that I'd never been afforded. I watched myself doing things that didn't make sense to me, fights and women that all looked unfamiliar and shrouded in clouds, but they felt so tangible.

When I opened my eyes, Viah was standing over me. The water was running down her body in streams that moved back and forth across her flawless frame. I put my mouth to her groin and drank the water that was running into my mouth. It tasted like perfume; it tasted the way her car smelled. She held my face there, running her fingers over the top of my head, a sensation that gave me goose bumps all over my body. I slid under her, sitting below her as I put my tongue deep into her. She howled, bracing herself by placing one hand on the door to the shower and the other on the wall. When her hands couldn't support her alone, she put her right leg on the lip of the tub below the door, and the left on the wall, standing spread eagle above me.

My eyes were closed as I worked my tongue beyond exhaustion, seeing what I can only describe as thoughts of the afterlife. People I knew, but couldn't name, were talking to me as I continued to go down on Viah. She screamed as I went at her relentlessly, shaking violently until she eventually couldn't hold herself up any longer. Only then did I really get back to the shower, back to the here and now. She was sliding down the wall when I understood where I was again, who I was with... She continued to slide down the wall, the plastic tub squeaking as her wet skin slid across its surface. She landed on my lap, my gigantic man-part sliding easily into her. She gasped for breath as if she'd jumped into a frozen lake.

Lying in bed sometime the next morning, still awake but fading, we talked about our relationship. Viah didn't want any part of being my girlfriend, but at the same time, she demanded that we always make time to sleep together. She wanted to know me as a man; she wanted my friendship and insight, my unique way of diagnosing issues, but not my commitment to be faithful. I had no objection to the guidelines she'd set forth, and for the rest of her time in the Sig. (despite her on again, off again relationship with Shawn Mercedes), we spent, at a minimum, one night together every month. We were extremely good friends, and I could be honest with her without feeling like she was someone I was answering to. Of course, I wasn't completely honest. I lied every time she asked me who I'd slept with recently, figuring that what I did in my life was mine and mine alone.

I woke up in my hotel room, late in the afternoon, my heart racing. I dressed in a panic and ran out the door, looking for anyone who could direct me to Ernie's. I asked a woman carrying groceries into her room (wondering why anyone staying in this dump would want to be here long enough to eat all that shit) how to get there. She pointed north and spoke in an Eastern European accent so thick that I only caught half of it.

"That way fifteen blocks, across tracks, other way twelve more blocks, see it on the hill."

It wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but I was afraid that if I didn't claim the car today, it would be melted down by dawn. I ran as fast as I could, telling myself the whole way that I needed to cut back on the cigarettes.

I crossed the railroad tracks; there were more tracks than what I was expecting. There were six sets in all, one beside the other for what was probably a distance of forty feet. As I crossed them, I saw a single, bright headlight in the distance coming my way. Apparently out here in Nevada, the train was still a primary method of transporting goods.

I turned on the first street, seeing a massive hill out in the distance before me. I ran down the street using adrenaline as fuel, suddenly terrified that my weed had been discovered. I kept going until I was running out of city. Before me, there was a flat-topped mountain that looked like a scene from a stereotypical western film. The sides of the mountain were sheer rock ledges, looking daunting and evil. Atop the mountain were beautiful and lush green grasses, or so it looked from the distance I was from it. Scattered along the base of the mountain were shiny windshields, reflecting the sunlight in all directions. It almost looked beautiful at first, like the sparkling sea from the vantage point of the sky above.

I got to the wooden fence that surrounded the front of the yard, noticing that all junkyards look equally as shitty from the road you use to access them. There was a single entrance to access the yard, with a cable used to block it off after hours lying on the ground where it'd been dropped. They were still open.

I took a breath, convinced that I was going to go into cardiac arrest, and leaned over, putting my hands on my knees. I stood there, right in the entrance, for five minutes, catching my breath. When I stood up, I saw three buildings that all looked equally unstable. One had a sign that read office. I went into that one.

On the wall behind the disgusting counter, which was gouged and stained with used motor oil, I saw a sign. It was the first thing I saw as I entered, but, then again, the word "fuck" always grabs my attention.

fuck the dog, beware of owner!

Classy.

Instead of hearing a chime when I pushed the bell on the counter, there was the sound of a big dog barking.

Clever, asshole.

Ernie was a disgusting man: overweight, balding, and wearing what I hoped wasn't originally a white tank top. He wore a Snap-on hat that was actually pretty cool (or would have been on my head anyway), overalls, and a necklace with a cross hanging from it. He'd come out of the door behind the counter that read private offices, and I assumed immediately that there were young girls bound and tied to rusty beds back there.

"Yeah?"

"Hello, sir. Are you Ernie?"

"Do I look like Ernie?"

I wasn't immediately knowledgeable about what Ernies look like... "My name is Shell Ludo. My car was towed in here last night, or early this morning... It's a maroon Honda Accord."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Oh... cool. Can I get some stuff out of it?"

"It's your car," he said, in typical asshole fashion.

"Mind telling me where it is?"

"Out in the yard. You gonna take it out of here?" he asked, tapping on the disgusting counter.

"How would I do that?"

"It's not my job to know how. Way I see it, you owe me for towing it back here. Now, I could take it out of what I'd pay ya fer it, if yer interested in sellin' it." His eyebrows rose in anticipation of my interest.

"And how much would that be?" I asked in my I-know-I'm-about-to-get-fucked voice.

"If the engine runs," he said, looking at the ceiling as if there were an abacus hanging from it, "I'd give you three hundred. But since I don't know what works on it and what don't, gotta be two."

"I see. And how much are the towing fees?"

"It's a hundred to hook and four bucks a mile to tow it."

I did some quick math, realizing that the towing fees were somewhere north of $220. "So, you're saying I owe you money?"

"Quick at math, huh?"

"Yeah, I was in honors calculus."

"So, you owe me... let's just say fifty bucks," he said, looking at me closely to see if I would agree easily or if I was going to put up a fight.

"Can I get my stuff out of it and think about it for a second?"

"Nope. That's collateral until we're all squared up. Right now, that car and everythin' in it is my property."

"I see. OK, you take a credit card?"

"Sure can," he said, stepping to the register.

I noticed he pushed "no sale" into the register rather than the fifty dollars I was now paying him. Then he pushed some buttons on a tiny credit card machine, his fat fingers pushing two at a time. It took him five minutes to get the amount right while I stood there watching, looking around the place in horror. There was nothing I could do. I had to pay the fine. I needed my shit. I had thousands of dollars' worth of pot in the trunk of that car, and I wasn't going to do anything until I had that back in my possession, and then I was going to settle up with Ernie, my way.

I got to my car after paying the fat bastard and looked around, making sure no one was watching me. When I was confident that I was alone, I opened the trunk and lifted the spare tire. My weed was still there. I grabbed the pot first and then went to secure my .45 that was still untouched under the driver's seat.

I loaded the one-pound bags into my JanSport, barely able to close the zipper. The suitcase that my clothes were in had plenty of room for the stuff that had been in my JanSport, so I tossed it in there haphazardly and closed the case. Before I left the car to Ernie, I looked at it and said, "Sorry, Dad. It really was a great car."

I knew that the car would forever separate my father and me, but what could I do? I'd let the insurance lapse on it, originally deciding to wait until I was in Washington State. Then, when my stay in Washington was cut short due to spontaneous decision making, I just thought I'd do it when I got back to Louisiana. In Louisiana, it felt too risky to drive, assuming the feds were looking for me, so I'd put it off until I knew I was actually going to be driving it... So, here I was, two thousand miles from anyone I knew, looking at my broken car and realizing I'd be paying for this thing for the rest of my life. My father would never forgive me.

It took me significantly longer to walk back to the Days Inn than it had to get to Ernie's. The journey back was made even more difficult because of the heavy suitcase I was now lugging along. There was no adrenaline left to make the task any easier, only the exhaustion that comes after massive expenditures of adrenaline.

Back at the Days, I showered after downing a handful of Percocet and Valium. Midway through the shower, I could feel my legs weakening and my mind slowing down. By the time I toweled off, I was too tired to jerk off, something I'd been adamant about doing. My head hit the pillow, and I was instantly asleep, the good kind of sleep, the kind that you wake up in the morning without recalling a single time you woke up between now and then. I knew that the next day I needed to get out of Elko, and that meant that for the very first time in my life, I was going to have to hitchhike. The idea gave me butterflies of excitement and anticipation.

I woke up at 9:47 a.m. I realized that the time meant I had only thirteen minutes until check out, so I used the few minutes I had left to do something important. I smoked an entire joint and took two "good-morning" Percocet. I threw the stuff I'd used the night before back into my suitcase and locked the key in the room.

Fuck Linda.

I headed toward the signs I'd seen for the highway, eager to see what this hitchhiking thing was all about. I had to walk through the center of town, and as I dragged my suitcase along, I looked in the windows of the shops I passed. I came upon a camping store and just had to go in. Maybe I'd find a hippie kid in there willing to trade me some gear for some pot. I could make the deal as lucrative to him as I needed to. I did have an insane amount of pot in my JanSport.

Right behind the glass display window was a teal backpack, an external frame Kelty that looked like it had at least a hundred pockets scattered about. I knew instantly that armed with that kind of storage, I could carry everything I needed, and still have room for more. I had to have it.

I went in and looked around, seeing item after item that I needed. It wasn't just that I wanted them, I needed them. I decided I didn't have the money for such things, but before I decided completely against buying anything, I asked a friendly female clerk if she'd mind watching my things while I went to the ATM to see what I had available. She didn't strike me as the pot-smoking sort, so I didn't have the balls to ask her about a trade.

She agreed readily enough, so I crossed the street without the heavy burden I'd been dragging through town. When I got to the ATM, I entered 1010 (my pin number), which was, not surprisingly, Pearl Jam's first album, twice. Ten was the album that broke them out of the small nightclubs and venues they'd been playing in. After Ten, they were a household name.

I asked the machine for a balance inquiry, and when the numbers came up before me, I thought there must have been a mistake. It said that I had $12,179.14 as my available balance. I looked through the last few transactions; some of them were a month old. They were all deposits, all made by the Army. A deposit for $10,000 had gone in four weeks ago, and three regular deposits of just less than $700 had gone in on the first and fifteenth, the way they always had. The Army had overpaid me accidentally and also had continued to pay me my salary as if I were still in Ft. Lewis. They had no idea I was even missing.

Suddenly, my situation didn't seem so dire. I smiled with amazement, quickly closing out my transaction, taking no cash out. I didn't want to have cash on me in the cars I'd be riding in. I didn't know anything about hitchhiking, but I was smart enough to know that carrying hundreds of dollars in cash on my person while jumping blindly into cars with strangers was a bad idea.

I walked back to the camping store, looking at pictures plastered to any open space on the walls of men and women alike, dangling precariously from tiny rock handholds over vast canyons of orange and gray. They looked so confident, so in control. I figured if they could do that, I could certainly hitchhike my way across the country.

Before I left that store, I'd bought everything I could think of that I might need. I bought a lightweight tent, a zero-degree sleeping bag, a water purification pump, the teal Kelty bag, a stove, propane canisters, heavy socks, a jacket, thirty carabiners, a rain suit, a few pairs of water wicking underwear, gloves, a winter hat and a baseball cap, two water bottles, pots and pans, a silverware set, a waterproof bag, a camera, some freeze-dried meals, Gatorade powder, Smith sunglasses, and a mattress pad. Additionally, I bought an Old Timer fixed blade knife that the clerk told me was probably illegal to carry concealed, a roll of nylon rope, a leg holster, a flashlight, some film, and a journal. Total cost: $2678.97. Not bad for everything I'd need to survive alone for the next month. I gave the clerk a twenty-dollar tip for explaining to me how everything worked, one piece at a time.

After that, I went to the local department store and bought Advil, deodorant, toothpaste, a Sonicare toothbrush, shampoo, soap, a loofah, Imodium A-D, Pepto-Bismol, chewable vitamins, and a T-shirt that read i lost my ass in elko, nevada. I couldn't help myself; it was just too appropriate.

At the gas station, I bought a carton of Parliament Lights, a couple of candy bars, and some Lifesavers. Then I crossed the street to the liquor store, finally deciding on a plastic bottle of Canadian Mist.

Armed and ready for whatever may come, I went behind the camping store and laid everything out on the ground, organizing my new gear. I threw away more than half of the clothes I had with me, the suitcase, and any military leftovers I'd kept for nostalgia, opting for more suitable, all-weather clothing. After jamming everything into the Kelty bag, which really did have an incredible amount of pockets, I realized there was still room for more, though the thing was pretty fucking heavy already. I put the bag on, adjusting the straps to fit just right, the way Kelly, the clerk, had showed me, and began walking toward the highway.

I'd only gone about three blocks when I came upon a musical instruments store. Not being able to pass it up, I ventured in. The first thing I saw as I entered, other than the bearded gentleman who looked a lot like Cat Stevens, was called a backpacker guitar. It was basically a stripped down version of an acoustic guitar, about a third the width, and maybe a third shorter than a full-size acoustic. It was made by Taylor, a reputable company; in fact, some might say one of the best guitar companies in the world. Nervously, I looked at the price tag.

$229.00.

I winced, knowing that this was definitely something I didn't need. I thought about the word "need" for a second, trying to justify such an expenditure to myself. Two hours ago, I'd been flat broke, trying to figure out a way to buy a bag that I needed. I didn't really have a plan for what I was going to do if the ATM said I had thirty bucks left in my account... I was winging this whole thing. There were no plans, not even any real destinations. All I had was the will to keep moving, and that was enough. However, I'd been paid a little extra money on account of an accidental deposit. Who was I to argue with fate about my windfall?

I had money now, money I hadn't earned, money that I'd certainly have to pay back. I bought the guitar and a case to carry it in.

I used carabiners to secure it to my pack, and then I was officially off for the great beyond.

It was the middle of the afternoon when I made it to the Arby's that sat just off the highway. It was the last possible stop before getting onto the on-ramp, and even at 3 p.m., the place was busy.

My plan was to hitchhike out of town by catching a ride on I-80 west. I didn't know what to tell people who would potentially stop and pick me up, other than I needed to get to California and the further they could take me, the better. I didn't have a map, or even a compass; I was going to just trust the good Americans who would stop to help an unfortunate, wayward youngster to take me the right way.

I went into the Arby's and got a roast beef sandwich. I went outside to sit on the curb and eat, looking for potential rides. I was looking in particular for the following:

Non-threatening appearances

Four door cars or vans

Couples

Folks in their sixties

Tractor-trailers

What I saw were menacing looking Hispanic males, early twenties, riding in groups of six or more, bearing mustaches and chest hair, and usually seated illegally in the beds of pickup trucks. Not exactly what I was looking for.

I finished my sandwich, but remained seated there on the curb. I recognized that I don't have the assertive personality required for easily catching a ride. Instead, my plan seemed to be waiting for someone to take pity on me and ask me if I needed a lift. This, I realized, was probably not going to happen in the near future, so I might as well get comfortable.

An hour after I finished my roast beef sandwich, a car full of young, white kids pulled into the spot next to where I was seated. The passenger, not seeing me there, tossed a cigarette out the window, which bounced off my shoulder.

"Holy shit, man! I'm so sorry. I didn't even see you there!"

"It's cool. I know you didn't."

"Ah, man, I'm a fuckin' idiot! Dude, really, I'm sorry."

Man, this guy really feels bad. "Don't sweat it, homie. It's all good."

The driver was coming around the truck while two girls and another guy were exiting out the tiny doors behind the cab.

The driver looked at me, his long ponytail just barely touching the top of his jeans. "Where you headed?"

"West."

"Just west?"

"Well, California... San Francisco area."

"Right on. You hitchhiking?" he asked, stopping in place and looking over my gear.

"Yeah, my car's at Ernie's..."

"Oh shit! You crashed it out here? Where you from?" he asked with a pleasant smile.

"Most recently, Louisiana."

"Oh, man, that blows, bro. You're a long way from home. So... now you're hitching it out of town? Sucks!"

The bigger of the two girls said, "Take the train, man."

The driver looked at her as if to silence her, but then he stopped. He turned around to face me again, thinking about what she'd just suggested. "Yeah, bro, you could definitely take the train. It runs from here straight west to Reno. From there, you're just a hop, skip, and a jump from Cali."

"Amtrak?" I asked, as if I was retarded.

"No, man! A freighter! You've got a lot better chance getting a ride out of Reno than you do from here, bro. This is the desert, man. Hitchhikers make people nervous out here."

"What's a freighter? Like a freight train?"

"Yeah, man, a freight train! They roll through here all day long, man! Just jump on! Straight to Reno!"

"Have you ever done it?" I asked, knowing that he hadn't. If he had, he would have been the one to think of the train in the first place.

"My brother has," the girl said, making eye contact with me for the first time.

"And... it really goes to Reno?"

"There's nowhere else for it to go from here," the guy said, getting back into the conversation.

"How do ya do it? I mean, where and how... like... do you get on?" I asked, already interested in this proposition.

"The trains slow down when they come into town, right behind the Albertsons."

"Where's the Albertsons?"

"It's like three miles. You know where Ernie's is? It's right across the road from there."

I remembered crossing the six sets of railroad tracks. "No shit?"

"Almost to a crawl," the girl said.

The guy looked at her sharply, as if he really didn't want her talking to me. "Just jump on. Make sure it's headed west. I've got no idea where they go if you take them east."

"Yeah, got it. Shouldn't be too hard to figure out," I said, recalling anything I knew about jumping trains.

"All right, man, good luck," he said, turning to the girl and the rest of the group that was waiting by the entrance to the restaurant.

"Hey, thanks, man," I said to the guy, deciding not to address the chick.

I stood up and lifted the heavy pack onto my back, surprised at how sore I was from the three miles I'd walked to get here. It surprised me, seeing how I'd had to do thirty-mile road marches at Ft. Bragg with a fifty-pound ruck. My shoulders were the worst, but I kept getting a weird cramp in the center of my back, also. There was a spot on the side of my neck where the shoulder straps had been rubbing that left me with a red welt that felt hot.

I started into the three miles to Albertsons, feeling sore and tired, but by the time I'd gone a mile, my pains were gone. I'd warmed up, gotten the muscles working, and widened my step. All the straps were tightened down perfectly, keeping the pack from sliding around on my back as I went. That is when you know your pack is adjusted properly: when you can run at full speed and your pack stays completely still.

Half way there, I passed a neighborhood that looked dangerous to a white guy carrying three grand worth of brand new camping gear and roughly ten grand worth of weed. After I made it out of that section of town, I stopped at a park bench and dug out the knife I'd bought.

I spent half an hour trying to situate the knife somewhere convenient, but non-threatening. It's a delicate balance between not wanting to scare people and not wanting to be scared of people either. I tried it on my waist, on my leg, in my boot, in my pocket, and tucked under my belt, but none of them worked with the pack strapped to my back. Finally, I thought of Mick Dundee, the main character from that movie...

I cut a piece of nylon string and tied a loop into the end of it. I attached that loop to my back, center belt buckle using a carabiner. I tied the other end of the string through the hole in the sheath down by where the point of the knife is. Then, I cut two more pieces of nylon that went through the belt loop of the sheath, and over my shoulders like suspenders, clipping them to belt loops in the front. The knife was now resting just below the collar of my T-shirt. The pack went upright from my shoulders, leaving that space available. Even with my pack on, I could reach behind my head and grab the handle, pulling the knife free in a second. Getting it back into the sheath wasn't nearly as easy, but one is usually not in a hurry to sheathe a knife; the emergency is usually when pulling one.

The knife itself was awesome. It had a thick, green rubber handle with finger grips cut into the front, allowing my fingers to wrap around it perfectly when squeezing it tightly. The blade was wide, made of stainless steel, and about five inches long. The tip was serrated on the back and came to a blunt point in the front. It must have been about an inch and a half wide, and two thirds of that space was devoted to the narrowing edge. It was heavier in the handle than it was in the blade, which, as Kelly the clerk had explained to me, was a major drawback to it, and, hence, the reason it was on sale. Since learning how to kung fu throw it wasn't a huge priority, I figured I'd buy it while it was on sale.

Essentially, I was wearing a pair of nylon rope suspenders that happened to have a knife strapped into the center of it. I took my T-shirt off, put the apparatus on, and then replaced my shirt. It was almost concealed, but technically the handle was exposed if you could see around my pack to notice it.

I felt much better as I walked. This was the real deal. This was me, walking alone in a town I'd never even heard of, no one to help me, and no one who even knows me. Anything could happen to me. Anyone could be the one who stops and picks me up. I'd always wanted this situation. I'd always craved this sort of freedom, and here it was, but suddenly I realized that with this sort of freedom comes the same amount of danger.

Was I really about to hop on a train? Was I really going to get on that thing, hoping that it stopped in five or six hours in Reno? I guess so. I'd sent Pablo away, or, rather, I'd let Pablo walk away, refusing to stop him simply because I wanted to enjoy my time out here, and he was eternally bringing me down. Fuck it, I can do this alone.

It took me an hour to reach the opposite side of town. I knew I was close to the junkyard when I saw the same familiar backdrop of rugged rock and soft grass. A block later, I saw them: thousands of windshields shining and mirrors glistening like tinsel on a Christmas tree. It was five o'clock now. Ernie and his crew would be locking up. That was perfect, that was just enough time to do what I needed to do.

I hid my pack in some thick brush about three blocks from Ernie's and on the other side of the road. I made sure the bags were buried under layers of dead branches and grass, camouflaged well enough that absolutely nobody would ever be able to see them. Everything I owned on the planet was in that pack. I sat, crouching and still in the bushes for a few minutes, looking out at the few buildings and houses I could see in the area, making sure no one was following me. Nothing stirred. After a while, I got up and hustled down the road to the 7-Eleven. Inside, I quickly bought a two and a half gallon gas container and a pack of cigarettes, and I prepaid a gallon of gas. I didn't want to leave my stuff in the brush for longer than necessary.

"You run outta gas?" the old man asked me when I was paying.

"Yeah, sure did. Fuckin' old Camry... Gas gauge stopped working fifty thousand miles ago... Car still runs like a top," I said, looking convincing.

He stopped looking for the barcode on the gas can and turned his attention to me, obviously lonely for conversation. "You ain't gotta buy that can. We gots a loaner you can use if ya want. Just bring 'er back when you finished."

"Thank you very much..." I looked at his name tag, "Jeb. That's very kind of you, but I gotta go home and get my other credit card anyway... live all the way over by the Arby's. I'll fill 'er up over that-a-way."

"Michiner?" he asked.

I assumed this was a street... or a town. "Yupper. Anyway, I appreciate the offer."

"Where your car at? Close ta here?"

I didn't know what to say at first. The old bastard was being a little too friendly. I thought he might offer to lock up the store and drive me back to the car himself. It was time to push him away. "Now, Jeb, I don't know you from Adam. I appreciate your concern and tryin' to help and all that, but I'd like it very much if you just rang me up and took my money. I don't mean to be rude, but I got a wife and kids waitin' on me."

"You ain't wearing a ring," he said as he scanned the cigarettes and the container.

"We have a deeper love than that, Jeb, Sheila and me. We don't need no rings to tell the world how we feel," I said, scared by how easily this dialect was coming to me.

"All right, sign here," he said, pointing to the credit card receipt. "Gas is on pump one. Don't use two; it's broke."

"Thanks, Jeb. Take care nah," I said, turning to leave.

"You got an ID?" he asked.

I stopped in my tracks, wondering why he wanted an ID. "Yeah. Why?"

"Can I take a look at it?" he asked casually.

"No, fuck no, Jeb. You can't." I walked to pump one and flipped the metal handle down, pumping as quickly as possible. I watched Jeb inside, making sure he didn't call the cops. All he did was stare at something on the counter, maybe a magazine or the newspaper. He never even looked up at me.

Why did he want my ID? What had I said that made him suspicious? I hadn't done anything wrong, yet. I hadn't committed any crimes; well, except for sleeping in the dugout... I was, however, planning to.

I got back to my bags and found them untouched. I put them on and left the gas can and two beer bottles, which I'd found on the side of the road, there in the bushes. I crossed the street and the barren field that came out in front of the Albertsons. I walked around the Albertsons and saw the same six railroad tracks I'd seen earlier, farther down the road. The tracks here were raised up higher than the big field they ran through. I wondered if it ever rained here in Nevada, but by the looks of things, I doubted that it did very often if it did at all.

The tracks were about four feet higher than the rest of the field, at least for a span of what had to be a mile. Other than that, there was little to take in. There were six huge mounds of grass growing on what looked like piles of dirt that had been brought in for construction projects years ago, and never used, that easily reached forty feet tall. There was a dirt country road that intersected those tracks just to the east of the Albertsons. The crossing caught my eye. I was looking for the right place to board the train, and being four feet below the wheels of it was a major disadvantage. The small, but long, dirt ramp had been built to raise traffic up to the level of the tracks, which meant that just to the right and left of the ramp was a steep drop off of four feet where I could potentially hide until after the conductor of the train passed. Then I would spring into action, getting onto the crossing and boarding the train. The road crossing was the only option. If it were true that many people got on the trains from this spot, the conductors would surely know. I had to be careful not to be spotted.

I liked the plan.

As I sat there taking in the details, I saw a train coming into the field. I watched it as it slowed down, blew the horn repeatedly, and slowly, but loudly, rolled through the open expanse. The train seemed to be two miles long with all sorts of different train cars attached. Seeing the variety of cars made me wonder which kind I was looking for.

Some of the cars had ladders that faced the side, and some had ladders that faced the front. Some had ladders that went over the entire car, while others had no ladders at all. There were boxcars (but few, if any, had open doors), flatbeds, half-walled cars, oil tankers... it was endless, and there was no discernible rhyme or reason to the order they were in.

I decided I'd have to watch a few more trains pass to learn as much as I could before I tried to board one. I lit a Parliament and enjoyed a smoke as I watched the train pass with fascination.

How fast was the train moving? That was difficult to judge from where I sat. It looked like it was barely moving from here, but I was probably more than half a mile from the tracks. When you really considered the process of boarding a moving train, it was far trickier than I'd have thought initially, if boarding were even possible.

Seven more trains came and went in the next hour or so, and I studied them all with fascination. I was learning more and more about trains with each one that came and went. When I was satisfied that I knew how to attempt it, I tucked my bags into the ditch I'd be hiding in as the train began to pass and ran toward Ernie's to settle up. Once again, I was terrified about leaving my belongings behind.

I made two Molotov cocktails with the beer bottles and two socks I was going to throw away because I'd already jerked off into them. In an hour, the sun would be setting. It was cooling down, but still warm in Nevada as I approached the broken down and ugly fence that surrounded the front of the junkyard.

I pushed on the fence, watching it wobble, making sure there wasn't a real dog behind it or electricity running through it. I tapped it, shook it, and walked along it, off the side of the road. No one was around.

I looked for cameras hidden in the few trees that stood sporadically in front of the yard without seeing anything. I went back across the street to where I'd set the firebombs down and watched for a while. No one was around, no one was watching, and, most importantly, no one was at Ernie's.

"All right, time to go to work," I said to no one, standing up with the Molotov cocktails and crossing the street. I was a cowboy, a renegade, a genuine badass as I went to the spot in the fence that I'd picked out as my entry point. I slipped through it easily and was standing in the yard, maybe twelve hundred feet from where my car was resting. I watched over my shoulder as I ducked behind broken down and rusted old cars, moving stealthily in its direction. When I spotted it, I thought I heard a noise somewhere in the direction of the road, so I stopped and sat again, waiting and watching. My heart was pounding a loud thumping into my ears, my vision and hearing sharpened to levels only achieved when terrified. Fifteen minutes passed, the sun was dipping lower, and I knew I needed to do this now. Getting on the train was going to be tough enough in daylight; I didn't want to have to do it in the dark.

I snuck over to my car and looked at it. I was standing beside the passenger's door, taking in the damage that had been done to it in the rollover. It looked like a dead body, lifeless and without expression. I peered into the window, thinking about my dad. The car that he had bought me out of love and pride was now dead in a graveyard under the hottest sun imaginable. It would bake here, day after day for the next hundred years, rusting and collapsing little by little while thieves came and stripped her bare.

Over my dead body.

I put my hand on the roof, feeling the texture of the creased and fractured metal. It was hot to the touch, but it was only going to get hotter.

I placed one of the cocktails in the passenger's seat, unable to get myself to throw more than one. I'd tossed a few of these over the years, always having pretty good luck with them, though you never know how well it's going to work beforehand. You have to make sure the cloth is really jammed in there tightly. If it's too loose, the barrier that keeps the gas from the flame is compromised, and it goes boom right in your hand, or, even worse, gas spills out and drips onto your back and neck as you try and throw it at the same time as the gas catches fire, transforming you into a human fireball.

I wiped the bottles down with a cloth I'd brought and checked my gloves once more. Everything was ready, except me. I kept thinking about my father, who'd loved me and trusted me enough to buy me the car, trusting I'd pay him back. Now, not only was I about to set fire to the car, I was leaving my father completely uninformed about where I was and what I'd done. I just couldn't tell him. I'd considered sending him a letter a million times, but just couldn't do it. There was nothing I could say to explain it to him, nothing I could do to make it right.

I leaned a car axle, which had been deteriorating in the tall grass for the last twenty years, against the passenger door. It stuck up three feet above the top of my Accord.

I turned and walked ten paces, lit the cloth, and threw the bottle. I hit the axle, turning the flying bottle into an enormous ball of fire. The car was instantly engulfed in flames, and a malicious cloud of pure-black smoke began to climb the sky.

I turned and ran, not ducking and bobbing like I had before, but running as fast as I could. My heart was racing, and my head was throbbing as I jumped over car parts and miscellaneous junk scattered everywhere in the yard. Just as I was about to cross back through the fence, an explosion sent a bang through the still evening. I felt it in my heart, the way you feel the bass line thumping in your chest at a rock concert.

I afforded myself one last look at the Ladybug. It was a massive fire that was quickly spreading toward the old F-150 parked beside it. Holy shit, I've started a junkyard fire!

I ran across the field, bounded across the road, and booked it behind Albertsons. I didn't stop running until I was in the field behind the store, and when I looked in the direction of Ernie's, I saw a massive black cloud of smoke rising into the sky. Terrified that I was about to burn the entire city down, I ran to my bags and skidded on the ground beside them. I reached for them, pulling a cigarette free of the pack and lighting it.

It crossed my mind that I'd forgotten the gas can in the weeds. I'd worn gloves, but Jeb would know who'd bought it. He had my credit card information. Fuck!

I lay on my back, smoking a cigarette, and looking at the darkening sky. It was just about dark now, but the moon was coming up. I looked at the moon, remembering it from Blythe, remembering when it represented endless possibilities.

