The Letter
By
Joseph Devon


1
   
   Happy birthday, Jack. That should be said first, I suppose, before you start wondering where I am and why I won't be there for your birthday and what, in God's name, this enormous hunk of paper is that you're holding in your hands.  
   I had meant to just write a little card or something.  A few paragraphs explaining where I was and why you were going to have to either run the deli on your own or close it up for a little while.  That little card just kept expanding, though, and I discovered that I had a lot more to explain than I thought.  Actually, I'm not quite sure that “explain” is the right word.  I feel that I need to get this story out in some sort of totality.  I need it to make sense to me, too.  Since I'm missing your birthday and since, I feel, an explanation of where I'm going is needed, I figured why not just dump all of this on Jack?  You know, get it all straight in my own head for once and then just toss it your way as a combination apology/birthday present.  Which is what this is.  So, first and foremost, happy birthday...again.
   I don't quite know where to start.  Some recap of yesterday is in order seeing as how I doubt that you remember exactly what you said to me or exactly what happened and there's no way for you to know exactly why all of that resulted in me skipping town for a little while and missing your birthday.  
   I guess I'll start with the roast beef.
   It was late in the day, the dinner rush was over and had left us with little more than a nub of roast beef left.  I was salting and peppering a new roast, cutting slices into it and pushing wedges of garlic into the meat before putting it in the oven to roast for tomorrow.  Ashburn came in while I was in the midst of all this.  He kind of hovered by the counter waiting for me to finish.  We were supposed to play poker that night with a few of the other regulars.  
   I know, I know.  You know all this already; you were standing maybe twenty feet away the whole time.  Hell, you were supposed to play cards with us that night.  You had some other obligation.  I forget what exactly.  That's not important, though, just stick with me here.  It's not so much what happened yesterday as much as what I was thinking while all of this happened.  
   So I'm finishing up the roast, Ashburn's waiting for me to come over and talk to him...only I didn't feel like it right then.  My mind was preoccupied that day.  I ended up burning that roast, and I never burn anything.  
   Ashburn was hovering around the counter and I pretended to be fixated with this roast and finally I realized I had to say something.  I just looked over at him and kind of grinned and shouted, "You know, I don't think I'm up for cards tonight, Ash.  Just don't feel like it tonight."
   He kept bobbing around the counter trying to make eye contact with me as I squatted back by the ovens, and I kind of kept bobbing around trying to avoid eye contact with him over by the counter.  "Come on, Quint," he finally called to me.  "We haven't even seen Larry in about a week.  You gotta come.  Won't be the same without you."
   "Nah," I said, subtly ducking behind the deep fryer.  "I'm just, you know, not really feeling like cards tonight.  You've got enough guys for a game without me, anyway.  I just gotta go home and do some stuff around the house."  Which was a lie.  Which I don't enjoy doing.  But at the moment I just wanted him out of there.  
   Throughout this conversation I'm pretty sure he kept looking at you and that you kept giving him shrugs and "I have no idea" kind of looks.  You would lift your hands in the air questioningly, and he would roll his eyes quizzically, and then have another line of dialogue with me, and then you both would show to each other that you didn't know what was going on.  
   Anyway, he eventually headed for the door and I was suddenly filled with the need to ask him a question.  I hopped up and walked towards the counter.  "Hey, Ash," I called.  He turned and looked at me with a grin on his face, probably thinking that I had come to my senses and now wanted to play cards.  His grin faded fast.  I think I had a pretty serious look on my face.  I was starting to realize how ridiculous my question was going to sound, so I spit it out before it could go sour in my mouth.  "Do you, uh, do you still keep in touch with your friends from high-school and college and, you know, from back then?"  
   "I guess so," he started with an odd look on his face.  "I mean...I don't know.  Every once in awhile one of them will pop up somewhere."  His face was furrowed as he tried to figure out exactly how to answer my question.  "Yeah...yeah."  He nodded.  "I'll get an e-mail from some of them here and there.  Or I'll run into some girl I used to date way back when in the supermarket and we'll make plans to meet for..." Ash scratched his nose as he trailed off.  "Actually, that only happened once and we just kept saying to each other how we should have dinner or something and then never did anything about it.  You know.  But I lost track of most of those people right after graduation.  The few I kept in touch with...well Eddy's a friend of mine from college.  You know Eddy."
   I nodded that I did know Eddy.  "Well," I asked, "if someone you used to know really well called you up and needed your help.  Would you help them?"
   "Quint, what are you talking about?"  Ash asked.
   "I don't know," I answered, feeling fully the doubt that came with what I was saying.  "I really just don't know."  Ash opened his mouth to say something but I just waved him off and walked back towards the roast and sat down on a crate of soda cans.  
   "Okay," he called back to me.  "You know when the game starts, and you obviously know that we pretty much need to have you there or else we're going to have to eat Jimmy's nachos and, well, they nobody likes to eat Jimmy’s nachos."  I favored him with a laugh to let him know that I wasn't angry with him or anything.  I heard you and him say some things in low tones to each other and then I heard the bell as Ashburn walked out of the deli.  If I had to guess what you and Ash said to each other I would guess something like this.  You told Ash that I had been acting like this all day...all week even.  Which I had.  And then Ash told you that he knew what you were talking about and that you should try and talk me into playing poker that night.  Or that you at least should try and talk to me.
   I took another look at the roast and then stood up and walked towards the counter.  I remember glancing in your direction and seeing that you weren't quite making eye contact with me.  Like I said, I'm pretty sure that Ashburn had asked you to try and figure out why I was acting so odd.  So there you are, nineteen years old, one day away from twenty.  You just came back from college for the summer maybe a week ago.  You're hanging out by the counter watching twilight set in like you have for countless summer nights after countless dinner rushes over the past few years.  Your birthday is tomorrow and I told you earlier in the week that I would make dinner, like I have for the last three of your birthdays.  You're looking forward to all of your friends getting together and hanging out and maybe having a few drinks.  And then Ashburn tells you to try to have a talk with me and figure out what's wrong.  Now, we've known each other for quite awhile.  During slow weekends at the deli when everybody goes out of town we've spent the days chatting.  You've come to poker night a few times and I showed up at your high-school graduation.  There have been days when I've griped to you about some problem or another, and there have been plenty of days when you've come into work in a bad mood and left at the end of the day feeling better.  But I've known Ashburn a lot longer then you and it would make sense for Ash to talk to me and not put this off onto you.  You're just looking forward to your birthday and are expecting me to act pretty much the same way I've always acted ever since you've known me.  But I wasn’t acting like the same old me.  And when someone's acting as distant as I was they can seem like a complete stranger.  With that comes the feeling that they're not worth worrying about, that they'll just bounce out of it on their own or that...well, or a million things.  You just don't want to go up and flat out ask what's wrong and if you try to work your way around to the subject you just keep going in circles and end up having a pretty shallow conversation that leaves you more estranged from this friend of yours than when you started. 
   Actually, I have no idea what you were thinking as you leaned against the counter and watched dusk settle onto the street outside.  I know that that's how I feel right now.  I also know that you don't have any idea what I'm talking about yet, so we'll just go back to the deli, shall we?
   I walked up to the counter and stood over by the cash register.  I certainly didn't make eye contact with you and I'm pretty sure that I was giving off very loud signals that I did not want to talk right then.  Despite my clear reluctance to say anything you still opened your mouth and began to talk.  In my opinion, that was a pretty brave thing to do.
   "It's my birthday tomorrow," you said.
   I leaned against the counter.  I nodded.
   "Yessir," you said to fill the silence.  "Twenty years old.  That's what I'll be.  Twenty years old."
   You waited for me to say something.  I didn't.  "Yup.  Twenty years old," you went on.  "That makes me, what, thirty years younger than you?"
   "Thirty-two." I said grudgingly.
   "Ah," you said, "thirty-two years older than me."  
   There was another long pause.  "Hey, Quint?"  You spoke up.  "My friends and I are obviously going out tomorrow night.  I'm not sure if you'd want to come with us, but I was assuming that you'd at least want to have dinner with us.  You know, like last year."
   I leaned against the counter in silence.  You stood there staring at me.  I kept right on leaning.  You kept right on staring.  "Actually, Jack," I started, but I felt like an ass thinking about what I was about to say.  "Actually, I don't know if I'm going to be here tomorrow."
   "Oh," was all you said.
   "I've got some stuff I have to do...it's...ah hell, I don't know what it is."
   You nodded, pretending like you knew what I was talking about.  "Okay, that's fine and all," you said.
   It didn't take much to realize that you weren't exactly happy with what I was telling you.  You had acted like you were just now inviting me to your birthday dinner, but we both knew that wasn't right.  I had told you earlier in the week that I would definitely be there.  I even told you I'd cook.  And you had probably told your friends that I was going to cook dinner like the last couple of years, and that they should expect the same thing and all, and now I was completely breaking my word and wasn't even offering you an explanation.  Which, in part, is what this enormous birthday card is.  
   After that I kept thinking how I should tell you where I was going, and you probably were thinking how you should ask me where I was going but I didn't even know if I was going at that point.  
   You said something about knocking off early and I knew that you were angry and I said fine and you probably figured that I didn't notice how hurt you looked as you walked through the door.  You stood in the doorway for a little bit and before walking out and letting it shut behind you, you actually turned and said, "Live messy, Quint."  Then the bell jangled and the door shut.
   "Please don't call me that," I said wearily after you, even though there was no way for you to hear me.  "Just call me Tom."  
   There obviously was some unspoken tension there.  I don't know.  I guess you look up to me and I hope I'm not being too presumptuous.  I know that it means a lot to you that I come to your birthday dinner.  It means a lot to me too, which should be obvious.  The first one was my idea, after all.  And I'm pretty sure that when I show up you feel like it's a complete birthday or something.  Without me it's just your mom and your friends.  The thing is...well...keep reading.  Like I keep saying, there's an explanation somewhere in this mass of paper.
   Later on, after closing up shop, I stepped into the sleepy little suburban town that I call home.  Midvail.  About four square miles with narrow winding back roads and huge oak trees everywhere.  These narrow capillaries would run into larger veins, then finally into arteries like the Turnpike and the Parkway.  All of them converging on the real heart of things around here, New York.  The entire northern portion of Jersey was more or less a suburb of New York.  Newark had made a stand at one point, trying to be it's own city, but it had been eaten up back at the turn of the century.  Well, not really eaten up, it had just sort of worn smooth as New York's influence had washed over it, wearing it down until it was just another suburb like Midvail, my hometown.  My bike was still chained where I had left it that morning, on the street light right across from the deli.
   I peddled down the street and rode to the condo development where I live.  Rows and rows of the same exact house with the same exact lawn.  It made me dizzy sometimes to look at it.  It also was pretty confusing.  I usually turned onto the wrong street or into the wrong driveway whenever I tried to make it home.  Today was no different.  After wandering around for while I managed to locate my own personal condo that looked exactly like everyone else's personal condo.  Gray plastic siding, six stone steps up to the front door, a bay window to the right of that, and under the window, the garage.  I clicked my opener and walked my bike inside.
   I leaned my bicycle up against the back wall.  The right hand wall was lined with trashcans.  There was a cotton tarp covering something off towards the left.  I walked past what was under the cotton tarp and into my house.  There were only four rooms: living room, kitchen, bedroom, and a sort of breakfast nook.  The place was predominantly gray.  There were a few splashes of color here and there; a blanket on the sofa, a potholder in the kitchen, but for the most part it was just plain drab.  
   I went about my daily routine.  First I went through and cleaned up what little mess I had made that morning.   Then I wandered into the kitchen.  I started making a quick tomato sauce, and at some point realized that I had forgotten about the roast and had to run back to the deli and toss the charred remains of that into the trash.  This resulted in me coming home to a fairly ruined tomato sauce, which ended with me just eating cookies for dinner.  
   I sat down on the sofa in front of the TV and watched the news while spilling cookie crumbs on my lap.  The news didn't really hold my attention.  I surfed around the channels for awhile and eventually found an old spaghetti western.  That didn't hold my attention either.  Then I found some sitcom I thought I wanted to watch.  Halfway through it I noticed that I wasn't even watching what was going on.  I was staring so hard at the TV that I was actually watching individual pixels of color instead of the overall pictures that they were supposed to represent.  
   I switched off the TV and put my bag of cookies back into the cupboard.  Then I looked through my mail.  There were a few bills and some junk mail offering me the latest in summer wear.  I placed the bills in my bill pile and placed the catalogues in my catalogue file, also known as my trash can.  
   I rifled through my mail one last time to make sure I hadn't missed any letters with actual hand written addresses instead of computerized bulk mailings addressed to Thomas Quince, or Squint or whatever the company thought my name was.
   After I took care of that I went upstairs and got ready for bed.  As I turned on the bathroom light my eyes were dazzled for a few seconds.  There is a lot of wattage coming out of that room when the lights are on, and with white tile all over the place it can be blinding.  When my eyes no longer had to squint I brought out my toothbrush and brushed my teeth.  I rinsed my mouth out and then splashed some cold water on my face feeling the sandpaper of my five o'clock shadow.  I looked into the mirror with water dripping off my nose and stared at myself.  Brown eyes, dull and cold stared back at me.  They looked like sea glass, worn down and without luster.  My hair was still slicked back on my head from the goop I had put in it that morning.  I doubted if my hair would have moved if I had stepped outside into a hurricane.  More and more wrinkles were beginning to pop up, especially around my eyes.  Then, again, I was staring at those dull brown eyes with pale white surrounding them.  I blinked hard, shook my head and wiped off my face.  Finally I crawled into bed although I knew sleep wasn't going to come.
   I lay there with my blankets wrapped around me and looked at the ceiling.  Minutes then hours passed and my eyes still remained open.  I turned repeatedly to the dull green glow of my clock only to see that more and more time had gone by.  This had been occurring increasingly often.  The past few times I had taken a couple of nighttime aspirins and fallen right asleep but tonight I didn't feel like doing that.  Instead my mind kept turning back to the last thing you had said to me before you left the deli.  More precisely my mind kept going back to the way you had called me "Quint."  My brain insisted on repeating it over and over again.
   Phrases drifted up from the depths of my memory.  Small orders, pieces of advice, correct observations, all of them ending with my name.  "Ease up, Quint" "Let go, Quint" "It's killing you, Quint"
   You hadn't said any of these things, of course, but someone had.  It was uncanny how much you had sounded like that voice from the past.  Although, maybe you weren't such a dead ringer after all, maybe I had just been thinking about that voice so much recently that it was easy to convince myself that you and he sounded similar.  The original voice belonged to an auto-mechanic in Montana named Ralph.  He's dead now.  I never thanked him.  I began to feel pretty awful with Ralph's voice running around in my head, so I tried to shut it up.
   My brain's a clever thing so when I locked up Ralph's voice it simply conjured up Joe and Rick.  My memories placed them in a rustic setting next to my car, staring at me as I tried to get to sleep.  They looked young, though, they looked like teenagers.  It had been ages since I had thought of them in that context.  I could see the two of them so clearly standing there, each of them wearing a work shirt from some gas station, each of them smiling, standing next to my car in some campground or outside of some highway diner.  Poor Rick.
   Rick was sitting next to me in the passenger seat as we hurtled across the country towards the Grand Tetons.  I had posed a question to him.  "Ads for sporting goods," he had answered me with his quirky smile.  The rain had caught up with us again that day, I think, and—
   "What?"  I said.  There was nobody there to answer me, of course.  I was sitting on my bed in my condo some thirty two years later talking to myself.  Those memories can be powerful things sometimes. 
   I was wide-awake now.  I thought about Joe as a teenager running through the rain in Montana.  I thought about Rick running over to me when I hooked a fish in the stream outside of Ralph's house.  I thought about my garage and what was sitting there under the tarp.  
   I walked downstairs and opened the garage door.  The light from the hallway sent a blade of brightness into the dark and illuminated the white cloth and the lump under it.  I flicked on the light and yanked the tarp back.  A gray BMW convertible sat there.  Its paint was worn, its seats were threadbare and there was a small dent on the driver's side.  I opened the door and sat down.  It had been maybe fifteen years since Rick had overhauled the car, and probably a year since I had taken it up to him for a checkup.  
   I took another look around the interior of my car.  I had just sort of stopped driving it about five months ago in January and started riding my bike.  It was at that time that I had run out of good mechanics. 
   My eyes winced as I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was sitting in my garage in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.
   I got out of the car and slammed the door.  I shook my head and asked myself what I thought I was doing.  I was a grown man and here I was in la-la land trying to make sense out of the litter in my car.  I began speaking out loud.  "Leave me alone," I said to nobody.  "Just, just back off," I said, this time to myself…I think.
   "The hell with that."  That was Joe's voice.  I was sure of that one.
   "Why are you coming up!  I can't help you!"  I realized that I had spoken out loud, that I had in fact been speaking out loud for quite a few seconds.  "Oh, good.  Now I'm losing my mind."
   "So?  Maybe that's not such a bad thing."  I pulled the mental equivalent of turning my head, hoping to catch a glimpse of who had said that.  It was another familiar voice...and I could almost feel my brain rumbling with more.  An avalanche had been set off in my head.  As I tried to track down the most recent invader of my brain, hundreds of images, thousands of little snippets of conversation, millions of feelings went flashing by.  Each one triggered even more.  There was one image that was a little clearer than the others.  That mental picture of Joe and Rick wearing smirks, standing next to my car in a campsite somewhere in northwestern America.  That coupled with the way I had seen both of them most recently.  
   My gaze drifted back to my car.  My eyes wandered over the gray paint and the faded, still dusty, tires.  I remembered myself as I had been.  I turned and walked back towards the house. The car was a big part of where it had started...but that wasn't really the beginning.  There was a reason before that as to why the car had come into play.  That I certainly remembered.  I walked across my garage floor.  My shoes made an empty sound as they hit the gray concrete.  I opened the garage door to step into my house...