"You can be anything you want to be, Shell; all you have to do is apply yourself," my mother had told me.

I saw the smoke moving on a breeze that only existed in the sky, toward the rising moon. Here on earth everything was still, everything was done... We were just waiting. Soon, the black smoke of burning fuel and tires would blot out the moon. It'd be dark in Elko tonight.

Just then, in the distance, I heard the blowing horn of a train.

6

A Candle to See

The train approached as I sat hiding in the ditch. I listened to it rumbling closer, blowing off bursts of air that sounded threatening, though I didn't dare look up at it. I sat Indian-style with my arms on my knees and my head in my arms. I was afraid that debris or dust would get in my eyes and ruin my escape. I'd never seen a movie about a blind man riding his trusty steed alongside a moving locomotive and deftly jumping from a living horse to an open boxcar, probably because the task was difficult to do, even for the seeing.

I didn't look up until I was fairly certain that the engine had passed, but it turned out there were three engines on this particular train, and when I looked up to spot the first engine, I thought that I'd seen the conductor pull his head back inside the window after having stuck it out there just for the purpose of checking my hiding spot for... well, for me. Apparently, the if-I-can't-see-you-you-can't-see-me method wasn't legit. I wasn't a hundred percent positive he'd craned his neck out to look for stowaways, but I was pretty sure I'd seen what I'd seen. I mean, it made perfect sense. If everyone really did jump aboard these trains behind the Albertsons as the trusty, ponytailed man at Arby's had assured me, it made sense that they would all have to hide in this exact spot. There was nowhere else to hide, nothing.

When the third engine had passed, I popped up with an adrenaline-fueled vigor. Adrenaline is so cool; I sometimes wish I could smoke it. I wish I could buy adrenaline from my local drug supplier/grocery store employee and sprinkle some into my well-rolled joints, inhaling the combination before lifting cars in the air, or whatever. Adrenaline seems to pick you, rather than you it. It comes out when something you can't turn on and off at will inside your brain demands it. It's cruel that like endorphins, adrenaline has this wonderful capability and is always stored within your own body somewhere, but no one has invented a way to access it. So when "adrenaline junkies" (which is perhaps the gayest name one can refer to himself as) want to access their "junk," they don spandex suits and jump off and/or out of things. There has to be a better way.

This was it: this was my moment, my chance to be a real vagabond, a stowaway. Hitchhiking seemed easy in theory, well, beyond the personal safety issue that comes to mind. The process is simple... raise your thumb, smile, and don't dress like a serial killer (meaning no trench coats, black mascara, or excessive wallet chains). Jumping a train though, that was the cowboy shit of serious runners. I wanted the club membership, the secret handshake that comes with spending time on the rails, the knowing nods from all the Kerouacs out there, smoking cigarillos and sipping tea in fancy, but comfortable, bistros and such.

The wind was whipping atop the road crossing, and specks of dirt were stinging my face as I took in the mass and speed of this moving object. Everything about this train was foreboding: the size, the weight, the fact that every single piece of it was metal... The low-pitched rumble of a train sounds to your ears the way ripped, veiny muscles look to your eyes. That noise is always, and only, made by powerful things, a low grumbling that vibrates deep within your chest somewhere, rattling bones and putting ripples in the rivers of blood that are coursing through penetrable veins. You feel very soft, very crushable when you stand beside a train. It passes you by, cold and thoughtlessly, as if you don't exist.

I stood there, like an observer, watching the cars pass, realizing that standing beside a train with the notion of trying to board it is far different than being cavalier from a half a mile away, smoking cigarettes and "learning" all I needed to know. Fuck that, I didn't know anything until I was standing two feet from the flowing river of metal and sharp edges.

I wondered briefly what the conductor would do if he did know I was trying to board. Would he stop the train? Would he speed up? Should I wait for the next train and try to find a better place to hide, affording me the advantage of invisibility? I looked around the field, confirming what I already knew: there was nowhere else to hide, this was it... this was my chance.

As I looked at the train passing, trying to remember why I'd thought this was a good idea, I recalled the raging fire that I'd started about two miles from here. How long do arsonists go to prison for? Was that something punishable with a life sentence? Would they think that I had been a freaky kid who used magnifying glasses to cook ants and ladybugs for hours and hours, getting some sort of sexual arousal from it? Would they think that I'd befriended fire, giving it female names and filling spiral notebooks with dark images of children burning?

Oh fuck, I need to get out of here!

The cops would do a quick sweep of the area and find the gas can. They'd ask the new detective on the force to figure out who sold this can, as he wasn't trained well enough to do any of the real work. That eager bastard would be out to prove his competence to the team of ancient detectives who still called him "Sparky" and "Sport," and it wouldn't take long for him to interview Jeb, unlocking the secret hours I'd spent in the vicinity of the fire before my Molotov cocktails ignited the Junkyard Fire of '97.

Sparky would tell the lead detective about his stellar detective work, recapping all the clues and reasons his intuition led him where it did. The lead detective, Charlie, we'll call him, would stroke his massive Magnum P.I. mustache while he made sense of the chaos. He'd say, "Good work, son" to Sparky, who'd think that was progress from the other names he'd been referred to of late, and with this new encouragement, Sparky would really put it to old Jeb hard in the interrogation room.

There'd be a steel table, with a few names etched into the surface, situated in the middle of a cold and barren room. Of course, the one-way mirror would take up the majority of one wall, behind which more mustached men would be watching as "the new guy" went to work on the helpless Jeb, whose crime was simply selling me a container and gasoline.

"You wanna go down for this, Jeb? Huh? You wanna get ass-raped for the next twenty years? Huh?"

"No! I didn't do anything! I don't know the guy!" Jeb would cry, tears welling up in his eyes.

"You better tell me what you do know, or, goddamnit, I'll send you away for being an accomplice!" Sparky would scream, hoping to impress the others.

Jeb would fold, giving them an accurate description of me, probably mentioning my dashing good looks, polite manner, and amazing vocabulary. Artists would be brought to the station via helicopter and sketches would quickly be drawn. It'd look like me, but probably be a little off, making me look like I have a lazy eye or something. It'd be in the papers, and women all over the state would say, "Oooh... he's creepy looking." Once I got caught, they'd lead me out of a building somewhere, facing off against millions of reporters eager to get the story. Though I'd duck my head, the way they teach you in... wherever they are always taking these guys out of with their heads down, some lucky photographer would get a shot of my handsome face, bringing more gasps of surprise to the housewives that'd called me creepy not so long ago. Women would admit to their friends that they think I'm cute, giving boring housewives something to feel like bad girls about...

When they find out I'm jumping a train to escape town, they'll dub me the Butch Cassidy Arsonist, or, better yet, the Sundance Fire Starter...

Charlie would say, "Get me Reno PD on the horn, kid."

"Yessir," the kid says frantically, running back to his Chevy Caprice and talking in code to the operator.

"Sir, I have Reno on the CB."

"Patch me through."

With that, Elko would inform Reno about my ride out of town. There'd be a sting operation in place in Reno when I got there. There'd be helicopters, and government agents on tiny wires...

No matter where that fucking train was headed, I wasn't gonna get off in Reno.

So, if I wasn't going to get off in Reno, where was I going to get off? How would I know if I was in Reno, Los Angeles, or downtown Cincinnati? It didn't matter where I ended up; those were problems I could solve. What I couldn't afford was to be apprehended in Reno. I needed to disappear and I decided right then and there that I'd ride the train until it stopped at its final destination.

I shouldered my Kelty bag with a grunt and the realization that the thing seemed to be getting heavier each time I put it on. I struggled to tighten the straps, panicking and suddenly realizing the fire wasn't a small incident. They would definitely investigate this; they would want to catch the arsonist. I jumped and twisted, trying to pull the slack out of the straps and cinch the bag tight. When it was as snug as it was ever going to be, I turned and faced the train.

This was when I really began to wonder how I was supposed to do this. The train was moving, in my estimation, fifteen miles per hour. That might not sound fast to you, but when you are standing there looking at it passing you by in squared-off hunks of iron, it's a different sensation altogether. The train puts off a seriously bad vibe, something about it gives you the impression that you don't get second chances here.

Fall through a crack―die.

Touch the track with some loose limb or digit―lose it.

Suddenly, in the light of the moon, I saw the end of the train coming. I don't know if I thought it was endless, but for some reason, seeing the last car rapidly approaching was unnerving. Now, rather than just having to get on the train, I needed to get on the train before that final car reached me.

Panicking, I darted back and forth in some half-assed attempt to try and board, but before those futile actions could produce any real results, the last car rattled by.

The noise of the train was fading off in a rhythmic clack-clack-clack sound that was dissipating into the night. The breeze from the train stopped blowing, and there I was, standing in the middle of the railroad crossing, wondering what happened. There was a pickup truck facing me from the other side of the tracks. I hadn't noticed him there; then again, I was a little busy missing my train. Disappointment washed over me as I stared at my boots, trying to hold my emotions together and look innocent to whoever was driving the truck. I'm not sure why looking at my boots made me feel like I looked innocent. It was pretty obvious what I was doing there. It was even obvious that I'd failed at what I was trying to do.

The pickup approached slowly, as if the driver felt bad for me. I didn't look at him immediately. I just kept staring at my boots as if I was waiting for a pay phone to ring, though the truth is I was trying not to break down.

"Want some advice, fella?" an old man's voice asked me.

I turned to see him hunched over in his seat, looking out the window at me. "Sure."

"Take your bag off. Throw it on before you get on, separate. You can't do both―carry a bag and get on a moving train."

Lying about my purpose seemed pointless. "Right. That makes sense."

"Oh, and watch your feet. Them wheels will cut 'em clean off."

"Thanks."

"Careful, youngster. Gettin' on a movin' train ain't near as easy as gettin' on a stopped 'en. Trust me," he said with a sly smile before slowly accelerating, as if he was doing me the courtesy of not kicking up clouds of dust.

"Thank you, sir," I said, but he couldn't hear me.

And so, there I was, standing in the dark, the night completely silent except for the sound of sirens in the distance. Just when the old guy was making me feel better, the sound of the sirens was a warning, reigniting my need to get the fuck out of Dodge.

"I don't care if the next train is an Amtrak, I'm getting on it," I said, promising myself.

I crawled back into the ditch and took my position. I lit a Parliament and smoked it as if it were my last one, tasting the smoke, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly.

I thought about my mother―where she was, what she was doing. I imagined her on any other Wednesday night, there at the camp, cooking dinner. She probably had people over; she usually did. These people would inevitably ask how and what I was doing, and I wondered if my mother would lie to them, skirting the issue rather than tackling the embarrassing truth with strangers, over and over again. I didn't want to think about her lying or the fact that it was my selfish decisions that were putting her into this predicament. I wondered if she ever thought about me, if she ever wondered where I was, what I was doing, or was this like so much of my life, somewhere outside of her curiosity where what she doesn't know doesn't hurt her? Part of me wanted her to miss me, while other parts of me wished she'd just forget I existed. Tonight though, as I smoked my cigarette in the darkness, I just wanted to think about her.

I thought about what I would tell her about tonight's activities. I knew in my head that if I could actually manage to get on a train, I would retell the story for the rest of my life. I recognized it as one of those things that people always talk about doing, but never do. I knew that riding the rails was a thing of poetic beauty. I needed to get on the next train to escape the crime scene, but I think it was equally important to me to get on that train for what it represented. I wanted to own the story; I wanted to tell it by campfires, drinking beers with friends I hadn't met yet, relishing in the details, laughing at my folly, for the rest of my life.

It didn't matter that I missed the first train. That was good for storytelling. What mattered was that I get on the next one, solidifying my position in the world of the truly "free," and so that when I told the stories, I wasn't doing so in the rec room at the nearest state prison.

I was dreaming of this campfire scene in the future, somewhere by a lake, bikini-clad hotties doting on my every word, screaming out "Oh no!" and "That's the funniest thing I've ever heard," as I continued on with my daring tale. I'd talk about the gunfight in Tomball, Pablo rolling my car... Oh yes, I'd tell all my stories. They were all mine, until I became a pussy, until I cried that I wanted to go home, begging Mommy to send me a bus ticket. Anything that happened was mine, and I was eager to collect as many of them as I could. I'd been living my whole life wanting these moments, these adventures, and now that they were here, I knew that I had to be careful to recognize them for what they were. If I got sloppy, they'd just appear as bad luck. Bad luck today means wonderful tales tomorrow... That's what I had to keep in mind, no matter how bad it got. This adventure was about hope, not hopelessness. Waiting for a state trooper to pull in behind me, broken down on the side of the road with fifty pounds of pot in the trunk, clutching the gun, writing my last letter to my mom... that was hopelessness. No, this was different. This was me against the world. This was catch-me-if-you-can, motherfuckers... This was my deepest wish happening to me. This is what I'd always dreamed of doing, living without any oppressive rules. Out here I could reinvent anytime I wanted; out here I could be anyone I wanted to be.

I went back to my dreams of cozy campfires with beautiful and amazed women. The hotter of the twin sisters, the one in the really tiny bikini, was walking over to me, reaching back to untie that tiny top piece, whispering, "You are so brave, Ved," when suddenly, I saw the shadows from the trees and large dirt hills bouncing around sporadically.

I knew before I could hear it that the only thing with a light bright enough to make shadows shake and bounce like that was the headlight of a train. I turned to face it, squinting into the bright light, hoping to see a freighter... sure enough, it was.

I steadied myself in the ditch, wrapping the strap of my bag around my hand, over and over, trying to make sure that no matter what, it wasn't going to slip. This time I wasn't putting it on. This time I was throwing it on as I jumped in with it.

Thanks, old man.

As the rumble of the train got so loud I couldn't believe it hadn't passed me yet, I decided I was going to sit tight and look at the conductor to see for sure whether he knew I was hiding there or not. Finally, the head of the train passed me, and as it did, I looked in the window of the front engine. Sure enough, a man in a baseball cap and a T-shirt looked directly at me, and waved.

I waved back, wanting to be polite, before I realized how retarded that was to do.

I thought that the conductor looked like a cable guy, or maybe an electrician, but not the train conductors I'd always seen in movies and storybooks from when I was a kid. It's not that I was disappointed in his appearance, it's just that he wasn't exactly what I was expecting. I wanted the lore to continue. I wanted something to remain the same, but everything was changing, including the required uniform for railroad conductors. Were overalls and a conductor's hat too much to ask for?

I remembered a summer working construction with my dad, building a massive deck for some good friends of his. We spent a month baking in the sun. Me, with a ratchet in my hand, running four inch lag bolts into pressure-treated lumber day in and day out. The woman we were building the deck for was a teacher at the same school my dad taught at, and they'd always been good friends. Her husband was a train conductor. I think he drove Amtrak-style trains, with people on board, but I'm not certain. Anyway, he was a really cool guy, and what I liked most about him was that everyone thought he was crazy because he talked a lot about seeing UFOs in the empty expanses that only trains cross. It's not that he occasionally talked about these sightings, he always talked about them. He talked about them the way teachers talked about the asshole parents of the kids in their class; it was just a daily part of their job.

Being that I was completely convinced in the existence of UFOs after having seen one for myself, I was thrilled with Joe for talking about them so candidly, even though people always made fun of him behind his back for it. He'd tell stories about what they looked like, how many other people had seen them as well, as if he was talking about a game of golf. Being that I'd seen mine at night and hadn't been able to see the body of the craft, I was always asking him questions, much to my father's and his wife's chagrin.

Now that I think about it, I don't recall ever having seen Joe in pinstriped conductor's overalls...

I decided that I was both concerned and relieved that the conductor had seen me. On one hand, I didn't want him to look for me or call the cops and tell them that he had a potential stowaway who'd snuck on board, yet, at the same time, if I ended up wounded and bleeding to death, it was nice to know that he was at least aware of my existence. I guessed that if he was looking for me, waiting to see if I was sitting here, he must be fairly used to having people board from here.

I didn't even wait for the lead engine to pass all the way; I stood up and climbed out of the ditch. Though they were completely different trains, the one that was passing me now looked exactly the same as the last. It was a mix of different style cars, each of them beautifully and creatively spray painted by hoodlums in logos and lettering that really were something beautiful. The thing the cars did have in common was that they looked like they were made from the hardest metal on earth. I was emboldened by the conductor's wave, which may have very well been a "Yeah, I see you, asshole, and now the cops know you're here too" wave, but I didn't care. I was getting on this train, come hell or high water.

I stood beside the moving behemoth, realizing for the first time that it was trucking along faster than the first one. I guessed it was doing twenty miles per hour or better, and that difference of five or six miles per hour mattered more than it seems like it might. Now, I wasn't only worried about getting onto the train, I was worried about doing so without maiming myself in the process. Nervously, I scanned the cars that were rapidly moving toward me, finally seeing something that inspired optimism... a boxcar with the door facing me, wide open. This was it; this was my ride out of here.

I stepped to the edge of the road, the edge on the side that the cars were approaching from. My plan was to run the short distance of the width of the road, trying to run at the same pace of the train, hoping that I could simply jump into the boxcar. I prepared myself, holding my massive bag above my right shoulder. I was going to throw it into the car ahead of me and then deftly jump in. Well, that was the plan anyway.

I'm not sure exactly how fast human beings can run. I suppose I could Google it and dazzle you with all of the information and statistics I've gathered, but I promised myself when I took on this venture not to do any research at all. I can just tell you that I am not capable of running twenty miles an hour with a sixty-pound bag held above my head. This I know because when my boxcar approached, I barely had time to throw my bag into it, which I managed, and then I stood there like an idiot as my bag continued on with the train. Now I was in a pretty serious predicament. My bag had made it on, along with everything I needed to survive. The problem I was having, as I almost threw up from sheer panic, was that I was not.

Adrenaline, or something like it, took over, and suddenly I knew I needed to get on, now. I ran back to the other side of the crossing and scanned the oncoming cars. The only thing I could see coming was a series of black tanker cars. I didn't want to have to get on a tanker, but I was incapable of seeing any farther down the tracks than them, and if they were the last of the train, it was better to get on there than nowhere. On the bright side, they did have ladders hanging off on my side, ladders that had five rungs, the lowest one about level with my nipples.

OK, this will work.

The first of the seven tankers approached, and I paced it, trying unsuccessfully to make myself latch onto the ladder. I couldn't do it, the act being much more intimidating than it sounds. I stopped and started to head back to my starting line when the second tanker came onto the crossing. Without even really thinking too much about it, I jumped and grabbed the third rung.

The force of the train's direction of travel, and my body being turned away from it, felt like it was going to rip my arms out of socket. The violence of the arching motion it swung me into was terrifying. The electric-like pain in my shoulders was quickly put in check when the edge of the ladder cut me from below my belly button to the tip of my nipple. As I swung, the edge of the ladder had been like a razorblade.

Feeling the shock of the laceration, I released my right hand. I dangled by my left, which wasn't strong enough to hold me, and I began to fall. My foot touched the track, and then, instantly, I felt a pressure in my foot.

Reflexively, I lurched up with my right arm, only able to reach the second rung this time. I held on for my life, fearing my foot having been cut off entirely. Suddenly, energized with adrenaline, I climbed the ladder with my arms, fearing now that my toes were removed and that my intestines were about to spill out of my abdomen like a bowl of spaghetti. I climbed the ladder and looked at my foot. Like a rolling razorblade, the wheel of the train car had sliced the tip of my boot and even part of my sock off, but my foot was OK. I sighed to myself while I fingered my stomach, feeling the wetness through my T-shirt. That scared me.

With my feet now on the ladder, and a cool breeze blowing through my left boot, I lifted my shirt to check the damages. If it was bad, I would jump off the ladder backwards. At least in Elko, I could get medical attention, even if it was in the infirmary at the prison.

What I saw looked worse than what I was expecting. The blood was everywhere, running in globs down my belly. Only when I pushed my fingers into the wound to feel the depth of it, did I relax. It was superficial. The worst of it was at the belly, the place where the ladder had first grabbed me. It thinned out a little about midway and then got pretty deep again at the breast. It was scary to see myself wounded, and the close call of losing my fucking foot was coming back to me.

I was beginning to rethink the decision to do this. I was really trying to figure out how I'd fucked this up when I heard a dinging noise. The noise brought me back to Elko, back to being on the ladder of a train as it rolled through the city. I'd jumped on at the east side of the city, and since it was a westbound train, this meant I was riding through town. When I looked over my shoulder to see what all the dinging was about, I saw three lanes of traffic stopped at a railroad crossing, in what appeared to be a major crossing. Sure as shit, the middle car was black and white with red and blue lights on top. By the time I saw him, it was too late to do anything. There really wasn't anywhere to hide, other than on the platform between the cars.

As I passed through the intersection, I turned back to face the train, hanging on and pretending I was invisible. It must not have worked though because even over the ruckus of the train cars clicking over the sections of track, I heard the blurp of his siren and saw the multi-colored lights reflecting off of the black train car.

I'm not sure what the cop was expecting me to do, but I wasn't about to jump off and turn myself in. I really thought that he'd do nothing as there was a large open expanse of grass on the other side of the crossing. It looked like maybe once there had been a big factory building there, but all that was left were the concrete chunks and decaying skeleton of some sort of structure that was long abandoned. The grass growing through the cracks of the broken pavement was three or four feet tall in a lot that probably encompassed ten acres. On the other side of the dead building was another crossing, and I could see that more cars were waiting at that one also.

Fuck.

When I turned back around to check on the cop, you can imagine my surprise at seeing him right behind me, lights flashing, driving over unspeakably rough looking pieces of metal and concrete as he pursued me and the massive train I was riding on. I realized he was saying something over the loudspeaker in his car, but what he was saying, I didn't really know. Being gifted, I intuited that it was something along the lines of "Get your ass off the train, you fucking arsonist," which was even more reason to stay on.

Finally, the train passed the last stretch of the factory graveyard where a three-foot stone wall prevented the policeman from going any farther. As I crossed the next massive, traffic-filled intersection, the last thing I saw of him was his door opening, and the cop jumping out to stand beside his car, yelling something into his CB. Fortunately for me, the train was in the process of making a long left turn, keeping the conductor's side mirror from being able to see the lights from the cop's car. The train just kept on rolling.

After two more crossings, I decided it was time to relocate. I climbed the ladder and jumped over the small fence, landing on the platform at the back of the car. It was about six feet wide and gave me about four feet of length to stretch out on. The platform was like a metal screen with tiny diamond shaped holes beneath me. I could see the tracks below and was amazed at the idea that these things were essentially rolling on smooth metal rails.

I noticed that it was getting darker outside.

We were out of Elko, headed into the open desert.

The train didn't waste any time gaining speed, and within three minutes of leaving the city behind, we were doing sixty miles an hour. Suddenly, another problem came to the forefront of my mind. It was getting cold.

Somehow, in the hours I'd spent preparing for this event, I'd neglected to consider what would happen if I actually did get on the train. It'd been so hot in town that temperature considerations hadn't dawned on me. Now that I was on board, bleeding and without the tip of my boot, or even, more importantly, my bag, I began to get scared. The desert is so hot during the day that it seemed impossible it could get so cold at night. It wasn't that cold yet, maybe fifty degrees, but with a sixty mile an hour breeze, it already felt arctic.

The reality of my situation was bleak. As I considered the cold that was sure to get much, much worse, I also considered a few other things. Water and food were unavailable to me, and if this train went for two days non-stop, I could die on this thing. There was no guarantee that the train was going to stop anytime soon. It could roll right through Reno, using bridges instead of having to slow down for city crossings to speeds where I could potentially jump. At this pace, jumping was not a possibility.

The platform I was sitting on was about five feet above the tracks, and the tracks themselves were elevated off of the desert floor four feet or so, making a jump from the iron fence that enclosed the platform about nine feet. The large stones scattered along the tracks would be the deathblow for any would-be jumper. At sixty miles an hour, the large rocks would work like extra-large grit sandpaper. They would tear me apart. I knew immediately that given the options, freezing to death would be a much better method of dying than jumping. Suddenly, freezing to death seemed like a very reasonable expectation.

Well, Ved, here you are...

As far as my bags went, there were some factors to consider there too. What if the doors were open on the other side of the boxcar, and instead of throwing my bag into the car, I'd thrown it in one side and out the other? I hadn't even checked to see if the other side was closed or wide open. I threw it hard, plenty hard enough for it to have slid right across the floor and out the other door, meaning it could potentially be right where the old man had been parked waiting when the first train passed. This idea terrified me. Everything I needed to survive was in that bag. Everything that I had in this world, including my wallet, my pot, and my pills were in that fucking bag, and it terrified me to think that it all could be sitting right there where I'd started from.

Or, what if it had made it into the train car, but the car wasn't empty? What if, like me, some asshole was stowing away in there already? He would certainly go through the bag, discovering the weed, the gun, the wallet... everything. Not only would he have all my shit, he'd have my gun, and if I could ever get to that car, what's to keep him from shooting me in the face with it?

I'd really fucked this up.

I sat on the platform with my back against another ladder that went up and over the tanker, watching the train expand as it gained momentum. I'd never realized that before. A train moving at sixty miles an hour in the open country is longer than one slowing down. The arms, or connection points between cars, flex and expand probably two or three feet as the train pulls away. The platform on the identical car across the gap from me was now six feet from my own, whereas when we were in town, it'd only been maybe three. I thought it was fascinating, or maybe I just thought that thinking about the expansion was more appealing than thinking about dying, which was a thought that kept making its way back into my mind.

About twenty minutes after we'd reached full speed, I wanted to write my mom a letter. The problem was, of course, I didn't have anything to write on or with. I'd been through the options in my head and had come up with absolutely nothing as a saving grace. There was nothing to do but huddle myself up under my bloody T-shirt and wait for the numbness to rescue me from the violent shaking that'd just started. It didn't hurt; it was more of a nervous reaction from thinking about this being my final resting spot. God only knows where they would discover me. Some poor railroad worker would be walking along the parked cars and find me, blue and stiff, resting between solid steel and iron train cars.

"Sorry, buddy," he'd say to my corpse.

I remembered Krakauer's description of what it's like to freeze to death and prepared myself for an overwhelming sleepiness that would be the catalyst, taking me from the present into the afterlife. As long as I could stay awake, I could survive. As soon as I fell asleep, it was over. There was no getting around it; it was just a matter of time. Damn, I really wished I had some paper.

Why was it that the only time I could find the right words for my mother was when I thought I was going to die? I'd reread the Hardee's bag a number of times since that day I'd written her goodbye on the side of I-10, wishing I could write like that on any given day. I couldn't. Only in times like this, when the end is staring me in the face, can I find mirrored words for my thoughts. Maybe it was just the desire to say goodbye. Unlike Jacob's silent tragedy, leaving us with a corpse and absolutely no resolution whatsoever, I wanted my sweet mother to have closure; I wanted her to know that I loved her, even if I seemed so different. I didn't want to hurt her with the reality of my life, and maybe that's why I could only find the words hiding behind tears, never under clear blue skies and optimism.

I wasn't going to cry; I wasn't going to weep as I died. I just wanted to look at the desert passing by. Had I been able to design my own demise, this might have made the top ten list if I'd had the imagination to think of something like this. All that time I'd thought about jumping a train, freezing to death onboard never even crossed my mind. I was almost embarrassed by the reality of this; though, who was there to be embarrassed for? No one saw me, no one knew where I was, and the chances were great that even if they found me, they might not be able to identify me. My ID was in my bag, and only if they put two and two together would they even find an ID to put a name to my face. Wow...

I was coming to terms with my fate when I heard a voice in my head. The beginnings of hypothermia, my brain was pulling tricks on me, though it was so fucking realistic. I was surprised that it sounded so real, but, then again, I'd read stories of people freezing to death who rip off all their clothes to lay down naked in the snow because they "feel like they are burning up." The mind is a dangerous foe when it turns against you. It's like an enemy inside of you, taking control of your body, and you, as a soul or a life force of some sort, are left to watch it like a spectator at a monster truck show...

My head shot up. I looked around, wondering which of my dead friends had come to usher me into heaven, or, more likely, darkness. I didn't see anyone, which was definitely a relief. It had been a while since some grisly dead person had come to talk to me, and it crossed my mind that I'd been laying off the hallucinogenic drugs lately too. I wondered, for the first time, if the two had something to do with each other. When I had seen the last of them, I'd been pleasantly stoned, and their visit didn't seem so... traumatizing. In my final moments on earth, I thought that the bushes and other durable things that grew in this part of the country would be pleasant enough company. There were miles of these green plants, stretching out as far as I could see as the train made time through nowhere. What a lonely place. What a wonderfully lonely place to ascend from as a dead soul.

"Are you just gonna wait until you freeze to death?" the voice asked again.

Disturbed deeply by the casualness of the voice, I looked up again. Nothing. I really wished I was in control of my malfunctioning brain so I could tell it to ignore the voice, but it was sounding more and more real.

"Up here, asshole," the voice said.

I looked toward heaven, expecting Michael or Gabriel to be descending toward me, arms spread wide in a loving gesture, whispering that I should not fear, their white wings massive and brilliant, shining with the light of God. I guess I was going to need to talk to the angels about their language. Some folks, especially the dying, might find "asshole" to be offensive or aggressive. Did the Big Man really approve of such words? Were people walking around in heaven swearing, free of the stigma attached to such words here on earth?

It felt like it was just me and the train and the endless miles of absolutely no one.

"Ved! Up here. Jesus!" the voice called again.

I leaned my head back further, looking not just up, but up and back. A face appeared, minus the wings and light of God, just the face of Pablo Escobar poking over the top of the train.

"What the―"

"Come on! Aren't you freezing?"

"How... Why are you..." I was trying to ask Pablo, but the wind was whipping in chunky bursts, making a flap-flap-flap noise against my ear drums. I couldn't even hear myself, so I knew that Pablo couldn't hear me.

I spun around and grabbed the ladder, standing upright and stretching for the first time in half an hour. A popping and tearing feeling came from my belly wound. The blood had begun to dry in the wind. Scabs were forming that were now open again, and warm blood turned to cold blood as it dripped from the gash.

"Ugh," I screamed out, wincing from the pain.

"You all right?" he screamed down to me, seeing my facial expression.

I didn't answer, I just climbed, flexing my stomach muscles in order to keep them as still as possible. When I got to the top of the ladder, I saw a metal walkway that crossed the entire top of the tanker. There were no hand rails to hold onto, just a walkway made of the same screen-like metal I'd been sitting on. It was then that I realized that we were no more than three hundred feet from the highway. We were moving the exact same speed as a pack of cars that had spotted Pablo coming to find me, evident by the fact that they were in the fast lane, watching out the window, while cars that didn't see us passed them on the right. They were honking and flashing their lights at us, in what I hoped was applause, but thought was more likely just surprise or dismay.

I turned my attention back to Pablo, who was about six feet down the length of the walkway, squatting down with his hands on the platform as he took baby steps toward the end of the train car. He was moving carefully, but steadily, across what was essentially a narrow bridge. One misstep, or sudden slowdown of the train, and he was a goner. There was no hope of survival from a fall of that magnitude. I really had some misgivings about joining him up there, especially with the traffic on the highway flashing their lights at us; people were even rolling down their windows and yelling things to us, though it was virtually impossible to hear a single syllable. The only other option I had was to crawl back down onto that platform and freeze to death. As soon as I realized those were my only options, there was nothing left to do but climb.

I stepped up onto the platform and steadied myself, the way I'd seen Pablo doing. Up until that point, I hadn't even had the time to wonder where he'd come from, but now that I considered it, where did he come from? How had Pablo ended up on my train and know exactly where I was on it? The only answer was that he'd been following me, watching me trying to board both trains, finally getting on the second with marginal success and tacky form.

I could ask him about all that later. One thing at a time.

On the platform, I wrapped my hands around the bottom of the walkway and pulled down, keeping tension on my bent knees. This, of course, pushed the torn scabs in the other direction, and, again, I felt the cracking and tearing of newly formed scabs on my stomach. Goddamnit.

As I moved awkwardly toward the end of the car, I noticed a problem at the midpoint of the train. The walkway that spanned the train had a gap in the middle where the cap to the huge tank was found. It looked like a manhole cover―big, round, and heavy―and for the distance of a foot in both directions, the walkway stopped. Essentially, I had a three-foot gap I needed to cross while speeding sixty plus miles an hour in the opposite direction with a shit-ton of cars watching my every move. My shirt was climbing up my back, trying to come right off my head the way you see the wind blow up motorcyclist's shirts. I was afraid that the shirt would blind me in that last crucial second as I did whatever I had to do to cross the gap.

What did I have to do? I didn't see Pablo cross it, though I could see him on the other side of it, meaning somehow he had. There weren't many ways available to me, so I took the one that seemed the easiest. I ran two steps and jumped over it.

When I landed, I stumbled forward and fell face first into the walkway in sort of a controlled way. Jumping from airplanes in the Army had taught me the value in using a good fall to help stabilize a controlled landing, and it seemed just as applicable on the back of a train car ripping through the desert. The pain from the sticky wound opening, closing, and opening again was starting to intensify each time it happened, and I needed to really find a way to sit still for a while at some point in the near future, but not yet.

The train went into an unexpected right turn, shifting my weight to the left, and suddenly I could feel my legs, which were behind me as I lay on my stomach, slipping off the walkway. They flopped off of the raised walkway and landed on the body of the tank with a thunk and continued slipping around until I was perpendicular to the walkway. When my belly slid across the tank, which was painted black with some sort of thick powder coating, it took my breath away, but beyond the initial searing pain, I didn't have time to dwell on it.

Some internal strength that we possess, but don't know about, took over the muscles in my hands. This wasn't like the event of getting onto the train; this was seriously life or death. There was no middle ground between the here and now and the afterlife. If I couldn't hold on, I was as good as dead. My right hand buckled down onto the edge of the walkway and tightened, and I tell you now, a band of wild horses couldn't have torn it loose. I hung there for a second, feeling the sensation of it all, lost between survival and death, between the will to live and the will to die.

The most unusual thing happened to me then: as my left hand scrambled to get a grip of its own, I smiled. The train car was rounded obviously, but it wasn't a severe pitch. Really, my right hand wasn't bearing all that much weight. It was pitched just enough that without my hand there I would have fallen, but with my hand in place, I wasn't too worried about slipping. After the initial grasping of the walkway, it felt secure. The texture of the paint was also a factor, giving my body a sticky feeling, like Velcro, but obviously not nearly as strong.

I looked over to see what the traffic was thinking now, imagining them watching me with sheer terror stretched across their faces. This was one of those things that these people were going to remember for the rest of their lives. I thought some of them might be wishing they were me, that they were living on the edge of life, that whoever I was, I was at least free. Each man would look at his wife, remembering himself as a strong, young man once upon a time, and wonder how she'd managed to break him into a fat, domesticated adult, leaving the roaring buck in the past. Their kids would be screaming and singing Barney songs with Cheerios and baby toys scattered all over the back seat... Those men deserved a little showmanship, and I was feeling somewhat invincible by this point. I'd survived many things so far, and maybe I was immortal after all.

The thought made me smile. I was going to give them one hell of a show.

With two hands on the walkway, I flailed my legs a little and released my left. That caused me swing to the right a little, which I did with real panache. For theatrical reasons, I swung my left arm in arching circles, the way people do when they are on the verge of losing their balance. Of course, I put on the appropriate facial expression, embellishing the O in my lips, figuring that was the only one that was going to translate from three hundred feet away.

I rolled over onto my back, eager to give my stomach a break, and secured myself to the train with only my right hand. I looked at the traffic, flashing the O again along with pleading eyes and rolled back onto my stomach. It was supposed to look like my body weight was too much to overcome with one hand, and that the weight was so low that my arm was spinning me around like a pendulum, but the truth was anything but that. It was work to turn onto my back, and back onto my stomach, because there was so little weight on my torso. Finally, I grew tired of my game, thinking that by now no one would be buying the twisting and turning and arm flailing...

The cars were all going the exact same speed as the train, huddled together. They weren't passing one another; they were driving as a pack, their vehicles swerving and weaving a little as the drivers tried to watch me and the road at the same time.

In typical action-sequence fashion, I lurched out with my left hand, grabbed the platform, and released my right. Unable to think of any new moves for the crowd, I repeated my prior performance. When I felt my arms seriously starting to get tired, I pulled myself easily back onto the platform. I stood my full height and ran the rest of the distance, feeling as if I'd been running across train tops my whole life.

At the end, I looked down to see Pablo waiting for me on the platform below. Had I really been in danger, he wouldn't have even noticed. I grabbed the top of the ladder and jumped, swinging myself around and landing with my feet on the rungs. Wow. I was really loosening up about the whole "death from falling off the train" thing. Now on the platform, still unable to really talk because of the noise and wind, Pablo held up a finger as if to say, "OK, watch how I do this," and then he jumped over the fence that enclosed the platform, landing with his feet on the huge metal arms that connected the train cars to each other. They were maybe a foot wide, a foot thick, and three feet in length. In the center, at the connection point three feet from where we were standing, was an ugly mass of metal things and hydraulic hoses that came together. It looked like Medusa's head, with hoses and wiring and all kinds of shit coming together with clamps and connections... It was a total of maybe six feet from one platform to the other, and the idea was that we had to walk the beam, straddle the massive connection point in the center, and walk the other beam to safety, all while standing between two moving train cars, the track about three feet below us.

In the movies, this appears much easier than it is in real life, though they tend to make the running across the train tops the hold-your-breath and grab-your-balls scene. No, friends, the real danger is there at the connection point. Hoses and wires like Vietnamese trip wires and all those connections made for a deathtrap. If you were to fall here, you wouldn't even make it under the train entirely as it began to crush you. Here, you are only three feet from the track below you. Here, you can see the shit under the train blurring by, giving you a realistic perception of the speed you are traveling at.

Pablo crossed the junction, like the Flying Hernandez Brothers, arms stretched out wide, leaning and swirling each arm, depending on which way he was leaning. At the junction point, he delicately lifted one leg, arms still spread wide, and gingerly stepped over the mass in the middle.

Fuck that.

When he was on the other side, he turned to me and waved me across. I gave him the finger. I was going to cross it all right, but not like that. He could do that a few times, but each time he did, he was one crossing closer to the time he wouldn't make it. One in ten, maybe one in twenty... one in something, but you can't do it that way forever.

I scanned the cars, looking for a solution. There had to be another way to do it, something that would have better odds anyway. I looked at the tankers and realized that they were closer together at the top of the walkway than they were down here at the platforms. Here, we were six feet or so from the next car, up there, they were only four.

I noticed that where the ladder climbed the tanker, there were handholds that stuck up eighteen inches, giving the climber something to grasp as he stepped from the ladder to the top of the car.

I considered what a leap from one car to the other would entail. I'd certainly have to get a running start, jump through the ladder posts as I exited the car I was departing from, and land between them on the other side. That didn't look like such a big deal. Beyond that, assuming I made it across the gap, I'd have to employ the same landing technique.

Compared to the high-wire act I'd just witnessed Pablo doing, it was a gimme. All I had to do was make it through the posts, get my hands on the edge of the walkway, and not slip off. I decided this was my way, and I began to climb the ladder, back on top of the car I'd just crossed.

When I turned to look at Pablo, he looked more confused than anything else. Maybe he thought I was going back to where he found me, but why would I do that? It was exactly the same setup as where we were now, just at the other end of the car. I pointed at the top of the car and then swung my finger in an arc, bouncing it for effect at the top of the car he was on. He shook his head and pointed to the walk-of-death instead, trying to convince me it was a better way.

I mouthed, "No," with serious eyes, and stepped onto the top of my car. I hadn't told him how to cross; he'd done it his way. Now I wanted the same respect, the same freedom to die my way. When I was on top, looking at the gap, I felt my heart racing. I looked at the traffic, still pacing us, still swerving recklessly, and still with their windows rolled down. One of the cars had produced a spotlight and was shining it at me as I stood stoically on top of the train.

When I jumped, I needed to hit dead center. If I hit one of those posts, God only knows which way I'd go, assuming I didn't impale myself on it. I didn't want to think about that.

"Oh yeah, you thought that last little show was good? Watch me now."

With those few words, and not a single other thought, I ran three paces toward the gap and jumped. Not only did I land perfectly, which I did, it wasn't nearly as tough as I thought it'd be. In fact, other than the fact that I'd just jumped a four-foot gap between train cars at sixty miles an hour, in the middle of the desert, in the dark, and with an audience of bloodthirsty motorists, it was somewhat anticlimactic.

It was such a flawless maneuver, I didn't stop running. I just kept going, running to the midway point, jumping the manhole cover, landing, taking eight more purposeful strides before launching myself onto the next one. After the fifth car I stopped, noticing that the tankers were all behind me now, and though I could see some boxcars down the line a ways, the cars before them didn't have ladders. As I slowly approached the end of my last tanker, I remembered how cold I was. I hadn't even noticed it during the stunt jumping. Now, looking down on what looked like a truck-bed shaped car, I was suddenly concerned about the cold again.

From my vantage point on the train, I knew that there were thirteen cars behind us until the end of the train. At least eight of them were boxcars, but, unfortunately for me, without ladders, they were impassible. My only option, rather than riding on the platform between tankers again, was the car just below me.

It was made of metal, of course, and had walls that were probably five feet tall, all the way around it. It had a flat bottom with the short walls. That was it. No roof, no real protection from the elements, but the walls might help if we sat against the lead one, I supposed. I waited on top of the train for a while, knowing that Pablo's method was much slower. I'd see him climb onto a car, cross the top, and disappear for a minute or two. Those minutes when he was out of my sight were terrifying. I'd begin to think that he should have popped back up by now, and I'd begin to get worried, then, suddenly, there he was, squatting as he crossed the cars. He eventually made it to where I was standing. I pointed at the car which he understood was as far as we could go. He shrugged his shoulders as if he didn't understand the cold was going to be a problem, and climbed down the ladder. I jumped from on top of the tanker to the steel platform eight feet below and five feet away, feeling pins and needles in the soles of my feet with my impact. I did my paratrooper roll and stood, hoping I hadn't broken anything, in time to see Pablo climbing into the car over the wall.

The best part, and only good thing about that car, was that inside of it, we could talk.

The questions I had for Pablo were killing me, and immediately I asked him, "How in the fuck did you find me?"

"I've been following you all day. I was gonna go back to Slidell, but I saw you walk past my hotel room. I couldn't believe it."

"So you stalked me? Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't know what you were gonna do. I just thought I'd check you out first."

"All day?"

"A few hours."

I thought about that for a second. It seemed there was something about that statement that was making me nervous, but it took me a second to figure it out.

"Until I got on the train?"

"Yup."

Then it hit me. "Oh shit... the fire! You saw me start the―"

"Yup."

"I can explain, Pablo... The guy who owns it―"

"Don't worry about it, Ved. I know you had your reasons." He smiled.

"No, I want to explain. That fucker held my car hostage. Remember the cop said he'd pay me for it? Remember?"

"Yeah."

"Well, instead, he made me pay him for the fucking towing fees."

"So you burned down his junkyard? That sound reasonable to you?" he asked.

"I didn't mean to! I was just trying to burn the car. The place just went up."

"They're gonna be looking for you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, I know," I said, looking at the highway that was beginning to get farther from us. The train was banking to the left, toward the emptiness of the desert.

"When they do, I wasn't a part of that. That was all you."

"Yeah, I know. Like I'm gonna say it was you."

"What in the fuck made you decide to jump a train? I thought you were gonna hitch out of town."

"I was. Then I met a guy at Arby's who told me the train went straight to Reno, figured it might be easier to jump on one train than ten different cars."

He laughed out loud. "Obviously, that guy didn't see you miss the first train."

"Fuck you. Where were you anyway? I mean, you were watching me... You had to be close. There was nothing in the area to hide behind."

"In the daylight, I hid behind a big dirt mound. When it got dark, I just sat in the grass about two hundred feet behind you. I figured you were too preoccupied to notice me lurking around."

"Yeah, I was. Did you get on OK?" I asked, feeling embarrassed that he'd seen me running back and forth while the fucking train passed me by.

"Yeah... I had the advantage of watching you do it first. Hey, where'd you get the bag? I saw you throw it on, then I knew you were gonna do it."

"Camping store in town."

"You have money?" he asked.

"No, I traded pot for it with this hippie chick who works there."

He looked at me for a second, expressionless, as if he didn't really believe me. "So, you just asked her if she'd trade you pot for a bag?"

"Not exactly. I smoked before I went in there. She smelled it. She asked me about it. I gave her a quarter pound; she gave me everything I needed. I got all kinds of shit, not just a bag. I'm like fuckin' Grizzly Adams, bro. I have all new gear. Everything you could imagine."

"No shit?"

"No shit," I said, finding it hard to believe that Pablo was really buying that. He was a smart kid. I doubted he really believed me, but I thought it was nice of him to play along.

"So, you must have been coming back from the junkyard when I saw you from the La Quinta. You were coming from that direction."

"Yeah. I knew before I left the junkyard what I was gonna do. Stupid probably, but the guy really pissed me off. If I end up doing twenty years at Chino, I'll think it was stupid anyway. Honestly, I can't believe I did it."

"I didn't know what you were doing. I saw you stash your bag across the street, and then you walked off toward the gas station. I knew you'd be back, so I hid near where you'd put your shit. When I saw the gas can and the beer bottles, I knew. I couldn't believe it, but I knew."

"Yeah, that's funny. I kept looking around, making sure no one was followin' me, or watchin' me. Not that I felt like I was being spied on or anything, but I just kept checking."

"Yeah, I saw ya. It's the Army in you. Whether you want to admit it or not, the time at Bragg changed you a little."

"No, the time at Bragg changed me a lot. I think it's there that I decided I needed to break away. Life is short... ya know?"

Pablo looked around for a second, and then wrapped his arms around his torso. "Fuckin' freezing."

"Yeah, right? No shit. I thought I was gonna die, bro. Right before you showed up, I thought it was all over for me."

"It would have been," he said and smiled. "I saved your life."

"Fuck you, I would have been OK," I said, knowing he was right. Then again, there was no guarantee that we weren't going to freeze to death in this car, rather than behind the tankers.

Pablo was still looking around. "You see that?"

He was pointing out into the distance. It was dark, really dark. I couldn't see anything. "I don't see shit, man."

"Exactly. The stars were out a minute ago. Now they're gone."

I looked again; he was right. There were a few I could see, straight above our heads, but in front of us there was nothing. "Clouds?"

"A mountain. We're going into a tunnel."

"What? How do you know―"

Just then, the noise got insanely loud. I could see that he was right; we'd entered a tunnel. Not only was the noise ridiculous, but it smelled like wet socks. I could see the shape of the entrance as I watched the tiny headlights from the highway out in the distance disappearing beyond the round entrance.

The noise was almost too much to handle. I covered my ears as we sped through the darkest black I've ever been in. Pablo was tugging at my arm, but I couldn't hear anything. The fact that he was even trying to speak to me in here was retarded. I pulled my 82nd Airborne Zippo out of my pocket, feeling the brass knuckles in my pocket as well, and tried to light it. I cupped my hand around it, but the wind was too much. "Windproof lighter," my ass.

Just through my repeated attempts at lighting it, the flash from the sparks showed me Pablo's face, and I noticed he was holding a camera in his hand. He didn't have any bags with him, so I figured he must have had it in his cargo pocket or something. He was looking straight up, toward whatever was above us.

I wasn't expecting the flash, and even though it wasn't pointed directly at my face, the brightness of it hurt my eyes. In that split second flash, I saw that the tunnel we were in was literally covered, wall to wall, every single inch of it, with bats. The second after it went off, all I could see was a tiny white square, the image burned into my retina.

When we got back out into the open desert, the stars returned and so did the cold. It was after 9 p.m. now, and the temperature was steadily dropping. It didn't take Pablo long to reach the point I'd been at when he found me, starting off with a shiver, then a shake, then the sudden realization that if we didn't escape the cold, we were going to die. Pablo's realization that he might die wasn't nearly as peaceful as mine. He was wide-eyed and pale, not from the cold, but from the fear that this was more serious than he thought at first. The whole dialogue I'd had silently with myself was now crossing Pablo's mind, though his involved a lot more whining and even some tears.

"What are we gonna do? We're gonna die, Ved! This is serious. Why aren't you freaking out?"

"I have the advantage of having already been through this. When you found me, I was resigned. Don't get me wrong, man. It's not something I'm taking lightly, but panicking isn't going to make us any warmer."

"We're gonna fuckin' die? Is that what you're telling me?"

"No, of course not. I'm not gonna tell you anything... You know as well as I do that it takes a long time to freeze. The train might stop―"

"That's complete bullshit and you know it! Look where we are! There's nothing out here for this thing to have to stop for, and you fucking know it! It's a death trap, Ved! You got me on this train to die with you. You knew I'd be here. You knew I'd come!"

I looked at him with a not-so-happy smirk, wondering if he was joking. I knew he was going to join me on the Polar Express? "What the fuck are you talking about? I knew you were gonna jump on with me? Do you hear yourself? Get a grip, man. Think before you speak."

"It must be nice to be perpetually suicidal. It must be nice to be longing for death day and night... When you find yourself close to it, you can smile despite the reality... un-fucking-believeable."

"Evan, as your friend, I'm going to ask you one time to be cool. Relax. This is survivable. We'll be OK. We just need to―"

"To what? Jump? You see what's out here? Nothing. If we jump, we're just as dead. I get to choose between dying of the cold or dying from the jump. I'm so lucky to have so many options!" He turned and walked away from me as if he needed a walk to clear his head and his temper.

I was incredulous. I suppose that, to some degree, he was right. I wasn't reacting visibly, though don't be mistaken, I was terrified. Dying is probably not fun. Though I'd only sort of danced around it a few times, I'd never experienced it. Maybe I was prepared, and maybe being prepared for it made me feel better than I would have otherwise, but I wanted to live. I hadn't surrendered to the idea of death, not by a long stretch. In fact, I was thinking about what we could do to live, rather than lying down and accepting death as inevitable. I wished he'd just left me alone. I wished he was back in Slidell with his hot sister, moaning about what a reckless asshole I was. But no, he was with me. He'd already nullified his valor with cowardice and blame, erasing the best thing he'd done for me thus far. What was left for him to delete? What else would Pablo's being here ruin, not only for me, but for himself?

He strolled back over to me as if he'd just returned from the mailbox and happened to bump into me. "So, what's the plan? I can't just stand here freezing to death. I need to do something."

"Well, I hate to be the one to remind you, but there is only one thing to do when two people are freezing together... We have to huddle."

So... huddle we did. The car itself was cold. I mean, it was made of thick metal, the kind of metal you can lie on for an hour and still never warm. I guessed that beneath us, the metal was five inches thick, meaning that our bodies on it would maybe warm the first couple of inches, but the moving train would cool it from underneath, making it a heat vacuum. It'd pull heat from our bodies unyieldingly, so lying down on it wasn't the best option.

We crouched at the very front of the car, me with my back to the wall, and did the best we could to hug. Regardless of what we tried, it was still cold, though I could feel warmth coming from the areas of our bodies that were touching. Hugging chest to chest put out hearts in the center of the mass, padded by our backs, and from what I could guess, keeping your heart warm is important. At first we struggled with hugging and being comfortable, but before long, the cold was overwhelming and our legs began to tire. Maybe a half an hour after we embraced, we had to lie down, and I opted to take the bottom. One of us had to expose our body to the cold metal, and since Pablo didn't offer to do it, I just quietly lay down. He climbed on top of me, pushing me harder into the cold. I expected that this would assist him, and kill me quicker than him.

I've always thought that between every two people, one will live to bury the other. For every two living bodies, it's safe to speculate that one will be there for the other's death, or hear about it. We are all leaving this world alone, no matter how we try and huddle together, hiding from death. I used to get a kick out of asking people whether they'd like to be the first to die, or the second. It's an intriguing question, giving you interesting perspective into their train of thought. If they answered that they'd prefer to die last, I translated that into something selfish, though it's not necessarily a bad thing. I am of the thought that I'd like to go first. The one who survives obviously gets to live longer, but they have the duty of mourning the death of the other. Does it make me a coward, or brave, for wishing to die first? I don't want to mourn the loss of someone important to me, not while I believe that in death comes peace. I think it's easier to die than to survive alone. Survive death to live unhappy, lonely days? Fuck that.

In my predicament with Pablo, I wasn't going to ask him to take the floor and allow myself the advantage of him insulating me from the metal. I didn't want to fall asleep on top of him, only to wake up hours later and discover him cold and blue, dead so that I might live. I was the one who was prepared to die. It was my duty to act on that preparedness, though I hated the idea that he was one of those people who acted as if the world owed him eighty years of life. How pompous. Even now, in the clutches of realizing that we were slowly cooling to the point where we might not make it, he refused to silently come to terms with it. He refused to face it like a man, addressing it and preparing for it. Instead, he was whining and bitching about it, kicking and screaming like a fucking infant, leaving me to think less of him, the only person in my peripheral vision, as I lay dying beneath him.

"Oh my God, Ved. I can't believe it's going to end like this."

"Shut up. Just shut up, please. I don't want to hear this from you. You're on top; you'll be fine. Yeah it's gonna get cold, and yeah, it's gonna get close, but you'll make it." I should have said we, even though I didn't believe that, but I wanted to drive home the idea that if I wasn't bitching, neither should he.

It was apparent that this technique to survive the cold by using two bodies was working, but it didn't make it more comfortable. I thought that freezing was supposed to be peaceful, the way Jack Dawson died in Titanic. He just closed his eyes while his girlfriend sat atop the door; he just clung to it to stay afloat, letting the warmth quietly slip away. This wasn't like that. The shaking was getting violent. Pablo was drooling nonstop wet strands of white drool, and it was landing on my left shoulder as I lay beneath him.

I couldn't help but wish I was lying there with Mandy on top of me instead of her gay brother. I wished I was making this trip with her instead for a number of reasons, and I set myself free from the coldness by thinking about her for a few minutes. She wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, but she definitely had something. I liked her humor. I liked the way she shot straight, the way she'd come-on to me... Maybe I could have had something more with her, but the idea of Pablo being around bothered me.

He sure was protective of her. I mean, I can understand a brother looking out for his sister, but he took that to the next level. He'd intentionally kept the fact that he even had sisters from me. Why'd he do that? Until we got to Houston and I'd met that young lass, he didn't know what I was like as far as commitment goes. This thing with Pablo and Mandy was weird; something wasn't right in the way he acted about her. I didn't know what it was, but I had a feeling that it was sexual in nature. Some sort of deviance, something that brought him shame, something that he had to bury because he didn't know how to control it.

"Fuck, my feet are going numb, Ved. They were hurting, aching and shit, but now they just feel like they're asleep. They're heavy and lifeless."

"Don't concentrate on that; concentrate on staying awake. That's all we need to do to live. We need to stay awake, Pablo."

An hour after assuming this position, we grew very quiet. We'd been talking, for the sake of staying awake, for the entire time, but it was taking longer and longer for Pablo to answer questions. Not long after that, his answers came out slurred, or didn't make any sense at all. This was when I began to worry. My own brain wasn't functioning all that well either, though I swore that my back had warmed the metal beneath it. Nothing felt cold to me; everything felt pleasantly warm, but I couldn't reason that to myself. I was losing it. I was slipping over the edge. I had to be.

We began a "Stay awake, asshole" campaign, saying it to each other, over and over again, as we rolled through the night. I spent the odd minutes between here and there staring at him, waiting for him to close his eyes so I could say it to him. "Hey! Stay awake, asshole!" He'd open his eyes, startled, but just as quickly I could see his lids sagging, like they'd lost their rigidity. His eyes were red around the rims of them and his face grew pale. He was no longer scared; he was beyond that. The energy had been sucked out of us, and all that was left to do was lie there and try not to doze off. I think seeing Pablo so resigned to what was happening was the spark that kept me awake. It was like watching him transform from one person to another, not by trying to, but by not doing anything. I'd seen enough lifeless bodies to recognize the skin tone, the blank stare... These were the things I was watching happen to Pablo. It was a slow process that could be reversed, if only this fucking train would stop moving!

"My eyes... I think they are freezing," Pablo murmured.

"That's... im... poss... ble," I managed, though I wasn't really sure about that. I didn't think it was below freezing. I would have guessed maybe the mid-forties, but the fucking wind...

His teeth started chattering loudly and sporadically. His face was ghostly pale, maybe even blue. I knew one thing for certain, my friend Pablo, who'd gotten into this situation because he trusted me, was dying before my eyes.

"Hey!" I pushed him off of me. He thumped over on his back beside me, not struggling to right himself. The spots where his body had been contacting mine were suddenly very cold. Where we were touching, sweat had pooled, unbelievably enough. The few places where we'd been warm were now freezing in the wind.

The sharp cold contrasted with the dull cold, and I was suddenly invigorated. "Get up, man! Get up! Come on!" I said, trying to stand myself.

Everything was sluggish and heavy. I felt like I was lifting a thousand pounds. My forearms were sore, probably from my antics on the walkway. I was trying to use the walls as a brace, to help me up, but dizziness was coming over me, making it very hard to stand. When I finally got to my feet, I did some jumping jacks, trying to get the blood moving again, but the discomfort brought on by the motion made it impossible. I stretched my back, feeling the scabs pop and crack, this time, though, without any pain.

"Mmmm," Pablo mumbled, not trying to stand; instead, he wrapped his cold arms around his torso.

"Bullshit! Get the fuck up!" I said, trying to lift him by his arm, but I couldn't. He was too heavy, or I was too weak.

So, I went around to his feet and started to drag him by one foot. He didn't like that very much, but he didn't react with violence like I was hoping. The floor was littered with bark chips, maybe from a load of logs that'd traveled in this car sometime before. I dragged him over the bark chips and when he felt the pain of the bark passing beneath his back, he finally sat up and screamed, "All right!"

I slapped him hard across the face, trying to unleash some adrenaline within him. It didn't elicit the response I expected, so I did it again. I saw the welt, even in the moonlight.

"What the fuck?" he said, swinging pathetically at me.

Relieved, I said, "Good, man. Get up. Stand up. Stretch out. Jump around."

I was suddenly feeling a little better, not so heavy. I jumped up and down, trying to shake my blood up a little. I pictured it like cold engine oil, thick and slow. As I kept jumping, I tried to imagine it getting thinner, warmer.

Pablo was standing, though he needed a hand against the wall to brace himself. Without it, I was sure he'd fall over. He still looked pale to me, pale like a dead man, and I began to get really concerned for him.

"Jump, man, jump." I jumped as a demonstration.

He just watched me with his eyes, his head very still.

I looked around, over the walls of the car, seeing nothing but empty desert. The floor of the land around me looked white in the moonlight, accented with black spots where bushes, probably untouched by a human hand, grew. I had no idea where we were, but the time had come to do something drastic. The immediate threat was the fucking wind, not starving or dehydrating. We had to get out of the wind; we had to get off this train.

There weren't too many options, really only one. As much as I didn't like it, we were going to have to jump.

Here are the problems with jumping off a fast moving train in the middle of the high desert. First of all, I was only coherent in comparison to Pablo. I felt awake, alive, but I wasn't all there. The cold had taken its toll on me as well, but I was bigger and taller than Pablo. His wiry frame didn't offer him much in the way of insulation, and even though I'd been on the cold floor, I was still better off than he was. I knew jumping was a tragic decision. I knew how dangerous it was, and that the results of jumping were going to be catastrophic. Had I been warm and thinking more clearly, I would have estimated that for every two people that jump, one and a half of them die, just from the impact. Beyond just the speed we were traveling, there were the massive rocks that supported the tracks to consider. The height of the walls surrounding the car, the speed, and the rocks below meant that we could count on being obliterated with lacerations and broken bones, if we were lucky. Where would we get medical attention? Would we be any better off bleeding to death on the side of the tracks in the desert, waiting to be eaten by animals, watching the sky as we dehydrated, counting the birds circling above?

Secondly, let's just say we made it off the train and didn't get mauled in the process. With the morning would come the sun. As unfathomable as it was to imagine a hot day from that car, I knew that the sun would come up tomorrow, and we'd be in an entirely different situation. We'd be burning and dehydrating, and from what I knew about those two issues, we were lucky to be freezing to death tonight instead. Once we got off this train, there was no way to get back on one. The trains flew through this area, and there was no way to get one to slow down. Once we were off, we were never getting back on.

Thirdly and finally, our gear was on this train. If we were to jump, we'd be doing so at the cost of losing everything we had in this world: sleeping bags, money, gun, pot... everything. I wouldn't even be able to get high as I lay there dying... This was a very bad idea, but what was the alternative?

If I didn't get Pablo off of this train, he was going to die now. In my state of dementia, the most obvious issue was Pablo slowly dying before my eyes. Sure, there were a hundred ways we could die if we jumped, but if we didn't jump, we didn't have a chance. Once again, measuring options against certain death have a way of making the bleakest possibilities seem like a saving grace.

"Let's go, man. We gotta jump," I said, wishing it weren't true.

"Jump? From... the... tra..." he asked emotionlessly.

"That's right, man. We're gonna jump."