   2
   
   ...I was attacked as soon as I walked in the door.  My dad had picked me up from the airport and I guess she had heard the garage door open.  Actually, knowing April, she had been in the kitchen waiting for the garage door to open.  She came running towards me before I could even call into the house that I was home.  All three feet of her came running in and latched onto my leg.  "Tom's home!  Tom's home!  Tom's home!  Tom's home!  Tom's home..."
   "Thank God you're here."  I looked up and saw my mom in the breakfast room doorway.  She was wiping her hands with a towel and appeared to be wearing a smock.  "All day it's been, 'Tom's coming home!  Tom's coming home!  Tom's coming home!" She mimicked April's high-pitched voice.  "I was hoping that it would stop when you got here.  That was probably a little too optimistic."  She turned her head and looked at my baby sister, still latched onto my leg and still droning on and on:
   "Tom's home!  Tom's home!  Tom's home..." It was muffled a bit because she was hugging my leg so tight her face was squished into my jeans.  
   My mom noticed these next and tried to casually comment on them: "Is that what you wore on the plane?"  I had to laugh.  She was actually embarrassed that I hadn't looked my Sunday best for all the strangers flying with me.  
   "Actually I changed when I landed.  I had been wearing some filthy sweat pants and a T-shirt that said, 'My mother doesn't care enough about me to dress me properly in public'.  Isn't that right, Dad?"
   "Yup."  He picked the beat up right away, "I made him change instantly, of course."
   "Thank goodness."  My mom replied.  I smirked inwardly; how could she actually be buying this?  
   My dad went on, "I figured in that outfit he would probably be cold.  Couldn't have that."
   "Oh I don't care about him," my mom said, "I was just worried the sweat pants might have made the car dirty."  Okay, so she wasn't buying it.  My face broke into a smile.
   "It's good to be home."  I limped over to my mom and gave her cheek a kiss.  "What's with your outfit?"  I looked at her more closely and noticed that she was, in fact, wearing a smock.  It was covered in colors and there was a streak of red paint in her hair.
   "I hoped a little arts and crafts would calm April a bit.  Apparently your father gave her a bunch of Coca-Cola this afternoon.  You know how she gets with caffeine.  She's been...well, you can she how she's been."
   "...Tom's home!  Tom's home!  Tom's home..." I finally actually looked down at my sister latched onto my leg.  She looked up at me, "Hi Tom."
   "Why, hello, April."
   She smiled and said, "Hi, Tom" again.  
   "Mom tells me you've got a lot of energy."
   "Lots and lots."
   "Well good, 'cause you're gonna have to run pretty fast if you want to get away from me."
   "You just got here," she asked innocently, "Why would I want to run away—" her sentence ended in a shriek as I tickled her to the floor.  She got up and ran, screaming and giggling, out of the room.  I ran after her and picked her up somewhere near the basement door.  I put her over my shoulder and began to spin around and around and around.  I stopped, stood her up on the floor, and we both collapsed to the ground.  She got up before I did and tried to seek revenge by holding up my arm and tickling me.  Looking at her using all her strength to lift my arm in the air I found it impossible to stop laughing.
   Suddenly she stopped and looked at me, "Did you bring me a present?"  
   "Of course."
   "I want it."
   "You can't have it.  Your birthday is tomorrow, not today.  And so, you do not get your birthday present until the day you're supposed to.  Which is tomorrow."  I think I was still dizzy from the spinning, which would explain my sentence structure.  "Come on," I said, "let's go back to the room with the big-people in it."
   I picked her up and carried her back into the kitchen.  My mom and dad were seated around the breakfast room table toying with the finger-paints that were supposed to have calmed April.  I had a hunch that my mom had done more finger-painting than my sister.  I sat down, and April climbed up into my lap and rested her head on my chest.  She was asleep in minutes.  I talked to my folks for awhile, telling them some stories from college and how my grades were going. 
   There wasn't a whole lot of catching up to do.  It had only been a few weeks since Christmas break when I'd been home last, but I had wanted to come back for April's big day.  I still wasn't sure what we were doing, so I asked my parents.
   "We're going into New York."  My mom replied. "Our family is going to see "Beauty and the Beast" and then we're meeting some cousins for dinner.  There's going to be quite a few of us.  James will be there."  My father's branch of the family all stuck around in Jersey to raise their kids.  Therefore the cousins on his side got to see a whole lot of each other.  I was the oldest member of my generation but James was not that much younger than me.  As a result he was the cousin I was closest to and, frankly, I never got to see him enough.  It was nice to hear that he was coming to dinner tomorrow.  I was glad, as always, that he was a year younger than me making him a senior in high school.  Next year he'd be at college and I most likely wouldn't get to see him on my random vacations home.  
   "I guess I should put April to bed."  My mom said.
   "No.  I'll do it."  I picked up my sleeping sister and carried her upstairs to her room.  She woke up a bit on the way upstairs and was able to get into her pajamas by herself.  I plopped her on her bed and covered her with blankets.  She almost fell asleep before she opened her eyes and frowned at me.  "Where's Mister Trunky?"  She asked.  I had to stifle a laugh as I went looking for her older than dirt stuffed animal.  I'm told that I, also, had a filthy old stuffed animal when I was younger and that my stuffed animal had just as ridiculous a name as Mister Trunky.  Something about the ignorance of youth seems to spark the urge to place two-syllable names on inanimate objects.  This has often mystified me.
   I found Mister Trunky behind the bed.  He was a little elephant wearing a clown suit and was covered in a million stains and sewn together tears.  She fell right back to sleep as soon as she had her little clown-bear thing in her arms.  I kissed her on her forehead.  "Sleep tight" I whispered.  Then I turned off the lights and went back downstairs.  
   My mom and dad were sitting at the kitchen table when I came down.  My mom had a cup of coffee in front of her and I poured myself one before sitting down.
   "When did you start drinking coffee?"  My mom asked.
   I looked at her.  "I explained this when I was home for Christmas and you asked me the same exact question in the same exact situation.  When you've got to stay up all night writing papers it's quite natural to grab a cup of coffee at the food court.  From there it was a small step to start drinking it in the morning, and now I'll drink it in any situation in which coffee seems to fit.  This being one of them."
   "It's decaf, you know," my mom said.
   I rolled my eyes.  "That I don't understand.  If it's not gonna keep me up and make me all jittery I don't see any real reason to drink it."
   "I'm not really sure what I think of that," my mom replied.
   I could see she was about to go on but my Dad spoke up first.  "Why did you have to stay up all night writing papers?  Didn't you have them planned and written in advance?"
   "Oh yeah, of course, but I had to, uh, do something else with them--" I kind of trailed off with a grin and a perplexed look on my face.
   "Right," my dad said with a chuckle.
   "How is Kevin doing?"  My mom asked.  Kevin was my roommate at college.
   "Fine," I answered.  "He might be coming out here this summer for a bit."
   "Really?"
   "Yeah, he's taking a road trip across country and I told him to stop by when he was in Jersey."
   "Uh-huh," my dad said.  "Any idea what your summer is looking like?"
   "Oh, it's shaping up," I said, dodging the question.
   "Shaping up into what?"  My dad asked, throwing the ball right back at me.
   "Into something," I answered, swatting the ball out of the air and smooshing it with my foot.  Truth was I didn't know what I was doing for the summer.  Part of me was itching to trail along with Kevin.  Two friends from high school, Joe and Rick, had expressed some interest in a road trip.  I hoped that by bringing it up much later when it had been planned out a bit more I might be able to convince my parents to let me go.  This would take a lot of convincing seeing as I would probably have to take my dad's car.  He was currently driving an old BMW convertible, kind of eccentric for a father, but I always liked the idea of having a ragtop dad.  Taking the car wasn't really that far-fetched.  I actually drove it pretty frequently, plus my dad had promised it to me when he was done with it and it was starting to get just a little too worn for him to feel comfortable riding around in it.  I didn't care if the seats fell out of it when he handed it over; I just wanted a car.
   "When are we going into the city tomorrow?"  I asked.
   "Oh, I don't know," my mom replied.  "I haven't decided if we should drive in or take the train.  Lord knows if your father's car can take another trip into the city."
   "Hey!"  My dad shouted with feigned indignation.  "That car's gonna be up and running long after you and I have—"
   "Dear," my mom interrupted.  "Even if it does keep running for another ten years it doesn't mean you should drive it for that long.  I really think it's time you looked into a new car."
   My dad gathered up the two empty coffee cups and started heading towards the sink.  "I like that car," was all he said as he left the table.  
   I knew what my mom was doing.  She had become an ally of mine in my maneuvering for the family car.  She certainly didn't have any problem driving around in the old BMW.  She was just throwing her weight in to lend me a hand.  I don't think she was as attached to the car as my dad was, mind you.  I doubt anyone in the family was.  I have to admit that I think part of my excitement about owning a car came from the fact that I would be owning that specific car.  There were a lot of family memories tied up in it.  A lot of family memories.  I guess I could say that I liked that car too.
   "Anyway," I said, changing the subject so as not to make it too obvious that this was all a subtle ploy to pass the family car along to me.  "What time are we getting up tomorrow?"  I still wasn't too clear on whether we had a whole day planned in the city or just the play and dinner.  
   "I don't know," my mom answered, "there's no need to get up too early."
   "Yes, but let's just say I was to get up early.  Could I assume that you would be making omelets when I came downstairs?"  My mom could make the best omelets in the world.  Hands down.  No contest.
   "I'm not sure, Tom.  I don't think I have too many ingredients in the house and I hadn't really planned on it."
   "All right," I said.  "So omelets it is."
   "Noooo.  I really don't think—"
   "Great. So we're having omelets."
   "Tom, I said probably not."
   "Sure do love those omelets, mom.  I'm really looking forward to them."
   "Maybe," she finally acknowledged.
   "So that's a yes."
   "Maybe."
   "Yes?"
   "Maybe."
   "Maybe," I conceded.  But something in her voice told me that "maybe" meant "yes."
   I sat around talking to my parents until I started yawning too loudly to talk anymore.  The trip home had worn me out and I was ready for bed.  I said goodnight and headed upstairs to my room.
   When I got up there I took a look around.  I had spent eighteen years rubbing off on this place.  Posters on the wall.  The spot on the rug where I had broken a pen.  The crack by the window where I had thrown a temper tantrum and hurled a basketball at the wall.  The worn out chair and the overflowing desk.  It had seemed like I had gutted the place when I moved out to go to college, but I guess a lot of me was left here after all.  I sat down in my chair and looked out the window.  I got up and turned the lights off and then sat down for a better look.  The lawn was covered with snow and there were big mounds of it piled on the side of the road where the snowplow had gone by.  The moon was just rising over the trees across the street.  Its light filtered in through the branches of the huge oaks that made up the neighbor's backyard.  A car or two drove by, reminding me how lonely it was when they weren't there.  It was another quiet night in suburbia. 
   Sometimes I would sit at that window and look out at the night and just hope that something, anything, would happen.  A brush fire across the street, or a fender bender in front of the house.  It got pretty boring where I lived.  Unless my friends and I were wandering the streets, it was just plain dull.  I took my fill of the moon, then went to bed.
   The next morning was madness.  My mom was hovering around the stove cooking up omelets trying to finally decide with my dad when and how to head into the city while he was seated at the table eating his three-cheese omelet.  My sister was sitting on the floor playing with some plastic cars.  Apparently there had been an accident in her little world and she bringing her plastic ambulance full of plastic people to the plastic hospital to get them "fixed all up."  Also, for some reason, the radio and TV were both on.  I sat down at the table in my pajamas and just stared.  For some ridiculous reason I felt like I should have a cigarette dangling out of my mouth.
   My mom brought my omelet out on her frying pan, a gift from me last Christmas, and served me my omelet.  Bacon and cheddar surrounded by the fluffiest most delicate eggs you can imagine.  I thanked her and began to eat.  She eventually sat down with her own concoction, green peppers, onions and breakfast sausage and began to eat at the table out of the frying pan as she always did.  The accident in April's world got taken care of and she began to wander around the table trying to get anyone's attention that had finished eating.
   We finally decided to drive to the Millburn station and take a train in from there.  My family and I stepped outside and onto the driveway.  I pulled my coat around me and watched my breath as I exhaled.  "So," I said, looking at my dad.  "What do you think?"
   He looked at me inquisitively and I nodded toward the car.  "You think it's one of those days?"  I asked.  
   "Tom, it's thirty degrees out."
   "So?"
   "It stays up until the spring.  You know that."
   "What about that one time when I was ten?  We put it down during the winter."
   "Tom, it was about forty degrees warmer than it is today, and that was a very, very rare occurrence.  You know the rules.  It stays down until the temperature hits seventy.  Then it's open season."
   I was about to let it go when April started tugging on my dad's coat.  He looked down at her and she looked up at him and told him that she wanted it down too and that it should go down because it was her birthday.  I gave her a high five and picked her up onto my shoulders.
   "Come on now, dad," I said.  "That's two votes to put the roof down."
   "And it's still thirty degrees out.  It's not going down."
   I stared up at April on my shoulder and made a mean looking face.  She copied my look to the best of her ability and we both turned and scowled at my dad.  He just shook his head and got into the car.  The roof was staying up, but I had gotten omelets so I guess I had broken even.  I felt bad for April.  She didn't really eat omelets yet.  
   The play was pretty good.  I don't really go to Broadway that often so I can't really compare it to anything, but, hey, I liked it.  I looked around at our family and saw that my mom and April were enthralled with the performance.  My dad, on the other hand, wasn't exactly enthusiastic.  I think "asleep" would be a better word.  He missed a pretty good fight scene at the end.  
   We left the theater and walked to Carmine's.  As we neared the restaurant we saw another family approaching from the opposite direction.  "Jimmy!" I shouted.  
   "Hey, Tom."  I saw Jimmy grinning as he walked down the street.  I realized I was grinning too.  I took a good look at my cousin.  The kid was an ogre.  He was easily over six feet tall and looked like he could rip a tree in half.  They grew 'em big on that side of the family.  Two families of Quints walked into Carmine's to partake of their enormous servings.  The third branch of the family wandered in after a few minutes. 
   As usually happens when a large part of my family goes out to eat, the conversation consisted of a bunch of little conversations.  The restaurant was just too noisy and our group was too large to have one big discussion.  People sitting next to each other would talk to each other and the entire group would play musical chairs through the night as one person would get up and go to the bathroom and someone would take their seat in order to sit next to someone else they wanted to talk to.  I wandered around the table as much as anyone but I ended up seated next to Jimmy for most of the dinner.  He talked mostly about a trip he was taking that summer to Europe.  I let him in on my own, still secret, plans for a road-trip.
   What seemed like the entire staff came over and sang "Happy Birthday" at dessert.  I was never a big fan of that tradition when it happened to me.  Usually the only reason I do it to other people is out of revenge.  After the birthday song everyone who had one gave April a present.  Then the check was paid and we were heading home.  The night was over and it felt like it had just started.  
   We walked out of the restaurant and then almost everyone walked back into the restaurant.  It had begun to hail and not too many people felt like standing outside getting pelted by the little balls of ice that were popping and bouncing all over the street.  The third family had driven their own car into the city and my uncle was sent out to drive the car around.  When he pulled up everyone from that branch said goodbye to April and then they drove off.  I was standing outside with my dad as he tried to hail a couple of cabs.  I started slipping around on the sidewalk and I heard a banging on the window behind me.  I looked up and saw April inside, entirely lit up by a laugh.  I continued to slide around on the ice outside for her amusement and then I saw my mom walk over to her and tell her to stop shrieking so loud.  April said something to my mom and my mom nodded.  Then April came walking out the door and very gingerly made her way over to me on the ice.  She finally made it over to me and then tried to tug at my coat.  This resulted in her losing her balance and sliding into me.  She looked up at me with an incredibly serious look on her face, like she had just had a very close call just then.  
   "Pick me up," my sister pleaded.
   "Nope.  You smell funny," I teased her.
   "I do not."
   "Yes.  You do."  I smiled as I watched her walk over to my mom who had joined us on the sidewalk.
   "Mom says I don't smell," she yelled to me from the safety of our mom's overcoat.
   "That's because she smells too," was my comeback.
   My mom joined into the first-grade conversation.  "Ignore your stinky brother, April.  You see he's really the one that smells bad.  We smell good.  He's just so used to smelling himself he thinks we're the ones who smell funny."  I'm surprised we weren't calling each other "poo-poo heads" or something.  
   "Oh please.  I can smell her from here, mom."  For some reason I felt like I needed to have the last word in that conversation.  
   We managed to hail two cabs and people started to climb in.  I walked over to my family's cab and opened the door.  April looked up at me.  "You can't ride with us.  You smell funny."  I guess my sister got in the last word after all.  I laughed and walked over to the cab Jimmy was in.  This was fine by me.  I don't get to see that kid enough.  
   "You're not riding in their cab?"  He asked.
   "Nope.  I smell funny."
   "I thought April smelled funny."
   "Just slide over."  I hopped in and we started off for Grand Central.  The other cab jumped out into traffic and sped off.  Our cab driver knew how to drive safely, which is a rarity in New York.  He managed to keep up with the other cab, but unlike the other one he wasn't performing the art of "Timing the Lights".  
   The lights in New York are set up so that if you go about thirty-two miles an hour you always hit greens.  This means that if you're stopped at a red light and it turns green, the next one down the street should be turning green any moment.  Some cab drivers take this to mean that if they are at a red light that turns green they can floor it safely and not bother slowing down because the next light is bound to turn also.  The cab my family was in attempted this feat.  I guess their timing was off...
   
   
      3
      
   ...I won't go into the details of the accident.  I won't mention the screeching tires and the naked metal that jutted out of the car stripped of paint.  I won't mention the crowds and the hurt and the tears.  I won't because I can't.  It still hurts too much to call it up in my mind with complete accuracy, and if I describe it any less accurately it just doesn't seem right.
   I took a deep breath and looked up.  The gray ceiling of my garage came back into focus.  I let my hand slip off of the doorknob.  In the months following the accident I relived it my way probably millions of times.  Most of the times I revisited the scene in my mind I ended up getting into the cab with my family... 
   In reality, it was almost like I had been in the cab.  I was eighteen years old and I was no longer alive.  We are born, and we live.  At some later time we learn that we are born, we live, and then we die.  However, this statement refuses to hold up to closer examination.  When the accident had occurred it caused me to relentlessly ask the question "Why?"  I was horrified to learn that there was no answer, ever.  No facet of life, no action performed, no outburst of laughter can ever answer that question.  To constantly think about life is to kill it.  Absolutely everything seemed pointless.  Actions that were supposedly "me" and things that I was supposed to enjoy doing just didn't make sense any more.  To put it another way I had stopped to think, but forgotten to start again.
   As my mind turned more and more against me I ceased to exist.  I never did anything because nothing seemed worthwhile anymore.  I couldn't associate with others because the way I had acted previously didn't seem to fit in anymore.  Everything that used to be normal and natural began to seem stupid and a waste of time.  In fact, that's all anything seemed like anymore, a waste of time--just a way of passing the time quickly until the inevitable visit from the Grim Reaper.  Basically, I hated humanity and all of its stupid games.  They would learn soon enough, life was sad.  Life was sad.  Plus it was cruel, a cruel joke.
   What I spent most of my time doing was sitting in a chair in my aunt's living room, watching traffic go by and listening to the ceaseless tick-tock of their grandfather clock.  
   Tick
   Tock
   Tick
   Tock
   What I wanted to be doing was sleeping, but sleep didn't come easily.  It was when I lay down to try and fall asleep that my mind would conjure up its most horrifying thoughts and endless chasms of depression.  I wanted an answer, a reason, a happy thought that would tell me everything was fine.  I wanted one badly.  I couldn't find any.  That's why I wanted to sleep.  When I slept there was no way that I could think--no way to outthink everything and just stand above everything the world could possibly provide in the way of purpose or reason and feel, with a deep down painful ache, that we were all just a bunch of ants in an ant farm with no idea how trivial our world was. 
   Sleeping, that was nice.  Trying to get to sleep was hell.  You've got nothing to do but think.  So I avoided sleeping.  Or rather, I avoided going to bed.  Too many demons there.
   Answers, that's what I wanted.  An answer, any answer.  Something that would tell me, "This is why your family died.  This is why their cab ran the light.  This is why you're still alive."  I sat around deep in thought, my mind going like a freight train, humming away, trying to figure something out.  I replayed old memories like mental movies.  I clung to really good ones, ones that cast me back almost perfectly and made it seem like my little sister was still latched onto my leg, or my mom was still smiling in the kitchen over her frying pan, or my dad pulling into the driveway with the roof down and his hair all messed up.  I'd go back to them over and over again, getting joy out of seeing them, being with them.  
   That was how things stood in my eighteenth year.  Joyless, irritated by life, unable to comprehend how I used to go about living, and trying to come up with something, some spark of how it used to be, some hint of what kept me going.  But also almost completely convinced that I would never be able to go back to doing what I used to.  I found myself unable to laugh with my friends anymore.  
   I hopped up and walked around to the back of my car.  I was headed for the trunk when I noticed the bumper sticker I had put on there years ago.  "Look Twice, Save a Life.  Motorcycles Are Everywhere," the bumper sticker proclaimed.  The next thing I knew I was kicking the hell out of my bumper, wailing on it with my foot in a rage I barely even comprehended it was so strong.  Eventually the pain in my foot got through to my head and I stopped kicking and leaned against the trunk panting.  I think there might have been tears coming out of my eyes. 
   When I had calmed down a bit I opened the trunk and rummaged around for a while.  Finally I pulled out a small olive colored lump of cloth.  I unfolded it to reveal a work shirt from a Conoco gas station.  I looked at the drab green color and the red stitching that proudly spelled out the name "Ralph" over the right breast pocket.  A smile broke over my face as I remembered a running joke from my eighteenth summer.  
   "Do you work at Conoco?" A thousand people asked me.
   "Nope."  I replied.
   "Oh, then who does?"
   "Ralph."  For some reason this obvious answer almost always made them smile, it made even more of them laugh.  My gas shirt.  
   A road trip had been proposed.  Actually, I was the one who had proposed it.  It was my idea.  I had started Rick, Joe and Kevin off on the idea in the weeks before the accident.  I had to go along.  
   I held up the shirt to see how it fit me and that voice echoed in my mind again, "Ho-lee...
   