He grunted something and leaned back against the wall, allowing himself to slide down towards the floor. Before his ass could even touch the floor, I grabbed him, adrenaline pumping through my body again at the realization of what we were about to do. I asked myself if freezing to death was the better option. I mean, if I really considered it, we were dead either way, and freezing to death was easy; all we had to do was stop fighting... Maybe this was better, maybe letting Pablo go off into the great beyond was just the path I needed to take. I longed for me to be the worse off. If only I'd been spared this decision. If only I was comforted by hypothermia and numbness. I'd seen enough of the process watching Pablo for the last couple of hours to know that Jon Krakauer's description of freezing to death was accurate. He wasn't in pain; he was just lethargic. Most of his discomfort seemed to come from the struggle to stay awake. His teeth were no longer chattering, his body was no longer shaking... He was ready to go; all he needed to do was to close his eyes and let go.

I wrapped my arms under his armpits from the back and struggled to get him to the side of the train that looked the most promising. Not that there was a better side, but there was something in deciding which way that made me feel like I had some control over what was happening. We were fucked either way.

If we could jump out far enough to clear the rocks that supported the tracks, we'd be better off, but with Pablo like the walking dead, there wasn't much possibility for that. I could jump that far, but would that help him? I'd be lucky if I could even roll his ass over the side, let alone throw him clear of the rocks.

I climbed onto the side of the wall and straddled it. I clamped my legs to it, trying to give myself the support I'd need to pull Pablo up and over. He'd have to go first. I wondered if I was essentially murdering him, and if I could face charges for throwing an incoherent man over the side of a moving train? What would I do if I threw him over and watched him get dismembered as he rolled head over heels? Would I still jump? Would I retreat back into the car and freeze? Would I have the balls to jump if I killed Pablo? If Pablo were dead, there'd be no reason for me to jump. Every reason I had to do this centered on him, and saving his life. I realized as I struggled to pull him up to me on top of the wall that this idea was stupid. I knew this was a mistake, but I kept pulling him, straining for every inch I could lift him up.

If you don't get him out of the wind, he's fucking dead.

"All right, buddy, I'm not gonna lie; we're pretty much fucked. This is gonna hurt, man, and there's a good chance that one of us is not gonna make it... I don't know what to do... I'm sorry, Pablo. This is my fault."

Everything I owned, everything that I could still do to save myself didn't matter to me anymore. Seeing someone you like die before your eyes is too high a price to pay. Nothing you own, or ever could own, is even comparable. There was no choice; there was nothing to do but this. I wasn't going to dream of Pablo. I wasn't going to be visited by his ghost for the next few years, seeing him pale and pasty every time I closed my eyes...

Once I had him on the wall, I tried to spin him around, but he was barely conscious and unable to help me. I was terrified that he'd slip out of my grip if his weight shifted as I tried to use the narrow wall as a pivot. This is a bad fucking idea. The best I could do for him was to push him off from a laying position. If I could just get him onto the wall without dropping him over the edge, I'd have to accept that. I struggled against his weight and the cold that was returning to me. If he landed flat on his back, at least he wouldn't go head over heels ten times. He'd skid to a stop, probably scraping off most of the skin on his back, but he'd be spared a fatal head wound.

"All right, man... you ready?" I asked him, his eyes looked into mine, but he said nothing.

"Here we..." Gabriel didn't descend from the heavens to stop me, no lights shone down upon me, but a miracle happened right then and there, nonetheless. A loud, ear-splitting screech echoed off of the desert floor, piercing my ears as if to yell, "Stop!" The train lurched and bucked a little, the cars compressing a bit. The train was slowing down. I burst into tears as I lowered Pablo back down into the car, letting him fall while I cupped my face, shaking and crying.

Once again, even though I didn't deserve any help, God had rescued me from certain death. God is so much bigger, more resourceful, and much more in tune than what people give Him credit for. We have a way of looking at Him through very narrow-minded eyes, of putting Him into little boxes labeled, holy, good, loving... He's so much more than that.

I sat on the wall, my legs clamped tightly, my head facing heaven, and my hands covering my eyes as I cried and screamed into the night. My heart was racing, and my head was pounding as I realized for the first time in my entire life that God was real and that He loved me, regardless of my struggles with the church.

God loved me. God watched over me.

We slowed to about twenty miles an hour when I saw the first lights of the city approaching. Moments later, there was an ocean of lights: stoplights, streetlights, headlights, and residential lights.

Welcome to Reno.

A few minutes after we slowed to a crawl, the metal snake stopped with a few jerky motions. The stillness was uncanny. Every hair on my head and arms was still vibrating as I clung to the wall, unable to believe that we'd survived. A torrent of emotions came pouring out of me, emotions that dated back to Sam, to my father, my mother... everything came out of me as I wept.

A couple of seconds after we stopped, three short bursts of air hissed into the night, echoing off of the buildings before us. We were in a train yard, surrounded by more trains that looked like they'd been sitting there for a hundred years.

I wanted to run for my bag, for the boxcar that I'd thrown my shit into, but I was unable to move. I sat there for minutes, thinking about my life, about desperation, and the fact that I'd proven to myself that I would die for a friend. I felt noble; I felt trustworthy and proud to be Shell Ludo, to be Ved Ludo, the one whom God hasn't abandoned, even after all the shit he's done. From that day forth, I knew who God was, what God was, and what God expected of me. He wanted me to be genuine, to be honest, and to love. Love above all.

I climbed down to Pablo, who was stirring. Even after as little as fifteen minutes, he was remarkably better, though he was complaining of a severe migraine. I rubbed his body with my hands, trying to make heat, but he was raw and quickly stopped me.

"We gotta get to our shit. I need a sleeping bag and some fucking aspirin."

"I have both in my bag, bro. I have Tylenol, Advil, and Percocet. I'll give you as much as you want, but we have to make it to the boxcar before this thing starts to roll again."

"Let's get off here," he said with more passion than anything he'd said in hours.

"I can't. I have to go farther. If they're looking for me..."

"Fine. That's fine, but I need to do something about my head, Ved. I feel like it's going to split in half."

"All right, I think the boxcar is about fifteen cars in front of us. We have to hustle."

I didn't have the heart to tell Pablo that I was partially convinced that my bag had gone in one door and out the other. Just thinking about that made my heart race and my own head ache. If the bag was gone, I was going to be a wreck... I was already emotionally volatile; I didn't need any more surprises.

We climbed over the wall, Pablo doing so on his own, and I sighed with relief as I watched him functioning. I would have died with him... Inside of me, I'm still a good person. We hit the rocks, neither of us having the strength to do so without falling down. My legs were shaky and weak, my arms exhausted from trying to maneuver Pablo on the wall, but what little adrenaline I had left inside forced me into a trot, my head thumping with each step. I closed one eye as I ran, trying to subdue the pain.

Pablo stopped after a few cars and climbed onto a flatbed car. I thought he was giving up, but before I could turn around to go back and try to convince him to keep pushing, he returned with his bag over his shoulder. Well, at least Pablo has his shit.

We kept jogging despite my body pleading with me to stop. Every fiber in me wanted to stop, not just to stop and walk, but to stop and lie down. I've never been so exhausted in my entire life. I could see the boxcar my bag had gone into ahead, seven more cars, when suddenly I heard the same hissing noise. The train had released the brakes and began to roll very slowly. It was getting ready to go again.

Goddamnit!

"Come on, Pablo! We have to make it to that car!" I screamed as I began to run faster than him. I was resolute on making it to the car, no matter what. If Pablo didn't make it, he could stay in Reno. At least he'd be safe. He had the means to get home, to get a hotel room for a day or two, but I needed my bag. I needed to have my things.

The train was only rolling a couple of miles per hour, but it made the distance I needed to cross much longer. I realized I was sweating as I chased the boxcar through the night. I'd never been so happy to feel sweat dripping from my head before.

I was trying to chase the boxcar and keep an eye on Pablo at the same time, turning around every few feet to check on him. The gap between us was getting wider, but I was determined, more than I'd ever been about anything in my entire life, to catch that fucking car.

"Come on, goddamnit! I'll fucking leave you here, Pablo. I swear to God!"

"Go ahead then, leave me," he said, slowing down.

I did. I was running tiredly over the big rocks and other debris scattered next to the tracks as fast as I could. Even at full bore, I was making maybe two miles an hour of progress on the lumbering train. Before long, it was too dark to see Pablo in the blackness behind me, but my boxcar was only one length away. I gave it everything I had and caught the boxcar. It was moving slowly enough that jumping into it wasn't nearly as difficult as my first boarding.

I placed my hands on the floor of the car, which was chest level, and used the last bit of strength in me to push myself in. It was really, really dark inside, and I ended up unable to even kneel. I lay on my belly and crawled to the left, swinging my arms in a sweeping motion, feeling for the bag. I moved across the floor, almost to the opposite wall, swinging my arms wildly, begging the same loving God that'd saved me from certain death twice tonight for one more miracle. No sooner did I imagine the request then my hand made a zipping noise as it skimmed across the fabric of the bag. I grabbed it and pulled it into me, laying my head on it, smelling the newness of the materials. I could hardly believe it.

I opened it and pulled out the bottle of Tylenol, or Advil, I wasn't sure which, and dumped about ten pills into my mouth. Another pocket revealed my Nalgene bottles and I swallowed the pills down, allowing myself to lie on my back and laugh out loud. My head was fucking killing me, but I laughed out loud anyway. Nothing else mattered; I'd made it.

Just then, as I was laughing at myself, at the night, the train stopped, and the hissing of the airbrakes sounded again. I laughed even harder, listening to Pablo's lazy dragging footsteps approaching the door.

"Ved? You in here?"

"Goddamn right I am," I said through a smile, feeling absolute relief. "I'm dead, but I'm in here."

Pablo climbed into the car, having a harder time of it than I had. I heard the occasional slipping noise followed by a thump, but I was too tired to help him. I just laughed at him as he grunted and groaned.

"I'm glad you think this is funny, dick. Give me some pills. I don't care what they are; just give me a shit-ton of them."

I hadn't even put the bottle back, knowing that he'd want them. I dumped some into his hand, feeling the sweat cooling on my neck. My hair was matted with dirt and sweat, bark chips, etc. Nothing else mattered as Pablo swallowed his pills and handed me back the Nalgene clumsily. He lay down beside me, neither one of us able to fish out our sleeping bags, and put his hand on my arm.

"Thank you, Ved. Thank you."

"You're welcome, my friend. We made it, Pablo... The story is ours."

He slurred something, but it was too late, I was already asleep. It was the kind of sleep that envelops you in absolute darkness, absolute rest. I was too tired to even dream as I lay on my back, mouth gaping open.

I woke to Pablo pulling on my arm like a bratty kid at Wal-Mart, but I don't have any recollection of him doing so. I just remember the feeling of being deep down in a dark and comfortable place where moving my limbs was impossible, and suddenly being pulled to the surface, swimming upward toward the pain and discomfort of aching muscles and tired bones... When I crashed through the surface of reality, leaving that sweet, sweet sleep behind, I saw that Pablo was pulling on my arm and looking across the train car to the opposite side. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what the hell he could see over there because it was completely dark. I mean, the kind of dark you fear when driving in an untrustworthy car to your reclusive uncle's house. It was absolute darkness, the moon unable to light any more than a square patch of gray flooring beside the door to the car.

"What? Are you dying? Did you lose a limb?" I was ready to react with violence.

"There's somebody over there," he whispered just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the moving train.

The train was moving again, though not as fast as it had been when Pablo and I had been frolicking in the truck-bed car, but it was chugging along. "Are you high?" I asked, annoyed.

"I'm telling you there's someone over there," he said, without turning his face to mine, staring into the black unknown.

Now, there is always something unsettling about being told "There's someone over there" when you aren't expecting there to be anyone. It's just one of those things that fucks with your brain... Waking up from that place where I'd been almost dead, to my friend, whom I trusted, telling me that we weren't alone, was startling. I was going to call out, "Is anyone there?" but before I did, I realized that the silence that always follows that question is even more terrifying than not knowing and not asking. Every horror movie includes a scene where some helpless woman is walking, usually in the dark, her hand against the wall, inevitably asking the silence, "Hello? Is anyone there?" The answer is never, "Yeah, it's Mitch. I'm making a pot of coffee." Instead, it's always a haunting silence.

Not wanting Pablo to think that I was scared, I tried to play it cool while simultaneously fingering my bag, looking for my gun. Pablo was pointing to the other side of the car as if I wasn't aware that he was suggesting our silent co-resident was in that direction.

"I know where you think he is. Jesus! Put your fucking arm down."

It was definitely dark enough that someone could be sitting undetected on the other side of the car, but I hadn't heard a peep out of anyone since... Well, it's true, I was awake for about two minutes after making it to the boxcar, but still, my bag was here and everything seemed to be in it; though, had I checked?

I needed to do that. I needed to check my stuff and see if it was all still there, but it was so dark that there was really no way to determine what was and wasn't in it. The pot was there, the gun was there, and my sleeping bag, those I could tell by feeling it... Yeah, everything was there.

The boxcar was probably fifty feet long and twelve feet wide. We were sitting on the left side, with our feet close enough to the door that I could see my sliced boot in the moonlight, but there was about twenty feet of the car on the opposite side that was enclosed in darkness. The noise of the train would prevent me from being able to hear snoring, eating, or even talking if the person doing so wasn't trying to be heard.

I came to the conclusion that there couldn't be anyone in the car with us. It was just a combination of things, but most importantly, my gift was telling me that we were OK; there was nothing to be scared of.

That's about the time I saw a flicker of light from the far side of the car and a flame that went from near the floor up to a face that looked like a thin version of Santa Claus. A white beard and hair were the most noticeable of his features, besides the wrinkly skin that looked like wet socks that'd been left in the washer for three days, long enough to dry. Crow's-feet being the most evident of his wrinkling skin, even in the eerie glow of the flame beneath his face, he looked benevolent.

The sight of him startled us both, and by the time we relaxed, realizing that he probably knew we were talking about whether or not he existed, Pablo's hand was across my chest in some sort of futile protective gesture.

My hand had gone to my right pocket, where my brass knuckles always traveled. Touching the pocket had become something I did whenever I felt like I was losing control of the situation. I don't know exactly how the brass knuckles became so important to me, but when I touched them, it was as if I was reassured I would be OK. They definitely promoted feelings of invincibility. No one ever thinks about brass knuckles until it's too late. No one ever wonders when they are picking a fight at the bar with someone if he has a pair in his pocket, but I assure you, if he does, you will wonder about the next guy for the rest of your life. They are a brutal and efficient weapon that can be disguised to the point that you wouldn't even be able to be sure they were used on you.

I'd mastered slipping them on discreetly, pounding someone with them twice, always twice, and then slipping them back into my pocket as if they'd never made an appearance in the fight. No one can rebound from a shot to the nose and mouth; as they spit out teeth and blood, they want nothing more than to lie down and die, wanting the pain to stop.

Knucks are far more useful in a fight than a knife, mostly because when someone pulls a knife, their posture changes. The knife is held in front of them, drawing attention to the blade. Most people who pull a knife are using it as a scare tactic, not wanting to actually stab you. They want you to be afraid; they want you to turn and run away. Knucks are the opposite. There's no showmanship. They're not used as a deterrent. They are for closing the deal only.

Ever since I acquired the things, they'd become part of my "going out" wardrobe. I didn't always have them, but if I was at all uncertain about the place we were going to, they'd be on me somewhere. I'd occasionally touch them in my pocket, the way a man touches his back pocket to be sure his wallet is there. Feeling the knucks in my pocket felt the same way finding your wallet in your back pocket feels; it's an action followed by a relieved sigh.

The first time I'd seen the aftermath of brass knuckles was at the nightclub Marz in Raleigh. The guy who'd been hit with them was a monster of a man, six five, two hundred and seventy pounds, but all that didn't matter as he was completely unconscious, bleeding from every wet spot on his face. Nose, eyes, mouth, ears... you name it, blood was coming from it. It literally looked like he'd been hit by a car, and I remember wondering who could have done that to him. I asked Ryan what he thought had happened, and he relayed without even considering it, "Brass knuckles."

"Really? They can do that to someone?" I asked in disbelief.

"They can do worse. You don't want to fight someone with knuckles on, Ved, ever. In every fight, even the loser is gonna get a few licks in. If he's wearing knuckles when he gets the shot in, you're done."

I was intrigued from that point on. I remembered my discussion with Nic outside of my study hall the day of the Chad Brandie fight. He asked if I had a pair, said something about me needing a pair if I expected to win... Did that mean that Nic thought if I had some, I could have beaten that monster, or was he just joking around? I had to know. I wanted a pair desperately, but where would I find a pair?

Luke and I had a couple of female friends we hung around with, whom we called the Ds. Their real names were Diana and Dana, and we'd met them in Myrtle Beach a couple of summers before. They were good-looking girls―pretty, but not sexy. Maybe that's because we knew they were devout Christians and not into the fornication that we preferred from our lady folk.

The Ds were like sisters to us, sort of. They'd come down to post to visit us occasionally, but they wouldn't stay at the barracks. Instead, they'd rent a hotel room and leave before things got out of control. I always knew when the party was on the downside because the Ds would announce they were leaving, coming over to give us a kiss on the cheek before disappearing. They never invited anyone back to the hotel with them, never dressed provocatively or acted like they were interested in the things that interested us. Really, we had little in common with the Ds, except that both Luke and I loved their father, Mitch.

Mitch had become one of the people I respected most in the world, and, for me, respect doesn't come from wearing rank or having money. I respected Mitch in the noblest way I could respect someone: I thought he was a prophet. He was intellectually a genius, though unconventional. Mitch was a free thinker, a guy who contemplated things long and hard enough to have opinions on issues, opinions that he could justify and explain at the drop of a hat.

His wife Susan was, like their adopted daughters, a devout Christian. She didn't love me the way Mitch did, but in her defense, I wasn't what she wanted for her daughters. My charisma scared Susan. She thought it was dangerous to be so charismatic and close to her daughters, but they weren't interested in me sexually or romantically. I may have actually disgusted the Ds, though they'd never have said that to me. Mitch, however, loved me, and I him.

Mitch was some sort of investments guy. He was worth millions, and rather than working his life away, trying to accumulate more and more, he retired at the age of thirty-nine. That was the first reason I loved him. He looked like an average dad: bad jeans, bad hair, and terrible shoes... But inside of him, he was as radically brilliant as anyone who has ever walked the earth. His reasoning for retirement was "I worked to be able to live the way I wanted. After I reached that point, the only reason to keep working was to work for the sake of working... I had too much to do to waste my life working." Simple, but perfect. That was Mitch in a nutshell. All of his business friends kept hounding him to come back to work; they kept making him promises of more and more money, but he wasn't even remotely interested in going back to work. Mitch was on a quest to be a good dad, and to live the kind of life that excited him.

We met Mitch in South Carolina the same weekend we met his daughters. The girls were in the Ripley's Museum when we were. We struck up a conversation with them and hung out the rest of the day. When they said they had to go home, sometime after 9 p.m., Luke and I were disappointed. We asked if they were going to invite us back with them, and their reply was, simply, "Sure, if you want to hang out with our dad."

Thinking that was just a distancing technique, we agreed to go back with them, and, lo and behold, there was their dad, Mitch. Mitch was sitting at a picnic table under the awning of the largest RV I had ever seen. The girls went into the RV and straight to bed without so much as even saying goodnight, leaving us under the awning with Mitch, who looked sort of like Bill Gates. Mitch invited us to sit with him for a minute, and three hours later, Luke went back to the hotel while I stayed up until daybreak with Mitch, talking theology and philosophy.

He was unlike anyone else I'd ever met.

The Ds were Moroccan. On a trip to Morocco, Mitch and Susan had seen the orphanage and ended up paying cash for the girls who were going to be separated and fostered out to different families. Susan had insisted that Mitch do whatever was necessary to prevent their separation, and a few hundred thousand dollars later, they were parents. The girls never wanted for anything again. They weren't pretentious, but sometimes they seemed that way. It wasn't the money, though; it was their strict religious beliefs that gave them the appearance of being snobby. When they refused to crash at a place where we were partying, leaving to go to a hotel instead, people assumed it was because the rich girls wanted better accommodations. That wasn't the reason, though; they wanted to remain pure, and they thought the best way to do that was to leave before things got out of hand. I have to give it to them; they were strong in their faith. It's hard to describe the relationship Luke and I had with the girls. We liked them, but they annoyed us at the same time. We had little in common, but they were nice enough girls. The rest of the guys in the barracks were initially into them, but as soon as they learned what these girls wouldn't do, they grew tired of them.

Mitch didn't share their beliefs and refused to attend church. This doesn't mean that he disliked Christianity; he just didn't like the church. His belief in God was unquestionable. He believed that Jesus had saved him, but that's about as much as he agreed with anything familiar to the Lutheran Church, the denomination his wife and daughters belonged to.

The Ds went to a Christian School in Durham. Since Mitch and Susan didn't work, they just cruised around in that gigantic RV, usually somewhere in the vicinity of their daughters' school. The girls loved hanging out with their family, which also separated them from most of the population. Most college kids escaped home as soon as possible, wanting to cut loose and live "free," but the Ds didn't want any of those things. They spent at least two weekends a month with Mitch and Susan. Their parents were so cool, I spent a Saturday or Sunday a month with them. No one understood why I loved Mitch so much; our conversations didn't interest my friends.

Mitch believed fervently in God, but he thought that anyone who attended church was batshit crazy. He believed that right and wrong wasn't something that could be defined to society as a whole. He said it was up to each man to decide what he considers to be right and wrong, and then to live accordingly. He thought that sin was when you intentionally did something that you considered to be wrong. Mitch thought, like I did, that we are accountable only for what we know and understand. We are accountable to be true to what we can believe and accept. He was a different kind of thinker, he was like me, and for the first time in my life, I felt like maybe there were other people in the world who thought the way I did.

One Friday night, Mitch and I were at a bar in Fayetteville, having a few drinks and talking about God. A couple of beers into the discussion, we were getting passionate and saying things that, to the wrong audience, might sound blasphemous. Neither of us were out to offend God, but we struggled with the ideas that the church has been teaching for as long as they have been involved in politics. My comment was that if Jesus were to walk into church on Sunday morning, he'd ask, "What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

The table sitting behind Mitch was comprised of three gentlemen, three big and burly looking locals, wearing a lot of mossy-oak camouflage and NASCAR paraphernalia. As we were talking, I kept looking over Mitch's shoulder, noticing that they weren't only listening to us, but they were talking about what we were saying. Early in the night, before we'd all tossed a few back, it was OK, but as the night went on, they were beginning to stare at me, mock me, and act menacing.

I was trying to tell Mitch that maybe we should tone it down a bit, but he was so into what he was saying that he wasn't getting it. He was sort of a "take it or leave it, here it is" kind of guy.

When the guy with the most obvious problem with us stood up from his table and looked me in the eyes, I knew I had a serious problem on my hands. If Ryan had been with us, it wouldn't have been much of an issue at all, but Mitch wasn't a scrapper, he was an intellectual. That left me to deal with three corn-fed rednecks alone. I have never been a tough guy, though at certain points, I've been better at fighting than at other times. During this particular event, I was probably at my peak, though I was never proficient enough to believe in myself, and that is something you have to do in order to win fights.

The guy took a couple of steps in our direction, confirming the fact that the altercation was about to begin. I reached out and put my hand on Mitch's arm, stopping him midsentence. I stared up at the guy behind him, alerting Mitch for the first time that we had company, but I don't think it dawned on Mitch that this was not a friendly visit.

"What's up? Someone here?" he asked, turning around with a pleasant smile. His eyes followed the body of the man standing behind him up, until he was looking straight up. The man was uncomfortably close to Mitch, and at that point, I think Mitch understood. He turned back around to look at me, a cross between concern and curiosity in his expression.

I stood and looked the guy in the eyes.

"My friends and I don't really like the conversation you're having," he said in the native drawl.

"Well... I guess we can all agree that it's a good thing we're not talking to you guys then."

"I suggest that if you're gonna talk about that sort of stuff, you go somewhere else," he said, his face very serious.

I didn't like his tone with me, or the other two guys at his table snickering like a couple of school girls. If this guy thought I was going to run and hide, he was mistaken. "How about you close your ears and think about something else while my friend and I enjoy a couple of beers."

He stepped closer, his thighs touching the back of Mitch's chair. Mitch remained completely still, staring straight ahead at me, when he felt the man's legs against him. "It's OK, Ved. We can go."

I looked at Mitch, and then back to the redneck. "Why don't you go back to your boyfriends and mind your own fucking business."

"Why don't you―"

I palmed the sugar shaker that was sitting on the table and swung it in an arc, smashing it against his jaw. The reaction was so out of the blue, he had no time to react. He fell to the left as if he were a dead man. I jumped to the right and charged the guys at his table, knowing that they'd be on the move.

I jumped onto the table, head-butting the bigger of the two guys above his left eye. His eyebrow bled immediately, so I gave him a quick jab in the same place. I was going to give him a third, but someone began pulling me backwards by my foot. I saw Mitch standing off to the side, so I knew immediately it wasn't him. Uh-oh.

I was still being pulled backwards when the guy I'd head-butted stood up and came after me. I kicked at the guy who was pulling me, but he was nimble. So, if I couldn't kick him in the face, I'd have to go after the hands that were pulling me. Even as I saw the guy with the bloody eye closing in on me, his swing inescapable, I used the last second to kick the hand holding my left foot.

Crunch, went the hand.

Thump, went my head.

It felt like I'd been hit in the head with a baseball bat, the world becoming foggy and dark. I tried to stand up, but the world was turning sideways. I got halfway up before I fell back down, rolling onto my side to try and right my perspective. That didn't help my cause, and the next thing I saw was a foot slamming against my ribs; the crack that followed was ushered in with a sharp heat in my side. The fucker had broken my rib.

I tried again to roll over and stand up, but it was useless. He stepped beside me and drew back; the last thing I saw before he sent me to the light was something shiny around his knuckles.

When I woke up, the cops were there, and the bartender was holding something against my head. The cloth was red and apparently packed with ice. It stung as he moved it around, absorbing blood that was flowing from a gash in my scalp. I reached up to feel it, but the sudden pain in my side reminded me that I had at least one broken rib.

Mitch refused the ambulance and told the police that he'd drive me to the hospital. About that time the MPs showed up. Some GI in the bar had the good sense to get them involved. That was a good thing. The MPs meant that I was going to be handled on post by military policemen, rather than the civilian cops and judges. The sentence would likely be the same, but if it was handled by the military, it wouldn't be on my civilian record when I got out. The military takes care of its own. I was thrilled when I saw the MPs.

Mitch told the MPs the same thing he'd told the cops: that he'd drive me straight to Womack Hospital. He argued that the $500 bill for the ambulance ride was unnecessary. The MPs informed Mitch that I'd be arrested for assault, and that they were allowing me the courtesy of riding with him to save the ambulance bill, but he was to go straight to Womack. Once we got there, I'd be turned over to the hospital, and then the MPs.

Mitch agreed and drove me to Womack. I don't remember much of the ride. I had a concussion and the most painful stabbing pain I could ever recall. This wasn't the first time someone had broken my ribs, but each time it happens, it's like the first time. It's awful.

At Womack, I was scanned and prodded. They did tests on my eyes, seeing if I could focus, and wrapped my head with gauze after stapling my scalp back together. The attractive woman doctor asked me, "What did he hit you with?" sounding sympathetic.

"Brass fucking knuckles."

"Jesus, those things opened you up," she said. "It was ugly."

When she stepped back, I saw that she was a captain. "Yeah, cap, but you should see the other guy. They're probably using a grinder to cut the knuckles off of him. I broke his fucking hand." I smiled, satisfied with my tough-guy words. It didn't matter that the guy whose hand I'd broken wasn't the one wielding the knucks... I was euphoric, that weird feeling that comes from surviving a fight. It's always the same feeling, no matter the outcome. Endorphins come out to calm and soothe you, providing a high not unlike that of pain pills.

I couldn't wait to get back to the barracks and tell Luke and Ryan about this. They'd be so impressed.

"At least you got something out of it." She smiled.

"Yeah, I got something... They're gonna lock me up, huh?" I asked.

She looked at me. "Don't worry about that now. That's later. When the anesthesia wears off, you're gonna be miserable."

"You got any Demerol you could send me off with?" I smiled.

"Even Demerol won't help. This one's gonna hurt for a week. At least you'll get a no headgear profile."

"I'd rather have the Demerol." I watched her smile for a second, then added, "Or a date with you."

"I'm a captain!" She laughed out loud.

"That's OK; I'm very discreet."

"I'm sure you are, private." She used my rank as a reminder.

"Suit yourself, cap. Our date will have to be next week though; I'll be in the brig for a while." I smiled, feeing pressure on my scalp.

"Don't laugh! You don't want me to have to re-staple your head!"

"How many?"

"Sixteen, and two butterflies," she answered, fingering the top of my head.

Her breasts were right in my face, and I desperately wanted to compliment her on such a lovely rack, but decided that assault charges were enough; I didn't need "being disrespectful to an officer" tacked on as well.

"All right, you're gonna be fine, Private... Ludo," she said, looking at a clipboard. "Your concussion was minor. Your motor skills seem OK. You'll be observed in... Well, don't worry about it."

"Thanks, feel like a million bucks. Oh... and it's Ved. Not Ludo. I don't like all these military formalities."

"Formalities?"

"Yeah... I'm an individual, captain, not a private. Call me Individual Ludo if you must be formal."

"Your name is Shell, not..." She was trying to recall what I'd introduced myself as.

"Ved, as in Vedder. Shell died. It was tragic, but I've had to move on."

She laughed. "Have you been drug tested?"

"Whoa! Captain Bernell, let's not be hasty! I suffered a massive head wound; no need to talk crazy now! If I'm acting peculiar, surely it's the loss of blood, not drugs! I'm in the Army, for God's sake!"

"Plenty of soldiers use drugs, Private... Individual Ludo." She smiled.

"That was beautiful. Wasn't it?"

"Individual Ludo?" She laughed out loud and then rolled her eyes.

She turned toward the door and said, "OK, he's all set."

An MP walked into the room, pulled out handcuffs, and then decided he didn't need them. "You're not going to be a problem, are you?"

"I'd run for it, but I've suffered a massive head wound," I informed him.

"Hardly a massive head wound, Individual Ludo." Captain Burnell laughed again. "Pussy."

"Captain, I'm offended at that kind of language!" I laughed and looked at the MP. "You hear that, man? I'm gonna need you to testify at my trial about the verbal abuse I've had to endure."

"I didn't hear anything," he said with a chuckle, obviously also under the spell of hot Captain Bernell.

"Goodbye, Ved. Good luck."

"Ooooh... you remembered." I smiled, genuinely thrilled. "Hey, doc? What about the Demerol?"

"Unnecessary."

"Percocet? Something?"

"Advil," she said, shaking her head.

"Seriously? That's the best you can do? Jesus... what's a man have to do to get some pills?"

"Pass a drug test," she said flatly.

"Touché. I'll be OK. Advil works great; love that stuff."

"Thought so." She smiled knowingly.

I stood up tentatively, glad to be able to again. The MP held my arm while I put my shirt and jeans back on.

"You all right?" he asked now that Captain Bernell was gone.

"Yeah, man, thanks."

"You get the bastard?" he asked.

"Two of 'em, but not the one who did this. Fucker was wearing brass knuckles."

"Yeah, looks like it."

"Fuckin' feels like it."

I walked down the hall slowly, the E-4 MP walking beside me. He was cool; we were making small talk about Dr. Bernell. I wasn't the only one attracted to her.

Three nurses looked at me and the MP as we passed their little station. "Thank you," I said, feeling pretty chipper. The guys in the barracks were going to worship me for this!

We got to the elevator when a black nurse called out my name, "Private Ludo?"

I turned to see her trotting toward me and the MP. "Yes ma'am?"

"Here. Your prescription. You'll need it." She handed me a little square of paper.

Dr. Bernell had a heart after all. "Thanks," I said, smiling. Percocet always makes me happy.

Later, in my giant cell with a bunch of smelly drunks and a couple of wife beaters, Captain Ricky, Mitch, Monica, and Dana came to see me. Ricky didn't even pretend to be mad at me, sparing me the lecture I was expecting. "Don't worry about this, Ved. I'll have you out in the morning. I'll call Major Raphael. He'll get this tossed out."

"I told him the story," Mitch said, pointing his thumb at Ricky.

"Awesome," I commented, wondering if he'd made me sound like a victim or an instigator.

"You OK, Ved?" Monica asked, reaching through the bars and rubbing my arm.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Besides, I'm bonding with my fellow fuck ups." I pointed my aching head at the losers behind me.

"Thanks, Ved, for... you know... My dad said if you hadn't done what you did, he would've been beaten... He's a peaceful man," Dana said, smiling at her father.

"It wasn't our fault. Seriously." I decided it was time to start my defense.

"We know. I'll take care of this," Ricky said, playing the hero.

Fuck it, he was my hero. I didn't need to be arrested and found guilty of assault. I had enough problems. I'd already been in enough trouble.

Six hours later, Ricky and Mitch came back to get me out, together. The two of them seemed like old friends when they took custody of me. Of course, Ricky had heard about Mitch through my conversations with Monica, who'd met him a number of times as well. Ricky liked Mitch, I could tell by the way they were chatting and laughing.

"All right, buddy, we're out of here," Ricky said, satisfied with his heroics of getting me out of jail on a Saturday morning. An MP pushed a button and the door opened. I stepped out, wanting to get back to the barracks and my bed. Had Ricky not come, they would have held me there until Monday morning. I was grateful to both him and Mitch. I wondered why Monica hadn't come, though. I really wanted to talk to her about this. She was one of my best friends; she was the person I told everything to.

When we were in Mitch's BMW 740iL, Mitch handed me an envelope. "Here, this is for you. You earned it," he said, holding his arm behind him as he drove to hand me the heavy envelope.

I reached out from the back seat and took it, my ribs stabbing me with pain just from moving my arm. I opened it carefully and smiled. I knew before they even fell into my hand what they were. The brass knuckles.

"No shit. Are these―"

"Yup, they were on the floor before the cops got there. He tossed them, not wanting them to be found on him, probably. I knew you'd love them."

"I've always wanted a pair." I smiled, feeling as if the whole event was worth it. This was one of those special gifts, one of those symbolic gifts that you never forget. The fact that it was a pair of knucks only made it better.

"You feel OK?" Ricky asked.

"Yeah. Fuckin' head hurts, but I'm OK."

"You want to stop at Food Lion and get your prescription filled?" Mitch asked.

"That'd be awesome." I reached in and pulled it out, forgetting to see what she'd even prescribed. It better not be Tylenol 3... I wanted thirty Percocet, with three refills.

The paper said Dr. Melinda A. Bernell, M.D. at the top and had no drugs listed. All that was written, in sloppy doctor handwriting, was a phone number and three words: I'm your Demerol.

"Never mind, Mitch, I'll just fill it later," I said with a smile.

"So... should we say something to him?" Pablo asked quietly.

"I don't know, man. I forgot to read Train Jumping 101. It's been sitting on my nightstand for so long too... I thought you would have guessed that by my less than perfect boarding technique."

"So, what? Are we just gonna sit here and pretend he doesn't exist?"

"I don't know what you're gonna do, bro, but I'm going back to sleep."

"What? Seriously? With a lunatic sitting in the train with us?" he asked, incredulous.

"A luna― Jesus, Pablo! First of all, just because someone's on the train with us doesn't mean he's a lunatic. Secondly, he's apparently been in the car with us the whole time, and so far he hasn't done anything to give me any concern. Thirdly, I have my knucks in my pocket and my gun in my bag. I really don't think he's gonna do too much, bro. Go to sleep. You'll be fine."

"That's great. Sleep... yeah right. While you sleep peacefully, I'll be up, keeping an eye on you. But seriously, don't worry about me, just sleep. I'm sure I'll be fine." He paused for a second. "Could you at least give me the gun?"

That wasn't going to happen, ever. I looked at him and smiled, wishing he could see me well enough to appreciate it. He couldn't; it was too dark. "All right, here..." I stood up and walked tentatively across the car, pulled out my lighter, and lit my own cigarette, more to announce myself to our quiet friend than really needing one. I stood in the dark and spoke in the direction of his cigarette. "Hey, man. How are you?" I asked, not really sure what the protocol was in a situation like this.

"I'm just fine here, young fella. You doing OK?" a gruff and crunchy voice replied.

"Yeah, we're OK. Thanks for letting us sleep, and uh... not fuckin' with my bag."

"Yeah, I seen it when you threw it in. I kept a eye on it fer ya. I didn't touch a thing, young fella. I just sit here and keep a eye on it."

"Mind if I join ya?" I asked, immediately relieved by his easy demeanor. There was something sweet about the guy, something grandfatherly.

"Yeah, come on over here. Careful now, my bedroll is right there by yer feet."

I lit my lighter again and cupped the other hand around it, in order to keep the light from blinding me more than helping me. I saw that the old man wore a long trench coat with a silver sweater underneath it, blue Dickies pants, brown leather boots, and he had medium-length, ghost-white hair and a beard to match. He looked a lot like Kevin Costner's housekeeper guy in the old version of Robin Hood, the one who got his eyes gouged out. Remember him?

His bed was nothing more than a wool blanket folded in half and stretched out on the dirty floor. He used a T-shirt stuffed with another T-shirt as a pillow, and was only half covered by a thick, small blanket. It looked like a baby blanket, as if maybe he'd snatched it off of a clothesline somewhere along his way. His backpack was amazing. It looked like vintage WWII era stuff, but not like the shit you find at Army/Navy stores; this one actually had some miles on it. In fact, the canvas bag was worn so thin in some places that it appeared to be soft, something that must take canvas decades to do. It crossed my mind that he might have worn this thing on his back as he stormed the beaches of Normandy. It seemed to me that it would take at least that long to break it in so perfectly.

He was slumped against the opposite wall of the train, facing us the whole time. His one hand held a self-rolled cigarette between frail and thin fingers; the other hand was resting against his old heart, under his jacket. He sat completely still while he smoked every last millimeter of his smoke. I sat down beside him, intermittently watching him and looking over at the other side of the train, wondering where Pablo was over there and why he was such a pussy.

I reached out and shook his hand before I put the lighter away. He shook enthusiastically, but without much strength. I felt callouses on his palm and wrinkles in the skin between his index finger and thumb.

"It's a pleasure to meet ya, Ved," he said after I introduced myself. "My name is Frank, but you can just call me Skins."

"Skins?" I asked, making sure I heard him right.

"Yessir. Most the folks I know call me that. I don't know why; reckon it's just a name I picked up somewhere 'long the way."

"How long you been on your way?" I asked, wanting to hug the old guy.

"I reckon 'bout fifty-three years. A course, I wasn't travelin' the whole time. I stopped here an' there for a spell at a time. Some lass or job, nothin' that never lasted too long... Yeah, 'fer long, I'd be back on the road, headed somewhere another else."

"Really? You have kids? A wife?"

"Had a couple 'em. Both the wife an' the kids... But I don't see neither them no more. That's the problem with travelin' all a time... No one's gonna miss ya fer long. After you gone, you gone."

"Huh. Where you headed to now?" I asked, not really sure what to say to that last statement.

"Califernia, I reckon."

"Really? Where abouts?"

"Maybe up there near the redwood forest. Gotta friend a mine lives up that way. Maybe I'll just stop in on him."

"Nice. I bet you know people all over the country, huh?"

"Yeeee-aaah... you could say that. Been riding these rails for a long time, young fella. A course, it used to be a lot easier... Now-a-days, trains don't stop all that much, and when they do, they sit for a week at a time. They know we on here, boy; ain't nothing they can do about it but stop and sit fer a long time. That conductor and them, hell, they's just turn the thing off and jump on another en, leave this'in here sittin', dry us out. That's how they's do it now... never used to be that-a-way."

"No shit? So... they know we're here, huh?"

He pulled something out of his bag and set it on the floor between us. A second later, his lighter sparked. He lit the candle and looked at me. "Son, where you threw yer bag on, that's been a boardin' place fer seventy years or so. Ain't never been a train come through there that didn't get boarded. That's why I closed that other door befur we got ta there. Didn't want no one tossing they's bags in one door an out the other. See, I get en this en here back in Salt Lake... I knew when we was comin' into Elko."

I felt like an idiot immediately. This guy was the real deal; he'd been doing effortlessly what I'd just about killed myself doing, for a long time. He knew everything there was to know about jumping trains: the laws concerning riding illegally, where the trains went, what each car was carrying... everything. There was nothing that Skins didn't know, concerning the railroad anyway. We talked for a while, telling each other the details about our lives. We smoked cigarettes and drank lukewarm black coffee from a dirty old thermos he produced from his bag. I laughed at Skins' amazing and hilarious stories while he just went on telling one after the other. This was probably the most interesting man in the world, and it'd been a long time since he had anyone to talk to. Skins was what I wanted to be when I got older: reclusive, interesting, and dismissed by everyone. After a while, I realized I desperately wanted him to continue on for hours, but I really wanted to get high and listen. I asked him if he'd mind me smoking a joint, or, better yet, if he'd like to smoke one with me.

He was ecstatic with excitement. "Oh, young fella, there ain't nothin' I want more than a nice joint ta smoke. Relieve my aching mind, my old bones. Gettin' colder as I get old, young fella. Now, seem like I can't never get warm all the way through. I is always cold."

I stood up and walked like a blind man to the other side of the train car, feeling for my bag and calling Pablo's name. Apparently he'd fallen asleep, but when I stepped on his hand, he woke up with a start.

"Ow! Goddamnit!"

I felt around until I found my bag. "Oh sorry, man. You gonna come over? We're gonna smoke a joint."

"Is that a good idea, Ved? Telling that stranger over there that you have drugs in your bag? Sounds like a really stupid idea, especially if he smokes."

By this point, I'd about had it with Pablo. I looked at him, or in his general direction, giving him a pointless, glaring stare and then realized he couldn't see it. I knelt down before him and put my hand on his shoulder, the way a baseball coach would to his little league players, and said calmly, "Pablo, I want you to listen to me closely, for the sake of our friendship. This is exactly what I am here for; this is exactly what I have been looking for all these years... We are in the hands of the world now, bud. Look at us, on a train car in the middle of fucking nowhere, riding in the dark, through the night, to places we've never been. The people we meet now, the ones we talk to, touch... man, these are the people who will carry our legacy, long after we are gone. I'm here for this exact reason, bro. I'm here to meet and help people, to talk to them, to try and solve some of my own issues... What we will expect as kindness from strangers, we need to be prepared to give... Karma, Pablo... This is what I am looking for... That guy over there might be the most interesting person I've ever talked to, and here you sit, sulking and scared. Now, either come over and join us or go to sleep, but don't tell me what is and isn't a good idea."

"I just don't understand what that guy has to do with your trip to... or for, whatever. What's the deal?"

"I can see that you aren't having the time of your life, and if you want to leave, do it. I appreciate the fact that you were looking out for me, but that shit was just because you felt guilty about my car... If I'd have rolled it instead of you, you'd already be gone by now. I appreciate that, man, but, seriously, if you want to go, go. I'm traveling through time in a big empty car, somewhere in the desert... and over there, on the other side of the car, is a man I didn't know an hour ago. Now I do. Now I'm a better person because I know him... Now my life is a little richer, a little fuller. If I can smoke a joint with that man, I want to smoke a joint with him. He becomes part of my story, and I become part of his... This is it, man. This is life! I'll listen to him tell stories; I'll listen to his experiences, because he's me in fifty years... He's alone, he's old, and he's cold. When this train stops, I want to put him up in a hotel with me, let him soak his old bones in a hot bathtub, buy him a hot steak and let him drink wine until the place closes down... You know why, Pablo?"

"Because you're reckless?"

"Because I'm putting into the universe what I want to receive. I need the kindness of others now. For the first time in my life, I've relinquished control, and I am in need. Whatever I can do to push positive energy back at me, I will. If that means I have to tell you to leave, watch as you fly back to Slidell to your place, your closet, because you can't see the forest for the trees, I'll do it. I'm not going back, man, not for a long time. If you are waiting for me to say that I've had enough, if you think I'm gonna say fuck it, I quit, you are mistaken. I'm staying, bro. You're not. So you might just as well leave now. Get back to grandpa and Mandy, get back to Bear... You don't have to stay. This story is mine, man. I'll tell this story for the rest of my life. I'll tell it over and over again, and, goddamnit, I'm going to own the time. You're not me, Pablo. You're not. Just go back. It's OK, man."

"I don't want to disappoint you, is all. I'm sorry, Ved. I really wanted to find something out here too, but I just can't stop worrying. I don't know when I became so dependent on things... a shower, a TV, a restaurant... I never thought I was. I thought I was bored, but I wasn't. I'm sorry, Ved. I feel like I've let you down. I don't understand how you can love the chaos of all this... I never will."

"Pablo, look at me. You see me? Do you know me? Do you understand now that I am happiest when I am without? I think the distraction of figuring out today and then tomorrow... One day at a time is what people like me need. Now, I'm gonna go smoke a joint with Skins over there―"

"Skins?"

"Yeah, it's a nickname."

"Or is it because he makes masks out of..." He stopped, realizing he was doing it again. "Sorry. Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm coming. Let's go toke. God knows I could use it."

I grabbed a huge chunk of buds and walked back over to old Skins. He was so excited, he was rubbing his hands together in anticipation. I asked Pablo for his bowl, and I loaded it; then I handed it to Skins. He didn't even hesitate. He lit it and inhaled, holding the smoke in for as long as his old lungs could manage. While we passed it around, loading bowl after bowl, the three of us talked nonstop. It didn't take long for Pablo to loosen up, and by the time we'd smoked the third bowl, we were all baked out of our faces. I was rolling joints the whole time. Joint after joint, I rolled them continuously. The higher I got, the better looking my joints were. It's always been something that is too tedious for me to do perfectly when I'm sober, but when I get high, I can focus all of my attention to making smooth, even-seamed joints that won't run. The chunk of pot I grabbed rolled twenty-three small joints. I wanted them just big enough to get one person really high.

When I was done rolling, I looked at Skins, who was admiring both my skills at rolling and my massive pile of joints. I smiled and took out my cigarette pack, shaking the last three onto the floor and putting the joints into the box. All but eight fit, so I used a Percocet bottle for the loose eight, and then I gave them to Skins. "Here, bud. I want you to have these."

He looked at me, not expecting that. "No... I don't have the money fer that kind a―"

"Skins, I'm proud to have met you. Besides, I owe you for watching my bag."

"I didn't... It just sat there..."

"Skins, please. I want you to have them. Riding these rails is so much better high... agreed?" I asked Pablo, who was giddy after getting baked.

"Damn right. I feel like a different man," Pablo said through a toothy smile. "Skins, take it! He's got plenty of pot! Trust me; he can afford to give it away."

"All right, I won't object no more. Learnt a long time ago sometimes you the giver, sometimes you the getter. When you the giver, you wanna give, that's where the happiness come from. When you the getter, gettin' is what makes ya happy. I do thank you, sir. I really, really do thank you."

"It's my pleasure. It is, honestly, the best feeling I've had in a long time. You know, Skins, I love pot. I always have. It's been an escape for me for so long. It's been a place where I am inside my head and isolated, something I've always liked... It makes me happy to smoke with friends, strangers, and new acquaintances... There's something communal in it for us, something that sets us deeply into our minds, but unites us too. I'm honored to give you the relief that you'll find in these joints. It's like being able to give someone a sunny day, no matter how hard it's raining."

Skins looked at me, obviously understanding very little of what I'd just said. It didn't matter; I was stoned and philosophical. It was about me talking for me... I was pleasantly high, pleasantly isolated, and talking to myself through my words to him. Nothing mattered to me beyond right now; we three were happy.

"You know what impresses me the most, of all the things I've learned tonight?" I asked Skins.

"No, sir, but I bet you gonna tell me," he said, laughing with Pablo.

"Fuck yeah he is," Pablo managed.

"You're damn right I am... The candle. I went and bought all this shit before I got on the train... I bought a light, but before I bought it, I looked them all over for fifteen minutes... I read that this one will run for this long, and that one will run for that long... I compared prices and battery cost... but I never even once considered a candle. It's brilliant. All you need is a lighter... no fuckin' batteries, nothing... The light it puts off is perfect... It's perfect..."

"There he goes again," Skins said to Pablo, before they both laughed at me. Skins reached into his bag and handed me an old, well-used, white candle that had eight or so inches of wax left to burn. It must have been a massive candle at one point, but had been used long enough to make the wick sit deep down in the hole. It was nicked and dirty, chunks missing, like it'd gone through WWII with him. "There ya go, son. Now you's got that perfect light you all excited 'bout." He laughed with Pablo, while I smiled. Apparently, my philosophical side was beyond them both.

I looked at the candle, thinking how it was like looking for the perfect knife all these years. The problem with the knife, the reason I never thought any of them perfect, was that I was looking for it. The candle and the knucks were things that came to me. These things felt to me like they'd been in my path, in my future, since the beginning of my life. Every decision I made, everything I did, was navigating me toward them. They were like picking up keys along the way, waiting for the time when I'd find the locked door. The candle, and its perfect light, was part of me now, and I'd never leave it behind. I'd burn it until the wick melted through the bottom. I promised myself that when I lit that candle, I'd remember the soothing nature of the light, real light... not light manufactured in China.

I walked over to my bag and pulled out the light Kelly had sold me for $27.95. I looked at it for a second before turning and throwing it out the door, into the night. Fuck the light, I had a candle.

What else do I have in my life that has been manufactured? What else isn't genuine that I could swap out for something simpler? I wanted everything in my life to be like the candle: honest, practical, and beautiful. I wanted every aspect of my life to be lit by the purity of such practicality. I needed to stop and think about not thinking, not planning. I needed to become what I'd just explained myself to be. I needed to stop manufacturing experiences and, instead, allow them to come to me, ensuring that when they reach me, they are beautiful and honest.

I'd had two near-death experiences in the last several hours. I'd been so close, and in that space of time, when my final moments become the equivalent of decades, I found that God was still there, still listening to me. I'd silently spoken with Him in those moments, silently apologized for being such a burden to my mother, for not being able to just do things the way that others did. I didn't ask God for anything. I didn't ask Him to save me, to comfort me; I just apologized. I knew that He made me special, and that trying to explain that to others was impossible, that all they heard was blasphemy... I told Him that I loved Him more than anyone else and that I respected Him too much to believe the bullshit I'd been taught... They made such a human god at church... They made Him into an immature tyrant. Church and God were, to me, like hot and cold... only related by association, not in their actuality. Cold is cold because hot is hot... God is good because things are always bad... God is the good and the bad, the sin and the redemption.

There in the last decades of my life, I prepared myself for judgment. Judgment by a higher God seemed relieving to me. Not the fickle narrow-minded freaks who are persuaded by emotions, but an eternal, sovereign God that truly knew my heart, understood my intentions... Judge me on what I believe. Judge me on being true to what I could accept, to holding to my own moral code. I wasn't worried, and I still am not worried about the sex and the drugs on my heavenly record. What matters to God is in the heart, in the willingness to give, to care, and to love. On those counts, I consider myself innocent, honest, and true.

I went to bed shortly after tossing my $27.95 out the door. I closed my eyes, stretched out in my new sleeping bag with my brand new mattress pad beneath me. The self-inflating pad was comfortable and worked like insulation under my frame. It felt so good, in fact, that I got up and walked over to Skins, holding it in my hand.

He, too, was almost asleep. "Hey, Skins?" I asked, hoping he wasn't quite there yet.

"Yessir?" he answered.

"Hey, I want you to try this out, bud. Can you stand up for a second?"

"Whatcha got there, young fella?"

"A sleeping pad. It's like a mini mattress... It's good for old bones."

"You want me to try it out fer ya?"

"No, I want you to sleep on it. I bought two, one for me and one for Pablo, but he's already got one," I lied. Pablo did have one, but I didn't buy two.

"I spose I could try it out and see how it feels."

"Thanks, man. That'd be great."

He stood up and let me lay it on the ground under him. Then he lay back down, using the folded wool blanket as a cover instead of a pad. "Oh boy oh boy... I could get used to that. That's really somethin', young man; that there is reeee-aaallly somethin' all right."

"Does it feel good?" I asked again.

"Oh, man, it feels like a slice of heaven, right here on earth."

"I want you to keep it, Skins. Will you?"

"Yes, I will keep it. These here old bones is gettin' frail, my man. I'll take it all right, and I thank ya."

I smiled a smile deep inside my soul, feeling like Skins was on borrowed time, and whatever I could do to ease his old soul, I wanted to do. Sometimes in life we get vague opportunities to make an impact; other times we get wide open shots to be amazing people. I wanted the latter; I wanted to make a difference, especially for a sweet old man in desperate need.

I crawled into my sleeping bag, now lying on the hard, wood floor. The discomfort of the unforgiving boards beneath me felt fantastic in a giving sort of way. As I began to fall asleep, I dreamed of being a good man for the rest of my life. I was going to be that fucking candle, one way or another.

I woke up to the morning light shining down on the endless desert. We were still moving along pretty well, and when I looked at my watch, I realized it was 7:07, still early. I'd slept for a total of five hours, and other than my back and bones that felt like I'd been beaten with a golf club, I'd never felt so rested. I awoke and scanned the floor, seeing Pablo and Skins sleeping peacefully, the sound of the moving train like a lullaby. The breeze blowing in from outside was warm, not like the cold nighttime air that, in tandem with my warm sleeping bag, had helped me sleep peacefully through the night. I looked again at Skins, wanting to see his chest rising and falling, and did not see it. I stood up and hobbled a little closer, my own heartbeat speeding up. When I got a little closer, I saw him breathing, and I took a deep breath. Wow, that would not have been good for my soul.

I rolled a joint and lit it. As if a rooster had cock-a-doodle-dooed, Skins woke up immediately.

"I thought I smelled that. Better than bacon an' eggs." He smiled.

I noticed that Skins only had a few remaining teeth on the top. He had a wonderful smile though, like a guy who had smiled plenty in his life; it seemed a normal expression for his face. All the wrinkles on his face were a result of his smile. When he smiled, he did a full facial smile that came easy, due to, I guessed, the wrinkling skin.

"Wanna rip, old timer?" I asked, playfully holding the joint out.

"Na what kinda question is that? A course," he said, standing up and grabbing it. "That pad a yers is 'bout the best thing I ever felt. I feel better than I can ever recall feeling first thing in the mornin'. I thank you again, Ved. That's a real nice thing ya done in givin' it ta me."

"I'm glad I could, buddy. But if I'm not mistaken, the rules for smoking a J are still puff, puff, give." I smiled, reaching out for the joint he'd been hittin' pretty hard.

He laughed, coughing smoke out of his nose and mouth. "Sorry 'bout that, young fella. We can smoke some a the ones you gimme if ya want."

"No, I was kidding. I have plenty. I want you to save those for when you're alone. I'll cover us while we're together."

"Yeah, OK. Where ya said you goin' in Califernia?"

"Alameda. Somewhere near San Fran. You know it?"

"Sure I do. Ritzy folks live there in Alameda. It's right across the water from Oakland; gotta take one them underwater tunnels. You go inta that tunnel in Oakland, where they ain't no white folks a'tall, come out on the other side, like you in the 1950's. All the black folks in Alameda's workin' in the kitchens and collectin' the trash. Real nice there. You gots kin there?"

"No, I have a friend. Sort of a girlfriend... well... sort of."

"Ooooh, yeah. Sorry, I remember you tellin' me that last night... Getting old ain't no fun, Ved. Don't you let folks sayin' it's not too bad fool ya. It's awful. You brain still thinks you twenty-five, but yer bones will tell you otherwise."

"I'll keep that in mind." I passed the joint back to Skins, then asked, "Hey, Skins, where you think this train will stop?"

"Oh, I figger it'll go ta northern Califernia. We in Califernia now, headed northwest. Guessin' it'll go up a bit fer it stops."

"OK," I said, thinking about that.

Pablo woke up a few minutes later and complained that he was hungry and had to take a shit.

"Which is worse?" I asked, smiling.

"The shit. I need to drop it, now."

I looked at Skins. "All right, old timer, how's it done in a train car?"

"Gotta do it right there by the door. When you done, you kick it out."

"And what are you two gonna do while I take a dump in front of the door?"

"Laugh and take pictures," I said.

"We'll talk. I got somethin' to show ya fellas noways," Skins added.

"Jesus... can't I just do it in the corner?" he asked, smiling.

"Fuck no, you can't! This is community space, bro," I said, laughing hysterically at his worried face and obvious nervousness about shitting in front of us.

"Go on now. We all men here," Skins said.

"You might be, Skins, and I am, but he's damn sure not," Pablo said, pointing at me.

"Right. That's why I'm gonna take pictures," I said, holding up my new camera as evidence that I was serious.

"Fuck it. Go ahead," he said, holding his hand over his guts, definitely in agony. "It's coming out, now."

Pablo squatted right there before the door and let that mess loose with reckless abandon. The sight was hilarious, but his moaning and farting was priceless. I tried, I really did, not to watch, but it was just too interesting to ignore. Even Skins, who was a seasoned rider, was laughing hysterically. I could hardly stand up I was laughing so hard. I watched Pablo, with the desert passing by in the background in a red blur. The train was making a long left turn, slow and gradual. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a dinging noise started, and Skins went to say something, but it was too late. Pablo was bare assed, straining and moaning, spreading his feet wider and wider as his shit splattered all over the floor. We crossed a two lane intersection, cars backed up ten deep, with Pablo's bare ass exposed and a massive pile of wet shit heaping beneath him.

This was too much, and I literally fell over I was laughing so hard. Pablo went to stand up, terrified by the sudden intersection, and in doing so, a piece of excrement that'd been dangling from his ass fell end over end and landed in his underwear that was sitting like an open basket around his ankles.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled, and I literally thought I was going to asphyxiate from laughing so hard. Even old Skins, who'd been trying to maintain his composure, was in hysterics, tears rolling down his cheeks while Pablo shuffled around in tiny movements because the pants were around his ankles like those shackles you see in prison movies. He couldn't pull them up because of the poop that'd fallen in there, so he just ran around half naked, screaming.

When we were back in the open desert, Pablo pulled his underwear off and tossed them out the door. He grimaced when he looked at his hand, which had been soiled when he threw the underpants into the desert. He yelled, mortified, as he tried to wipe his hand off on the hard wooden floor. Shit clung to his boot after he kicked the huge mound out the door.

We were all hungry when, two hours later, the train began to slow down. We slowed to about twenty miles an hour and cruised along for a while at that speed before we began to slow even more.

"This is it. This en's gonna stop in Portola," Skins said.

"Portola?" I asked.

"Yeah. We's just northwest of Reno. You boys need ta hitch back to Reno, shouldn't be too hard, then go straight west from there. Me, I's got ta go on north, and I think there's a BNSF that run right up there if I can remember which 'en it is," he said.

"So, that's it? We're gonna have to split up now?" I asked, sounding sadder than I meant.

He looked at me as if he was trying to remember what it was like to be so naïve. "Yessir. That's the way it is on these trains, my friend. Ya gettin' to like a fella, then you goin' opposite ways..."

The train was braking hard, clacking as we changed tracks, and suddenly there were all sorts of trains beside us. We were pulling into a train yard that seemed like it housed a million trains. I hung out the door and looked around, seeing the signs of a tiny town about a mile out in front of our car. I showed Skins how to roll up the mattress pad, and he began packing his stuff up like he was in a hurry.

"Trick is, ya gotta get off the train fer it stops," he said, putting the last of his belongings into his bag and standing up. He threw it over his shoulder like it weighed five pounds. "All right, fellas, 'member, ya gotta get down ta Reno, then west. You won't have too much trouble gettin' out a Portola, just don't let the law see ya. I gotta go; hate this town." He shook my hand and said, "Again, Ved, I thank you. You have a good heart. You a good man. I'm proud to have known ya."

"You too, Skins. Be safe, huh?"

"Oh... me? I been out here too long ta be safe. Don't worry about me, boys. I'm always gonna be OK. It ain't the ridin's gonna get me." He said goodbye to Pablo and sat in the doorway, waiting as the train began to stop. When it was nearly stopped, he said, "Wanna see somethin'? Watch out this door when the train stop."

With that, he jumped out and started shuffling down the tracks.

I walked to the door, realizing we were finally completely stopped and looked out. I didn't know what I was looking for at first, but then I saw it. In both directions, front and back, people were running away from the train. There must have been twenty people that jumped off the train as soon as the airbrakes hissed. I couldn't believe my eyes. People everywhere, scurrying away like rats running away when the lights come on.

I looked back to see him one last time, but just like that, Skins was gone.

Pablo and I were at a crossroads. He was still relentlessly hungry, and with his hunger came the need to announce his every hunger pang. Growing annoyed, I decided to delay the hitch out of town until after we ate something. I sat with my legs hanging out of the door while Pablo gathered his things. I was watching traffic pass by in the distance. I had the same feelings that I had when I was driving out to Ft. Lewis, this weird feeling that these people knew things I didn't... These people knew this town. Each of the houses out there was owned by someone, someone who went off to work every day and came home to a loving wife and a hot meal... These people were working just to provide the electricity that powered their televisions... This place that seemed so eerie and abstract to me was home to them. How could this town even exist? How could Portola be real? I'd never even heard of it before... I was so small.