   4
   
   ...crap!  I think we found Tom's shirt."  Joe stepped back and took another look.  We were in a thrift shop in Denville and we were busily searching out work shirts from gas stations.  Both Rick and Joe had tried on the "Ralph" shirt, but it had been too small on both of them.  With me, however, the olive Conoco shirt had found a perfect fit.
   Rick popped his head up from the rack he was searching through, nodded his approval, and then began to rummage around again for a gas shirt that fit him.  Kevin was the only one who didn't offer any approval.  Kevin was still over on the other side of the store searching for bowling shirts.
   See, Kevin had gotten the idea from a special he saw on some band somewhere.  He wasn't even sure if the idea he told us was exactly the one he heard; in that case he was merely inspired by the original.  Either way, Rick and Joe liked the idea too, which is why four of us wandered into that thrift shop in early May.  The special claimed that when whatever band it was entered the studio to begin recording a new album they always felt that they needed something to focus on, something to get them all thinking like a group again.  Their solution was to go out and buy matching shoes.  That was the original idea.  Our idea was that since we were driving across the country we should have some sort of jumping off point, something to tie it all together before it even began.  Everyone decided on matching outfits.  Joe wanted all of us to wear suits, but half the group didn't own one.  The idea of driving across the country buck-naked was brought up and, thankfully, quickly forgotten.  After that it was bowling shirts.
   We headed to a thrift store to track down bowling shirts for everyone, but this proved to be a lot harder than we thought.  There was not a single bowling shirt in any of the thrift shops we went to.  Kevin, however, refused to admit defeat and was still searching the racks for what he thought the perfect uniform for our road-trip would be.
   Rick and Joe had finalized the road trip.  I didn't contribute much of anything except a car and Kevin.  He had called a few times from college to tell me when he would be arriving in New Jersey and to ask if he should still stop by.  I didn't mind him staying with me; it was the fact that I was supposed to leave with him that bugged me.  The way Rick and Joe had it planned, Kevin would be with us until somewhere around Wyoming, then he had to get back to California in time for the onset of his summer job.  
   I had been down at the beach staying with my aunt and uncle when Kevin showed up.  For a week straight I had spent every night at the beach staring out over the ocean.  I would sit on the sand, wrapped against the ocean breeze in an old windbreaker I found in my dad's closet.  I would just get hypnotized by the waves sucking up on the sandbar and shattering on the beach.  
   Every night I had been doing this.  Every night I ended up with a pile of rocks sitting next to me.  Most of the driveways down there weren't paved, they were just yellowy orangey rocks spread across the driveway.  Every night as I walked to the beach I would start to pick up rocks from every driveway I passed, putting them into my pockets.  I'd collect rocks until my pockets were absolutely bulging with weight, then wander up to the beach holding my pants to keep them from falling down.  Every night I would stand at the water’s edge and stare off into the horizon, and every night I would start to tremble and sort of shake all over, partly with cold, partly with fear and partly with something unknown.  I would do that every night, forcing myself to just stand there, keeping as still as I could make myself.  Eventually, I would take a step or two back from the water and collapse onto the sand.  Then I would empty my pockets out piling rocks up on the sand.  "Montana," I would say to myself as I pitched each rock individually into the water.  "I can make it to Montana."  
   I'd spend every night pitching those rocks into the water.  When I had tossed all of them I would lie on my back and stare at the stars sending their lonely light through all of space to end up as pinpricks in the dark sky.  That was where Kevin found me, lying flat on my back on the beach.  My aunt must have told him where to find me.  I don't think she approved of me doing nothing every night.  Frankly, she should have been ecstatic that I ended up doing nothing all night.  
   At the very beginning of summer my cousin, Jimmy, had been around.  Then he had left for Europe.  I don't think he wanted to go.  I think he was worried about me.  Actually, I know he was worried about me.  He couldn't explain that to his mother, though.  I had made him swear that he would keep his mouth shut.  I was, well, you know, I just didn't want him talking to other people.  It wasn't the kind of thing I wanted people talking about.  So, he had eventually left for Europe.  His trip had been planned months ago and I think he felt confident enough leaving me to go on my road trip with Rick and Joe and Kevin.  He  made me promise that I would go and see Glacier National Park.  That was my big goal.  I thought if I could make it there, then something would change.  
   Kevin just sort of casually walked up to me and sat down, like it hadn't been months since I had seen him.  He grinned his big goofy grin and clapped his hands.  "Ready to go?"  He asked.  I just stared at him and wished that he had shown up during the day instead of interrupting my night.  I stared for awhile and then got up, managed a shaky nod, rearranged my watch on my wrist, and walked back to my aunt's house with him.  
   We didn't set off that very moment, of course.  Kevin slept on the couch at the beach for a night and we figured out when to pick up Rick and Joe and I had to pack and a bunch of other little things.  I guess Kevin ended up on the couch for about two or three nights.
   Right then, however, he was still hoping beyond hope to somehow scrounge up four bowling shirts when we hadn't even seen one.  He gave up eventually, and we walked out of the thrift store, all of us wearing snappy new shirts that were God knows how old from a wide range of gas-stations.  There was me, Tom Quint, brown hair, brown eyes, and brown khakis wearing "Ralph" from Conoco.  There was Joe Walsh, part Asian, part, Italian, part...well, pure mutt from all over, I guess, peering at the world through his glasses wearing a one-size-too-small white Amoco shirt with the name "Dan" on it.  There was Rick Nelson, short hair, big body, not fat, not muscular, sort of both smooshed together, playing with his Swiss Army knife and wearing an Exxon shirt that had once belonged to "Steve."  And there was Kevin with his skinny legs and goofy grin, just staring around at the street around him wearing a Texaco shirt with "Jake" proudly stenciled over the breast pocket.  
   Joe and I hopped into my run down BMW, Kevin and Rick climbed aboard the other vehicle.  Kevin had traversed the country in a thirteen-passenger van.  Now it was a four-passenger van; most of the seats had been removed to provide an area to sleep in.  We pulled out into traffic and headed to route 80...the traveling gas-men were headed west.  We we're about to leave Jersey behind us.  Joe insisted that we light up cigars to celebrate.
    "You can see how much thicker it is."  Joe said looking at his cigar smoke.
   This was once we were in Pennsylvania.  I don't know where I had been.  The car was in Pennsylvania, Joe was in the passenger seat, I was just lost.  I was pretty sure that if you had poked me with your finger, you would have jabbed right through me.  I had been lost in thought and what was inside of me had felt like it was sinking, withering.  
   But Joe hadn't tapped me on the arm, he had spoken, pulled me out of whatever train of thought I was in.  When his words interrupted me I had the most distinct image of some amazingly sweet memory drifting away from me.  I couldn't place what it was but I was sure that I could recapture it if Joe would just--
   "Cigar smoke is actually visibly thicker than cigarette smoke."
   He wasn't going to go away so I tried to look interested in what he was saying.  Joe continued, "If you look at cigarette smoke it looks smooth and friendly.  You know you can inhale it.  Now with a cigar you look at the smoke and it looks harsh.  One look and you know that if you inhale that stuff you'll have an instant hangover." 
   I knew what he was doing.  We had started smoking cigars the summer before our junior year at high-school.  Joe and I had crashed some party down the shore where some guy was doing naked back flips into the bay.  Joe and I had ended up in a conversation with this big drunk kid about cigars.  We seemed so interested that he had brought out two Macanudo's and given them to us.  Right before he walked away, well, stumbled away, he turned back to us and said, "By the way, don't ever inhale a cigar.  It's an instant fucking hangover."  Joe and I had found that screamingly funny for some reason.  Instant hangover.  Some joke.
   Joe had chosen those words to say on purpose.  I had begun to notice that he was subtly throwing a lot of old memories at me.  Images and phrases from the way I used to be.  I guess he was trying to help, trying to remind me of who I was.  Usually it only managed to remind me of how much I had changed in the past few months.  I guess he couldn't see that, though.
    Joe changed the subject.  "Have you tried cigarettes yet at college?"
   "Nope."  I noticed that he had glossed right over the fact that I wasn't technically in college anymore.
   "You should.  Those things are great.  They're like little buzzes wrapped up in paper."
   "I know.  I used to want to start smoking."
   "Another thing is the social outlet it provides.  It's fun to go off and have a cigarette."
   "I know." I repeated myself.  "I always used to want to start."
   "Plus, it always seems so nice when a smoker craves a cigarette and then goes off and has one.  They know exactly what they want which makes it possible to fulfill their craving. They end up completely content."
   Joe had talked through both of my affirmations.  This obviously meant that he felt like he had something to say and he wasn't about to let the course of the conversation affect him.  I could have started to talk about my intimate feelings concerning circus clowns and he would have plodded on dropping his pearls of wisdom.  This had once seemed amusing to me.  He would keep going in his speech, stating increasingly ludicrous observations and digging himself deeper into some bizarre philosophy.  I had found it funny once, we would always end up laughing pretty hard at some of the things he said once he really got rolling.  I doubted whether I would find this particular tirade very amusing.
   When it looked like his small speech had died down I tried again.  "I know," I said.  "For awhile I really wanted to start smoking."
   "Then why didn't you?"  He asked.  As nice as it was to be included in the conversation, I remembered just then that I didn't want to be in a conversation.  The memory that Joe had interrupted with his comments on cigar smoke had seemed so close just a few seconds ago.  Listening to Joe talking, though, had made it hard for me to even remember where I had started thinking that led me to that memory.  I was pretty sure I could rediscover it again, but I had to answer Joe's question, and every second that was being taken away from my meditation was another second of distance between me and whatever it was that had seemed so sweet.  
   "Um..." I said, trying to think of a quick answer to Joe's question.  "I didn't want to start because I knew I'd like it a lot."  I knew that didn't make much sense.  I didn't feel like explaining myself.  Besides the fact that I didn't want to be talking, it just seemed like way too much effort to explain where that thought had come from.  I felt like I'd have to back up a long way to find out where that sentence started to make sense.  Joe would tell me that I should just have a cigarette if I wanted one, and then I wouldn't be able to explain the reasoning behind my holding out.  Not, like I've said, without backtracking to the root of that statement, backtracking a helluva long way back.
   "Say that again, please."  Joe asked.
   "I said that I didn't want to start smoking cigarettes because I was sure that I'd like 'em."
   "That may be the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, and that's saying a lot.  Remember our conversation about what movies would be like if they only starred bunny rabbits?"  He was doing it again.   The bunny rabbit conversation.  That took place during one of our fourth period lunches together.  We had somehow been able to talk for forty-five minutes about bunny rabbits.
   I shouldn't have opened my mouth to begin with.  Now I had to try to explain myself and any recollection of what I was thinking about beforehand had completely disintegrated.  The conversation had won.  I took a deep breath and forced myself to talk.  "I'm serious," I began.  "I knew that as soon as I had one cigarette I'd start gobbling them like Pez.  I decided that I'm gonna delay that for as long as possible.  I've been addicted to cigarettes for as long as I can remember.  I always craved cigarettes.  I always want to go join people who are stepping outside for a cigarette break.  I like sitting near smokers.  Hell, I've even caught my hand pretending like it's holding one every once in awhile."
   Joe looked at me puzzled. "Okay.  Let's assume that your wacky-ass theory about being addicted is true.  Why is it, again, that you don't smoke?"
   How many times was I going to have to explain this?  "I figured I'd put off the inevitable for as long as possible.  If I'm gonna be a smoker for life I should hold out for as many smokeless years as possible.  Hell, if I had started a few years ago I wouldn't even have been able to buy them legally.  At least if I start now I don't have to pull a 'Hey, Mister' to get a pack."
   "You know you're crazy, don't you?" Joe responded.
   I was too tired to defend myself, I just threw out: "Isn't everyone?" and hoped to leave it at that.
   "I'm not."  Joe said. 
   I rolled my eyes.  "Look, Joe, let's see if I've got this straight."  I started.  I felt a twinge of excitement as I saw an opening to shut Joe up.  "A long time ago someone picked a tobacco plant, lit it on fire, and inhaled what came out.  This seems sensible to you.  Now the reason you perform this odd ritual, as you stated before, is because you get a good buzz, you can feel fulfilled, and because it allows a social outlet.  Is this correct?"
   "Yeah, that's pretty much it."
   "Okay, buzzes first.  As far as I can tell a cigarette buzz mainly implies that you get a head-rush.  Correct?"
   "Yeah, I guess.  You get a little light headed."
   "So this guy lit tobacco on fire a long time ago, inhaled what came out, and got really dizzy.  And this custom is alive and well in our society.  That sounds pretty loopy to me.  
   "Second, the fulfillment aspect.  As far as I can tell if you didn't start smoking cigarettes to begin with, you wouldn't crave them and you wouldn't need them for a quick taste of fulfillment.  That sound about right to you?"
   "No" Joe replied, but his tone implied that he did, in fact, agree, he just didn't feel like saying so.
   "Good.  Now the social aspect is pretty ridiculous too.  You can go with someone when they have a cigarette break and not have a cigarette."  I shrugged, "It really isn't necessary to have a cigarette in order to have a brief conversation with friends."
   "But wait!"  Joe broke in with mock excitement, "Did I mention the fact that you realize the meaning of life every time you have a cigarette!"
   "Nice try," I replied.
   "Okay, fine.  I have no reasons for smoking a cigarette.  Now what."
   I looked around at the scenery we were driving through.  It had been the same tree lined picture for ages.  A light green wall on either side of the highway.  It was nearing sunset so the colors were especially vivid. 
   "Now what" Joe repeated.
   "Exactly," I was about to reply.  But part of me didn't want to say that to Joe. I wasn't quite sure how he would react to that.  So instead of saying it I just threw out,  "So you don't smoke." 
   There was a long pause and I saw in his face that his mind was taking the equivalent of a running jump. "Wait," he started again, "there's no reason behind smoking, right?"
   I nodded my head.
   "So, to hell with it.  There's no reason to smoke cigarettes, but there's also no reason not to."
   As much as I wanted out of this conversation, I also didn't want to let Joe get away that easily.  "No.  It's not that there's no reason to smoke cigarettes.  It's that there's no reason to want to smoke cigarettes.  There's no reason to want to do anything.  I mean, what's the point?"
   "Why do you need a point?  Can't I just do something 'cause I like it?"
   I had just outlined the rules, where was he coming up with these new ones?  "How can you keep doing things when you don't have any idea why?"
     "So, you're sitting here, leading a normal life.  Then you stop to think and you don't see any reason for doing what you're doing.  Then what?  You find a reason and you can keep doing the things you like?  It seems like you end up right where you started." 
   "No."  I repeated what I felt like I had said plenty of times.  This time, though, I couldn't even come close to explaining what I meant.  I just said what I knew I meant.  "You just stop and never find a reason for anything.  I told you, there aren't any reasons to be found...anywhere.  You're just fooling yourself if you do."
    Joe stopped to think about this.  His brow furrowed and then he gave a little half grin.  "To hell with that.  You want to talk about motivations?  Fine.  What reasons do you have for not wanting to smoke cigarettes?  Health reasons?  Well, I hate to break this to you," he hunched over and whispered in a conspirator's voice, "neither of us is going to make it through life alive.  So forget that.  Now, as far as not having any reasons to start...you're absolutely right, and you know what?  I just don't care.  Like you said, if you take it far enough, you don't really have a reason for anything.  I'm sure you could discover that I don't really have a reason not to..." He glanced around the car.  "…not to slam my head into the dash board until I pass out, but you know what?  I don't think I'm gonna do that.  I also don't really have a reason to wear pants every day, but you know what?  I think I just might keep that illogical habit alive.  And you know what?  I don't really have a reason to smoke cigarettes, but I think I might just buy a pack the next time we stop.  Now, since you seem to have once upon a time wanted to try a cigarette, and since it doesn't matter much one way or the other, are you going to pitch in some money for this pack of cigarettes and try to pick up a new habit...or do you have any more reasons not to?"  
   "Yeah, fine," I answered.  I took another look around me at the scenery.  Sunset was coming on strong and the sky in front of us was a uniform red until it hit the tops of the trees.  I was surprised at how much western Pennsylvania reminded me of Vermont.  My family and I had taken a road trip up there a few years ago to see the leaves during fall.  I can remember my dad pulling over to a turnoff on a mountain road and just leaping out of the car.  The view of that valley stunned him more than anything I've ever seen.  He got out of the car and leaned against the hood and shook his head.  "See?"  He turned and started speaking to my mom.  "Aren't you glad I made us come up here."  Which of course wasn't even close to being true.  He was just admitting defeat in his own little way.  My mom had organized this whole trip and my dad kept whining about how, with April on those mountain roads it would be too cold to put the roof down, and that the leaves changed color in New Jersey too and on and on.  My mom had just humored him with a smile as she planned the whole trip and I noticed how she had to hide a smirk whenever my dad would point out some particularly striking view.  Then, when he stopped at that turnoff she had just smiled—
   "Bluf-crackles-nuffabl-fzzzzzzzzz-kah."
   "Wha?"  I said.  I looked at Joe.  "What is that?"
   Joe laughed.  "I think it's our half of the communications system."
   We had picked up two walkie-talkies before we had gone to the thrift store to try and find bowling shirts.  I am not talking about nice high-tech walkie-talkies here.  We actually had to make a decision between buying ones that were shaped like Darth-Vader and ones that were see-through.  We decided on the see-through ones.  
    "Ktchhhh-phrooon-zuckkkkk-snuh," the walkie-talkie roared again.
   Joe raised his glasses over his eyes and stared at the see-through walkie-talkie.  "Wow," he said.  "These things really suck."
   He held the radio to his mouth and was about to say something when he stopped.  "What should I ask them?"
   "How about, 'What.'"  I replied.
   Joe held up the radio again and started to speak when I stopped him.  "Actually," I said, "ask them what speed their cruise control is set at."  The van kept crawling ahead of me on the road and I figured they were set at a higher speed than us.
   "What speed is your cruise control set at?"  Joe said into the receiver.
   "Kutssssss phhhhhrack," was the reply.
   Joe looked at me with a puzzled face.  "What the hell am I doing?"  He asked.  "Pull up next to them."
   I pulled along side the van and Joe again held the receiver up to his mouth.  "April is the cruelest month," he shouted.   "Breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with..." He trailed off, chuckling at the confused looks he was getting from the van.  Joe gave them a big nod and a thumbs up.  "April." Joe yelled into our walkie-talkie. "The cruelest month."  Again he gave them a big nod, making them believe that the garble that must have been coming out of their end was actually some sort of intelligent idea.  
   Kevin looked over at us with his brow furrowed.  He waved one of his hands and shook his head.  Joe rolled his eyes and then babbled very deliberately into the walkie-talkie.  "Dead. Lilacs." Then after a little pause he added, "April," one more time.  Then he turned to me.  "Okay," he said, "I think that's enough of that.  You can drop behind them again."  
   I let off the accelerator and pulled in behind the van.  "What was that?"  I asked Joe.  
   "What was what?"
   "What you were just saying into the walkie-talkie.  What was that?"
   Joe itched his nose.  "Oh, that.  That's the opening lines of "The Wasteland."  I just figured if I actually was saying something it would look more convincing to the van instead of me just trying to make up babble."
   "What made you choose that?"  I asked.
   Joe shrugged.  "I dunno.  Just popped into my head."  He stretched his arms behind him.  "So, we're gonna buy a pack of smokes at the next stop?"
   "Smokes?"  I asked.
   "Oh, hell yeah.  You can't be cool if you don't call them smokes."  He grinned a little grin and raised an eyebrow, somehow repeating his question with that little gesture.
   "Sure," I answered, "we'll pick up a pack of ciga—smokes at the next stop."
   That was when Satisfaction came on the radio and the speedometer started to rise.  It was really boneheaded of me to let my speed get up to where it was.  It's just that I used to love driving fast to that song.  Whenever it would come on the radio, something about it just made my foot become very susceptible to gravity and next thing I knew I'd be flying along the road.  Whenever that song used to come on the radio my mood would lighten.  I guess some of that just instinctively came back to me and I started to floor the gas pedal, as if I was in a good mood.  
   The cop who caught up to us a few minutes later, on the other hand, was most certainly not in a good mood.  He launched right into that whole license and registration schpeal.  Granted, our evasive measures probably didn’t help much.  Kevin had the bright idea of veering off of the highway when he saw the cop pull out.  I mean he pulled across a good three lanes in order to make the exit.  I usually call something like that, "Pulling a Jersey".  You see that a lot in my home state.  I've been at a row of toll booths and seen some idiot driving perpendicular to the road.  Apparently he wanted to get to an exact change lane, so he started driving parallel to the row of toll booths. 
   I followed the van onto the exit ramp; I had to cut it even closer than Kevin did.  Despite us pulling a maneuver from Jersey, the Pennsylvania cop wasn't fooled.  He caught up to us at an abandoned gas station a bit down the road.  I made an attempt to sweet talk him.  Unfortunately I'm not that bright.
   "You were going pretty fast there," he said down to me.
   "Yup," was all I could answer.
   He looked at the van parked a little ways away from us.  "Is this vehicle traveling with you?"
   "Yup," I answered again.
   He nodded.  "Where are you boys headed tonight?"
   "Cincinnati," I said, much to my surprise.  Truth was, we didn't really know where we were headed.  We were just going to improvise.  I think maybe that I had seen a sign for Cincinnati somewhere on the highway.
   The cop paused here and looked around at the tiny road we had gotten off in such a hurry which couldn't in any way have been leading anywhere near to Cincinnati.  "Then why did you get off at this exit?"  He asked.
   "I have no idea," I replied.
   At that point all of my silliness caught up to me and I suddenly really wanted to be wearing a suit right then.  It was bad enough without my gas shirt on.  
   The cop walked back to his car and I saw Rick signaling me from the van. He was holding up his walkie-talkie.  I snapped mine on.  "Crusssshuzzle-furalph?"
   "What?"  I am not all that sure why I even bothered to answer, and I know that I wasn't surprised with their reply: 
   "Schmoofv-sssssssh."  Oh yeah, those things were a good investment.  
   The cop finished up his little ticket routine and left after telling us that we should keep our speed down.  I pulled out first and the van followed me back onto the highway.  It took about three seconds for Joe to ask me, "I bet you really want that cigarette now, don't you?"
   I shrugged. 
   The sun was still visible over the horizon when we stopped at a McDonalds to dine.  The Pennsylvania night had turned a little chilly and a breeze was blowing when Joe started to walk over to a neighboring gas station.  Kevin, Rick and I tried to stop him.  He didn't listen.  I told him that we could smoke after we ate.  I told him that I didn't really want a cigarette that badly.  He didn't need to go buying a pack right this instant.  He still didn't listen.  "This pack of smokes is half yours."  He shouted at me from across the parking lot.  "This idea is half yours.  So shut your damn mouth and let's get some smokes."  He was grinning at me as he said this.  I finally nodded and walked with him into the gas station to shut him up.  I stood there blankly looking at all the different brands.  
   Joe spoke up, "A pack of Marlboro Lights please."  The woman behind the register was not in a very good mood and offered no small talk as he slid my first pack of cigarettes across the counter.  
   Joe and I lit up as soon as we stepped outside.  The gas station and the McDonalds sort of shared a parking lot.  It was mostly gravel except for the drive-through lane.  Our feet were loud as hell crunching across those stones.  I was still shaky from the ticket and I attempted to inhale my entire first cigarette in one drag.  I ended up coughing for about five minutes and every inhalation after that I coughed a bit.  Then the buzz hit me.  My head was spinning like the Teacup ride at Disney World and Joe's voice seemed like it had a time delay as it came into my ears.  Eighteen years of holding out from an inevitable habit and this head-rush was the end result.  None of this was actually going through my head at the moment, though.  What was going through my head was, "Jesus Christ!  I don't think I can stand anymore."  In fact, my knees had completely given up on me and I would have simply fallen on my ass if there hadn't been a railing outside of the restaurant.  And there I slumped for a good five minutes as the wind blew through my hair and the world went by without me for awhile.
   Eventually, I made it into McDonalds to eat. Eventually, we made it back onto the road.  At some later time we stopped for gas.  This was how time was actually passing.  The night had come in and the landscape had gotten boring.  It was just drive and think.  I wandered around inside my head for a helluva long time.  I can remember staring at the dashboard.  I stared at the dashboard straight for minutes at a time relying on peripheral vision to guide the car through the highway traffic.  I stared at the dashboard until it was no longer a dashboard--until I was staring at light reflected off of an object.  That's all my eyes were really seeing.  And when I ran my hand along the dash I wasn't touching that light, I was touching something behind it.  Something solid was back there, bouncing beams of light towards my optic nerves and sending sensations of touch through my hand and arm and into my brain.  But that was just the sensory data I was accepting in order to form a dashboard in my head.  That was what I was seeing and touching, the mechanics of my own head.  Somewhere underneath that was...was something.  The actual dashboard as it truly was.  The odometer, speedometer, heating vents, they were all there somewhere, glowing and pulsing.  
   When I raised my eyes I was terrified to see a world I did not recognize.  Everything looked two dimensional and unreal.  Flat.  Fake.  I was suddenly filled with the thought that I could simply drive my father's car through the truck next to me and pass through cleanly to the lane on the other side.  
   It was scary enough with the hunks of metal flying along the road, but when I looked at Joe in the passenger seat I was suddenly looking upon some monstrous image of a human, as far removed from what Joe actually was as my eyes were removed from seeing what the dashboard actually looked like.
   It went on like that for a long time.  It was always going on.  Sometimes it was space, sometimes it was time, sometimes it was God knows what, sometimes it was just God.  And every time it started, every time I really got humming, I started sinking.  There wasn't ever an end in sight; the initial spark that came with each little realization disappeared every time I went back to it.  The first time I had wondered what was behind the dashboard, it was interesting.  I hadn't come away with anything--nothing to restore the dashboard to where it was.  So, I kept going back, and it wasn't really interesting anymore, just scary.  If it went on long enough it spilled over like it did that night.  It no longer was just the dash.  It was the road, my seat, the moon, everything.  I couldn't figure out how people could eat food that wasn't really there.  How they could walk on streets that didn't exist.  If it got really bad it always ended up in the same place.  Nowhere.  With me in the middle and everyone else below me, somehow managing to go on with the way they lived, unaware of what a sham it was.  
   The forests of Pennsylvania gave way to the fields of Ohio.  Huge stretches of nothing dotted with little somethings that could be houses or could be towns, but in the heart of the country it didn't seem to matter; we'd never be on the inside of either of them.  The road slipped by and the only way to notice time passing were the pit stops.  At the border of Pennsylvania everyone else decided to make it to Detroit that night.  Farther into Ohio the four of us played a cigarette length game of touch football while our cars were gassing up.  And somewhere in northern Ohio we switched up the seating arrangements.  I had been with Joe since the McDonalds, but now I was with Rick Nelson, the madman.
   Rick isn't the kind of person who lets what he doesn't know hold him back.  Rick isn't the kind of person who prefers a conversation to a good thumb wrestling match.  He'll tell you stories about his father, and the next time you bring it up he'll have no idea what you’re talking about.  He'll talk like he's the resident expert on a topic, then weeks later he'll calmly tell you that he doesn't know a damn thing about that exact same subject.  He's not a liar.  He would be if he were trying to gain anything from his words, but he's not.  He just likes to talk, and if there's nothing in his brain that suits the current topic he'll just make up something that usually ends up being far more entertaining than the truth, simply because you know it's not true.  The only real problem to this personality is "the boy who cried wolf" syndrome.  I rarely take what Rick says as the truth, but in fact, he does know what he's talking about a lot of the time.  It's just that what he does know or doesn't know has no effect on what he's saying, so everything can be taken as a fabrication. 
   Rick planted himself in the passenger seat and immediately attacked my sanity.
   "Look.  Look!  My hand is a brontosaurus!"  He held his sleeve over his hand like a puppet and let out a roar as he foraged on the dash board for something that his hand could eat.  He found a wrapper from a burger and devoured it. "Roooaaaaarrrrmmmmmm."  Again his brontosaurus let out its pitiful wail.  "Pretty good, huh?  I was practicing in the van."  
   "Yeah, Rick," I said in as condescending a voice as I could muster.  "That's great."
   "Isn't it?"  He said with what could only be actual pride.  "Kevin thought his was better, you know, once I got him to try, but I'm pretty sure that if either of us were needed to lure brontosauruses into a brontosaurus trap, the scientists would be nuts not to choose mine over his."
   "Rick," I asked without thinking, "what scientists?"  
   Rick looked over at me.  "The ones with the brontosaurus trap."  Then he rolled his eyes at my ignorance.  
   With the advent of Rick's dinosaur the "drive and stare" portion of the night slipped away and the late night sillies crept in.  It had been a long drive, a long night, and we were a long way from home, yet all we had done was drive.  You do that everyday to go to the store but after having performed this everyday feat, we had wound up in foreign territory.  It was strange to think about lining up all those trips to the market into one long drive and, presto, you’re in Ohio.  
   As we drove along the only things displaying lights were all night places.  We had long ago outlasted the pathetic late-night stores.  Now it was just all night diners, gas stations and the occasional 7-11 that far west.  Rick apparently felt a bond with the people in these buildings who were awake with us when nobody else was.  He began shouting at the buildings as we went by, shouting his support of these minions of the late-night in a deep bass voice hanging halfway out of the window.  I couldn't return to my thoughts with Rick preaching out the window.  We were out of my world and into his.
   Rick began to sing a little ballad of the people of the night which eventually degraded into an operatic singing of the street signs we passed.  He sang a libretto about a Do Not Enter sign, and a ballad about the sad fate of Exit 42.  He tried to get me to join in any number of times.  I usually joined in when Rick made the world into what he wanted it to be.  At least I used to.
   Suddenly the roaring next to me stopped and I realized that Rick was now sitting calmly in the passenger seat with the window up.  "It's cold out there," he said.  Then he began rummaging around the car, picking up all the little objects that a car collects: tape covers without tapes in them, brochures and pamphlets that were crammed into a seat pocket and immediately forgotten, a box of crayons, stuff like that.  Each new object would be examined, then bent, folded, opened, and finally balanced gingerly on top of the dash where it would stay as Rick dove back into some new part of the car to find more treasures.  The last thing he dug up was a toothbrush in its original packaging.  He opened it and began to brush his teeth before glancing out the window.  The dawn was beginning to turn the dark sky gray.  Rick turned to me and took the toothbrush out of his mouth.  "What time is it?"  He asked.  
   I was wearing an old watch of my dad's.  It was this ridiculous watch with a nice wide band around it.  I had taken it in the shower by accident awhile ago and it had stopped dead and filled with water.  Without thinking I held up my wristwatch for him to see. Rick squinted at it.  "It's quarter to twelve."  He paused, peering at the waterlogged timepiece.  "And raining, apparently."  Rick grinned and stretched.  "I think your watch is broken, Tom.  There's not a drop of rain to be seen anywhere."  I was too tired to even comprehend what he was talking about.  I just nodded and readjusted the watch band against my wrist before hiding it out of site.  
   As the sky began to turn a light shade of pink, we pulled into an apartment complex at the University of Michigan.  One of Rick's friends from college was letting us stay in his apartment.  We stumbled into our gracious host's living room and promptly collapsed.  There was a small argument over the couch.  The winner was decided fairly by a game of rock-paper-scissors.  I had taken the floor happily and was already falling asleep by the time the game was over.  The last thing I heard that night was, "Rock crushes scissors.  I win."  I didn't hear the game that started up over the love-seat, I was sound asleep.  For the first time in a long while, I had been too exhausted to think.
   