The town looked like it was in Kentucky, or at least what Kentucky looks like in the movies. The hills that surrounded the town were lined with deciduous trees. There was a thick fog after a midday rain, and tiny puffs of smoke were rising out of quaint chimneys. I was amazed by the scene. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting of a town, quaint and cute, quiet from the distance I sat from it all. I tried to tell Pablo about my train of thought, but he wasn't following me. I'd gotten pretty baked, and this time the baking was perfectly intimate.

I watched as delivery trucks drove by, people walked holding hands, and even a deputy passed. What did he do all day? What was it like to be a deputy of a town like Portola? I watched them all moving, people going decisively here and there, taking anticipated lefts and rights into doors they knew to be unlocked. I stared at the motion of it all, the way children watch anthills, amazed by the purposeful nature of those tiny critters.

Pablo, who was meticulously and categorically organizing his gear, finally announced that he was hungry enough to eat a horse. I winced at the cliché and asked him what he had in mind. He sat down beside me, trying to pretend that he was now interested in my thoughts, but the moment had passed. I smiled, thinking of the Dave Matthews Band song "Warehouse," and the line about a thought being lost forever. I understood exactly what he meant when he jotted his thoughts into a spiral notebook, a notebook that was probably adorned with a million other sentences, some of which were scribbled over, others with tiny triangles between words, inserting prepositions he hadn't thought of when he'd initially scribbled them down... I like Dave Matthews, I like the fatalist in him.

Fatalism... is that my religion? Synonyms for that word include pessimism, defeatism, despondency, despair... yet, the idea that makes fatalism what it is suited me well. I was sort of a fatalist, but the idea of the futility in our daily struggles didn't depress me, it excited me. It was all for nothing. Everything I'd done up to this point in my life had taken me here, which ultimately brings me joy, but in a year, a month, or maybe a day, I'd be dead, and what would it matter what I'd done with my time? Lately, the idea of death and using it in comparison to the situation unfolding was becoming therapeutic; though, really, anyone who bounces his temporary misery against the backboard of death can find a reason to be happy... There's always a reason to be happy if you look hard enough, and when you can't find it, just use death as the weight at the other end of the scale... You too can find happiness in misery.

It wasn't a death wish, but sort of a longing for misery. I needed something to happen to me that scared me, something that brought the euphoria of everyday life back to my immediate perception. There had to be something waiting for me out there that solved the internal conflict I was sleeping with. She and I had become close in the last few weeks.

Conflictia was the name I'd assigned her, and though she was constant turmoil, she was a beautiful mistress. Conflictia and I used to just fuck every once in a while. She'd show up out of nowhere after long silences and time away, but when she'd come back, she'd bring the pills with her. I'd fuck her down, relishing in the temporary nature she dressed in, taking her as my own, making me special when I crawled down deep inside of her, removing myself from the rest of the world, embracing her darkness, her isolation. Though it'd started out like that, she wasn't satisfied as my temporary lover for long. I began to crave her, swallowing her pills, even in her absence.

Then came Ryan's death, and though I was processing too many things at once, she found a place inside of me where she could live permanently. Even if, on a day to day basis, I could pretend she wasn't there, she was. She had tentacles then. She had a massive vagina that would swallow me up, taking me deep inside of her to where the voices of others were just muffled echoes and unintelligible noises. Inside those fleshy walls of hers, I fell in love. It wasn't so much her prowess or her absolute sexiness, it was that there, deep inside of her where the world was just noise and light, I found happiness with myself. I could think better alone. In the absolute isolation of her vast vagina, I wasn't distracted by the alarms going off in my head when I heard lies, when I heard motive... I'd never been able to silence them when I was following whatever was leading me. Only there, in the arms of Conflictia, deep inside of her and she in me, was I ever truly happy with myself.

"It's OK, Pablo. Don't worry about it." You mindless crybaby.

"No, tell me. What were you saying about life and these people in town?"

"Nothing. I forgot."

I love using the "I forgot" line when it concerns thoughts. People have a hard time arguing with it. Everyone can, at some level, understand what it's like to forget something you were thinking. Everyone remembers feeling helpless to a mind otherwise distracted, and they inherently know that chasing the thoughts through a friend's mind only pushes it deeper into the darkness.

"All right, fine, let's go eat somewhere," Pablo said, predictably.

Here and now, Pablo was concerned with food. I wasn't. I was hungry, but I wanted to talk to the people driving those cars. I wanted to talk to that deputy. I just wanted to know who they were, what they did here, how they lived in a world where I was a stranger. How could they have gotten this far without me there to guide them, to explain why some decisions were bad and others good? Did they have a me here in Portola? Was there a gifted man around here, someone who could help them get through the tough times?

"All right," I said, disappointed in him for being so fucking predictable. I wish people surprised me more often. Sometimes it's nice to be surprised by the actions people take. The rest of the world is lucky to be blind as a bat. Ignorance is bliss, and knowledge isn't just power, it's a burden.

I jumped off the train and turned my back to face the ledge of the door. I stepped backwards into my bag, so it was easier to get onto my back. I threaded my arms through the straps and stepped forward, letting the weight fall onto my shoulders. Holy shit, the thing felt like it was up to three hundred pounds now. Giving Skins my mattress pad was a very nice gesture, most likely brought on by the happiness I'd created by getting stoned in the middle of the night, but I sure wished now that I knew I could sleep on it when I lay down tonight. I really needed to cool it with the Percocet-reefer combo; it made me way too thoughtful.

Pablo was right behind me as we started walking in the direction we decided would take us to civilization. It was sort of hard to determine for sure, however. There were so many train cars that the yard was like a maze. While we walked, I complained about my heavy bag to combat Pablo's complaints about his hunger.

"Dude, when we get into town, why don't you buy some food to put in your bag? That way when you get hungry in the future, I don't have to hear about it. It makes sense. I mean, you're going to be hungry again in about six hours, give or take. Preparedness is close to godliness," I joked.

"No, cleanliness is next to godliness. That reminds me, I need a shower."

"A shower? You showered yesterday, man. This is roughing it... We're on an every-five-day schedule now."

"Fuck that. You might be, but I'm not. I can afford a motel room every other day, at least until I go ho―" He caught himself.

"It's OK, man. I get it. You can go home anytime you want to, bro. No hard feelings."

"And what are you gonna do? This?"

"Yes, this is exactly what I'm going to do. We've been over this. I'm going to go. I don't know where, or how, I'm just gonna put one foot in front of the other and keep moving, smiling as I do so."

"It won't be fun forever, Ved. Eventually, you're gonna get into some serious shit, and when you do, you're gonna want help."

"How about I call in a favor, then? You walk away now without me being pissy about it, and if I need help in the future, I'll call―"

"That sounds fair―"

I cut him off, not done with my sentence, "Mandy to come down and―"

"Don't fuck around with that. Don't. I'm not going to get into it with you again, but I don't want to hear about it."

"I'm a heterosexual male, Pablo. Your sister is an attractive female, who happens to be attracted to me as such a male. It's really not that―"

"Seriously, Ved, I'm not fucking kidding!"

"No one is suggesting you are." I was trying to push his buttons. I wanted him to go, and if he wasn't going to do it on his own, I'd have to push him. "My point is this, bro, just because you're still in the closet, like some sort of sexual refugee, doesn't mean the rest of us are. Your sister came on to me. I liked her; she liked me... That's all it takes. If you have some sort of religious objections, that's fine, but if you don't, that's what people do. You say you're gay, but I'm not sure that's it. I think you are sexually dysfunctional. I think that somewhere along the way in your development something happened that stopped your progress, stunted it... When it started to develop again, it wasn't the same. I think saying that you're gay is easier than saying what's really going on. I don't think you're gay at all."

"Fuck you, Mister Prophet. You don't know shit about me, and I already told you, stop talking about my sister."

"You sure are touchy about the sister thing... Is that it? Is that where you went wrong along the way? Huh? Maybe you kissed her, or spied on her in the..."

He lunged at me, which I easily sidestepped and smiled back at him. "Holy shit! That's it, huh? You have a thing for your sister... Jesus Christ, man, being gay is cool; being in love with your sister is freaky." He swung at me again, but with his bag on, he was sloppy. "Does Bear know about this? Is that why you always find camps and shit for him to go to? Because when he's around, you realize that even though he obviously has developmental problems, they're nothing compared to your twisted shit?"

"Fucking asshole! Don't talk about my fucking―"

"You're twisted, dude. It's normal to go through that when you're a kid, like eleven... but no... something happened... you did something with her... she jerk you off, let you jerk off on her, suck your dick?" Even thinking about Mandy sucking him off made me ill, and I seriously doubted that she'd ever been a part of whatever fantasies he had in his head, but something was wrong here... I was too right to be wrong.

"You're the most pathetic person I've ever met. You live in a fantasy world; it's the only world where anyone's ever going to believe your bullshit, Ved. No one here on planet Earth takes you seriously... To the rest of us, you're just a fuck up who covers up his fuck ups with philosophical bullshit, and when people don't understand you, you just say to everyone around you that they're fucking idiots. You probably said that about me a minute ago when you were talking nonsense about the people in this town... didn't you? You thought to yourself that I'm an idiot. I'm too one dimensional or something... right?"

"Yeah, I thought to myself that you are an idiot and a crybaby."

"Crybaby? Are you kidding me? Do you know what I've been through? Do you know what my life has been? You think you're some sort of tragic figure, working out your problems while wandering around like fucking Kerouac, but you're a poser. You don't know tragedy... You're not Eddie Vedder, asshole."

"No, I'm not, but I didn't fuck my sister either."

He was past trying to swing on me now "Maybe not, but your family hates you, understandably."

Was that a confession? By not denying the charges, did that mean it was an admission of guilt? "No, it's definitely understandable... Your family really loves you, bro... the kind of love I thought only existed in West Virginia, freak." OK, I was taking low shots, losing my cool, but I really wanted to get to the issue with his sister. What wasn't he saying? What was I missing?

"My parents died, you fucking poser! I know what it means to be alone, whereas you just walk around humming Pearl Jam songs, pretending you have this tragic past you're trying to escape. Figures, you're just another poser..."

"So you kids clung to each other in the aftermath? Literally?"

"You're a fucking asshole. I'm done with you. I'm going home."

"Wear a rubber when you get there. That way if Mandy gets pregnant, we don't have to speculate about whose it is."

"I'm gonna beat your..." He lunged at me again. This time he opted for a quick right jab that I tried to get out of the way of, but it barely caught the side of my ear.

"You're pathetic. You call that a punch?" I asked, my arms at my sides, refusing to take it to the next level.

"Have a nice life, asshole."

He turned to start walking down the long yard, and only then did we realize that we were not alone. I hadn't heard him driving up, but when I saw him there, for some reason I wasn't surprised to see him. His lights were flashing as he stood there next to his patrol car, unnecessary aviator sunglasses on his face, chewing gum with his mouth open.

Well, at least now I'll find out what he does all day.

7

Oh, I'm Still Alive

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Roscoe said with a tilt of his cowboy hat, his badge glistening even under the cloudy sky. He must spend time polishing that thing at night. "You boys know it's a Class B misdemeanor to illegally ride on a train?" he asked calmly, without even a hint of accent.

Pablo looked at me, and I at him, while we searched our brains for the correct answer, the one that would portray our innocence, at least prove us not guilty by reason of ignorance. Nothing came immediately to my mind, which I must admit was disappointing. I've always been such a good liar; it's always come so easily to me. Lying was one of those talents that I had just inherited from some family member, though I am ashamed to admit it. Now, when I needed the power of a good lie, the kind I could really sink my teeth into, the kind I could tell while looking a man straight in the eye, I couldn't find one. Damn it! Time was running out; the window for the "truth" dissipating as I stood there, rummaging through the dusty boxes of lies in my brain for something that would sound firm... Too late, I'd crossed into the territory where the other party knows for certain that I am lying. The truth is easy, the truth comes fast... wait a second too long and you're guilty.

Really, as soon as Roscoe saw us look at each other with that I-don't-like-you-but-we-need-to-come-up-with-something-as-our-last-act-of-friendship look, we were guilty. He had us.

I was going to just shoot from the hip and wing it, but Roscoe wasn't waiting for us. "Ya see, we have a lot of losers that get off these trains, right here in this yard. They scatter like rats..." Which was my phrase, but I let it go without informing him that he'd plagiarized me. "See, from here they can jump off and head north, south, or east. That's a problem for us in town."

"Why?" I asked.

Pablo shot me a glare before Roscoe asked, "Why what?"

"Why is that a problem for the people in town?"

"Because they're vagrants. Because they stink and they steal."

"All of them?" I asked, thrilled with my defiance.

"Not all of them, but enough that we don't need them around here."

"Oh, the town must be thriving all by itself," I said. "Guess you probably have enough business that you don't need any―"

"Shut the fuck up, Ved," Pablo said out of nowhere. "Sorry, he's an idiot. Ignore him."

"You need to listen to your friend. Talking isn't going to help your case any."

I nodded.

"You gonna tell me you didn't know it was illegal?" he asked, eyeing us from behind the aviator sunglasses.

"You just told me that talking wasn't going to help my case," I said, doing my damndest to look serious. The smile was bubbling up, up, up... I couldn't control it, and it broke the surface, sending me into a full-face smile.

Roscoe smiled too, something I wasn't expecting. "I knew you were going to fucking say that... I knew it the second I asked the question... Very good."

The truth of the matter was I didn't know it was a Class B misdemeanor to jump a train. I assumed it was probably frowned upon, but did I know it was a Class B misdemeanor? No, I didn't.

"Well, no. Honestly, I don't have a copy of the California state laws on me. I didn't even know we were in California. We were in Nevada when we boarded," I said, damn proud of myself for not being a pussy but concerned that by defending my actions he would think I was lying to avoid the punishment, which I was not. To be sure he didn't think I was brownnosing, I added, "Are you sure it's not a Class C+ misdemeanor?"

He smiled again, almost as if he was expecting me to say that too. "I'm pretty sure." He thought for a second and said, "A lot of people ride these rails illegally, but I rarely catch 'em. They're obviously not as smart as you boys; they disappear before the train even stops. No one really sits around, feet hanging out the door like they're on the beach in Malibu. You two are obviously the cream of the crop. That's why I asked if you understood the law... If you'd have said no, I would have believed you. Not because I wouldn't expect you to lie, but because anyone with a brain would, at the very least, hide. I'm gonna need to see your licenses, fellas."

Damnit! That's why I couldn't find the lie. My brain was telling me that one wasn't needed! Roscoe was playing psychological games with me, and winning. "Well played, officer," I said, reaching into my pocket where I'd put my wallet. I'd promised myself never to store it anywhere other than in my back right pocket ever again.

He looked at them for a second, then looked at us for the same amount of time, making sure we were the people in the pictures, and then he smiled and shook his head. "All right, wait right here. I'll be right back."

"Roger that," Pablo said, probably hoping to solicit questions about us being in the military.

I wasn't at all worried about the military popping up when he ran my license. The fact that I was still being paid and had been run through the police computer in Nevada, by a state trooper, was comforting. On the other hand, the potential for being wanted for questioning about "The Sundance Arsonist" was making my heart thump hard. The fire was probably still burning, turning the red mountain that the junkyard rested beneath black from the toxins of burning tires and chemicals in the motors that were undoubtedly melting into shiny metal piles, like the bad guy in Terminator 2.

Had I seen Roscoe coming, I'm not sure that I would have run for it; that wasn't really my style, but it would have been nice to have a second to think of a lie before being pushed out from behind the curtains and onto the stage. I hadn't seen or heard him, and as far as I could tell from where I was sitting now, he'd even had his lights on the whole time. I was so into the thing with Pablo, so sure that I was onto something when I'd accused him of being sexually attracted to his sister...

I looked over at Pablo while Roscoe was running our licenses... I shook my head at him, saying, "Yeah, I know I was right, you sick freak," which I didn't need to say out loud, my head shake was enough.

"Fuck you," he said.

I smiled.

Roscoe sat in his car, typing things into a computer. I thought that was the coolest thing ever, a computer right there in his car. I wondered if it had Space Invaders on it, or at a very minimum, Asteroids. Roscoe was cool. I liked the guy. The fact that he'd smiled at my antics, rather than getting all "Spread 'em" on me, was great. He had a sense of humor, and rightly, he'd been amused at my funny banter. I am a comedic genius!

Why was Pablo still here? Why didn't he just disappear when he'd... well, when he'd disappeared in Elko? Why had he come back? Freakier yet, why had he spied on me the whole day, watching me do... I ran through a mental checklist of the things I had done when I thought no one was watching, making sure Pablo hadn't seen anything terrible. Nothing came to mind, other than starting the fire, which made me relax a little bit.

I just wanted him to go back to his house, back to his sister, his family, or what was left of them. I could do this alone. I was ready to do this alone, and, unlike the first time I'd said it, I wanted to do it by myself. I was going to try and talk to him, to be calm and explain that the time had come for us to part ways, but:

I thought he already knew that.

I thought that might lead into the same conversation we'd been having when the deputy rolled up on us.

The idea that he and his sister had... whatever... made me ill.

I have a sister and a stepsister, and even the thought of doing... that... with my stepsister, someone who wasn't even blood related, made my stomach turn. I love my sisters, and if push came to shove, I'd want to kill someone for fucking them over too, but that doesn't stem from any sort of sexual jealousy; that's just me being a brother.

Before I could change my mind and talk to Pablo calmly, Roscoe got out of the car and walked toward us, looking relaxed. I knew before he even handed us our IDs back that we were OK, nothing had come up.

"Nothing comes up from your licenses, which, I must say, surprises me a little." He smiled. "You boys having a lovers spat when I pulled in? You didn't even see me coming."

"No," Pablo said.

"I'm not related to him," I said, hoping for...

"Who asked if you're related to him? I asked if―"

"Right, but he only really loves family members," I said, thrilled that'd played out perfectly. For additional fun, I humped the air with my hips.

"Mother..." Pablo jumped at me.

I stepped back. "Whoa now, little fella... you don't want to get us in trouble with the officer."

"That's enough! Jesus Christ!" Roscoe said, stepping between us and resting a hand on each of our chests. "So, here's the deal. It's four o'clock. I don't know where you're headed, but I can tell you that if you were planning on jumping another train out of here, that's not gonna happen. You can hitchhike out of town. I can't legally stop you from doing so, but this time of night, that can be difficult. You'd need to walk about eight miles, out to Main Street, and then you could potentially hitch back to Reno. Problem is, that eight miles is up and down some pretty mean hills the whole way. It'll take you a long time, and by the time you get to 70, the road you need, it'll be after dark. No one around here is going to pick up two wanderers after dark, and if they don't, you're likely to get attacked by mountain lions or some other form of wildlife. I don't imagine you want that." Apparently he was waiting for us to affirm his presumption. "Right?"

"So... that's plan A. I'm assuming you have a plan B?" I asked, eyebrows arched.

"There aren't any motels in town, so that's not an option. You're too late to hitch out of here, and I can't let you jump another train, meaning you can either start walking, or I can bring you into the station. I'll write you a ticket for jaywalking; that'll let me bring you in for the night. If you want to spend the night, you can stay in the jail. We'll feed ya. You can shower and just relax. I'm not gonna keep you. The jail's a far cry from Alcatraz. There aren't even any bars. It's just a place to stay, that's all. You can pay your ticket in the morning. It'll be thirty-five dollars each, mostly for the court fees, and you can be on your way as early as you wanna be. You might want to stay for breakfast though; Miss Martha cooks up some mean bacon and eggs."

"Martha?" I asked.

"Yeah, she's Pastor Mike's wife, from the Lutheran Church in town. She volunteers to cook for the jail in the mornings. Fat Steve cooks at night. Lots of guys get themselves tossed in the can so they can eat his barbecue. It's that good. We have to be picky about who we lock up on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights." Roscoe smiled.

"So, let me get this right. We can either be eaten by mountain lions or spend the night in jail?"

"Yeah, something like that. You can't just go pitchin' a tent in town, and you definitely can't jump a train out of here. We answer to the railroad here; it's a huge part of our community. If you want to get back on the rails, you need to do it from another place. You're lucky I'm not gonna arrest you for what I saw."

"I see," I said, looking at Pablo who shrugged his shoulders and refused to look at me.

"He's really pissed at you, isn't he?" Roscoe asked me.

"Yeah."

"If I had to deal with your sarcasm for days on end, I'd be pissed too." Roscoe smiled.

"Shit! That's nothing... He's a goddamned animal!" Pablo said to Roscoe.

"Why? What'd he do?"

"Slept with his sister," I interjected.

Pablo looked at me sharply while Roscoe whistled. "You didn't!" He laughed.

"Yeah, I did. That was five days ago, and he's known the whole time, but he's still not over it."

I thought that leaving my other accusations out of the conversation with Roscoe was kind of me. As it was, I could see that Pablo was mad and getting madder, but he wasn't going to correct me, as much as he hated hearing me talk about doing his sister.

"Wow! The balls on this guy, huh?" Roscoe asked Pablo, pointing to me with his thumb.

"Yeah, he's a real piece of work. Thinks he's God's gift to the world though, literally."

"That's not true, Pablo. I'm just His prophet."

"Fuck you, you're His false prophet, His pathetic little tiny-dick asshole!"

"OK, OK... what do you two want to do? Or maybe I should ask you individually."

"Lock me up," I said without any further discussion.

"I'll walk out of here. Isn't there a bus station around?" Pablo asked.

"Yeah, but there's only one bus a day out of town, and it's at eleven in the morning. You sure you wanna walk? The animals out here ain't no joke. We have more mountain lion attacks than anywhere in the world. We're known for it; look it up in the encyclopedia."

I wondered where we were going to get the encyclopedia from. Maybe they had them at the jail?

"I believe you, but the idea of spending another night with this asshole is too much for me to handle."

Roscoe looked at me. "Man, he really doesn't like you fucking his sister." He turned back to Pablo. "I can put you in separate cells overnight. There are only two, but I can make sure you stay in opposite ones; it's not a big deal. Think about it. You'll bunk up with someone else. I swear, it'll be some other guy."

"Ooh, he'll like that," I said.

"Fuck you! I fucking hate you!"

"Whoa! That's enough... You're like little girls!"

"I agree, officer, but I'm the victim here." I smiled.

Pablo looked like he wanted to swing at me, and it was different than the other tiffs we'd gotten into. He really didn't like me. It wasn't that he was pretending to hate me; he really did. I could see it in his eyes, something about his face had changed, something that was once benevolent now looked volatile. If it had just ended on the train car, if he'd just headed home, I would still have a lifeline, a call-in favor if I needed one.

"All right, if you want to come back to the station for some hot showers and some hot food, go ahead and hop into the back of the car. If you want to hike out of here, I guess you should just go on," Roscoe said, not smiling any longer.

"I'm in," I said, turning to the police car, and then I remembered my knuckles, my pot, and my gun that I couldn't have on me. "Officer, I left something in the car; can I grab it real quick?" I asked, nodding at the train.

"Yeah, go on. Let me talk to your buddy for a second."

I walked without haste, pulling the knuckles casually out of my pocket and holding them in front of me, to block the view of them from the deputy. I got to the car and crawled underneath it, trying to cross over to the tree line behind the train. As I maneuvered my way under it, I prayed that it wouldn't suddenly start moving. I deduced that the only thing worse than being crushed by a train cruising down tracks would be being crushed by a train that was barely moving at all.

I emerged unscathed on the other side of the boxcar and eyed the dense trees on the other side of six more sets of tracks. I scrambled across them, making sure to look left and right a freakish number of times. When I made it across, I ran full bore at the trees and looked for somewhere to hide my shit in the wet foliage. I found a good-sized rock that I could tip on its side to put the knucks and the gun under. All sorts of critters were crawling around in the cold, wet, hard-packed dirt beneath it. Without much of an option, I pulled the gun out of the Kelty bag, removed the round from the chamber, and set it in the cold dirt. I tossed the knucks in before I set the rock down gently. The rock was going to scratch the hard chrome plating, I knew, but I really hoped the damage to the gun would stop there. I didn't want to kink the barrel because, God forbid, if I ever had to shoot it again, I didn't want it to explode in my face, forcing me to wear a patch and talk with one of those electric things people hold against their throats for the rest of my life.

The pot stayed in my JanSport, which I left sitting beside the rock. If anyone came along in the next twenty-four hours, it'd be gone. That was the risk, but I wasn't bringing four pounds of weed into the station. I'd just have to roll the dice.

I hurried back and crossed under the train, eyeing the metal above my head, and came out the other side. Roscoe was waiting for me.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Uh... taking a piss."

"You shy?" he asked, looking at me suspiciously.

"Extremely."

He eyed me, as if deciding whether or not he believed me. Finally, he said, "All right, let's go."

"Is Pablo... Evan coming?"

"Nope. He's seriously gonna try to walk out of here."

"Really? What about the mountain―"

"I told him, but he wanted nothing to do with jail, or you. I think he's an idiot, personally, but whatever. You ready?"

"Yeah, let's go."

I sat in the front seat as we drove to town. Roscoe, who told me his real name was Gabe O'Reiley, was young, maybe twenty-seven, and good looking in a western sort of way. His lower lip was packed with tobacco, but he never spit, at least that I saw. He probably weighed one sixty-five, stood almost six foot, and had medium-length, brown hair. He looked more like a deputy you'd see in an old Clint Eastwood movie than one from the present day, but I liked that about him. This town seemed to be pretty relaxed, and the fact that his hair was long and his shirt untucked gave him the appearance of an outlaw himself.

Gabe took me on the scenic route to the station. We drove in a massive circle that winded its way through the center of town before making it to the jail. It was a cute town that looked, at least to me, like it was in Washington State. The towns I'd passed on my way to Luke's place looked very similar. Most of them had traditional 1950's architecture and looked like they'd been soaking in water for the last forty plus years. There were few, if any, brick homes; instead, they were mostly white, wooden structures that were narrow and tall. Chain-link fences must have been all the rage twenty years ago because they connected almost every yard to the next, all rusted to the point where it appeared a good kick would snap them in half.

When we pulled into the station, I smiled, recognizing the place from The Andy Griffith Show. It was the Mayberry jail, minus Barney. Gabe brought in my big bag while I carried the guitar.

"You play that thing any good?" he asked.

"Uh... no, but I can play chords, and I sing."

"Really? Maybe you could play for us later."

"Us?"

"There's five of y'all in the can tonight. Don't worry, they're all regulars. Norm Davis, Big Lou, Geoff Martin, and Larry Fisher are already in the cells. They're probably playing poker about now. You want to meet 'em?"

"What are they in here for?"

"Norm's here for a domestic charge. Big Lou got himself arrested at the Red Post last night, had a few too many and mouthed off to a deputy. He won't be here long. He'll probably stay for dinner and then hit the road. Uh... Geoff and Larry are neighbors that got into a dispute about whose dog was shitting in whose yard. Larry ended up plowing a strip of Geoff's yard with his John Deere, so Geoff shot him with a pellet gun. They're here until the judge can see them in the morning."

"Wow. Lots going on in Portola today." I smiled.

"No, this is actually pretty slow. It might be a small town, but there's plenty of trouble. Come on, I'll introduce you."

We went through a doorway without a door and turned to face another door. It looked exactly like any other door that you might see in a home, except that it had a dead bolt that didn't work. The only thing that secured the door was the twist-lock in the handle. Obviously, Portola didn't get a lot of violent criminals who refused to be subdued.

We went through that door and entered the jail cell. It was concrete with a door that, despite Gabe's description, did have bars, though they looked more like the fencing that most of the townspeople marked their yard off with. Gabe produced a key and opened the door, allowing me to step in first.

Four men sat at a round table, cards scattered all over it, with cigarettes in their mouths and Coke cans in their hands. There was a bench that took up most of the wall, two bunk beds, and a shitter hidden by a very small wall. With the exception of the music, the cigarettes, and the card table, it looked like a jail cell.

"Gabe, got you another violent criminal, did ya?" a fat man wearing a John Deere hat asked, smiling.

"Looks like a runner," another said.

"Gentlemen, this is Shell Ludo, but he prefers to be called Ved. He's crashing at the Portola Hotel tonight and headin' out in the morning. Y'all show him a good time, ya hear?"

"Yeah, a course," the youngest of them said genuinely.

"What time's dinner, Gabe?" the guy with the hat asked.

"Same as always, six sharp."

"Fat Steve doing up some barbecue?" the young guy asked.

"Sure is."

"Hot damn!" John Deere said, rubbing his hands together.

"Gabe, I'm gonna get outta here after dinner, if that's all right with you?"

"Norm, you already know you can leave whenever you're ready. Linda called a couple of hours ago and asked when you was coming home. I told her you were free to leave any time you were ready. Just come on out and sign those forms we talked about before you go. And stop punching holes in the walls! How many times you gonna get the sheriff called on you for the same thing?"

"It's my damn house, and I'm damn good at fixin' them holes!"

"Doesn't matter. When the neighbors call in a fight, someone's going to jail."

"All right, deputy, I get it. I'll head home, not yet though; I'm winning." Norm smiled, looking at the table.

"All right, boys, I'll come get ya when it's six." He turned to leave and then stopped. "Ved here plays the guitar, boys. Said he sings like a regular ol' songbird too."

They all turned to look at me, my face turning red. "No, not really. I just sing a little..."

"Got us some after dinner entertainment." John Deere smiled.

"Oh, another thing, Ved, I have to lock your stuff up for the night. Anything you need out of your bag?"

"Just my shower things." I stood to go get them.

"Later. After dinner you can shower up. Hang out with the boys for a bit. Food'll be ready soon."

"All right." I smiled.

Gabe walked out the door. What a cool guy.

I met the guys and did my best playing poker with them until six when Gabe returned to get us for dinner. We walked out into the kitchen area, joking and laughing, the smell of brisket and ribs making me salivate. Gabe wasn't kidding about the guys loving Fat Steve's food. These guys were genuinely glad to be in jail tonight, and they constantly told me that these would be the best ribs I'll ever eat.

I was starving by this point, and nothing sounded better. I wondered for a second if Pablo had made it and worried for him too. His personality wasn't that great, and I feared people not liking him when they stopped to give him a ride. He needed me there to be the counterbalance to his dismal persona. He should have stayed to eat dinner at least. If the food was anywhere near as good as it smelled, it was going to be just dandy.

By the oven was a fat man, whom I assumed was Steve, and three women, mid-forties and not bad looking. The women all wore white aprons and had their hair in ponytails as they moved back and forth from the tables to the kitchen, bringing aluminum foil pans full of steaming hot meat to us.