      5
   
   The next morning I woke up to hear Rick singing.  He was butchering the words to some Dire Straits song.  I groaned and tried to roll over.  Everyone else was already up, showering and what not.  I just wanted to dive back into sleep.  I didn't want to get up and see what the day was like.  I started whining and grumbling to myself.  I really wanted to go back to where I had just been.  There was something so appealing about snuggling down into my pillow and something so annoyingly loud and bright about the world around me.  Rick saw me open my eyes and he ripped the covers off me and stole my pillow away.  I could've killed him.  I walked to the shower instead.
   Rick showed us around his alma mater that day.  The campus was sunny.  It was warm enough to be wearing shorts, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was a fall day.  The air had a clear quality to it that wasn't letting any pretense in.  It was the kind of air that could only exist in a cold place, even if it didn't happen to be cold at that moment.  The purple on some random girl's shirt seemed extra purple.  The pavement on the street seemed extra grainy.  Everything seemed clear enough if you just looked at it.  Every detail, every image, everything looked crisp and in focus.  Conversations that you didn't even know were going on drifted over to you and entered your ears, and they could be heard clear as a bell.  
   The air made everything seem real, but the situation made everything seem fake.  I felt like I could walk anywhere and do anything.  I was never going to see these people again anyway.  It was no big deal to blatantly stare at the people in cars going by.  It was no big deal to strike up a conversation with some guy in an ugly T-shirt who asked me for a light.  We talked about absolutely nothing of importance.  Then he asked me if I worked at Conoco.  I said that I didn't.  He asked who did.  Ralph, I told him.  Then he cracked a smile and was on his way with a lighted cigarette.  I sat down on the curb and lit one of my own.  
   I still felt giddy every time I took one out of the pack.  I kept feeling like someone should come over and say: "Excuse me.  You're not supposed to be doing that.  You don't smoke cigarettes."  I guess the only person who was about to do that was me, and I wasn't about to do that.  Joe walked over to me and I realized that I wasn't too sure where everyone was.
   "Where've you been?"  I asked.
    "We all went out looking for pay phones to call home."  I remembered now.  Five o'clock had rolled around and everyone had gone looking for some way to call their families.  I had stood on the corner.
   "How is everything at home?" I asked politely.
    "Uh...fine.  Everything's fine."  A sudden rush of emotion filled me with an urge to slap Joe and tell him that he didn't need to avoid talking about families and home and sisters or laughing around the kitchen table or playing catch with your dad or taking your little sister to the park and then my face was in my hands and my eyes were shut tight and I was fighting a losing battle to get a grip.
   My stomach filled with ice and I began to wonder if it was visible to Joe how panicked that had made me.  I began to tell myself that it was stupid to have this feeling in the pit of my stomach, but that didn't make it go away.  And then I was picking my little sister, April, up over my shoulders and walking into the zoo.  One Saturday she had woken me up and we had started talking about the stuffed animals she was carrying around.  She had this blue elephant that she called Mr. Trunky or something ridiculous like that.  "How big would an elephant really be, April?"  I asked her.  "Um...this big," she said, and she had held her arms as far apart as they would go.  So I took her to the zoo.  Showed her a real elephant.  She hid behind my leg as this huge beast came right up to the bars and started stuffing food into it's mouth with it's trunk.  I just stood there and waited and eventually as the elephant proceeded to do nothing but stuff his face April's grip on my leg relaxed and she slowly came out from behind me.  Man, you could see by her smile that her image of Mr. Trunky had been completely blown—
   Suddenly Joe clapped his hand against my arm.  I had taken to rolling my pack of cigarettes up in my sleeve.  He unrolled it, shook one out and lit it, all the time looking at me.  I probably looked a little dazed, a little lost in thought.  I probably had a glassy eyed look on my face and I probably would have distantly answered Joe if he had asked me a question or said anything to me.  He didn't though.  He just stared at me for awhile.  Then he nodded slightly and stood there staring at the street with me.
   Rick showed up after a bit.  He looked at Joe and me standing on the street smoking.  "Let me have one of those?"  He asked.
   "I didn't think you smoked," Joe said.  
   "I don't, but I'm in a pissy mood and," Rick shrugged, "it seems like the thing to do."
   I gave him a cigarette and he lit it.  Joe asked him what he meant by that "pissy mood" comment, but Rick was doubled over, coughing.  He flicked the unsmoked cigarette onto the street between coughs.  "Lovely habit," he said when he had regained control.  He stood up and took a deep breath.  Joe asked him again what he meant by that "pissy mood" comment.  "Ah, my parents apparently had another big fight the other night.  I talked to Robby on the phone just now.  He said it wasn't pretty."  Rick looked down at his cigarette on the ground thoughtfully.  "Poor kid," he said.  Then he looked up at Joe.  "Did you call Alison?"  He asked.
   "Yeah," Joe answered abruptly.
   "And?"
   "She was out."
   "Out where?"  Rick asked.
   "How the hell should I know?  Her mom said she was out.  I didn't exactly interrogate the woman.  She just said she was out."
   "Does she have a summer job?"  Rick asked.
   "I don't know, Rick.  I haven't talked to her in a week.  And I didn't quiz her mom on that subject either.  She was out.  I, apparently naively, took that to mean that she wasn't in.  Meaning that she wasn't able to come to the phone."  Rick was quiet after this.
   I wasn't altogether sure what was going on, but obviously something was going on between Joe and Alison.  I won't even bother trying to describe their relationship.  If you've ever seen a couple that seems perfect for each other, then you have a pretty good idea of what Joe and Alison were like.  They had dated through the last half of high-school, but after the first month it seemed very strange to think back to when they weren't together.  It wasn't like a lot of the pathetic high-school romances that were going on all around us back at school.  You know those relationships that are mostly based on the fact that you’re going to see whatever girl you're dating five days of the week no matter what you do.  It's not even worth breaking up, fighting, caring, or things like that since you and her basically have a permanent date for about nine months out of the year anyway.  Joe and Alison were nothing like that, and I should know since every girlfriend I had was very much like that.  I really can't describe it.  They were perfect.  They were so perfect that the fact that something could be wrong between them seemed like an insult to lovers everywhere.  To put it another way, something was apparently wrong between the two of them, and this made it seem like something was just plain wrong with the world in general.  Joe and Alison simply did not have problems.  Except, they obviously were.  
   The three of us continued to stare at the street.  No one said a word.  Everyone was completely fixated by the fascinating gravel that was in front of us.  Occasionally one of us would move their head and stare at the equally fascinating storefronts around us or the engaging sky above us.  Kevin finally showed up.   He looked at us, then peered curiously at the street to figure out what we were looking at.  Rick looked at him and rolled his eyes.  "Well then," Rick said.  "Shall we?"
   "Let's," Kevin responded.  The four of us began to look for a place to eat dinner.  
   We went out to some party that one of Rick's friends was having that night.  There was the usual zany hilarity as the night proceeded, but I just sort of hung out on the porch until everyone was ready to go back to our beds.  It couldn't have been earlier than three when we made it to the apartment we were staying in.  I curled up on the floor and fell asleep listening to Rick, Joe and Kevin acting drunk.
   
      6
   
   We spent another day on the campus.  Actually, we spent a few nights on the campus; we mostly slept during the day.  After one night, Kevin took off for Chicago in his van.  He had gotten it into his head to try to catch as many major league baseball games in as many different stadiums as he could on his way around the country.  So he checked out the Cubs schedule and took off for Chicago.  He told us he would be staying with some friends at Northwestern, then gave us their number and drove west.  Joe, Rick, and I stuck around for another night before we set out for Chicago as well.  
   We stepped into the Michigan morning and opened the trunk of the car.  We had about four hundred pounds of equipment and only enough space for about one hundred pounds of it.  Rick had invested in some camping supplies before we set off for the hills of Montana.  We were now the proud owners of a charcoal grill, a used tent, an enormous water jug, and a bevy of other crap.  
   When we had stopped at Rick's house to pick him up we were already low on trunk space.  When he stepped through his door with his bag over his shoulder I remember thinking that either him, his bag, or both of them were gonna have to be strapped to the hood.  I have no idea what he brought, but you could have easily fit both mine and Joe's bag into his and still had enough room to pack for someone else.  He also, for some odd reason, had a second bag which contained nothing except yet another bag.  On top of all this he somehow convinced us to take along a frying pan.  
   For some reason I could have lived with everything else, but when he proudly brought out the frying pan I decided to speak up.  I told him no.  I told him no again.  I told him if he wanted to bring the frying pan along then he was gonna have to store it in his colon because I wasn't gonna take up car space for a freakin' frying pan.  I, personally, did not see this as the kind of trip where we would bring along a frying pan so that one morning out of however many, we would be able to cook a few eggs.  I told him the water jug was gonna go.  I told him the grill was gonna go.  I told him the frying pan was gonna go.  
   Nobody listened.  Next thing I knew, everything was either crammed into my trunk or dumped into the back of Kevin's van and we were driving towards the thrift shop. 
   Anyway, when we opened the trunk that Michigan morning it almost exploded.  We had unpacked for the first time when we hit Detroit and this was our first attempt at cramming it all back in.  We made it all fit, spatulas and everything, then took off and headed west.  The driver’s seat was fairly comfortable.  The passenger’s seat was probably all right.  The back seat was a nightmare.  The entire passenger section behind me was filled to capacity; anyone sitting in the back seat had a huge pile of bags and a water jug looming over them.  This whole pile was precariously balanced so that any jarring would bring it crashing down on the passenger.
   We took a small flyby of the campus and then we were back on the highway, heading west.  Our drive that day was a relatively short one, we planned on arriving at around five-ish.  For some reason, however, estimates like that never work.  We were a good three hours off in our estimating, and we probably would never have made it if it weren’t for Rick.  
   We were farther away from what was considered the more urban section of the country but for some reason the drive through Pennsylvania seemed more wooded than this one.  We never seemed to really leave Detroit behind.  We constantly passed gas stations, restaurants, overpasses, and the highway never seemed less than three lanes.  Civilization wasn't the only thing that was in abundance.  There was also a lot of rain.  
   I don't mean a constant drizzle or a pleasant shower.  It seriously seemed like we were underwater during parts of the drive.  The rain slammed into the car like sheets of metal; the noise it made when it hit the windshield was deafening.  And to top that off, every once in awhile some jackass would fly by going way too fast and spray even more water onto the car.  We were barely able to clear fifty miles an hour.  
   In order to hear the radio we had to turn it up way too loudly, so we just drove in silence for awhile wondering if it was ever going to let up.  Rick was trying to get some sleep in the back seat and I was trying to keep the car somewhere near where I thought the road was when Joe suddenly spoke up.
   "Hey, Tom, have you ever had your IQ tested?"
   "Nope," I replied.
   Suddenly Rick popped up from the back seat.  "I have a friend who used to administer those tests.  He's got some weird stories about what people act like while taking them.  Like there was this one guy who killed himself during a test.  He suffered an anxiety attack or something for some reason, put both his pencils up his nose and slammed his head onto his desk."
   "Okay," Joe said, "that's one of the more disgusting things I've ever heard."
   "Yeah, no kidding."  Rick said.  "Can you imagine doing something so stupid?"  Rick was starting to get more energetic as he talked, causing him to switch positions more often, which started upsetting the delicate balance of all the stuff we had put in the back seat next to him.  "Killing yourself over something as stupid as a standardized test?  Just giving up like that?  It's just seems like a person—" he broke off and I heard him tossing one of his bags back onto the pile next to him.  "I mean, first off anyone who kills themselves is so self absorbed—goddamn thing."  He said, as the water jug leaned over into his face.  He pushed this out of the way and then he was leaning forwards between the two front seats.  He looked at Joe and me with a confused look.  "What was I saying?"
   "That someone who takes their own life is self-absorbed," Joe answered.
   "Yeah," Rick said.  "That."  Then he tried to flop back into the back seat but ended up slamming into some object or another.  A small wrestling match could be heard coming from the rear of the car as Rick tried to put everything back into place and Joe started laughing.
   "I don't know about that, Rick." I said.  
   "What?"  Rick asked, again appearing between the two front seats, one of his bags in his hands.  
   "I said I do not agree with your statement."  
   "Oh come on, Tom," Rick started.  "Most people say that the act of taking your own life is just the ultimate act of spite against the world.  Sort of a giant, 'Screw you,' to everything around you.  I mean how could someone do that to their friends and what not?  It's a terrible thing."
   "I just don't agree with you," was all I said.
   Rick had disappeared behind us again, but he had apparently rebalanced everything and was able to hear me from the back seat.  "Tom, someone who kills themselves is completely disregarding anyone who cares for them.  They're just pissing all over them and assuming that they're the only one who matters.  It like..." There was silence from the back seat.  Joe craned around to see what was going on.  He didn't say anything; he just took his glasses off and started chewing on the ear piece to keep from laughing out loud.  
   "I just don't think it's that—" I began, but suddenly a very large yell came from the back seat and then the sound of bags and camping equipment flying everywhere. 
   "I hate you, you gelastic pile of crap!" Rick screamed as a backpack flew into the front of the car, bouncing off the dashboard and landing on Joe's lap.  "Ahahaha!  You will never defeat me!  Never, you hear!"  Then Rick's shouts became muffled, which most likely meant that he had burrowed underneath the pile in an attempt to subdue it.  Joe was almost biting through his glasses, and he had tears in his eyes he was holding in laughter so hard which was a good strategy since Rick would probably go on for hours if he heard someone responding to his antics.  I just stared at the road.  Eventually the commotion in the back died down and I could hear Rick breathing heavily.  
   Then, for the third time, he appeared between the two front seats, panting.  "What were we talking about?"  He asked.
   "IQ tests."  Joe answered.
   "What?"  Rick asked incredulously.  "That was, like, hours ago, wasn't it?"
   "It wasn't that long ago," Joe said as he put his glasses back on.  "It's just that there's something I've never understood about them."
   "Oh, Lord," Rick said.  "Joe's got something to say.  If you wanted to get on a soap box and lecture, Joe, why didn't you just say so?  I happily would've gone on sleeping."
   Joe was grinning now, ready to launch into one of his deranged little lectures.  I stopped listening at that point.  I started thinking about my cousin, Jimmy, and the week or so we hung out at the beginning of the summer.  I slid my dad's watch down my wrist till it was at a spot comfortable to me and then focused on the road through the rain.
   Eventually I heard Rick say, "And people think I'm crazy.  You're nuttier than I am Joe, you're just better at hiding it."  Joe was smiling sheepishly in the front seat.  "Anyway," Rick continued, "I think you're thinking of a quote by Mark Twain."
   Joe snapped his fingers.  "Yeah.  That's it, you're right.  It's by Mark Twain.  'In the face of laughter, nothing can stand.'  Or something like that."
   "Speaking of Mark Twain," Rick said.  "Where've you been hiding your books, Joe?"
   Joe kind of smirked.  "What's that supposed to mean?"
   "Your books," Rick said.  "You always have books around.  I haven't seen any this trip."
   "Oh, you know, they're around."
   "So.  What," Rick asked again, "have you been sneaking in reads while no one's watching?"
   Joe grinned sheepishly at this.  "Actually, yes.  I've got a few books in the bottom of my bag.  I've already finished one.  I usually stay up after everyone's asleep, sneak out whatever book I'm in the middle of, and read for an hour or so.  I've been doing it the whole trip."
   There was a long pause.  "You, my friend," Rick spoke up, "are a wierdo."
   Joe laughed.  "You think that's strange?  I actually mailed home the book I finished so I could buy another one and not take up any more room in my bag."
   "Lord," Rick said.  "Lord."  
   "I don't think I'm going to do that. You know, buy another book and all.  I was reading a really huge one at the start of this trip, and I just brought that and a certain other book, and now that I've finished the huge one I think I might just read that certain other book for the rest of the trip.  You know, cause it's my favorite and—" 
   "Don't even think about it, Joe."  Rick interrupted.  "I mean it, if you start talking about that book I'm going to stuff you into the back seat with all of this crap and..."  Rick trailed off as his brain froze up trying to think of what he'd do to Joe.  "And..."  He tried again.  "Yeah," he finally finished.
   "I'm still right," Joe said softly, almost to himself.  "It's all in there.  Everything's in there."
   "I don't care if you're right," Rick said loudly.  I saw Joe turn his head around like he had forgotten that Rick was even involved in the conversation.  "I can't even begin to follow you when you start to talk about that damn book.  And then you stop talking and you look at me like some end has been reached, and I thought that you were in the middle of a sentence or something and you think somehow that you've proven your point and I just have no idea what you've been talking about and...look, just...don't start."
   "All right, all right," Joe conceded.  "But I'm right."
   "It really doesn't matter to me if you’re right or not, I just can't—" Rick stopped and smothered a yell in his sweatshirt.  "You ridiculous bastard, even when I try to tell you to stop you still manage to twist me around so that I end up asking you to go over it again.  No.  No more.  I'm not talking any more."
   "Fine," Joe said.  "But I'm—" He was cut off as Rick tied his sweatshirt around his mouth.  The conversation ended there as Joe untied his mouth. 
   There was a long gap of silence which Rick finally broke.  "Come to think of it, Tom, where are your books?"
   I pretended like I hadn't heard him.  Like I was still concentrating on the road as I had been doing during the first chunk of their conversation.  
   "Tom!"  Rick shouted at me.
   I turned around to look at Rick, as if I hadn't been listening.
   "Have you been sneaking books around like our strange friend in the front seat?"
   "Oh...yeah."  I lied, answering a question I would never have been able to understand if I really hadn't been listening.  When Rick referred to "my books" he was referring to a basic territorial stance that the three of us had fallen into.  There was Joe with his novels, I had my books, and Rick never read anything.  That was the way it was, I mean, back in high-school.  I hadn't picked up a book, hadn't thought about reading anything in months.  It hadn't occurred to me.  Rick's question, though, suddenly brought to light the fact that I was no longer a part of one of our longer running jokes.  For me it was probably our longest running joke considering the first time I met both of them.  
   Joe had been sitting in the hall reading a book.  Our lockers weren't too far apart and I had excused myself from class claiming I had to go to the bathroom when in reality I just ended up wandering around for awhile.  I did that a lot when class got dull.  So I was on a little break and I strolled past my locker and Joe was sitting by his locker on the floor reading.  He had a free period, I suppose, and I just stopped dead when I saw him because he was sitting there with tears running down his face, his glasses in his hand, reading some book.  I had asked him if he was all right and he said that he hadn't gotten a lot of sleep the night before which always made him a bit loopy and that he was at a pretty sad part of the book and since he was so exhausted he had just sort of cracked in the hallway and that he wasn't all that sure what was going on.  He said this to me laughing at himself through his tears.  Now, I don't care what school you go to, you don't sit in the hallway reading a book and crying unless you enjoy getting dunked in the toilet now and again.  Except that Joe would have explained what he was doing to anyone.  I was as much a stranger at that point as the next guy, and he told me why he was crying in such a natural, matter of fact way that I didn't really see anything very wrong with it.  Joe was an exception.  No matter what the rule was he had a way of not making it apply to him.  I had sat down and asked him what the book was about and he started telling me and before I knew it, I had almost burned an entire class period talking to him so that when I finally went back to class I had to pull the teacher aside and tell him that I had severe diarrhea so he wouldn't be suspicious about where I had been.
   That was maybe eighth grade.  Joe and I met Rick together at the movie theater in the beginning of ninth grade.  Joe's mom had dropped us off and we had seen Rick on his way out of a movie and talked to him briefly.  Then, when our movie was over, we saw him still standing in the theater lobby, looking up at the screen showing the movie times.  Apparently he had shown up at the movie theater at around noon and had been watching movies for the entire day on one ticket.  He had stayed there long past the time his mother was supposed to pick him up so Joe and I gave him a ride home after watching another movie with him.  
   And that was how it was supposed to be.  Joe with The Odyssey, me with The Firm, Rick with his TV remote.  But I just wasn't there any more...I just wasn't there.  "Yeah, I've been reading here and there," I said to Rick, lying to fit into the role that Joe and Rick wanted me to play.  The role of me.
    "Yeah well," Rick said through a yawn, "I think I'm gonna try to get back to sleep."  He settled into the bags piled around him and I could hear him chuckling to himself from the back seat. 
   I noticed then that my eyes were killing me.  I wanted to turn my eyes from the road and stare down at the floor with them closed.  I couldn't look at the outside anymore.  That was when I realized that my eyes were almost closed, that I was squinting really hard to see through the rain.  "You know what?"  I spoke up.  "Don't bother trying to sleep, Rick. We're gonna have to stop soon anyway.  I can't see a damn thing."
   "That's probably because your windshield wipers suck."  Rick said as he started to drift to sleep again.
   "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  I said.
   Rick just lifted a sleepy hand and pointed at my windshield.  I had to admit he was right.  The one on the right was trailing most of itself behind as it swept across the windshield.  It would drag along a useless strand of rubber that was supposed to be removing water but was actually just making an irritating noise.  The one on the left was pretty much entirely decayed and was letting the rain get the better of it.  
   After a few miles I pulled over at a gas station.  It was a small, four pump deal with a little mini-mart inside.  I hopped out and started to fill up the car.  It was easy to forget when you were in the car, but it was cold outside.  I had taken for granted how cozy the car had been, the heater running, no rain falling on me.  Outside it just sucked.  
   I walked into the mini-mart and looked around for windshield wipers.  There was an eerie silence in the store broken only by the squeak of my boots against the ugly tan tiles.  A trail of mud led from the area around the door to every part of the store, tracking each individual purchase of that day as more and more dirt came in from the outside.  My little trail wound around the store and finally found the windshield wipers.  The old clerk behind the counter seemed to be enjoying himself.  He was in his own cozy little place and could freely watch the rain falling and the various soaking wet people walk in.  I heard the door open and turned to see Rick and Joe coming in out of the rain.  They walked inside and just stopped.  You could hear the neon lights buzzing.  
   As Joe and Rick walked over to me at the counter, the clerk looked over our shirts.  "Is there a gas convention in town or something," he asked.
   "Nah," Rick answered, "I don't work at a gas station."
   "Oh, then who does."
   "Steve," he replied, allowing that joke to make about its fourth appearance on the trip so far.  I still wasn't sure I got it.  There didn't seem to really be a joke there, but whenever one of us said it, it got a smile or a laugh.  This time it got a laugh.
   "Serves me right for asking," the clerk said.  He started to ring up my purchase and Joe called out, "Throw in a pack of Marlboro Mediums, please."
   The clerk put the new windshield wipers in a plastic bag and handed over the cigarettes.  "Why do you want to continue something like smoking?"  He asked.  "It's a filthy habit."
   "Yeah," Joe answered him, "well, so's Christianity."  We walked outside with our purchases.
   "You shouldn't have said that."  I told Joe outside.  
   "Yeah, right."  He responded.
   "No.  I'm serious.  You probably really pissed that guy off.  I'll bet he hates us now."
   Joe turned and looked right at me.  "My God, you are serious."  He said.  His head shook a little in disbelief.  "Look at him, Tom."  He pointed toward the clerk inside.  "Didn't you notice how he reacted?  He smiled.  He thought about it a bit.  Then he smiled.  It was just a random ass comment.  It just sort of flew out of my mouth, there wasn't much behind it."  He stopped here and thought for a bit.  
   "You know what?"  He went on.  "Maybe it wasn't all that random.  My mom is a pretty devout churchgoer and she seems happy with her religion.  I guess that's fine, but it seems like everyone has sort of forgotten about how screwed up it can all get.
   "I read about the Crusades in history class.  I learned about a fun little thing called the Spanish Inquisition.  Hell, have you ever read Dante's Inferno?  Half the people suffering in that poem are corrupt church officials."
   I waved him off.  "Not now, Joe," I said.
   "Not now what, Tom?  You mean now is not the time for me to have an opinion?  Well, gee, sorry.  I can't help it.  I guess, maybe, I've got a pretty skewed outlook on things, but, well, it's my outlook.  Sorry about that."
   I turned and started to walk towards the car.  He called after me.  "The clerk in there really did break into a smile, Tom.  He actually started laughing a bit.  Who knows?  Maybe he's heard of the Inquisition too."
   Apparently, I had struck a nerve somewhere.  I didn't know what I had done.  Joe could have used a little more tact.  I walked away from him and over to the car.  There was no canopy over the fuel pumps, so since we were gonna get rained on no matter where we put on the new wipers, we decided to pull farther up into the parking lot of the station and out of the way of other customers.  It felt so good to sit down in the car, even to only pull it forward a few feet.  Then we all had to get out and stand in the cold stinging rain.
   Joe, Rick and I stood around the hood of the car and examined the windshield wipers.  The instructions said to remove the old wipers first.  You had to slide the thingamajig off the whoozit.  I grabbed the nearest wiper and examined it.  Then I looked at the package again.  The ones on the package didn't have the same thingamajigs or whoozits that mine had.  I checked a few more times hoping that things would suddenly fall into place.  They didn't.  I started fidgeting with the piece holding them on.  Every time I leaned over to look at the wipers, more rain dripped into my collar and dribbled down my back making my shirt stick to my skin.  My hair kept falling on my forehead and would drip water in my eyes.  I couldn't wipe it away because my hands were just as wet.  My fingers were going numb and I found it harder and harder to manipulate the tiny mechanism holding the windshield wipers on.  The fact that this was such a simple operation and that I could not figure out how to perform it started to grate on my nerves.  Eventually I gave up and just attacked it.  I pulled as hard as I could, trying to rip the wiper off.  That managed to break the original wiper, but it still was attached to the car.  
   "Jesus."  Rick spoke up, "Is this that difficult?  You guys aren't very bright are you?"
   My head snapped up and I glared at Rick.  "Maybe," I said slowly, "you would like to do this yourself and I can stand over there and do nothing."  He shut his mouth and Joe walked over.  
   "Here.  Give it to me."  Joe grabbed the wiper out of my hands.  
   "You don't even say please?  You just grab it out of my hands?" 
   "Look."  Joe shot back, "This is taking way too long.  You're just trying rip the damn thing off.  I'll figure it out.  You just get the new wiper."  That really got to me.
   "I'm not exactly enjoying this myself," I shouted.  "I've got water running down my back, it's freezing cold, that damn thing is hurting my fingers and is frustrating as hell.  Then you butt in and grab it out of my hands..." I just trailed off and went to the other side of the car.  I stood over the other wiper and, again, went through the procedure that was supposed to release it.  The damn thing wouldn't budge.  I went through the procedure with more force and was contemplating trying to rip that one off, too.  
   My neck was burning and my shirt was sticking to my back.  Rick had wandered over to the curb and was just sitting there, aloofly, watching and not even bothering to offer his help.  I looked up and saw that Joe was trying to force his wiper off. He had no right to do that.  I was allowed to try to break the car, but what the hell was he doing? 
   Another ten minutes went by and neither of us had made any headway.  This job was supposed to take five minutes and four times that much time had passed and all I was doing was getting increasingly frustrated and angry.  Joe's wiper was making a nauseating crunching noise as he proceeded to break apart the car with no remorse.  Rick was just sitting there watching, thinking about how much better he was than us.  I was getting awfully sick of those wipers and the goddamned rain splashing cold water all over my neck.  The wipers were stupid pieces of crap and I didn't feel like changing them.  I didn't feel like doing anything except hiding my head and never admitting that I had thought this useless stupid trip was a good idea in the first goddamned place.  I was in the middle of fucking nowhere, my friends were jackasses, and everything I tried to do was absolutely useless.  Nothing ahead of me could be of any value.  It was all ending right there.  
   Poor mechanical skills and a bad translation of Japanese instructions and I was crumbling like so much hardened dirt.  I wished Joe and Rick would pack me into the trunk and go on with the trip by themselves.  I was too beat to do anything, to contribute anything.  
   I wheeled around to tell Rick to get his butt over to the car and start helping, but he wasn't at the curb anymore.  He was leaning on the hood of his car and he had his face in his hands.
   "What are you doing?"  The bitterness in my voice surprised me.  Luckily, it didn't make a dent on Rick.  He just sat there with his face buried in his hands.  He took his hands down and crossed them on the hood of the car and plopped his face into that instead.  I thought for a second that he was crying.  But then I heard.  He was laughing.
   "What, exactly, is so funny."
   Rick's face popped up with a blinding grin on and let out a really loud laugh.  "We are."  He went back to giggling.  I looked around and didn't see anything very hilarious.  I tried to glare back at Rick.  He just kept talking.  "We look ridiculous.  Joe's been on one side of the car talking to his wiper for the past ten minutes.  He sounds like he's channeling some long dead drill sergeant, barking orders at the poor thing.  What's even stranger is that if you listen to what he's been saying, you'd think the wiper was actually talking back to him.  And you," Rick said, wheeling around to face me with his grin.  "I don't know what the hell you're doing, but I've seen chimps with better mechanical skills.  Or at least something comparable.  I'm surprised you haven't put your wiper into your mouth and started chewing on it to try and get it off--or starting banging on it with a rock or a banana or something."  He got caught up in his laughing here and had to stop talking.   
   I started to turn away from Rick.  I didn't need to hear him making fun of me right then.  But Rick wasn't finished yet, thankfully, because he wasn't making fun of me.  He wasn't making fun of Joe either.  He was making fun of all of us.  He went on.  "The best part is, you two look like automotive geniuses compared to my half-assed contribution to this production.  I was sitting out here not being of much use, so I decided to go inside and see if the clerk had any tools or something to help us out.  I made it about four feet before I tripped over my shoelace and fell in the mud.  That was when the giggles hit me.  I was lying face down in this puddle on the pavement, and my mind imagined a clear view of myself from above.  It was one of the funnier things I've seen.  Then I sat down on that curb to tie my shoelace and that old clerk comes out, hands me this," he held up a Swiss army knife, "puts his hand on my shoulder and starts shaking his head like, 'What in the hell are you boys doing?'  Only it was in a cool, fatherly kind of way and as he drops the knife in my hand he says, 'Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,' you know, following up on that Christianity comment.  Then I blurted out, 'Judge not, lest ye too be judged' and the guy paused for a second and then started smiling and rolling his eyes as he walked inside.  I don't know where the hell that came from.  I guess I picked it up from Joe or something.  But, man, it fit so well, and when he walked back inside I had the feeling like, if this guy was laughing at us, maybe all of us should be laughing at us, so I got up to walk over here to tell you this, but I had forgotten to tie my shoelace so down I went again into the same position in the same puddle.  I got up and finally made it over here, but I've just been laughing on the hood and I couldn't stop long enough to tell you guys what the hell was going on."  Giggles and chuckles had broken his speech, but now he just opened up again and collapsed on the hood with laughter.  It wasn't a cruel laugh, it wasn't a polite laugh and, best of all, it wasn't a controllable laugh.  To top all that off it turned out to be contagious.  
   Joe stared over at Rick who was covered in mud and rain and had a piece of gravel in his hair, which was pointing all over the place.  Joe started to smirk.  "What?"  Rick asked, bewildered.  His voice hit such an honest tone that you knew immediately, even though he claimed to have gotten a good look at himself from the outside, that Rick, in all actuality, had no idea of how ridiculous he looked.  
   Joe choked in a snort and turned to look at me.  Then he just broke down and collapsed against the hood laughing, turning his head to look at Rick which made him start laughing so loud he started tearing.  He took off his glasses, which were dripping wet anyway, and wiped his eyes with his soaking wet finger as rain dripped down his face.  
   I think the fact that Joe kept looking at him and laughing kind of caught Rick off guard.  Like I said, he had been laughing at the way he had acted, his appearance was still unknown to him.  "What?"  He asked, turning to me.  He hit that same tone again with his voice, and then the pebble stuck in his hair fell out, dropped past his face and made an audible noise as it plinked onto the hood of the car.  Rick screwed up his eyes trying to look at the front of his hair where the rock had come from and that was it for me.  I joined Joe on the hood laughing so hard it was almost painful.  
   Rick tried to say something but he was so inundated by giggles from his two friends on the hood that he couldn't finish his sentence without cracking up himself.  I noticed Joe had walked around to my side of the car.  He unrolled the pack of cigarettes from my arm and brought out one for me and one for him.  He put his in his mouth and started to light it.  The cigarette got drenched in the downpour and his lighter feebly tried to ignite.  Joe just sat there looking a little worn from laughing so hard, with his soaking wet mush of a cigarette in his mouth and continuously thumbing his lighter that wasn't even throwing off sparks any more.  
   "Hey, Joe," I said, "look at Rick."  Joe turned to look at Rick and had to spit out his cigarette as that damned laughter caught up to him again.  It was like some glorious disease, just flying around from one of us to the other, sometimes infecting all three, sometimes two of us would manage to gain control only to catch it again from third.  It was the kind of laughter that's so strong and lasts so long that the original source doesn't even matter anymore.  The sound of someone else laughing is enough to set you off again.  
   The wipers and the rain and religious debates had stopped being the slightest bit important or irritating and the quote that Joe and Rick had been talking about in the car came into my head.  I suddenly realized that Mark Twain's quote made quite a bit of sense.  His quote went from one sentence, "In the face of laughter nothing can stand" to a whole scene.  I imagined two convicts each being forced to break down a huge rock wall.  And I imagined convict number one leaning over and whispering in a blatantly secret kind of way, "Psssst" To the other convict.  And the other convict looks over and he doesn't realize that he's supposed to be acting like a spy so he just says, "What is it Frank?" And Frank says in his obvious whisper, "Why was the tomato blushing?"  And convict number two is starting to catch on so he glances around to make sure no one is watching them and even though everyone is watching them he whispers back, "I dunno.  Why was the tomato blushing?"  And then Frank answers, "Because the salad wasn't dressed" and then they both start to smile and then Frank starts to giggle and soon they’re both howling because, damn, aren't they ridiculous.  And it's not that their laughter is going to physically break stone, but once they start laughing they stop being punished and breaking a rock wall just doesn't seem that hard any more.  
   We eventually stopped laughing and all three of us managed to change the windshield wipers.  With the rain and the wiper delay it was around eight-ish when we showed up at Northwestern.  Kevin had some friends there and that was where we slept that night.  When we arrived, my three companions disappeared again to perform the ritual of calling home.  I decided to keep myself busy this time.  I walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk to get my bag out.  
   I dug around underneath all of the bags and tried to figure out where my duffel was.  I felt a sharp deep pain in my finger and I jerked my hand quickly out of the trunk.  I looked at my finger and saw a deep cut running down it.  A well of thick red blood started to ooze out of the cut.  My finger was starting to ache and the only thing I could think to do was to stick it in my mouth.  With my good hand I tried to find out what had stabbed me.  I uncovered a broken piece of plastic that it took me awhile to recognize as half of a spatula.  After a little more digging I managed to find the other half, which had a smear of my blood running down it, along with the second spatula, which was also broken.  The crowded trunk had been too much for them.
   I placed the broken spatulas on the bumper.  I began alternating between putting my sliced finger in my mouth and shaking it around in the air trying to lighten the pain.  Rick walked up behind me.
   "What's up?"  He asked.
   I turned to him with my finger in my mouth and nodded towards the pieced of spatula on the bumper.  Rick just looked at them and raised an eyebrow.  
   "Damn," he said.  "Look at those things."  He grabbed one of the spatulas and started pretending it was a sword, dancing around me making fencing motions and shouting things like, "on guard," and, "touché."  
   I winced away form him, conscious of how much my hand hurt.  "Watch those things," I said, staring at him.  "You're going to cut me with them."
   "I really doubt that, Tom," Rick said smiling.  I held up my finger and showed it to him as a fresh bubble of blood began to arise.  "The spatula did that?"  He asked, unbelieving.  I nodded.  "Jeeze, let me look at that."  I surrendered my finger for examination.  "That looks pretty deep.  Do you think you'll need stitches?"  
   I shook my head.  "It'll heal.  If I put Band-Aids on it tight enough, it'll heal."
   "You sure?"  Rick asked.  "It really looks pretty bad."
   "It'll heal," I said simply.  "Anyway," I said as I walked around to the front of the car.  "The spatulas are broken."  I got my backpack out of the front seat and took out one of my boxes of butterfly Band-Aids.
   "So?  Toss 'em in the dumpster."
   "You're the one who wanted to bring them.  You toss 'em in the dumpster," I said, as I swiftly bandaged my cut using my good hand and my mouth to hold the Band-Aids.
   "Okay," he answered.  "I'll toss 'em in the dumpster."  Rick disposed of the spatulas and walked back to the car.  "You all right?"  He asked.  "Nothing else got damaged, did it?"
   "Nah," I said, stowing my Band-Aids back in my backpack.  "It's fine.  Everything's fine."
   He glanced over at me one more time and opened his mouth to say something before closing it again.  He nodded and walked off.  I turned around and stared into the trunk.  I had lied to Rick.  Everything in the trunk was all right, but my head hurt a bit and I could feel that the smile that had been on my face all day was gone.  Whatever had seemed so funny just didn't anymore.
   That night we hung out with Kevin's friends at Northwestern.  Everyone seemed to be having fun, but I was itching to move on.  The road was screaming my name and it was pointing right into Montana, Glacier park to be specific, and the absolute solitude I was hoping to find there.  
   We slept in the van that night.  Kevin and I had the more comfortable floor spots.  We were the ones who had to get up the next morning and drive.  Joe and Rick could just sleep in the cars in the morning, plus they were pretty toasted and I don't think they cared exactly where they slept.  I lay on the floor of the van in my sleeping bag replaying the day's events in my head.  I was almost asleep when I started thinking about my family, then thoughts of my family starting thinking me.  I began to replay the scene at the cab with one minor change.  In my mind I said "Nope" to April and told her to slide over.  Just a little big brother bullying and I would have gotten into the cab with them.  I thought about that word "Nope."  I tried saying it over and over.  The illusion of April looking up at me was so real that I was whispering the word "Nope" repeatedly in the darkness.  I wanted to change that one word so much.  I started imagining it so hard that it became impossible to stop.  Replaying it in my mind made it seem so real.  I couldn't stop running over and over it, imagining not being separated from them.  I felt like a hole had opened up inside of me and was draining me of everything that could make a person feel alive.  I tried to get out.  I tried to think of Rick laughing, but it didn't work.  I started telling myself that nothing could stand in the way of laughter, but that one word, "Nope" continued to do just that.  Mr. Twain's advice and my big thought of the day were turning out to be as illusory as everything else.  I couldn't remember the laughter; I couldn't capture it inside my head and release it inside myself--not the way I had captured that scene at the cab and replayed it.  I couldn't recapture the laughter as well as that.  When it got really bad inside my head I stepped outside to clear it.  
   The night was sort of cloudy.  The large dorm to my right had died down awhile ago and only a few lights were still on in some of the rooms.  I sat down on the damp ground and leaned up against one of the van’s tires.  Some of the brighter stars managed to peek through the holes in the clouds, but their twinkling seemed so lonely up there, with no other stars to back them up.  Staring up at the sky reminded me of my nights lying on my back, worn out and alone, staring up at the night sky above the beach.  That reminded me of my cousin, Jimmy, touring through Europe somewhere and of how, a few nights before he left the two of us had split a couple of bottles of wine at the beach.  We just sat around all night, drinking and talking.  I know the poor kid was worried about me.  There's no way he felt right about leaving for Europe.  I'm pretty sure he just didn't know what to do. 
   I slumped lower against the van's right front tire.  I didn't think I'd be able to get up if my life depended on it.  I felt hollow and heavy and was in no mood to face what was going on around me.  
   I heard a noise and saw the van door opening and before I saw him I knew it was Kevin.  Joe and Rick had been drinking the whole night; if it had been one of them they would most definitely have been making more noise stumbling through the door.  "Hey," he whispered, "long time no see."  He grinned at me and sat down on the pavement.  "I heard you get up.  I figured if the other driver wasn't sleeping then maybe I shouldn't either."  Kevin was holding his journal in his hand.  He saw me looking at it.  "I wasn't sure if you'd be around, or if you had gone for a walk, so I was just going to write until you came back.  You're here, of course, so I'm not going to write.  You know, I was just going to wait up for you."  Kevin looked around a bit.  "So, whadya doin' up?"  He asked.  
   I shrugged and started playing with my dad's watch on my wrist.
   "We missed you back at college," he said.
   "Yeah," I said weakly.
   "You missed quite a bit," he said, leaning his head back and taking in the night sky next to me.  "I decided to drop my attempt at pre-med," he said and laughed.  "You remember the end of last semester?"
   During finals of fall semester, Kevin had walked into our room with a big grin on his face.  "I just worked out my grade for Chemistry," he said.  I looked at his grin and knew that there had to be more to it.  You didn't get a smile like that during finals by just working out your grade for the year.  
   "And?"  I said.
   "It's like this," he went on.  "If I get an F on my final, I fail the class.  If I get an A on my final...I fail the class."  He walked over to me and showed me the numbers.  Sure enough, if he aced the final, he would get a 63 in the class, if he failed it he would manage a 50 or something.  If he failed, he failed, if he passed, he failed.  We both had gotten drunk to celebrate.  Kevin was always able to influence your mood like that, make you laugh and not feel guilty about getting drunk during finals. 
   "Yeah," I said hollowly, "I remember fall semester."
   "Man, what a train wreck that class was. Anyway, I think I'm gonna try a film major next--see how that goes."
   There was more silence that began to grate at me.  I could feel Kevin waiting for me to say something, but I didn't know what.  "How's Julie?"  I finally asked.
   "Oh, we broke up.  Actually, she broke up with me.  That was awhile ago.  I think it was in February."  He paused here before going on.  "I guess February wasn't such a hot month for either of us."
   I could almost physically feel myself close up after that comment.  The silence came back and it was unbearable, but I was damned if I was going to break it.  Actually, I didn't think I could break it.  My mouth felt like it was glued shut.
   Seconds went by that felt like hours and minutes went by that felt like years.  I was sure that Kevin was going to make a break for it and head back inside, but he didn't.  He somehow or other managed to just continue talking about Julie as if I had said something.  "Julie said it was because she had met someone else, but I never saw this other guy."
   I nodded.  It was all I could manage, but it was enough participation to allow Kevin to continue.  "It's been, what, four months or so?"  He shook his head a bit to himself.  "I still keep thinking about her.  I wasn't even that crazy about her, but for some reason my thoughts like to turn to her."
   There was another long pause.  Again I felt like I should say something, on the other hand, Kevin seemed to be doing all right by himself.  This wasn't the first time I had had a conversation with Kevin at odd hours in the morning.  Our first night at college, after everything had died down and we had decided to turn in, Kevin had started to ask questions from his bed on the top bunk.  Tons of questions.  Then I started asking questions and we stayed up talking forever.  It happened very often.  I learned that Kevin and his brother had shared a room growing up and they used to talk late into the night every night.  Both of them lying in the dark on opposite sides of the room chatting away about everything that was going on in their life.  When Kevin came to college I became his surrogate brother.  I don't think the kid was able to sleep right without chatting for an hour before bed.  It was also just about the only time Kevin ever really got personal.  He wasn't a quiet kid, but his conversations during the daytime never got really close to what he was feeling.  It was late at night that he hashed out his problems.  It occurred to me that for the past semester Kevin had been sharing a room with nobody, meaning that his late night conversations probably hadn't really existed.  Plus, he told me his brother had been away while he was home before this road trip.  So, if he had a single all spring semester and if he hadn't seen his brother while he was home, that would mean that as far as bringing Julie out in conversation...
   "The strangest thing," he said, "the most annoying thing, too, is that the strangest things trigger it off.  Like chipmunks."
   He glanced over at me; maybe waiting for me to make fun of him so he could laugh it off and stop talking.  I have to admit, I didn't quite understand where chipmunks fit in, but I was a long way from being able to crack a joke.
   "At any rate," Kevin said, "it was a pretty screwed up at the end before she finally broke it off.  It just turned sour and she started acting strange.  Supposedly that was when this other person came into play, but I think she just wanted out and needed an excuse.  Until she came up with one, you know, it was tense the entire time.  Plus, since she was acting so strange to me, I started acting strange to her and wondering if maybe I didn't want out."
   Odd looks kept crossing his face as he heard what he was saying and realized that he might be sounding a bit loopy.  "Anyway, towards the end there we spent a night together that belonged in the beginning of our relationship.  I never looked up at her and felt like I was looking at a stranger.  I never felt like I was saying anything foolish.  I never got scared that she would deny me a hug or a kiss.  It was just like it used to be, and it actually gave me some hope that we would be able to pull out of the rut we had worked ourselves into.  It was one of the best nights I spent with her."  He smiled weakly.  "At one point in the night we were sitting outside the dorm just chatting, waiting for some friends to drop by.  All of a sudden she screams and jumps into my lap.  I looked over by where she was sitting and this chipmunk was squatting there, scared out of its wits, wondering what the hell was going on.  I guess it had snuck up on her and it had just surprised her.  I started laughing and I pointed out to her what she was screaming at and teased her and just held her for awhile."
   "It's unreal how much I've thought about that moment.  It's been awhile, but still, when I see a little chipmunk sitting on its ass looking at me I always end up thinking about her.  It was such a vivid image on such a great night that I can't help but tie the two together."  He smiled again, a little more strongly.  "It sounds horribly cheesy, but I'm not trying to be cheesy.  It automatically happens whenever I see one of those little guys."  He looked down at the ground and then put his pen in his mouth and started chewing on the cap.  "It's the strangest thing."
   "Yeah," I said feebly.  He raised his head and looked at me.  "It is," I said a little more strongly.  "I mean, it's not...yeah."  I finished.
   Neither of us said anything for a little bit.  I just sat there and Kevin just kept chewing on his pen. "It's still annoying," he said after awhile.  There was yet another pause here, but it was a pleasant one, not pregnant with talk that wasn't being talked.  It was a perfect pause that fit in with what was going on.  "Ah hell," Kevin suddenly said, grinning.  "She's a bitch and I'm in Illinois."
   I smiled a little at this and then Kevin was talking about the rest of the school year, guiding me through a mostly one-sided conversation like I was on crutches.  It was me listening for a lot of the time but it was easy and Kevin didn't make me feel like I had to laugh at his jokes or find his stories amazing.  I don't know how late it was when we both climbed back into the van, but I know that our passengers couldn't figure out why their two drivers were so exhausted the next day. 
   