"Come on, y'all, dig in. Steve cooked you up something good this time," a pretty, older lady said, smiling at us like we were war heroes returned from the Gulf.

"You guys can sit wherever you'd like," another woman said, rushing back to the oven.

I sat next to Larry, the guy in the John Deere hat and the one who was most personable, though they were all good guys. We'd had fun playing poker and blackjack, drinking sodas, and talking about our lives a little. I kept thinking that a day ago I was wandering around Elko, wondering what I was going to do, and here I was, twenty-four hours later, about to enjoy a perfect meal, cooked by what I guessed was Portola's best barbecue expert, in good company. I had a hot shower to look forward to, a good breakfast cooked by another local expert, and then the open road.

Life was good.

I enjoyed my night in the Portola jail, which was really more like the Portola rec room. We had a TV, a radio, cards, and warm beds. The shower was hot, long, and, even more importantly, private. It was so private, in fact, that I decided to rub one out, obviously something I wouldn't have done if I'd feared being raped. I didn't have any conditioner to use as lube, so I used the soap provided by the town of Portola, or the state of California, which led to some minor irritation, but it did feel good to drain the tanks.

After my shower, Larry talked me into singing them a song, which I did, nervously at first, but when I saw their reaction to the first song, I was floored. They loved it, and they begged me for another one, which I played less nervously and even better than the first. An hour later, I'd played all eight of the songs I'd written and set my guitar down. One by one, they told me that I had a future in music, and if I didn't pursue it, I was an idiot. I smiled, flattered by their praise and wondered if I really was any good, or if that was just their way of not making me feel awkward. The songs were all poignant, all written about loss and heartbreak. Most of them centered on the way I tended to meet people who soon loved me to death, but later decided I was the Antichrist. It was the same cycle, over and over again.

"Aching soldier ease your mind.

Lost, somewhere, at the end of his time.

That gun claimed so many lives and...

God, how I watched them die and...

Everyone I know has gone away.

No one ever stays for more than a little while here with me.

Momma, can you hear me?

Burning now the memories of you.

Burning pictures because we're through.

You said I needed to go away. So

Two thousand miles I've traveled.

All along my thoughts unraveled.

As I fly now, to where I've never been.

Momma, can you feel me?"

When the night of fun, cards, and talking came to a close, noted by the lights turning off automatically at 10:30 p.m. sharp, I went to my bunk and closed my eyes. It didn't take long for me to fall back into the paralyzing sleep I'd experienced on the train, but this time, with dreams. With a full belly, clean hair, and a warm bed, I fell deep into the mattress, letting go of my muscles, relaxing. It was a beautiful night in the Portola jail, something I remember often as the best sleep I'd ever had, at least up to that point.

In the morning, the lights snapped back on with a clack and the zzzz noise that fluorescent bulbs make until they sparkle and flash themselves to full power. I heard people stirring, and though I wanted nothing more than to just sleep the day away, I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I wished immediately that I had a joint to smoke, something to enjoy before legendary meal number two.

The deputy who greeted us was pleasant enough, but not Gabe. He was a little older and seemed to care less about us, but under the conditions, I was just glad to be warm and dry. We ate breakfast, served by Miss Martha and a handful of different attractive, older women, wearing aprons and ponytails as if this town consisted entirely of women volunteers eager to serve food to the dangerous prisoners of the Portola Justice System.

Breakfast was divine. The real treat was a massive bowl of fruit salad made from berries of every variety and bananas, grapefruit, peaches, pineapples, and even, if I'm not mistaken, kiwis. Eggs and potatoes are pretty much the same no matter where you get them, not to discredit the rumors I'd been hearing about Miss Martha's cooking; but, truly, the fruit was amazing.

After breakfast, Officer Thomas took me to the judge, who asked me if I enjoyed Steve's dinner or Martha's breakfast better. I answered that though Martha's fruit salad was to die for, nothing could touch the magic in Fat Steve's barbecue. He laughed, told me he was glad that I enjoyed my stay, and that he'd heard good things about me from Gabe, his nephew. He didn't charge me the fine for jaywalking, only the fifteen-dollar court fees, which I replied, "Was a hell of a deal for those ribs."

The judge said, and I quote, "Fare thee well," to which I smiled and nodded, recognizing the Grateful Dead fan inside of the old coot.

After I paid the court fees to a nice lady named Gretchen, I was released back into the wild. I breathed in the air that was still cool and damp. Does the sun ever shine in this fucking place? I was beginning to get some sort of light deprivation depression, though I still had a belly full of berries and clean skin to combat the blues. I did wonder, however, where I would be when the sudden need to shit out those berries and the three cups of Folgers Crystals I'd ingested would strike. I hoped it wasn't in the car with some helpless stranger. I hoped that I wouldn't start farting and groaning from the pain of an emergency dump, coming in waves like those associated with child birthing, sweating and breathing heavily from both the pain in my guts and the realization that I was essentially a prisoner in the car. I find the realization that you need to shit immediately to be one that drives fear into the heart of even the strongest men, and with the fear comes anxiety, nervousness, and sheer terror; all of which add to the crisis developing in your bowels... I'd have to be vigilant; I'd have to monitor the symptoms, and at the first fart, begin to make preparations for the evacuation of my bowels.

When I got back to the train yard, I realized the train car was still in the exact same spot, and that if I wanted to, I could easily stow away in the car until it began rolling again. I decided not to, not only because I sort of had a destination in mind, but also because I felt like I owed it to Gabe not to. I suppose I could have rationalized that Gabe wasn't the one who had to hitchhike out of town, and that if he did have to, he'd probably want the convenience of boarding a stopped train rather than the hassle of having the same conversation over and over again. Regardless, I didn't board the car; instead, I crawled under the damn thing for the third time, asking God for the same simple thing: for it to remain still.

When I made it into the wet jungle, I sighed out loud at the sight of my JanSport. I didn't waste any time. I sat down, after checking under the rock, and rolled a quick doobie. I sparked it with my Camel Trench lighter and smoked it down, watching the train cars do absolutely nothing. The air was so thick and wet that my smoke didn't even climb into the sky. It just hung, like a low-lying cloud in the area surrounding me. I listened to the sound of the birds and smoked my joint, perfectly satisfied with my place in the world.

I'd made a point of putting off a good vibe, of contributing positively to the people around me, and for it, I had been rewarded with a good meal and a warm bed. This would be the way it would go from here out, I decided. I would do my best to help people and be kind and compassionate. I would think about happy thoughts and keep my attitude in check, remembering to see the bad things that were coming as a test of my endurance, my agility, and my reflexes. I needed to remind myself that nothing bad would happen to me if I stayed positive.

If only I'd known then that out there in the world, out beyond the wet forest, beyond the lifeless train cars that seemed more affable in their stationary poses, were people who didn't respond to kindness. If only I'd known that I was about to meet someone unlike anyone I'd ever known, someone whose intent was malicious, and the only way to avoid becoming a victim would be to make one out of him.

I stuffed the weed, still in the JanSport, into the bottom compartment of my Kelty. Next I placed the gun into the zippered compartment that made the top flap of the bag. I considered putting the gun in my waistband, but decided against it. I was hitchhiking, after all. I mean, I'd accidentally discharged the damn thing once already, and almost did it again on another occasion, leading me to believe that even if I was about as nonthreatening to folks interested in helping me as one could be, the public was safer and better off with it packed securely away. Besides, I still had the knucks, and my knife suspenders were on under my shirt. What could possibly happen that the two of them couldn't handle?

I started walking to town after spending more than an hour smoking the joint, reorganizing all my belongings, and shitting out the berry hell I'd eaten for breakfast.

I reminded myself that I really needed to buy another mattress pad, and though I was glad to have helped Skins along, I needed one for myself. I wasn't used to sleeping on the hard ground, yet. I walked with purpose toward town, nodding at people I passed on the way. Everyone looked me over before deciding I was OK and smiling politely back at me, if not saying, "Hello."

I stopped at some point and put my Discman on. I carried the unit in my right hand and smoked a cigarette with my left, intent on making it out to the highway before two. I didn't even hear Gabe pull up behind me, once again, with his lights flashing.

He hit the siren for a quick second, which startled me. I jumped around to see him sitting in his car, perpetual smile on his face. I pulled my headphones off.

"Jesus, man, you scared the shit out of me!"

"You need to work on seeing me come up on you. For an Army guy, you damn sure aren't very alert."

"I wasn't really a great soldier. I was just a chemical guy."

Thankfully, he didn't know what being a chemical guy meant and just ignored the comment altogether.

"So, you heading out?" he asked, leaning over the passenger seat to talk to me through the window.

"Yeah, figured I better get a jump on it. I don't know how long it'll take to catch a ride out of here."

"Ah, it won't take you long. Good people around here. You want a ride out to 70?"

"To 70? What's that?"

"California 70. It takes you back to Reno. That's probably the best bet. From Reno you can go anyway you want... Just remember, if you jump a train, it'll bring you right back here." He smiled. "It's a Class B misdemeanor, or was it a C+? I can never remember."

"No, I'm gonna hitch for a while. That train thing's more complicated than it seems. Though I have to admit, I considered jumping on it again this morning while it was parked. Whole different thing when it's stopped."

"You made the right decision. Fat Steve doesn't cook dinner again for three days. Come on. Lemme take you out to the road."

"OK, thanks. You've been awesome, man. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, my friend."

Gabe drove me out to 70 and stopped the car, lights flashing. We got out of the car and walked to the trunk, where he pushed a button and the lid opened. The smell that came out of the trunk, like a slap to the face with a pillow, was unmistakable. It smelled exactly like the contents I was transporting in the JanSport. In the haziness of that wonderful joint I'd smoked, I'd forgotten to seal the Ziploc bag again. My heart skipped a beat while I considered the possibility that Gabe hadn't smelled it. When he made a gesture by covering his mouth with his balled up fist and coughing theatrically, I guessed he had, indeed, noticed it.

"Whoa," he said, looking at me with... was that a smile?

"Yeah..." I stammered, my face turning pale.

"I hope the trunk airs out before I have to turn the car in tonight."

"It's just a little bag... You know, for hard times."

"Yeah? Is it any good?" He smiled.

Was this a trap? Was he asking me that question so I'd open it up in front of him? Then he'd spin me around and slap the cuffs on me?

"Yeah... well... it's..."

"Relax, Ved." He held up a pointer finger. "Here, will this make you feel better?"

He fidgeted with his breast pocket, trying to get the tiny little button undone, and finally got it open. He reached in and pulled out the cellophane of a cigarette pack, in which was a half-smoked joint. "We get shitty weed up here in the spring. Late summer and autumn, it's incredible."

I looked at him as he handed me the joint to inspect. I looked at it, smelling it, but I couldn't tell anything because it'd already been burned. "Mine's better," I said, smiling carefully.

"You got one rolled?" he asked, looking over his shoulder as a car passed.

"No."

"You got papers on you?"

"Uh... in my bag," I said, still nervous.

"Come on! Roll one up." He smiled and slapped me on the back.

"Look, if this is a joke or a trap..."

He snatched the joint back out of my hand and put it to his lips, lighting it and inhaling. He handled the joint like a toker; it wasn't a show.

"All right, I'll roll one. Don't smoke that one; save it." I smiled. "Can we sit in the car?"

"Yeah, of course." He threw the lit joint over the guardrail.

We sat in the car while I fished the JanSport out of the bottom compartment of the Kelty. When I opened it, Gabe's jaw hit the floor. "Holy fuck! Are you kidding me? How much do you have in there?"

I hesitated too long.

"Come on, seriously. How much do you have?"

"About four pounds."

"Holy shit! And you brought that to the station?"

"No, I hid it. Remember the piss I took?" I asked.

"Son of a bitch, I knew it! I knew you were doing something, you sneaky little bastard!" He smiled.

"You want some?" I asked, looking at him.

"How much?"

"What? Pot or money?"

"How much for an eighth?" he asked.

"Gabe, I'm not going to sell you pot. I'll give you pot if you want it, but I'm not gonna sell you any."

"Hell yes, I want some!"

I had four one-pound bags and one bag that was the last of the fifth pound I'd been using for the last month. One pound had been enough pot for my personal reckless usage, the joints that Bill, Tiffany, Zach, and Pablo had smoked with me, and the thirty joints I'd given to Skins. A pound of pot is a lot of pot.

There was maybe four ounces left in the remaining bag. The street value of an eighth of an ounce is fifty bucks, so when I tell you there was four ounces, do the math... It's a lot of pot, worth a lot of money. I rolled us a fatty with some of the remnants of my first consumed pound. I handed it to Gabe, demanding to see him light it and inhale it before I'd confess anything further. He did, without even commenting or making a production out of it. While we passed it back and forth, I continued to roll joints. I needed a few pinners (small joints for one man to smoke), to have handy between car rides.

"Man, I have got to get out of this town," Gabe said, stoned. His eyes were completely cashed out, and I wondered how he did his job while he was stoned.

"Don't they drug test you guys?" I asked.

He laughed. "Fuck no, man. If they did, none of us would have jobs. Even the sheriff smokes. We went to high school together; he's a buddy of mine. He's a serious toker too... This is small-town California, man. There's like two thousand people in the whole town, Ved. Everyone here smokes. That's why I wear the glasses, rain or shine."

"Nice," I said, stuffing the joints I'd rolled into my Kelty. "Here, bro, you can have this," I said, dangling the bag before him.

"What? Are you fucking serious?" he asked. "Man, that's like ounces... That's probably worth a grand!"

"Not to me. I didn't pay for it," I said.

"Really? How'd you get it?"

"I trafficked fifty pounds of it from Louisiana to Houston. Long story short, things didn't go well, and I ended up finding five pounds in the trunk of Pablo's truck."

"The guy that left?"

"Yup. That's how we met."

"You're fuckin' nuts, man! I want to be you!"

"Yeah, sounds like fun, huh?" I smiled back at Gabe who was holding the open bag to his nose.

"Goddamn right!"

"All right, Gabe, I gotta roll, my man. I'm perfectly stoned right now, ready to dazzle people with my tales of woe. I'm gonna hit it."

"Where you going anyway?" he asked.

"Alameda. There's a girl there... I was in the Army with her."

"Nice. Is she a hottie?" he asked, his red eyes glowing against the gray sky.

"Fuck yes, she is."

"She know you're coming?" he asked, apparently not wanting me to get out of the car and leave him alone.

"Not yet. I'll call her when I'm close. I'm taking my time."

"Come stay at my house! Spend the night, hang out. I want you to meet my wife... and Dirk, the sheriff. He's cool as fuck!"

"No, man. I should get going... Thanks, though."

"You think you'll be back through here on your way back or something?"

"I have no idea. Maybe."

"Here, call me if you do; even if you just come through Reno, give me a call. I'll come pick you up," he said, writing his number on a ticket pad. He tore off the ticket and handed it to me. "Seriously. My wife would love you. I should have had you over last night. Damn! I'm sorry about that."

"No, man, it's completely cool. I'll hit you up if I'm ever in the area."

"Right on. Hey, man, be careful out there. You have a knife?"

"I have lots of things to protect myself with. Don't worry about the specifics, deputy." I smiled and opened the door.

"Seriously, man, if you come through, call me. Or if you need help, anything at all, call me!"

I smiled, having earned back the call-in favor I'd lost in my dealings with Pablo. "I might take you up on that."

"Do," he said and looked at the road before us. "All right, man, see ya."

"Later, Gabe." I closed the door and he drove off, making an illegal U-turn, his lights still on. A second later, Gabe was gone. I was stoned and alone on the side of the road. A minute passed before I heard the sound of a car approaching.

Not being an expert on hitchhiking, I applied the principles I mentioned earlier to my roadside manner. I tried to look like a kid hitchhiking, not Charlie Manson, and faced the oncoming car. It was a gold Cadillac and I almost let it pass without doing the thumb maneuver, thinking to myself that this wasn't the kind of car that was going to stop and pick up vagrants. At the last second, I changed my mind and lifted my thumb tentatively, giving a hopeful and somewhat pleading look with my facial expression. The car didn't slow down, that is until the last second. It passed me as it slowed and pulled off onto the shoulder three hundred feet beyond me. I couldn't believe it, the first time I'd raised my thumb, and the car had stopped.

I trotted to the car, trying to think this process through. There were a number of things to consider, and the fact that I had, either on my person or in my bag, all of the things that people hope you don't have when they stop to give you a ride, wasn't lost on me. I almost felt bad for the people who had stopped to pick me up. If they knew I had weapons and drugs on me, they'd be terrified of me, no matter how polite I was. It was a strange realization to come to that anyone can be dangerous. Here I was, with guns and shit, running to jump in the car with them. If I wasn't such a witty, friendly, polite young man, they could get seriously hurt.

Then there was my safety to think about. What if they were serial killers, out cruising, looking for a helpless soul to pick up? What if they drugged me with roofies and took me back to their sadistic sex studio where they'd stuff a gag-ball in my mouth and use pliers in my anus to insert and retract things? What if they hung me from the ceiling by my nipples, slicing me open with pewter knives, letting the blood fall into chalices that they'd later drink? It was possible that they were the most helpless looking old folks in the cult, and they'd been selected to be the "hunters" for the group because of that. Right now, in the basement of a shoe sole factory, there was a group of crazies wearing animal skins and lighting a bonfire. They were painting a pentagram on the floor with vaginal blood from their cherished virgins and rubbing their hands together in anticipation of my sedated arrival.

People always wonder if the person they are picking up, the guy on the side of the road, is a dangerous criminal, but what about that poor guy's nerves? It's just as intimidating to jump into a car with strangers as it is to allow one into your car.

It's fair to assume that I was just as nervous as they were as I approached them. The driver's side door opened as I closed in, and an older, portly man worked at standing up beside the car so he could look over the roof at me.

"Hey there, buddy. Where you headed?" he asked.

"Reno, or as far in that direction as possible," I said, smiling.

"No problem, that's exactly where we're headed. Wanna put your bag in the trunk?"

"Yes sir, that sounds great," I said, being as polite and friendly as I could muster. He hobbled around the car to the trunk that looked big enough to carry a school bus load of children. I didn't love the idea of putting my stuff where I couldn't get to it, but I knew it would help put his mind at ease. It's always the concern... "Yeah, he looks like a nice guy, but I wonder what he has in the bag?" I didn't want him to have to worry about the contents of my bag for the entire trip, so I parted with it.

I tossed it and the guitar into the trunk and waited for him while he closed the lid very carefully. He smiled at me, gesturing with a sideways nod, hobbled back over to the driver's door, and yelled,"Jump on in there. Plenty of room back there for ya."

I opened the door and sat in the rear passenger seat. An older woman, sitting in the front seat, turned around to see what I looked like. I greeted her with, "Hello, ma'am. Thank you so much for stopping to give me a ride. I'm grateful."

"Oh, it's no problem. Roger loves to pick up people looking for a ride."

"Is that right? Roger, is this true?"

"Yeah, I do. I did a little hitchhiking after I got back from the war. Lots of folks stopped to pick me up. Guess I feel like I owe to the world to stop and pay my debt," he said, smiling at me in the rearview mirror.

"The war? World War II?"

"That's right. Army," he said.

"Roger is always talking about his days hitchhiking," his wife said.

"I was in the Army, too. Just got out. In fact, that's why I'm out here. Needed to get some air after that."

"I understand completely. Where were you at?"

"Fort Bragg."

"Ah, Bragg huh? Special Forces?" he asked.

I laughed. "No, sir. Airborne though. That was gung-ho enough for me."

His wife laughed. "Our son Ricky was airborne, but he was down at Ft. Hood. Went to jump school in Kentucky? Is that right, Roger?"

"Georgia, Marion. Ft. Benning. I imagine that's where you went too..." He didn't know my name to personalize the question.

"Ved Ludo, and yes, sir, I went to Benning as well."

Marion shook her head from side to side and said, "Isn't that something? Of course, Ricky's been out of the Army since '89. That was well before your time, honey."

"Yes, ma'am. I joined in '94 and just got out a couple months ago."

Roger asked, "So, where you headed? You live in Reno now?"

"No, sir, I live in..." I paused for a second, realizing I didn't live anywhere. "My family's in Pennsylvania, but I don't really have a place that I call home right now. Guess that sounds sort of odd... I don't know where I―"

"Not at all, son. Hell, I felt the same way when I got back from Italy. I didn't want to go home, but I didn't have my own place... so I hitched my way out to Chicago to go stay with some of my Army buddies."

I smiled, relieved. "That's sort of what I'm doing. I have a buddy I met at Bragg. She lives in Alameda, California. Headed out there to see her."

Marion gushed, "Oh, that's wonderful, Ved. I hope she makes you happy."

"Thank you, ma'am. She's a good one. We were pretty good friends in the Army. I just hope not too much has changed since then."

"Oh, it's hard. Sometimes people are unrecognizable after a few years," Roger said, shaking his head.

"Oh, Roger, don't be so cynical. I'm sure this girl will be thrilled that you came all the way out there to see her. A handsome young man like you... There won't be any problems, I'm sure of it. She's lucky to have a handsome man like her enough to hitchhike across the state to see her."

"Thank you, ma'am. I hope so."

"Is she pretty?" Roger asked.

"Roger! Of course she is! What kind of question is that?"

"Yes, sir, she's beautiful."

"See! Of course she is! He wouldn't ride with old fogies like us for just anyone! She's special to him, Roger!"

"I hope it works out for you, son. If not though, there are plenty of fish in the sea. It won't take you long to find another girl."

Ain't that the truth! "Thank you, sir. How far is it to Reno from here?"

"The way he drives? An hour," Marion said. "If I were driving, forty-five minutes."

I laughed. They reminded me of my grandparents, but Roger was definitely more personable than Pap. "That's all though?"

"Yeah, it ain't but fifty miles or so," Roger said.

"Huh..."

"You think it was farther?" he asked, looking at me in the mirror.

"Yeah, I uh... I jumped on a train in Elko, rode it to Portola. Took like fifteen hours to get there."

Marion turned around and looked at me surprised. "You did? Oh my goodness, that is fantastic! That sounds like it was an amazing adventure! If that girl doesn't love you when you get there, you tell her she's crazy! You tell her I said so!"

"I'll definitely do that." I smiled, wanting to hug the old lady.

"So where you from?" Roger asked.

"I have an hour to tell you the story? You want the whole thing?" I smiled, exhaling extravagantly.

"Absolutely. That's why we picked you up." Marion smiled.

"All right."

I began the edited version of my tale at that very moment and I finished with it as we were pulling into a 7-Eleven, somewhere in downtown Reno. Roger and Marion laughed hysterically at some parts, winced at others, and Oh'd when things got tragic. By the time we got to the 7-Eleven, they wanted me to come back home with them.

"No, really. You've been too kind already," I said, really not wanting to burden them with my presence.

The car came to a stop in the parking lot of the store, and no one moved for a second. Finally, Marion spoke, "Ved, I want you to keep our number, and if you need anything, anytime, you just let us know. We'd love to help you."

"You think you'll get back this way at some point?" Roger asked.

"I don't know. I don't really know where I'm going, and if Viah doesn't want me there, I don't know what I'll do next."

"She'll want you. How couldn't she?" Marion smiled at me.

"Marion... honey, sometimes thing are more complicated than what you assume," Roger corrected her.

"I'm a romantic, Roger! Sheesh, you used to be, not so long ago." She shook her head at him and looked at me. "Anything at all, Ved, please call us. Here's our number."

She handed me a piece of paper, and we all opened our doors to get out. Roger and I walked around to the trunk that I was really hoping wouldn't smell like a pot farm. When he opened the lid, he helped me grab my stuff.

"You get sprayed by a skunk?" he asked inquisitively. People don't call it skunk weed for no reason.

I was about to admit my sins when I realized he was serious. The stench from the pot was ridiculous, and I was thrilled that he really didn't recognize it. "Yeah, a few days ago. Stuff takes forever to go away." I smiled.

"Need to wash your bag in tomato juice. That'll get rid of it. That's what we always do to Chubby."

"Chubby?"

"Oh, yes. That's our dog, honey," Marion said, hugging me. "Now, you call us if you need any help. We're both retired pretty comfortably. We have plenty of time to come and get you now."

"Anytime," Roger said, looking at me earnestly.

"Thank you, Roger. It was a pleasure to meet you both, and I can't thank you enough."

"The pleasure was all ours, young man." He shook my hand, and I felt something in his palm. It felt like paper.

When I looked at my palm as Roger climbed back into his seat, I saw a piece of paper folded into a tiny square. "Get yourself a hot meal and a hotel room here in town. Good food, cheap," he yelled as he closed himself into the car.

"Goodbye, honey. Please be careful. You go get that girl and you tell her how you feel!" Marion said as if she were leaving her only child at college for the first time.

I unfolded the paper. Inside the paper was a hundred-dollar bill. I had never expected a ride, let alone another lifeline and a hundred bucks. I stood there beneath a cloudy sky, the city buzzing with traffic, wondering why I had been so fortunate. I looked heavenward. "Was that you?" I asked the sky.

God didn't answer, not immediately anyway.

I struggled to put the bag back on my shoulders. Today was day two and already the deterioration of my shoulder and back muscles made me wonder how I was going to fare when day five came along. If things didn't start to feel better back there, I was going to need a new prescription for Percocet. I'd been depleting my stash with my somewhat continuous need for euphoria, and now that I was beginning to develop legitimate pains, of course I was running low. I hadn't run completely out of Percocet in a long time, and though I wasn't sure I was hooked on the little white fuckers, I didn't want to find out that I was.

I went into the 7-Eleven to take a piss, and buy a tasty hotdog, a Coke, and a Snickers bar. Then I sat on the curb out in front of the store in what I considered to be appropriate hitchhiker style. I stared at the traffic, watching it pass, all the nameless faces looking so intent on getting to wherever the hell they were going. To them, the world was about this moment, this meeting, this movie... To me, they looked a lot like the same old ants on the same old indistinguishable ant hill.

Somewhere close to where I was sitting, a local high school must have let out because more and more carloads of asshole high school punks passed. God, what is it about that age that makes them so loathsome and unpredictable? There is something innately evil about high school kids.

Sure enough, as car after car of adolescents passed me, insults were hurled my way.

"Nice guitar, asshole!"

"Get a job, nigger!"

"Lookin' good, scumbag!"

I fantasized for a bit about how good it would feel to run my knife through their necks, one by one. I smiled as I pictured them isolated and pleading, as I slowly put my knucks on before their eyes, letting them anticipate exactly what that sensation would feel like. I already knew. I'd experienced it firsthand, from both the receiving and giving end.

In groups though, I didn't dare mess with them. They were dangerous, unpredictable, and the law treated them differently than it would me. The worst part is that those little godless bastards know that if they decided to tie me to the back of a pickup truck and drag me to my demise, they'd be put in juvenile detention and released in five years.

It'd been a long cigarette-free ride with Roger and Marion, so after I ate that delicious hotdog, I smoked a cigarette or three. I could see the casinos with their lights all flashing and pointing from the 7-Eleven, but I didn't think I had a night in the city in me. I needed to get out of here; I needed to get going somewhere. I just felt like it was best for me to get out of Reno. The idea of the fire raging in Elko was still surfacing once every five minutes, and with that came an understandable amount of anxiety.

Reno wasn't giving me those philosophical feelings I'd had in the smaller towns. I didn't wonder about these people at all. I didn't care who they were or where they were going. For some reason, they all looked unfriendly. They all looked like they were hiding something sinister deep within them. I longed for the solitude of smaller places, of quiet nights in the tent I hadn't even used yet. I'd paid four hundred bucks for the lightweight Marmot, two-man, four-season tent, which was about three hundred and seventy dollars more than I'd ever paid for a tent before, and I really wanted to know if I'd been duped or if there was a difference. Tonight, I decided, I wanted to sleep in my tent. I'd purchased the two man version for three reasons:

Who knew for certain if I'd find a hitchhiking young lass who was into living dangerously and loving freely?

I needed to be able to get my bag in the tent with me. I didn't want to have to leave it outside.

I wasn't opposed to finding a dog along the way to travel with me.

The Marmot tent weighed about as much as the sleeping bag I'd bought to go with it. It was super light and was supposed to set up in under two minutes. Not that I imagined myself in a rush to set it up, but I didn't want to have to thread eight Coleman poles through tiny sleeves in a downpour in the dark.

I was excited to use it, to be out there in the world.

I felt better deciding that tonight I was going to use the bag. It gave me something to look forward to as I began to meander my way out to the on-ramp to I-80. It was a great place to hitch because everyone who was driving past me was headed the way I was going. It seemed to be simple psychology that the fewer excuses I gave people to pass me by, the more successful I would be at catching a ride. When I got to the ramp though, I felt odd. It felt wrong to me. I didn't like the dynamics of it, so I fidgeted with my shit, making it look like I wasn't standing there waiting for a ride, which in itself was retarded because what the hell else would I be doing?

Here's the problem I was having. Hitchhiking and panhandling both have the same begging in common. It's unsolicited begging, and people who pass you by are doing so because they have made a decision to do so. Holding up your thumb, requesting a ride, is just like holding up a sign asking for money. People feel like because you are asking of them, they have the right to judge you, and believe me when I tell you that most of them do. I could see their mouths moving as they passed me, people staring at me out of the corner of their eyes in order to avoid having to deny my request directly.

You know that feeling when you pull up to an intersection and some asshole claiming to be a Christian and a Vet is standing right beside your car? It's that feeling that I could sense, and I didn't like putting people in that situation. I didn't like being the object of their anger and frustration. No one looked at me as they drove by, but I could hear the comments. I could feel the distaste they had for me.

I've never been one to ask for help. I didn't grow up in an environment where help was always available, so I learned that I was responsible for myself. I've never walked up to someone smoking a cigarette and asked for one, and at the same time, I've never denied anyone who asked me for one. It's the way I think things should be. We should all be responsible for ourselves. We should all be willing to help, but slow to ask for it.

I adjusted my straps while car after car passed me by, glad to have made it past me before I could get my thumb up. If they passed me while I was distracted, they wouldn't have to reason with themselves for being so cold. They passed me by, seven extra seats in that fucking Suburban, but not willing to give me a ride? I hoped they all had to reason with themselves. I hoped they all had to ask themselves later why they are the consuming, terrified pigs that they are.

Keep in mind, I was a month out of the Army. I was clean cut, healthy, and clean. I didn't look like Axl Rose; I looked like a fucking GI, much to my displeasure. There was nothing about me that would call my character into question. Sure, if people could see into my bag at the numerous concerning objects I had with me, they'd be appalled, but they couldn't, and here I stood.

I waited for the big rush of cars to pass before I stopped dicking with my bag and decided to get this over with. It was time to get the fuck out of here. This feeling of dread, of being despised by these nameless strangers, was too much for me. Looking back on the events that happened from this point on, I should have paid more attention to the feelings I was getting. I should have done things differently.