      7
   
   "Good morning.  My name is Rick and I have been assigned as your copilot this morning," Rick said after shaking me out of my dreams.  I tried to ignore him but he wouldn't go away, and so, once again, it was Rick and me in one car and Joe and Kevin in the other.  It was drizzling that morning and we greeted it with Credence.  As Jon Fogerty sang "Bad Moon Risin" we pulled onto the highway.  
   I scanned my eyes along the dashboard and checked to see if any emergency lights were on.  Everything looked okay with the car so I pushed back in my seat and tested my body.  Arms: doin' fine; legs: sore as hell; ankles: stiff and not very pleased; neck: could be better, but could also be a lot worse; ass: going numb.  I groaned inwardly. We had one huge drive ahead of us today.  We were going from Chicago all the way to the other end of South Dakota.  I looked at my gas shirt.  It had been about five days and I was still wearing it.  Everyone was still wearing theirs.  I mean, we changed the T-shirts we wore under them and everything.  We were pretty clean, but those shirts were starting to get pretty dirty.  They were gonna need a wash soon.  I had a feeling that even if they never got washed we were going to wear them until the end of the trip.  I rolled my head around my neck and felt how tight it was.
   "You sure you're gonna make it?"  Rick asked.
   "What do you mean?"
   "You look kind of run down, and we've got the longest drive of the trip ahead of us."
   "I'll make it," I said determinedly.
   "I don't know," Rick said, "especially if this rain keeps up  Its gotta be harder driving through this crap."
   The rain didn't keep up.  Somewhere after lunch we actually had blue skies above us for the first time since New Jersey.  It didn't last, of course, but it was a pleasant change of pace.
   We stopped for lunch in Milwaukee and it was probably about an hour after that when the clouds slowly disappeared and we saw sunshine.  School was out, the skies were bright, summer was rolling around the bend and Rick was bored out of his mind.  He was fidgeting in his seat and would randomly pick up things off the floor or the dashboard and examine them before dropping whatever it was and glancing around the rest of the car.
   I couldn't exactly blame him.  What we were driving through was basically open space.  It was pretty, gorgeous even, huge green plains with the road slicing through it and traveling on into infinity.  Occasionally a group of birds could be seen dancing and veering over the plains.  The sky was absolutely enormous and the clouds were all works of art in themselves.  Of course, it had been the same pretty picture for hours, and so, Rick was bored.
   Suddenly the van popped up on my left.  This surprised me because we were on a two-lane highway, one lane for each direction.  I was in my lane.  I was going in the right direction.  So what was the van doing?  I looked over at Kevin and Joe.  "Oh God, no..."  I said.  Joe was signaling to me with his walkie-talkie.
   Rick switched ours on.  "Can.  You.  Hear.  Me?"  For a moment I wondered why Rick's voice sounded so strange, then I realized that he hadn't said that, our walkie-talkie had said that.  
   "Holy shit!"  Rick said amazed.  He sounded very excited, probably in part because no one ever dreamed that those stupid things would work, and partly because nothing had happened for the entire drive which made this the most exhilarating thing either of us had seen all day.  
   Rick was talking back and forth with the guys in the van, but it was still full of static and garbled words.  I glanced to my left where the van was happily riding in the wrong lane.  There wasn't exactly any risk involved here.  We could see the road for a good distance ahead of us.  Then I noticed that Kevin and Joe had a coat hanger sticking out of their window.  The other end of this hanger was attached to the antenna of their walkie-talkie.  
   "Hey." I got Rick's attention.  "Hey, look what they're doing."  He looked.  "Do that.  Find some metal and do that."  Rick reached onto the floor the car.  We had stopped for lunch and I had gotten a meatball sandwich.  I only ate about half of it and I had brought the rest of it, wrapped in tinfoil, back to the car with me.  Rick retrieved this glob of tinfoil with a half a meatball sandwich still sitting in it.  Then he held it up, close to his head, plopped the antenna of our walkie-talkie into the meatball sandwich and began talking.  It didn't work.
   Joe had also gotten a meatball sandwich for lunch.  He also hadn't finished his and he also had taken his leftovers into the van with him wrapped in tinfoil.  He didn't, however, use it as a conductor.  What he did was, at that moment, decide to throw his sandwich out the window and onto my windshield.  After the remains of his lunch splattered all over the car, the van began to drop behind us again and I heard Joe's voice on the walkie-talkie.  "Christ!  Did you see the size of that bug?"
   Rick didn't bother replying.  He had something to do now.  He was going to soup up our half of our group's communications system if it took him the rest of the drive.  Before he really got started he paused and began looking around the car again.
   "Don't we have a Swiss army knife around here somewhere?"
   "It's in the van." I replied.  "Don't you remember?  We didn't have anything to change the windshield wipers with."  I couldn't believe he had forgotten about that.
   "Oh yeah, in the van," Rick said as he climbed over the seat and started signaling to the van from the rear window.  They pulled up on my left again and Rick hopped back into the front seat and managed to communicate the idea that we wanted them to give us the knife.  I could see Joe saying something to Rick, then his window lowered.  He held up a battery.  I saw him mouth something about a test and then he tossed the battery towards the car.  It went whipping behind us before coming anywhere near to my window.  Joe looked at me and shook his head.  
   Then I saw Joe begin to take the coat hanger off of their walkie-talkie.  Then the van fell behind us and signaled for us to get into the left lane while Kevin pulled alongside us on the right.  I complied and the van appeared on my right.  Then, slowly, the hanger came out of the window with the Swiss army knife attached to the end.  Slowly, it began to creep towards Rick's hand, crawling slowly forward while going seventy miles an hour sideways.
   I wasn't all that sure what to do.  Should I watch the road?  Should I watch the van?   Should I watch at all?  In the end I watched both.  My eyes flicking from Rick's hand to the road ahead of us.  
   The road ahead of us: empty.  
   Rick's hand: five feet away.  
   Empty.  
   Four feet.  
   Empty.  
   Two feet.  
   Truck.  
   One fo-- 
   I stared at the mountain of steel hurtling head on towards me.  My palms trembled on the steering wheel and my eyes drifted shut.  From far away I heard a scream and felt the steering wheel turn in my hands as Rick steered us to the right and the van hit its brakes to let us in.  The truck passed us a few seconds later honking like crazy.  I was shaking lightly all over as I turned to look at Rick.  I had completely forgotten he was there.  
   Rick rested his head on the dashboard and let out a deep breath.  "Holy god, you were completely frozen up," he said.  I managed a shaky smile.  
   Rick looked over at me with a stern look on his face before raising his eyebrows and chirping happily, "Well then, let's give that another try, shall we?"
   Again I pulled into the left lane.  Again the van pulled up on our right.  Again the knife began to snake its way towards us.  This time I kept my eyes almost completely on the road, only that knife seemed to draw my eyes to it and Rick's hand was only a few feet away and then I heard a loud whining roaring noise.  I looked up.  I was in the right lane.  My first thought was that nothing was wrong.  Then I remembered that I was supposed to be in the left lane, and if I was in the right lane then the van must be on the shoulder.  And if the van was on the shoulder than it must be driving over those things that are supposed to wake you up if you fall asleep at the wheel and start to veer off the road, and that was wrong.  So I edged left and the van edged left and we both were on the road and Rick said something about lousy drivers as he basically climbed completely out of the window and grabbed the knife when nobody was expecting it.  Rick closed the window and set to work on the walkie-talkie.  I glanced over at Kevin saw he was giving a very strange look to Rick.  That was understandable seeing as how Rick had barely even left his feet in the car during that last lunge for the knife.  It was over, though, and Rick was staring down at the walkie-talkie, oblivious to Kevin's looks.  I was still shaking a bit from the idea of that truck roaring towards me as I pulled in behind the van and went back to watching the scenery. 
   We ate dinner at dusk at a Taco Bell in Sioux Falls.  The sky was pink going on red when we pulled back onto route 90.  Some clouds had come back and the wind was blowing hard.  We drove through green hills covered in foot-high grass with small streams cutting through them.  
   At one point I heard a low rumbling sound growing louder and louder.  A pack of motorcycles came up behind me and started passing the car and the van on both sides.  Rick's head popped up and I saw him staring at the thunder rolling past us.  "Yeah," he said to himself.  "That," he said, waggling two fingers at a bike on our right, "is the way we should be doing this.  A Hog for each of us, riding along in the open air with nothing but road sliding away below."  He started bobbing his head in a steady nod, "Yaaaaas.  Yes indeed," he said.  "That is the way to go."  He opened the window and stood up in the seat, half of his body outside, his waist at the level of the roof.  I would've said something to Rick at this point about his apparently newfound habit of leaning out of car windows.  I would've said something, but I was struck completely dumb by the words that had just come out of Rick's mouth.  It was only a sentence or two, but it was awfully poetic for Rick.  I looked up at him standing half out of the car.  He stayed that way until the last motorcycle rode by, the rider nodding his head and giving Rick a thumbs up.  Rick staying standing until the motorcycles had disappeared out of sight.  Then he plopped back into his seat and went back to tinkering with the walkie-talkie.
   I took another look outside at the fields of green all around.  The grass blowing in the wind looked an awful lot like crowds of people waving at us.  I laughed to myself and hoped Rick would ask me why I was laughing.  He didn't and I had to force myself to open up my mouth and tell him about the waving grass all around us.  For some reason that really bugged me.
   Rick looked at the hills going by and the wind rippling across them.  Then Rick looked at me, put his hands on the top of his head and started flopping around and waggling his fingers in the air.  "Look!  I'm grass!  I'm doing the grass dance!"  
   I pretended not to be amused and I told him how stupid he was being.  It was hard to keep a straight face, but when he finally turned to look out the window again I started to do the grass dance with all the energy I had.  Rick turned his gaze back to me and started to laugh.  Then we were both doing his grass dance.  
   "Well!"  Rick said after our dance number had died down.  "That was mindless."
   I realized Rick was right and I suddenly felt pretty stupid flopping my fingers and waving my hands over my head.  I looked over at my friend and wondered why he was still grinning.  Our moods had been in sync less than a minute ago, and now I felt like his complete opposite.  I didn’t understand how he could go on smiling like that.  
   It occurred to me that I wasn't a part of the life he was living anymore.  I would just visit every so often.  I took another look at the passenger seat and couldn't help but see a stranger sitting next to me whose name I happened to know.  As I looked at Rick even his face seemed different somehow.  The more I looked the less I knew Rick.  I didn't really know any of them.  Not the way they seemed to know themselves.  They had their personalities right in front of them.  Mine had turned up missing.  
   Everything around me suddenly got on my nerves.  I had a feeling that the day was shot.  I could tell.  I looked around and took in what was around me, but I was still scared, I was still confused.  It tainted everything, turning things that should seem genuine into horrifying question marks.  It would keep on doing that for the rest of the day too.  I couldn't get away.  I knew I couldn't get away.  I had been there too many times before to fool myself with that thought.
   I was right to some degree.  I existed inside my head for the rest of that day, but the drive lasted well beyond that day and until about three the next morning.  Somewhere in there my interior monologue eased off without me noticing and turned completely to other things.  I was exhausted and all I know was that at one point we entered a construction site and the two-lane road became a one-lane road lined with iridescent traffic cones.  The music was loud and good and I was just flying along the road with a cigarette in my mouth and the wind roaring in through the open windows where the stars shone brightly through.  
   An hour after that I turned to look at Rick in the passenger seat.  He was asleep.  I watched him for awhile, alternating glances at him with glances at the open road.  He matched perfectly with the rest of the world, his eyes closed, his head resting on the window while the reposing sky formed a frame around him.  
   I looked at him and wondered if he knew that I knew why he was on this trip.  I was pretty sure that pity was the main reason behind it.  I could imagine parents getting worried about me.  Friends probably were worried too, but for some reason I imagined parents in my mind telling Rick and Joe to get my ass out of my house.  Only they wouldn't use a word like ass.  "He doesn't look so good." I imagined them saying.  "He just sits there and frets away."  Parents used words like "fret", didn't they?  "Go on that road trip with him, get him out of that chair.  It can't be good for him to just sit there and think away the rest of his life.  I believe that some time away from home with some close friends would do him some good."  I wasn't sure I needed or wanted their help.  The places my mind took me seemed so important.  How could I not think about them?  They completely affected reality and everything around us.  I didn't want to be distracted from my head; I just wanted to follow it to some concrete end.  And if I couldn't find some end...but that was what Montana was for.  Glacier Park, I was sure, was the perfect place to finally think things out clearly.  The place to put an end to all the pain that had coursed through my body and soul since last February.  The place to put things in perspective.  
   Of course, thinking about my thoughts in that light was fairly foolish.  This wasn't a book report I was researching, it was my life, and the places my mind took me weren't abstract by any means.  They became real, very real, and very painful.  Joe once told me that Plato once wrote that Socrates once said: "The unexamined life is not worth living."  Well, I was examining the hell out of mine, and it wasn't making it very livable.
   At that moment, hurtling through the South Dakota night, none of this was actually occurring to me.  I was too exhausted.  I just had some vague notion of Montana and no longer feeling empty.  
   At around three in the morning somewhere in western South Dakota we finally pulled off the highway and into a campsite.  I didn't have any problems falling asleep.  I did have some problems getting into my sleeping bag and I have no idea who actually arranged for the campsite.  After I stepped out of the car I became another piece of luggage.  We had driven through four states that day and it showed.  Sleep came instantly.  I was visited by no demons.
   
   
      8
   
   We got up the next morning and someone remembered that we had brought cameras along on our trip.  That whole day was an endless stream of photographs.  We took almost half a roll right there in the campsite, posing next to the two trusty steeds that had carried us that far.  We all wore the same outfit we had worn the previous day.  When we asked one of our neighbors to take a group shot of us he asked if we were in a band or something.  Rick told him that we were all in town for a gas convention.  The man asked us if we all worked at gas stations and Rick took it from there repeating our running joke in the plural.
   Armed with cameras we set off for our first stop of the day.  I saw Joe start rummaging around for a particular piece of music when we pulled into South Dakota's Badlands National Park.  
   "What're you putting on?"  I asked.
   "Isn't it kind of obvious?"  was all he replied as the first track of Bruce's Darkness on the Edge of Town came on.  
   We stopped about a minute into the song and got out for our first look at the Badlands.  Joe summed it up pretty well when he said:  "Shit.  Does it ever end?"  About ten thousand rainstorms had washed away ten million little streams of dirt.  It looked like the beige canyons in front of us just kept going and going.  From most viewpoints they were all you could see.  Every once in awhile you would look down a canyon that didn't stop growing wider and you would see out the other end to a field of green.  But that was only every once in awhile.
   There's a picture of Joe and me sitting back to back on one of these spines of hardened mud.  Behind us you can see more ridges rising higher and higher.  They blot out the sky in the picture.  It's just the two little dots that are Joe and me, and then waves of rock growing larger than seems possible.  That was one of the four billion pictures we took at Badlands National Park.  As I mentioned, we kind of over compensated for not using our cameras at all so far on the trip.  We have a million poses: we took the traditional picture where one guy pretends to be falling off a cliff; we took pictures of us looking thoughtfully out over the canyons; we have shots of us with stern looks on our faces struggling to look like hardened frontiersmen.  
   We made our way slowly through the park.  Everyone stopped everywhere to take yet another picture.  It started to get really old to me, but Joe, Rick and Kevin kept wandering off onto one finger or another of the infinite rain carved rock.  I got bored and wandered back to the car by myself to wait everyone else out.  I just sat there with the doors closed listening to music for I don't know how long.  
   Eventually, I heard the murmur of conversation floating up from the Badlands somewhere.  Then I saw three heads pop up over the horizon followed by three gas-shirts.  I saw Rick take a playful jab at Joe's shoulder and then saw Joe turn and make some smart-ass comment to Rick which made everyone smile.  Rick was talking when they came within earshot.  "...in high-school," he was saying.  "This was," he puffed up his cheeks in thought, "oh, I guess it was around Valentine's Day.  It must have been after Valentine's Day, cause it was after you and Alison got locked out of your house, you remember that, Joe?  When you got locked out and had to call me because I could always break into your house or at least climb into a window and you didn't want your parents to..." Rick kept talking as he and Kevin, who was the main audience of the story, walked past the car and out of earshot.  I looked out the open window at Joe, who was just stopped dead next to the car, staring off into space.  He opened the door and sat down, but he looked like he was sleepwalking. 
   The van pulled out past the front of the car and Rick smooshed his face against the window as it went past.  I offered up a smile while Joe just kind of watched the van go by. 
   "You guys sure took your time out there," I said amiably as I followed the van out of the parking lot.  
   "Yeah, well," Joe said, not so amiably, "some of us actually enjoy soaking in the places we've been visiting.  You know, doing more than looking around for a second before running back to the car."
   I put on a smile thinking that this was Joe's idea of some good-natured ribbing at my expense.  But when I looked over at him, I suddenly was looking at a person who was very far from being good-natured.  Joe's glasses were off, he was clenching them in a fist that was resting on the dashboard, and his bare eyes were burrowing into me.  The smile dropped from my face as Joe shook his head and continued.  "I don't see how you can spend five minutes at a place like this and feel like you've even seen, even grasped the slightest bit of it."
   "Grasped what, exactly, Joe?  It's a bunch of canyons." 
   "Yeah," Joe replied.  "Just another gorgeous stop-off that we have to check off as we schlep our way across the country.  Something like that, Tom?  Another obstacle to get past before we continue farther towards the end of this trip?  It makes me kind of sick to see someone pretend to take in what we just saw in little under an hour."
   "What?"  I snapped back.  "I suppose you came to understand, or whatever, the Badlands, like some mystical—"
   "Nah," Joe interrupted.  "I don't think I spent enough time there, but I'm aware enough to realize that something as beautiful as that," Joe pointed a thumb back over his shoulder, "isn't a glorified rest stop.  The parks commission didn't put that there and there's a lot more to that place than the little blurb on the sign out front.  You could look out over those canyons and see time itself stretching away in front of you, it's not just a bunch of pretty rocks, Tom."
   "Who said it was just a bunch of pretty rocks?"  I shouted back.
   "Face it, Tom.  That could have been a manufactured, paper-mache, Hollywood back-drop and you would have gotten just as much out of it."  I could still feel him staring at me, sending verbal blow after verbal blow against me.  
   "Joe, what are you talking about?"
   "You don't have a clue, do you?"  
   I kept my mouth shut here.  
   "Nobody does, do they?  Nobody."  Through the static that Joe was causing in my head I began to realize that this wasn't Joe attacking me in particular.  I mean he was obviously berating me, somewhat, but anyone sitting in the car next to him would have sufficed.  "Nobody," Joe repeated, and his anger was thinning out of his voice as a deep tone of pain began to shine through.  With that last repetition Joe suddenly seemed less like some monster sitting next to me and more like a frightened cornered animal.  After a few seconds he turned the radio up and we drove along in a music filled silence to our next stop.  
   During a pre-trip conversation sometime in the fall, when I was still the driving force behind getting everyone to follow Kevin on his way home, Joe, Rick and I were sitting around when Rick had shouted, "Hey!  Are the big heads anywhere up there? Do you think we'll get to see them?"
   "I don't think we'll be very close to Easter Island, Rick."  I had replied.
   "No.  Not those big heads, the other big heads."  Which was why, when we arrived there, Rick jumped out of the van with a whoop and went running towards Mt. Rushmore yelling hurrahs for "the big heads."
   I stepped warily out of the car, watching Joe over the roof.  He was looking blankly at Rick as he ran through the parking lot.  Something looked very different about Joe, but I couldn't quite figure out what.  
   The parking lot was separated into tiers that climbed towards the monument.  As we walked up our first flight of stairs to a higher level of the lot, Rick came running back towards us humming happily.  He stopped short when he saw that we had almost caught up to him.  "Come on!"  He yelled.  "The big heads the big heads the big heads..." he said over and over again as he started to turn and sprint back up the hill.  He stopped just as he was about to take off and looked at Joe with a very confused face.  Fearfully I turned towards Joe, expecting him to tee-off on Rick, but Joe was looking vaguely at me, biting his thumbnail, shaking his head with a meek little smile on his face.  Now I was really confused and I looked back towards Rick.  
   "Joe," Rick said, "can you see anything?"
   Turning back towards Joe I finally caught on to the fact that Joe, whose eyes were very far from being 20/20, was not wearing his glasses.  Joe barked out a laugh and took his thumbnail out of his mouth.  "Um, can I have the keys, Tom?"  I started to toss the keys over to Joe and then thought better of it.  
   "I'll just walk back with you," I said.  
   "Joe," Rick shouted at us as we walked back down through the parking lot, "how does someone as blind as you make it this far through the parking lot without realizing that everything's a big blur?"
   Joe shook his head and looked at me with an expression that showed that the very same question was running through his own head.  We got back to the car and I opened up the passenger door for Joe.  He grabbed his glasses off the dashboard, put them on, and looked up at me.  "Oops," he said.  
   "Yeah," I said, still shaky from the last hour of driving with Joe.  Then Joe and I rejoined Rick and Kevin and all four of us walked towards the "big heads."  
   The "big heads" were a lot faster than the Badlands.  They had these spots set up where you could stand and get a perfect shot with the statues behind you.  You had to wait on line until all the families in front of you took their pictures and then it was your turn.  
   Our turn rolled around and Rick took everyone's camera and began directing us on how to line up.  He kept giving us minute little directions to move a bit left or a bit right or to hold still as he slowly moved towards us looking through the camera.  He snapped a couple of pictures from a few different spots around the photo site.  After every picture Kevin, Joe and I would start to walk away and Rick would shout at us to keep still.
   "What is he doing?"  Kevin asked.
   Joe, standing between us, scratched the back of his head.  "If I know Rick," he said, craning his head around to look at the monument on the cliff behind us, "he's trying to take a picture so that the three of our heads are lined up with one of the real heads.  You know, so that the picture will make it look like our heads are next to Washington."
   "That won't work," I said to Joe.  "If he..." I turned and began shouting to Rick, "No matter how perfectly you line up our heads there's still going to be a difference between what the viewfinder sees and what the lens actually captures.  I don't think it's even possible to take a shot like that with those cameras."  
   Rick lowered the camera from his face and looked at me.  "Well, young Thomas, that is why we have to take this shot over and over...and over and over and over again."  
   Joe, standing next to me, leaned his head towards mine and whispered, "He's quite mad, you know."  Then he smiled and put his arms around Kevin and me.  I felt Joe's arm around my shoulder, then I felt his arm slide up to my neck as he swiftly put both Kevin and me into pretty effective headlocks.  A small wrestling match broke out while Rick shouted at us to get back to our posing.  Somehow or other Kevin and I ended up standing in front of the photo site holding Joe upside-down, which Rick, naturally, took a couple of pictures of.  
   Kevin and I released Joe, putting him back on his feet to chase after the few things that had fallen out of his pocket.  "Okay, Rick," I said to our camera man, "are we through with this shot yet?"  
   "Yeah, that should do it," Rick said, "now get back in position so I can take one with Kevin's camera."
   "Okay, you just stand here and wait," Joe said as he walked off towards the museum.  
   Kevin followed Joe and then I followed Kevin.  "Fine then!"  Rick began shouting after us.  "No need to put yourselves out on my account.  You just move along to your little museum.  I'm going to—" Rick began talking in a normal tone of voice at this point and we could no longer hear what he was saying.  I risked looking back at him to see what he was doing.  
   "The boy is out of his mind," I heard Joe say.  Joe had also turned around to look at what had quieted Rick down.  The two of us stood there for a second watching Rick talking to a horribly dressed, middle-aged couple from somewhere.  Rick was taking the man's camera off of his shoulder and positioning the poor, baffled couple, into position in order to complete his Mount Rushmore photographic opus.  I saw the woman point at Rick's shirt and ask something.  Rick shook his head and then the sound of the woman's laughter floated over to us.  The man only looked more confused.  Joe and I turned and left Rick with his new models and headed towards the museum.  
   It was a tiny little place which took us maybe ten minutes to wander through, seeing everything.  We would have been out of there in no time if the speaker hadn't shown up.  The poor girl began to give her little informational talk about the "big heads."  She was maybe seventeen, probably doing this as a summer job and not as a part of an undying love for Mount Rushmore and everything it embodied.  Unfortunately for her, she got Joe in her audience.  
   It started when the speaker mentioned the fact that the heads weren't finished.  The man in charge of it all had died before his work was complete.  Some people had wanted to carry on his work, but nobody had.  Someone had stopped them.  Our speaker had tried to drop this in as a little side part of her speech, but then Joe's hand shot up.  "So," Joe asked from the crowd, "it wasn't funding or anything that stopped them from finishing the monument?" 
   "That's correct," our guide answered.
   "They were intentionally left unfinished," Joe said before she could go on, raising his hand again, "because the original artist died?"
   "Yes," our guide said.  She paused a bit, looking at Joe for further questions.  Joe seemed to be satisfied.  Which, of course, he wasn't.
   The guide maybe got two words out before Joe's voice interrupted her again.  "So basically," Joe started, still politely raising his hand, "the original vision of the artist was held in higher esteem then the completion of this monument to our government?  Work was actually halted, since the original creator wouldn't be able to see it through to the end?  I mean, that's a lot of integrity for a government project.  It takes quite a bit of respect for one man's vision to halt something as enormous as this, just because he can't carry on.  Do you think the Statue of Liberty or the St. Louis Arch or the Eiffel Tower would have remained unfinished if their creators had died, midway through?"  I began to notice that people were beginning to form a bit of a circle around Joe as they listened to him talk.  
   I stopped listening when I noticed Rick duck in through the museum door.  He glanced around and spotted me.  "What's going on?"  he whispered when he was standing next to me.  I nodded my head towards Joe as I heard him conclude his speech, saying something about the simple fact that the work of art outside left unfinished was more of a monument to our government than the part of it that was complete.  There was actually some scattered applause.  
   The speaker was finally allowed to continue until she mentioned the historical detail that one of the heads wasn't even supposed to have been carved into the South Dakota cliff.  The original plan had entailed the carving of a copy of the Declaration of Independence into the rock face.  That hadn't worked and they had looked up and sort of said, "Well, I guess we could throw that other guys face up there."  Up went Joe's hand and off he went again.  
   In the middle of this speech Rick leaned over to me.  "He's out of his freaking mind, you know," Rick whispered.  That only leaves Kevin, I thought to myself.  I looked around to try and figure out where he was and realized that he wasn't in the museum anymore.  
   "I'm going to go look for Kevin," I whispered to Rick.
   "Okay," he whispered back, "I'll take notes here to tell you what you missed."  I walked out of the museum as Joe hit another crescendo.  I found Kevin standing by the monument lookout spot again.  He was leaning against the wooden rail overlooking the patches of pine that were all around the big heads.  
   "What have you been doing?"  I asked.  
   "Looking," Kevin answered simply.  I looked at him leaning against the railing, just washing his eyes all over the landscape, a content look on his face.  "It's amazing," Kevin said.  His eyes continued to just meander slowly around the entire area.   
   I didn't see it as amazing as Kevin did.  I wasn't as interested as Joe was.  I couldn't act like Rick did.  It occurred to me that the only things I seemed capable of doing were driving and smoking.  In addition, even those were fairly joyless activities.  
   Luckily, Joe and Rick showed up before that train of thought went much further.  The four of us headed back to our cars and like that we were through sight-seeing for the day.  We had hit the Badlands, we had hit the "big heads," now we had to hit the road.  Rick and I were paired up as we drove out of the parking lot blasting Tom Jones.  The sky was blue, the clouds were scarce and the road kept making beautiful curves around and around and up and down and all over the place as it began to worm its way into the hills.  It wasn't a long time, however, before we met up with our old friend the rain again.  
   "Oh good," I said as the first drops fell against the windshield.  "I was worried we might actually have some sunshine today."
   "Nah," Rick replied.  "It rains a lot here.  The cold wind coming off the mountains brings precipitation and causes thousands of little showers like this a year.  Dakota is actually Native American for 'Land of Many Showers'."
   "Really?"
   "I have no idea.  It sounded good, didn't it?"
   I just started at him.  
   The road became no less wormy as the day wore on.  Kevin had given some hope to the idea of reaching Jackson, Wyoming, by that evening.  On a flat stretch of highway during a sunlit afternoon that might have been feasible.  However, when you have to slow down to thirty-five miles an hour every hundred yards for fear of skidding off the wet road and into a cliff, well, then you don't make such good time.
   The road made it through the Black Hills, and then it began to worm its way towards the Rockies.  The foothills loomed ahead of us.  To the left and right was a vast, green, wrinkled landscape shrouded in a gray mist that was prelude to the rain. 
   We stopped to eat at yet another fast food joint in Buffalo, Wyoming.  After dinner I waited by the car alone while I pretended that everyone was using the bathroom.  Joe eventually wandered over.  He came up to me and unrolled my pack of cigarettes from my sleeve.  
   I was a little worried that the Joe who had appeared right after the Badlands was going to resurface, but Joe was smiling amiably as he lit up his cigarette.  He stared at me through his smoke until I asked him what was up.
   "It has come to my attention that we are going to have to do something about the luggage situation in the car."
   "How's that?"  I asked.
   "Well," Joe said, walking around the car and opening the trunk, "our mutual friend Rick has made us stuff an unbelievable amount of crap into the car.  Since Kevin is going to leave us pretty soon, and the three of us have to fit in one car, we are going to have to do without certain items," Joe pointed into the trunk.  "Like this ridiculously enormous red grill that we've been toting around the country and haven't used.  Now," he paused before asking, "do you remember the grill at our last campsite?"  I nodded.  He continued.  "Okay, so it is obvious that we will not need Rick's grill on the remainder of our trip."
   "Joe, we don't need ninety nine percent of the crap that Rick brought on this trip."
   "First thing's first, Tom.  We start with the grill.  I say we draw up a plan to ditch the grill at some point before we reach Jackson.  Agreed?"  
   I didn't say anything.
   "Good.  We'll switch up seating arrangements so that we can figure out some way to lose the grill.  We'll call it Operation Grill Drop."
   "Couldn't we just tell Rick we don't want the grill and then dump it off at the next trash can?"
   Joe pondered this for a second.  "That doesn't sound like much fun."
   "I don't see why we have to sneak around."  I paused for a second.  "Plus there'll be plenty of room in the car."
   Joe looked at me.  "Tom," he said.  "Your car doesn't have enough doors for us not to mention space.  It's tiny."
   "It's fine," I said determinedly. 
   "It's gonna be a little cramped."  Joe threw back.
   "Look," I stated, "if you didn't want to ride in the car I'm using then maybe you should have said something before we got all the way out to Montana."
   "I never said I didn't want to ride in your car," Joe said...but both of us were starting to raise our voices.  "All I said was that we could use the extra room."
   "The car is fine as it is."
   "But it would be better without having to cram the grill in there."
   "We don't have to 'cram' anything.  The car is fine."
   "Jesus," Joe said.  He turned his head a bit and took off his sunglasses.  He held them in his hand, indicating with them as he spoke.  "Yes, the car is fine.  But it could be more fine..." His hand dropped to his side.  He folded the sunglasses up and put them in his shirt pocket.  "Never mind.  I'll just talk to Rick about it."
   I held my hands out to my side, palm up, in a large shrug.  "Fine, if you both think the car is too small then we should lose some stuff.  But I don't know why you agreed to take that car to begin with."
   Joe shook his head and wandered off.  I really couldn't understand him sometimes.
   Eventually we made it back onto the road.  We paused for one last photo-op while the road was nuzzling its way into another canyon.  The turnout we stopped at looked out over a river valley.  We were probably halfway down to the bottom and rock walls rose around us; they didn't exactly rise gradually, but they didn't exactly rise steeply either.  We hopped out of the car into the rainstorm that had been playing tag with us since an hour outside of Mt. Rushmore.  It was cold and none of us were prepared for it, so the photo shoot was a short one.  A few of us hopped up onto the guard rail and took pictures with the valley rolling away behind us.
   After that we drove until the rain got too annoying and the road got too hard to follow.  We were deep inside of the Wind River Indian Reservation when we pulled into a picnic area, climbed into the van, and slept.
   