Not wanting to be looked at like a child molester any longer, I turned and faced the direction of traffic. I watched the cars stopped at the light, waiting to turn left and head toward me. The first car I saw coming was an Acura Integra hatchback. He sped through the turn and entered the ramp. I held out my thumb tentatively, though well timed, and flashed the same pleading and somewhat entertaining look I'd used in Portola. I almost swore aloud because as it passed me, I saw the brake lights come on. He pulled over to the shoulder, almost having to skid to decelerate. Once again, the very first car I thumbed stopped.

I ran, in a sort of burdened shuffle, toward it. The massive bag was shaking and making a zipping noise as it bounced on my back. I carried the guitar in my right hand and my Coke in the left. The driver stepped out as if in a hurry and moved around to the back of the car to greet me.

I looked him over, an odd sensation in the back of my throat now. It was as if the air itself was acrid, as if the place I was standing was haunted. He looked like any average guy, except for the mutton chops and connecting mustache that looked like a bottomless beard.

"Hey," he said.

He was about thirty-five, had a part in his hair, and wore some too-tight jeans. I guessed that to him, I didn't look at all like a child molester. I mean, this guy saw a freaky-looking sexual deviant every time he looked in the mirror.

"Hey," I said, shaking his hand quickly.

"I'm Charlie," he said, shaking just a second too long.

I noticed that he had some tattoos on his wrist, none of which had any color in them. It's funny what you notice when you feel like you are at a disadvantage. Things that would normally escape you, matter to you. I saw the tattoos and I immediately thought prison tats, though I have no idea how I came to that. I didn't know anything about prison. Something startles and sits up in your brain when you sense things are wrong, like a husband hearing someone at the door in the middle of the night. Something was wrong.

Prison tattoos lack color. I know that some of the "ink" they use in prison is a combination of cigarette ashes, spit, and God knows what else. Beyond the ink that I saw, before he noticed me looking at them and pulled his sleeve down, the mutton chops and his unsteady eyes made me nervous. I was immediately thankful that I had my knife strapped to my back.

"Ved. Nice to meet you. Thanks for stopping, bro. I appreciate it."

"Yeah, no problem. Wanna put your shit in here?" he asked, opening the trunk and glancing around at the traffic.

I didn't want to separate my stuff from my person, but the car was tiny and asking to put it in the back seat would seem... difficult. The trunk and the back seat were the same space. Behind the back seats was the trunk, and I could easily reach over the back seats and touch the floor of the trunk, so what did it really matter?

Charlie held open the trunk while I set my stuff in. I wished immediately that I'd been smart enough to put the gun in my belt. It was too late. As he closed the trunk with a whack, I felt like I did when I'd thrown the Kelty onto the train. It was on board, and now I needed to be also.

"You play a little guitar?" he asked me as we climbed into the car.

I heard his question, but I was scanning the car for obvious weapons. The billy club handle was almost the first thing I saw, other than the trash and nasty shit scattered all over the place. The club was under his seat for the most part, but the handle stuck out and fit tightly between the seat and the emergency brake. Honestly, I was somewhat relieved to see it. I thought that it was a tolerable weapon, and I thought it would be difficult for him to pull on me. I could handle a billy club.

I swallowed hard, really wishing I could renegotiate this ride. Goddamnit. I realized that there was a reason I'd felt compelled to look around the car for weapons. I hadn't done it in the Cadillac. It was this car that made me look. The fact that people stop to pick up hitchhikers means that to some degree they don't fear the people they are picking up. Sometimes that ease or peace about doing so could come from the look of a stranger, if he looked particularly nonthreatening, but I didn't fit that category. Not that I looked like a threat, but I was a big, strong guy who didn't look like the sort to lie down and take whatever was given to him. That meant the driver was either trusting to a fault or armed.

It's an odd thing, climbing into a car with someone you don't know. You are subject to whatever that person puts you through, which could be as simple as their music selection or their driving style. Scarier yet, are issues like what do you do if they are drinking from a flask while they are driving through less than perfect conditions? What say do you have, as their guest, about the things that you do not like?

Without thinking, I touched the knucks in my pocket, reassuring myself that unless he had a gun, there was no way he was going to be able to hurt me. I had my knife on my back and my knucks in my pocket. He didn't want to fuck with me.

"So, where you headed?" he asked.

"San Francisco."

"Oh yeah? I'm headed right there. That was lucky for you, huh?"

Real fucking lucky. "Yeah, guess so." I tried to put on a diffusing smile.

"You OK?" he asked, reacting to my less than impressive demeanor.

"Yeah, I'm OK. It's just been a... Well, you know... being on the road and all."

"Kerouac, right? Is that what you're doing, reliving Kerouac?"

The truth was, in a sense, yes. I was looking for freedom. I was getting rid of schedules and timelines. I was intentionally living on the outside of the rules, making myself inapplicable. I wasn't going anywhere, really. I was going to see Viah, but the truth was even the idea of doing that made me nervous. She and I hadn't ended well; mostly because, unlike my usual self, I let my feelings slip over the edge for her. I lost control, the leash slipping from my hands as she moved away from me and toward her boyfriend. It'd been OK while she was in the Army, but when she got ready to leave, I fell apart, wanting to possess her. What good does it do a man to be fucking the hottest girl around if no one knows about it? Shallow of me? Maybe. I knew not to chase her. I knew that I had to let her go, but for some reason a switch had gone off in my head, and I began to do something I'd never done for a girl before. I began to chase her.

Charlie's car was an absolute shit hole. I understand some trash on the floor, maybe a cigarette butt here and there, but this car was a fucking disaster. The most offensive part of the shit scattered all over the place was the cotton swabs. What kind of animal leaves nasty, orange-tipped cotton swabs on the floor? It was absolutely sickening to me. Beyond that, there were toothpicks, cigarette ashes, dirty underwear, and wrinkled up porn magazines. I didn't look at the magazine pictures immediately; I was too concerned with checking out the rest of my environment.

The front windshield looked like there was a layer of fog clinging to it. I checked the defrost button to see if it was running, and, sure enough, it was... It wasn't fog; it was filth. It was cigarette smoke and the funk that clings to it, attached like a greasy film to the inside of the window. This guy was fucking nasty. The car itself smelled like there was a goddamn chili dog under one of the seats. It would have to be my seat because the way the billy club was jammed under his, there wasn't room for anything else. The smell of old onions and rotting something was almost overpowering, and I realized that I'd rather walk my way to San Francisco than ride in this nasty shit pot.

Adding to the torture, the car was uncomfortably hot. Being cold is something that you adjust to rather quickly, and after the train ride, I'd adjusted to cooler temperatures. Days of existing outside in the cool nights had acclimated me to living in the mid-fifties with only a T-shirt and jeans. The car I was now sitting in, or swimming in trash in, was hot, and it got to be unbearable before we'd even gone a mile on I-80. I wanted to roll the window down, but, again, was that something that I was allowed to decide to do, or was that going to come across as picky?

The only other option was to take off a layer, but I didn't want to risk exposing my knife-suspenders when I went to pull my sweatshirt over my head.

Charlie, who was thinner and smaller than I was, had a winter coat on, boots, jeans, and fingerless gloves. I had no idea how he could be comfortable in his attire with the heat of the car being so overwhelming. I began to panic a little bit, for reasons that I couldn't entirely understand. I didn't like the suffocating heat, or how it intensified the smell of whatever was rotting somewhere in the car, but more than that, there was something about Charlie that I didn't like, something sinister lurking beneath the surface of what I was seeing in him. I couldn't say for sure that the club he had stashed right there beside his hand was for the purpose of hurting innocent folks. I mean, I carried a gun under the seat of my car for reasons of protection, so who was I to judge Charlie for having a club? It wasn't hidden; I could see it, so he wasn't planning on surprising me with it, but there was something about his dirty car... his porn...

I looked at the magazines more closely, and then I felt something thumping in my chest... I hadn't noticed it at first, and when I did, I wanted to punch myself in the face. How could I have missed that?

The porn wasn't regular old porn, with hairy bushes and mulleted dudes... it was gay porn, violently gay porn. In the image I could see on the floor by my feet, there was a naked fat man tied to a pipe while the guys behind him wielded two by fours and dildos... Yeah, it was that kind of disturbing.

Despite the images I'd seen, we drove for a half an hour making small talk while I continuously tried to think of an exit plan. Nothing was coming to mind, nothing that would get me out of the car with my bags. I decided my best bet would be when we stopped to get gas or food, but until then, I'd have to suck it up.

I kept Charlie talking about his life, which I was sure he was lying about. I didn't correct him, nor did I offer too many of my own facts; I just asked questions to keep him talking. Another hour into the ride, the heat was making me tired, making me feel like I was going to pass out. I eyed the porn again, reminding myself that this wasn't the time to lose focus. Charlie saw me look at the porn, and then it all started to happen.

Charlie wasn't a classy, loving, committed gay man, like my friends in Fayetteville.

"That worrying you?" Charlie asked, eyeing the porn on the floor by my foot and looking back to me.

"Worrying me? No. Am I into it? No."

"That's cool. I just started getting into it not too long ago," he said, looking as confused by his statement as I was.

"Into what?"

"Bondage and shit... I've been gay for years, but that's sort of a new frontier for me."

"Interesting."

"You ever try it out? Might find out that you like it. That's how I found out I was gay... I tried it. Until then, I'd always considered myself straight."

"Wait... You didn't know you were gay until you tried gay sex? That doesn't make any sense." I was being a little short with him, feeling empowered by my relationships with real gay men, good gay men. This dirty fag wasn't going to convince me of anything, and somehow I felt like I had been deputized by the classier kind of gay man to defend them from homophobes and dirty, trashy queers.

"What doesn't make sense about it?" he asked, irritated.

"I don't think you find out that you're gay by trying gay sex. For most heterosexuals, if you aren't gay, fucking men isn't really possible."

"You mean because you don't think you'd get hard?"

"Right. Not only would I not get hard, I'd be fucking repulsed by the idea of it."

"Oh, you'd get hard all right! When a man sucks your cock, he knows exactly what you want. Believe me, buddy, you'd love it." I looked at him, trying to determine if he was serious. When I looked at him, he looked at me, flashing me a mean look and said, "What? You don't fuckin' know nothing. Until you've tried it, don't pretend you know nothing about being gay."

"OK, I won't pretend to know anything about it. Take it easy, bro. It's cool."

"Yeah, it's cool now that you pissed me off, and you're afraid that I'll throw your ass out of the car. Funny how you came to that realization after being so insulting."

"I don't care if you put me out of your car, so stop thinking I'm performing. Especially not to preserve my ride in this... fucking shit box!"

I didn't know what Charlie was going to say, but if this freak wanted to get nasty with me, I wasn't going to be pushed around. Rather than erupting into a rage like I expected, he started laughing hysterically. "You are fucking crazy. I've picked up some crazies before, but you..." He couldn't even finish his own statement because he started laughing and wheezing midsentence.

Tears were welling up in his eyes as I studied him, wondering if whatever was up with Charlie went beyond my gift. Was this sort of lunacy beyond my ability to understand? I thought maybe this was a bipolar condition, or maybe he was manic depressive... Something was wrong with the guy. He'd gone from mean and aggressive to laughing, like a switch had been thrown.

There was nothing I could do to diffuse this. I could feel this thing slipping off the edge, and as I sat there helplessly wondering what I should do, I witnessed it, as if I was a bystander.

"You all right?" I asked, rolling down the window.

The cool air blowing in felt like it'd come down from heaven, putting an end to my suffering here in hell. As soon as the cold wind entered the cabin of the car, a cloud of dust and ashes came up that looked like what I'd expect the locust swarms of Armageddon to look like. Papers rattled as the black swirls of dirt and shit blew in every direction, like little kamikaze dust particles intent on blinding us. I felt my eyes sting, which was admittedly terrifying, but in comparison to hearing Charlie's anguished cries about being blind, my blindness didn't seem to matter.

He plugged his eyes with his thumb and index finger, and in the seconds of blindness, the car swerved hard into the slow lane. Suddenly there were horns honking at us, which made Charlie, still blinded, swerve the other direction. You wonder, if I was blinded, how do I know what Charlie did? Because as soon as he cried out "I'm fucking blind!" I forced my eyes open. Despite the pain, I willed myself to see long enough to survive the dust storm.

I grabbed the "Oh shit" handle above my door and put my outstretched left hand on the dash, trying to brace myself for the rollover. I hadn't put my seatbelt on because, much to my dismay, the receiving end of the clasp was tucked under the frame of my seat. If Charlie went off the road and rolled here, I was as good as dead. I'd be ejected from the car before it surely rolled over me, squishing me like a bug. On the other hand, the blood wouldn't run down the asphalt because the fucking ashes and dust would absorb it all.

I made some judgment calls based on what my watering, and probably bleeding, eyes were telling me before I grabbed the wheel and steadied the car.

"Don't fucking touch―" Charlie began.

"Shut the fuck up! I don't have my fucking seat―"

"Don't touch the wheel! You want me to put you out of this car?" he asked, looking at me with his right eye, the other pinched closed.

"Yes! For the love of God, please let me the fuck out of this nasty―"

"You want out? Huh? Is that what you want?" he asked, excited. "I'll let you out. All you gotta do is jump, you ungrateful little..." He swerved onto the shoulder and jerked the wheel back and forth, making his car lean one direction and then the other.

I'd already had enough of Charlie, but then he did the unthinkable. He reached over with his right hand and cupped it over my dick. He squeezed, pinching my dick in a painful way.

"What the..." I asked, but he removed his hand a second before I could react, and I'll be damned if it didn't automatically go to the handle of the club. He knew what the action would bring, and before I even got a chance to retaliate, he'd gone to the next level.

I'd been waiting for him to grab that stick the whole time, and as soon as his hand retracted from my dick, I knew where it was going. He grabbed the club and immediately went to pull it out from under the seat, like drawing a sword.

My left hand grabbed him by the wrist and held it in place while he struggled against me to pull the club. As far as strength went, I was three to one stronger than him. His hand had no chance at pulling the club out, not as long as I was holding onto it, and with the adrenaline and terror I was now experiencing as he steered one eyed and with one hand, the car lurching back and forth, I wasn't going to let it budge. Even if the car rolled, they would find my torn-off arm still clutching his skinny, prison tatted wrist.

"Pull the fuck over," I demanded calmly.

"I'll roll it the fuck over! I have a seatbelt. You don't. You think that's by accident?" Charlie screamed.

I thought about that for a second while I began to squeeze his wrist with my fingers, right on the bones. The pressure I was putting on his hand made him yell out, but he didn't begin to pull off the road as I'd demanded. Instead, he just continued to swerve and scream.

Had he removed the seatbelt latch on purpose? Had he been doing this for years, picking up hitchhikers and waiting for them to fall asleep so he could grope them? Was this what he did for fun? Was it worse than just that? Had the club been used for more malicious beatings?

The idea that Charlie wasn't just a nasty man, but a potential murderer made something happen in my head that was completely unlike myself, but at the same time felt very natural. Something dark, something like the time I'd licked my own blood but meaner than that came to me, giving me a very even temperament, a very serious demeanor. I'd have to kill the bastard.

I was prepared to have his blood splatter in my face as I watched him die. I was prepared to feel his neck breaking under my arms or his eyes popping out from under my thumbs... Suddenly, the things that normally make me queasy were the things I was craving. I remembered my idea about gun owners and non-gun owners and how when they are in this exact spot, they all wished they had one, because here, in this instant, murder isn't out of the question any longer. Here, when it feels like do or die time, doing is the easy part, dying is the motherfucker. This thing with Charlie had gone from bad, to worse, to I'm-a-fucking-dead-man in a matter of seconds, and I was prepared now to do what I'd never even really thought myself capable of before.

Either I kill him, or he'd kill me with a rollover. If he did manage to roll the car over, the police would have no idea about the struggle that had taken place beforehand. Charlie and his seatbelt would survive the crash, no doubt painting me the aggressive one.

I reached back with my right hand and pulled the knife out of the sheath. With my left hand clamped as tight as I could, my fingers rolling over the bones of his wrist, I leaned across the car and put the tip of the blade to his neck, pushing in far enough to see the indentation from the point of my knife against the skin. Suddenly, Charlie sat very still. He didn't see that coming.

I spoke very calmly, very quietly, meaning every word, "Charlie, we're at a crossroads. You have one hand on an illegal weapon and the other on the wheel of the car. If you want to survive the next thirty seconds, you'd better begin to slow down and pull onto the shoulder. If you don't, so help me God, I will push this blade into your neck until it comes out the other side. You don't know me that well, but at this point, if I were you, I'd consider very carefully what I'm telling you."

He looked over at me with his eyes, not his head. He immediately began to slow and put on his right turn signal. Charlie must have correctly come to the conclusion that I was serious, and believe me when I tell you, I was. I would have killed that man right then and there. I'd even contemplated how I'd steer the car over to the shoulder once he was dead, or dying. He'd flail his arms for a second, and the blood would come out by the bucketful. It wouldn't take long. He'd be in hell before I made it to the shoulder. I'd take control of the wheel and guide it gently over. I figured that dead, his foot would relax and the car would begin to slow. The only other option was the emergency brake, but that would certainly mean losing control of the car.

"You're a fucking dead man," Charlie muttered, his chin held high in order relieve some of the tension from the blade on his neck. I had it placed in the softest spot available to me, and I could feel how easy it would be to sink the brand new blade into the skin. It'd go right it. I'd just push a little, till it broke through the skin, then it'd just slip right through.

I was nervous, but I wasn't shaking. I wanted my gun. I promised myself that from here out, I'd carry it in my belt; I'd never be without it again. I still had the problem of getting my stuff out of his trunk to deal with. I wasn't sure how I was going to do that.

More from nerves than attitude, he drove to the edge of the shoulder, the car clanking and thumping as we splashed through the water-filled dirt holes on the edge of the road. We were only going five miles an hour at this point, and I looked at his wrist, somewhat surprised that he wasn't agonizing over my grip. His entire wrist was purple and red from my hold. Charlie didn't complain about anything, even when one of those bumps we hit made his head bounce and a tiny drop of blood dripped out from underneath my blade.

I looked ahead to see an off-ramp coming up. "Go to the ramp and get off," I said evenly.

"It's not an exit. It's a fucking overlook."

"I don't care what it is, take it."

"This is kidnapping. You're going to jail for this."

"I doubt that. I doubt that you want the cops involved, Charlie."

"I have nothing to hide! I was trying to do you a favor. I've got the bruises to prove that you―"

"Shut the fuck up! Take the ramp and stop the car," I said, moving the blade to a spot where I could feel his esophagus beneath the blade.

"You're so fucking dead," he said, and then he laughed.

"I'll take my chances."

Charlie took the ramp, his hazard lights flashing to warn people who might be getting off that we were doing five miles an hour. That was my idea. Just because you are considering killing a bad man, doesn't mean that other hardworking and innocent people should have their bumpers caved in. He'd agreed to the hazards pretty readily, and I wondered if in his little brain he thought that people would assume that meant he needed help. This was California; no one gave a fuck about some old piece of shit car broken down on the side of the road.

When we were in a parking lot a quarter mile off of the highway, he pulled against a three-foot brick wall and stopped. I looked at where he'd parked and realized he was close enough to the wall on my side that I couldn't open the door very far. I could have gotten out, but not easily, which I suppose is what he wanted. He wanted me to struggle, so I'd have to let go of his wrist.

"Pull out, you dumb fuck." I pushed with the knife, wishing I'd slipped the knucks on before I'd grabbed the knife.

"You said to stop, boss. I stopped."

I pulled the knife back and punched him once in the temple. His head bounced off of the window and when it recoiled toward me, I went ahead and hit him again. It felt so good to hit him, like an orgasm of rage released right there in his car. I wanted to keep hitting him. I wanted to break my knuckles on the side of his head, beating him unconscious, but I knew to be careful when punching someone in the temple. Too much force or a hit to the right spot will kill a person, and I'm not exactly sure where that spot is.

I breathed heavily from the release of the punches, or the nerves, and held my fist up as if contemplating doing it again. "Pull the fuck out, you dumb shit."

He obliged without saying a word.

The difference between fighting with a guy like Charlie and my buddies in the Army wasn't anything to do with physical power. As I've stated earlier, crazy is a dangerous state to be in. Charlie was crazy; he didn't fear the pain, only his mortality. When I hit him, he said nothing. When I ordered him around, I got more of a reaction out of him than I did when I hit him. The knife to his throat only worked if he believed I was capable of doing it. If he thought for one second that I wasn't serious, he'd taunt me. He'd ask me to "do it" betting on me not being able to actually pull it off. No matter what else happened between Charlie and me, he had to believe that I was capable of killing, which, as it turned out, I was.

"Stop," I said when we were far enough out that I could open the door unobstructed.

He stopped, remaining completely silent. I saw the welts on his head beginning to swell, though he said nothing. He stared straight ahead, the rage in his eyes unlike anything I'd ever seen.

I reached over and shifted the car into park and grabbed the keys out of the ignition. "Charlie, this is where things are going to get tricky. Pop the trunk."

"No," he said calmly.

I punched him in the eye and blood immediately ran from his brow. Goddamn, it was like the heroine, it was like a climax... The rage I was trying to contain was leaking out slowly through my punches to his face. I hit him a second time, in the same exact spot, feeling a shooting pain in my middle knuckle. It felt so good.

After the second thump, he leaned down and pulled the lever. I heard a click in the back of the car. "Open your hand. Let go of the club."

His hand opened, his fingers spread wide over the top of the handle. There was moisture on the wooden handle from where his palm had been sweating. I reached over with my right hand and pulled the club free. I tossed it and the keys out my window. They landed more than ten feet from my door.

"All right, now I'm going to get my shit out of the trunk, and you're going to get your keys. Leave the stick on the ground." I looked at him; his eyes were smiling, even if his mouth wasn't.

"You're so fucking dead," he murmured.

"What did you say?" I asked, slipping my hand into my pocket and threading my fingers through the knucks.

I was still holding his right hand with my left, waiting for him to jerk it hard, hoping to surprise me and free it. He'd probably try to hit me with it if he could get it free. So, to discourage this sort of behavior, I pulled my hand out of my pocket and said, "Look at my hand." I held the knuckles loosely on my fingers, my hand open.

I saw the fear in his eyes at that point, maybe for the first time since this had started. "You ever been hit with brass knuckles?" I asked calmly.

He didn't answer; he just stared straight ahead. He wasn't pulling at his right hand, however; the desire to free it fleeing him.

"I have. It took sixteen staples to close the gash on my head. You don't want to experience it, believe me."

"I did what you said. We're stopped. The trunk is unlocked. Just get your shit and leave me the fuck alone," he said, rather coolly.

I opened my door with my right hand, but sat completely still. "OK, Charlie, I'm going to get my stuff now. I hope this doesn't go south."

"Just get out! Geeeeeet ouuuuuuut!" he screamed, startling me.

I looked around. The sky was cloudy, the fog in patches over the wall beside my door. I realized that we were, indeed, parked at a scenic overlook, a massive and probably beautiful canyon beneath us, just on the other side of that wall he'd parked against. The parking lot was long and narrow, probably with a forty car maximum capacity. Along the edges of the lot were stone walls with flat tops made of flagstone or something like it.

The asphalt under the car was wet, and there was snow in patches scattered over the lot. It was one of those days where the rain was falling almost as snow, but it was just barely too warm to freeze on the ground. It was gloomy, the fog adding to the eeriness of the place.

Once I got out, I needed to get my stuff and move toward the wall for protection. If Charlie had a gun, he was going to go after it, and I'd need to hide long enough to fish my 1911 out and return fire. He didn't want to get into a gun battle with me; I am a dead shot, every time. If he got to his before I could get to mine though, I'd be in trouble. I wondered how far the fall was over that wall.

"All right. Thanks for the ride, Charlie. You've been wonderful company and all, but I think this is where we part ways, where you drive off into the sunset, off to a better place where you can molest more hitchhikers on a better day. Today you've done enough. Today you're lucky to be leaving here alive, because, honestly, I'd rather kill you than let you go... But here we are."

He blew air out of his nose, as some sort of laugh.

"Goodbye, Charlie."

I released his hand and stepped out into the cool day, moving quickly for the trunk. I opened it, noticing that the hydraulic lifters didn't work, which made getting my bag out more difficult. I tossed my guitar onto the ground and pulled up my bag while Charlie silently got out and ran for his keys, and, of course, his club. The fact that he was running for his club made me happy though. If he'd had a gun, he would have abandoned the idea of the club and gone for the gun, so just the fact that he was running for his club, and I was scrambling for my .45 caliber handgun, made me feel like I had the better odds.

I opened the compartment with my gun in it, watching his progress. He was turning to head back my way while I pulled the gun free. I pulled the slide back and released it, sending a bullet into the chamber. I tossed the Kelty onto the ground. I let the trunk close with a thunk, surprised the glass didn't shatter at that.

I scooped up my bag and my guitar after jamming the gun into my waistband and trotted toward the wall. I was running away from the car as Charlie was running toward it. I looked over my shoulder to make sure he was going to stop at the car, which he did. He spat in my direction and yelled, "You're dead, you little fucking prick!"

I slowed to a walk, far enough from him that I didn't have to worry about him running toward me wielding a stick. To get to me, he'd have to run right at me, forty feet. By the time he got to within thirty, he'd have holes in him.

"Take care, Charlie," I said, and dismissively waved while I turned my back to him. I walked toward the wall at the far end of the lot. I was almost to the wall, wondering what he could possibly do to me, when I heard his car start. That grabbed my attention, but by the time I turned around to see what he was doing, his car was in reverse and he was coming straight at me.

With eight feet between me and the wall, I tossed my bags over it and jumped onto it. I looked at the car and realized that he wasn't going to stop. Rather, Charlie punched it and smashed into the wall, right where I'd tossed my bags over. The wall made a terrible cracking noise. A chunk fifteen feet wide broke free from the rest of it and fell off the edge. I'd barely made it out of his range, unable to even believe that he'd sacrificed the back of his car in order to try and kill me.

Charlie accelerated forward, his bumper dragging on the ground behind him, his back window cracked. I used the time to look over the edge of the wall, guessing the drop to the steep ground below to be fifteen feet. If I decided to jump, I didn't know if I'd be able to stop myself from rolling down the steep hill, which went on for about a hundred feet before another drop off that I couldn't see the bottom of. I guessed it wasn't something I wanted to chance, so I spun back around. Predictably, I saw the tail lights come on, and then the reverse lights.

Charlie was going to try and smash me off of the wall.

I stood my ground in another one of those do or die times. With the fifteen-foot drop behind me, and an empty parking lot with an angry driver beginning to accelerate toward the spot where I was standing, there was nothing left to do. If I ran across the top of the wall, I'd have to run toward Charlie as he'd already destroyed the wall in the opposite direction. If I ran toward him and didn't fall over the steep edge, he'd be able to swerve into me more easily, giving me less chance to prepare. If I jumped and he hit the wall behind me, all of that rock was going to come down on me as I lay there with a broken leg or two.

There was no other option.

I drew my gun and steadied myself. I hoped that he'd see me and stop; I hoped that he wasn't willing to risk it all, but apparently Charlie wasn't thinking reasonably. He accelerated faster toward me, and I lined the sights up on where I guessed the back of his seat to be.

I didn't shake; I didn't breathe.

I watched him, the side of his head a silhouette in the broken glass of his hatchback, with his right hand over the passenger seat, his body twisted to see behind him. The car was mangled and looked like some sort of hideous wrecking ball as it increased speed, closing the distance between us.

This was it, the moment where you either have a gun or you don't.

I did.

I fired three times in rapid succession.

Three holes tore through the already broken glass, and the car began to slow. It came to a stop no more than twenty feet from me.

I breathed.

Oh, I'm still alive.

From the Author:

Random Thoughts about Kids and God

I have the most beautiful son.

He's growing up too fast. Soon he'll lose his little boy voice, and then he'll acquire an agenda, suddenly too busy to spend the weekends with his old dad. We (my peers) are almost all parents now. We were them, the kids, the eternal ones, not so long ago. The days pass, the sun rises and falls, and the creases in our skin stop appearing only when we smile or cry. They become like scars, proof of the life we've lived.

I'm not as good of a father as I wish I was, but inside of me, I hope we all feel that way. Every time my son lays his head on my shoulder, I feel something sad. I feel like he's reaching out to me, that he's clinging to me when it should be me clinging to him and his little boy voice. His little hands. His big heart.

These books, these words, have set me free in so many ways. I have received overwhelming encouragement from you, the ones who read them and were here for me. I feel like I owe these books to so many factors, so many coincidental actions, all swaying together to the sounds of lives well lived.

I cannot look back on my life without seeing the hand of God. I cannot, despite the pride I take in my ability to reason, dismiss the people who have impacted me, saved me, helped me, hurt me, and criticized me, as simply happenstance. It's true that my idea of God differs from what's taught every Sunday morning, but not to the degree that I'd remove myself from being a Christian. No, I'm not an atheist, and I certainly don't mean to be blasphemous.

My issues with the Church can be summarized in a single question: Does God answer the prayers of Muslims?

I do not wish to offend anyone with my thoughts on God. Say what you will about the number of times I use the word "fuck," but I do, and always will, have a hard time believing that a being such as He attaches eternal consequences to a singular English word. This is where the structure and I have always differed, here in the gray, where culture and doctrine overlap...

I live in the gray.

When I ask my mother to not read these books, it's not because I believe that I have been unnecessarily vulgar. Despite the joy I take in being descript, it's not my desire to write something disrespectful, obscene, or foul... It's my desire to write something real. I've read plenty of Christian fiction by authors I respect, agreeing mostly with the fundamentals of what they are saying, but I find it hard to connect to a story that doesn't "sound" like the world in which I live. It's my desire to write for you honest conversation without pulling punches, to not spare you the poetry of modern, vulgar conversation.

Does it cost me readers? Definitely.

Does doing so set me free? Like nothing else I have ever experienced.

Ved and I are not so different. I have a few years on him now. I've seen the "greener grass" and felt the long-term repercussions of the decisions he makes. Maybe I find redemption in making him lovably fucked up...

I sometimes wonder what Ved would think of me, were he to meet me today...

I encourage you to contact me at k.austinbooks@gmail.com with any thoughts you have, or friend me on Facebook (search K. Austin author).

I appreciate intelligent conversation and would love to hear your thoughts. I will make an effort to reply to every letter I receive. I am profoundly thankful for your reading this book. I've felt obligated to thank each reader, not just for reading, but for your thoughts, afterward.

"Change, Evolve, Nothing Simplified... Nothing Compromised."

The Mighty "Mullingroove."