   9
   
   The next day we all woke up at around the same time.  Actually, Kevin got up first.  I heard him sliding the door to the van open.  Then Joe woke up and carefully stepped over me on his way out of the van.  I lay there for a little bit, but something was jabbing me in the back and the van was pretty stuffy and didn't exactly smell terrific, so I lumbered up and stepped out of the van into the cool morning.  
   I saw Kevin and Joe brushing their teeth at a water fountain which was located in the parking lot we were in.  Maybe parking lot isn't the right way to describe it.  It was more of a glorified turnoff.  It wasn't paved or anything, it was just a flat clear area filled with pebbles and some broken concrete somewhere in the middle of whatever canyon we were in.  There was a stream bubbling by on one side of the turnoff and the road went by on the other side.  
   I walked over to the water fountain and splashed some of the cool water on my face.  Then Rick finally made it out of the van.  Rick was a little sluggish and, so, he had our full attention when he stumbled out of the van.  All three of us gradually stopped what we were doing and stood there looking at Rick, who was blearily trying to match our gazes. 
   "Nice outfit," I said.
   "Good God," Joe said.  "You look like some experiment in super heroes gone horribly wrong."
   Rick was wearing his boxers and his boots, no pants or socks.  His gas shirt was on, but it was unbuttoned, flapping behind him like a cape.  He was also wearing a big fuzzy hat that came complete with earflaps.  "Huh?"  Rick said blearily. 
   "What, in thee hell, are you wearing?"  Joe said.
   Rick looked down at himself.  Then he wiped the sleep out of his eyes and tried to look at himself more clearly.  
   "I'm getting a picture of this," Kevin said.  He ran into the van and started searching around for his camera.  He came back out but Rick didn't want just an ordinary picture of him in his get-up, oh no.  He had to pose for his picture.  So before Kevin could just snap a shot and be done with it, Rick had clambered up onto the top of the water fountain.  He stood there and planted his hands on his hips, striking his most dashing pose.  He almost did look like a super hero at this point.  "The Mindless Blur" or something like that.  This was when the sanitation crew arrived.  
   "The Mindless Blur" heard their truck pull into the picnic area and made one fast get away into the safety of the van.  Those of us left outside had to just sit there and casually wave as if our friends dressed like lunatics and balanced on water fountains every day.  In a matter of moments, mild mannered Rick Nelson stepped out of the van and joined us in our casual waving to the locals who had joined us.  He was probably hoping that if he made it outside in time, then the group in the truck would think, "Wait!  That's a totally different person from the jack-ass who was just posing half-naked on top of the water fountain.  We shouldn't make him feel embarrassed!"  It didn't matter, of course.  They just collected the trash and drove out of there pretty quickly without looking back.
   I broke out my toothbrush and began to wash up a bit at the water fountain.  I noticed that Joe was actively engaging Rick in some sort of conversation.  He kind of had him pinned up against the van and was talking emphatically about something.  Kevin wandered over to me, keeping an eye on Rick and Joe.  "Tom," Kevin said.  "I need the keys to the car."
   I spit out my toothpaste foam and rinsed my mouth.  "I already unlocked it to get my toothbrush," I told Kevin.  Kevin nodded and began to walk towards the car.  "What do you need to get out?"  I asked Kevin.  He just gave me a sly look.  
   While Joe kept saying things loudly to Rick, Kevin crept around to the car and opened the trunk.  He took out the big red grill and, constantly looking over his shoulder, walked quietly through the parking lot towards a trash can.  Apparently Joe had found another partner to carry off "Operation Grill Drop" with him.  
   Joe was losing his hold on Rick, who was pleading with Joe to let him past so he could brush his teeth.  Eventually Kevin wandered back and stood next to Joe.  Joe looked at Kevin, who nodded at him, and then finally allowed Rick to leave the vicinity of the van.  
   Once everyone was washed up we piled into the cars and pulled out of the parking lot.  Joe was in the car with me, and as we pulled away I noticed that Kevin had tossed the bright red grill into a trash can bordering the road.  He had camouflaged it with some tree branches, which most likely only drew more attention to the large red object in the trash can.  
   Joe and I drove by the abandoned grill, and then the van started to go past it.  In my rearview mirror I could make out Rick, in the van's passenger seat, suddenly leaping over towards Kevin.  The van swerved back and forth across the road before coming to a halt.  Then Rick jumped out of the door and ran back towards the grill, followed closely by Kevin.  Joe immediately followed suit, hopping out of the car.  
   The two of them managed to pick Rick up and were trying to force him through the large sliding door of the van when the sanitation crew arrived for the second time that morning.  
   One of the garbage collectors got out of their pickup truck to retrieve something that they had left in the parking lot.  Then he stopped and stared at Kevin and Joe and Rick.  
   Rick was wriggling all over the place trying to break either Joe's grip on his arms or Kevin's grip on his feet.  When he noticed that neither one of them was trying that hard anymore he slowed his struggles and looked around, finally catching sight of the sanitation crew.  Rick bent his wrist as much as he could and gave them a little wave.  The sanitation crew continued to stare.  
   There was a long moment where no one did anything but stare across the parking lot at the other party.  Then Joe, Rick and Kevin all jumped into the van through the sliding door.  Kevin clambered over the seats and slipped in behind the wheel.  The van took off and passed me on the road.  Joe and Rick were at the windows, signaling me to follow as the van picked up speed and disappeared behind a curve in the road a little ways ahead.  
   I followed, and we left our sleeping place, leaving Rick's grill behind along with a very confused bunch of garbage collectors.  I became acutely aware of the fact that I was alone in the car for the first time in about a million years.  The three musketeers were romping along in the van ahead of me while I sat by myself in the car.  I began to wonder why everyone had decided to join into the battle back at the turnoff, while I had not even thought about getting out of the car.  The idea of running back to the van to join my friends had come nowhere near to crossing my mind.  And now the three of them were probably laughing at their little adventure while I towed along behind them, as I had been for the last three thousand miles, feeling more out of place than ever.  
   It had seemed like such a natural thing for Joe to get out of the car and run back to the van to help Kevin.  It had seemed natural for me to cower lower in my seat so I could get a good view of things from the rearview mirror.  The last thing I had felt like doing was joining into their foray.  There was no way I could've followed Joe outside.  It just didn't seem like something I would have liked to do.
   I began to think about staying up late one night in high-school.  I was proofreading a paper in the kitchen while my Mom sat over me, trying to help, but most likely just making the process longer.  It was sometime in early March and I remember that I would look up every once in awhile to see the light from the kitchen casting a glow on the ground outside, which was covered with some persistent snow from that winter.  My dad was asleep in his bed and April was asleep in hers and the lights from the house were gently melting into the world outside.  My mom and I stayed up until some ridiculous hour pretending to proofread my paper but actually doing more talking than working.  She sat there with her cup of coffee, and I sat there reading a sentence or two every now and then.  That was me.  That was so goddamned me it was sick.  Back then, it was so easy, though.  Now it seemed almost impossible to be me.  I didn't know how.
   At the next turnoff the van pulled over and Rick hopped out to join me in the car.  After he had settled in I turned to him and asked, "Hey, Rick?  What gets you motivated?"
   Rick thought for about three seconds, then responded, "Adds for sporting goods."
   I didn't think he'd understand, and I didn't feel like explaining it to him.  
   We made it to the Grand Tetons that afternoon long after the bright morning had turned into yet another cloud shrouded day.  We pulled off at the first lookout point that we came to.  It was a parking lot a few miles from where the mountains actually started.  The ridge ran parallel to the road we were on.  By that point, the rain had turned from a drizzle to a thick fog.  We sat there for a good hour.  The rain-dampened grass soaked into my jeans a little bit and I wrapped myself up tighter in my wind-breaker to keep warm.  
   Joe was off to my left.  He stared out at the mountains for a long while.  Then he placed his glasses onto the top of his head and started running his hands through the grass, pulling up a blade or two here and there, rolling it through his fingers before tossing it gently down the slope.  
   Rick and Kevin were on my right.  Kevin was just looking around while Rick played with the way water sprayed off the grass when he slid his hands along it.  
   We sat there for an endless amount of time.  Tour busses came and went.  Station wagons full of families played catch with Frisbees or took photos behind us.  We all sat on the slope of grass that ran down from the parking lot, staring at how the little slope became a green field running up to blue mountains. 
   As I stared at the Tetons I was reminded of the fact that we were coming closer to our destination, and my last chance.  Montana was just a state away.  Glacier National Park was on the north side of that state.  What had seemed like an endless trip back on the New Jersey shore was now rushing unbelievably quickly towards its final destination.  I thought about all the nights I had spent sitting on the beach in the dark, forcing myself to skip rocks into the ocean.  Montana was so close.  
   I scratched my arm and then slid my hand up towards my dad's watch, twisting it around so it sat more snugly on my wrist.  I wondered if my cousin Jimmy was staring at anything remotely as beautiful over in Europe.  
   Eventually we had our fill of the damp and walked through the gravel parking lot to our cars.  After about a half-an-hour of driving we made it into Jackson.  We got a campsite inside the park...way inside the park.  All of the campsites were filled except the one farthest in.  Once inside the campground, we proceeded to pick a campsite that was far away from the rest.  Our tent was nestled away in some trees, pretty secluded from everyone else.  We had a little path behind us that ran towards Jackson Lake which sat at the foot of more mountains.  Once we got situated it was around four o'clock.  We headed into Jackson to get dinner.
   We parked our cars and wandered around town.  Jackson was small.  It seemed big, however.  Well, maybe not big, confusing was more like it.  I swear, once we lost sight of a store or house trying to walk back to it was impossible.  I think the townspeople were moving things around on us.  
   We ate at a hamburger joint.  That's all we ever ate at.  Hamburger joints.  After dinner we walked outside into a foggy street.  Rick went into a drugstore to buy a pack of cards.  Joe found a grocery store that sold firewood.  Everyone except for me used a pay phone on one of the corners.  Then we went back to the campsite to play rummy by Jackson Lake.  
   The four of us sat on the damp benches that were situated around the picnic table in our campsite.  Kevin and I managed to get the fire lit.  Rick brought out an electric lamp while Joe dealt the cards.  When I first picked up my hand I was astounded.  I had four tens, two jacks and a queen.  I have never been dealt a hand as incredible as that.  Then I started looking a little closer at my hand and realized that two of the Jacks were the same suit.  
   "What the hell?"  Rick asked from across the table.  
   "What's in your hand?"  Joe asked him.  Rick laid out his cards showing an even better hand than I had.  Joe put his cards on the table along with Kevin.  Nearly everyone had at least three of a kind of something.  
   "Rick," Joe asked, "what kind of cards are these?"  
   Rick gave a big shrug.  "I don't know, they're cards.  That's all I know."
   "Out of curiosity," Kevin broke in, "does anyone know how to play Pinochle?"  Everyone replied in the negative.  "Yeah, neither do I.  But apparently, Pinochle involves a deck of cards with a whole lot of tens, jacks, queens, kings and aces."  
   "You bought Pinochle cards?" Joe asked Rick.  
   "I don't know.  I bought cards."
   "You bought Pinochle cards," Joe said again, after Kevin handed him the box that the cards had come from.
   "Oh, like you would've examined all the packs of cards that closely," Rick said.  "I thought a deck of cards was a deck of cards.  Nobody here knew to be on the look out for Pinochle cards."  Joe was chuckling as he spread all the cards on the picnic table, revealing an impressive amount of face cards.  "What the hell kind of game needs this many high cards anyway?"  Rick asked.  
   "I guess we're not playing cards tonight," Kevin said.  "It's just as well.  I want to get to bed early.  I'm...I'm going to head home early tomorrow morning.  If I leave early enough I can probably make it home for dinner, or at least by a reasonable hour tomorrow."
   "Oh, screw that," Joe said.  "Just stay with us, we'll get you home eventually."
   "Thanks," Kevin answered, "but I've been on the road for a lot longer than you have.  I'm kind of itching to get home, especially now that I can be there after one solid day's drive."
   "Yeah," Rick said, "all right.  Goodnight, Kevin.  Wake us up before you leave, okay?"  Kevin nodded and Joe and I wished him goodnight as he stood up and walked across the campsite.  
   "I'll let you guys have the tent," he called over his shoulder as he climbed into the van.
   "Well, that was sweet of him," Rick said.
   "How's that?"  Joe asked.
   Rick gave the cards a shuffle and smiled.  "Oh, I have a hunch that sleeping in the tent is going to suck ass."
   "Sweet," Joe replied.  Then he stood up and wandered to the edge of our campsite.  "Hey!"  He called back.  "Come here."
   Rick and I stood up and walked over to where Joe was now sitting down.  Our campsite was close enough to the lake that sitting at the edge provided you with a fairly clear view through the trees of the mountains and the water in the moonlight.  The three of us sat there listening to the insects around us for a bit.  "You know," Joe said, "a setting like this really makes you think, doesn't it?"  I was immediately filled with a huge desire to stand up and make a break for the tent when he said that.   
   "About what?"  Rick asked.
   "I don't know."  Joe went on, "just about things."
   Everyone was quiet again for a bit.  Joe and Rick looked at the view while I sat on my hands.  
   "Where do you think you'll be twenty years from now?"  Joe asked.  
   I didn't dare speak up and answer and Rick didn't seem about to talk either.  We sat there with Joe's hypothetical question hanging in the air.  Then Rick spoke up in a very soft, serious voice.  "What I'd like," Rick said, "is to be firmly settled down.  You know.  A nice family, and a wife and all that.  But what I'd like is, I'd like to do it right.  I'm sick of listening to my parents rip into one another.  There's got to be a better way to do it than that."
   "What do you mean?"  Joe asked.  His voice sounded loud after Rick's quiet statement.
   "I don't know," Rick went on.  "I'd just like to think that there has to be a way to make it work.  Everyone can't have to go through what me and my brothers are going through.  We seem to think that our parents have become...you know, jokes, sort of."
   "It's not that easy, Rick," Joe said.
   "I don't know," Rick went on dreamily.  "I'm just saying that it should be possible."
   "Yeah, well, I doubt you're the person to do it," Joe snorted.  His words sounded very harsh in that moonlit landscape.  "I mean what the hell do you know about relationships anyway?"  Joe barked at Rick.
   "Hey," Rick said, "I was just answering your question."
   "Well it's pretty naive of you to think that just wishing for a happy future is going to be enough.  You have no idea what it would take to build what you're talking about."
   "Look," Rick started, "I—"
   "Listen to me, Rick.  I'm telling you that it isn't very easy, and I really doubt you're ever going to be mature enough to carry off a healthy relationship.  I mean, you probably think all you have to do is act like an idiot and make some girl laugh and then—presto—you've become the ideal spouse."  I looked over at Rick who was staring at Joe very strangely, just as I had been before I started looking at Rick.  The poor kid absolutely didn't know what to say.  He was starting, understandably, to get pretty angry.  As soon as Rick decided to start insulting Joe instead of trying to follow his conversation he would be a goner.  
   Before Rick could start yelling or Joe could say anything else I jumped in.  "Whoa there, Joe.  Rick was just making conversation.  You asked him where he might be in twenty years and he told us what he'd like.  I don't—"
   "Oh yeah," Joe said whirling around on me.  "Like you've got anything to add to this conversation.  Just go back to your own little world and—"
   "What’s going on, Joe?"  Rick interrupted, thankfully.
   "Nothing's going on.  You brought up a topic, which I know you are sorely uneducated in, and I'm trying to tell you that someone whose idea of time well spent is pretending his hand is a brontosaurus can't—"
   "What did you do, Rick," I said, cutting Joe off, seeing a way to turn the conversation a little lighter.  "Give an encore performance to everyone?"
   "Well I was proud of it," Rick answered, mockingly indignant.  He gave Joe a backhand tap on his arm and waggled his eyebrows.  "It was pretty good, wasn't it Joe?  Best hand-as-a-brontosaurus you've ever seen, wasn't it?"
   "Yeah, I—"
   "Best damn brontosaurus I've ever seen," I added.
   Joe finally cracked a smile and let out a little snicker.  He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to act aloof, but most of his steam was already gone.  "Yeah," he said, "it was a hell of a brontosaurus."
   Rick looked at Joe and waggled his eyebrows some more.  "Best damn brontosaurus you've ever seen, wasn't it?  Go on.  You can admit it."
   Joe turned his head so he was facing Rick.  He paused for a little bit before replying.  "You're an idiot," Joe said.  When he faced forward again I could see that he was smiling.  
   "You have no respect for the arts," I heard Rick say.
   I sat for a little while longer with the two of them and then decided to turn in.  Joe and Rick moved back towards the fire.  From inside the tent I could make out two shadows on the wall, dancing around as the fire flickered.  They didn't know that I didn't fall asleep right away.  The way I was talking before I turned in probably made it seem like I was going to be asleep before I was even in the tent.  I wanted to be in bed that badly, so they didn't know I was still awake.  Plus, Joe and Rick figured that I probably couldn't hear them.
   "He's been getting on my nerves."  That was Joe, the left shadow.
   "Yeah, I guess.  He's just been kinda scaring me.  He's not like he used to be, he looks...he looks gone."  That was Rick, the right shadow.
   "Yeah," Joe agreed.  "I guess what you see as scary, I'm seeing as annoying.  He isn't even trying anymore.  He's different.  You try to make him laugh, or just be himself and it's impossible.  It's like he doesn't want to have fun or do anything."
   There was a bit of silence.  "No kidding."  I heard one of them scrape the gravel campsite with their foot.  "It carries over too."  Rick said.
   "What's that mean?"
   I heard one of them light a cigarette.  "It carries over to me."  Rick stood up and paced a bit before deciding to sit back down.  "He makes me not want to do anything.  It's like he drains energy wherever he goes."
   "Yeah!"  Joe answered not so softly.  I heard a breeze kick up causing the trees around us to shake.  "I feel like he's fighting us, like I'm fighting him.  But," there was a long pause before Joe finally went on, "well, I don't' feel much like trying anymore.  I feel like...I feel like if I got him to act like himself, he wouldn't do it right.  Or...I dunno, he wouldn't be any fun or anything.  In the beginning of this trip he seemed a lot looser.  Not the old Tom, or anything, but I could talk to him.  But every day it just seems to be getting worse."
   I could see Rick's shadow put his hands in his wind-breaker's pockets and hunch over on itself.  "I don't understand why he agreed to come on this trip.  He certainly doesn't seem to want to be here.  Frankly, the past couple of days, I always feel like he's about to yell at me or something."
   There was more silence for awhile.  I felt horrible listening to them like this.  I was tempted to cover my ears when Rick spoke up again.  "I just don't know...I mean I've never really had to..."
   "Yeah, I know," Joe said, "me neither."  I lay perfectly still, unwilling to move and make any noise that they might hear.  "He hasn't been himself in a long time."  This time the silence was so deafening that I heard Joe put his cigarette out on the picnic table.  "I don't know if he ever will."  Joe went on.  "I really don't."
   There was more silence before Rick said in a much louder voice.  "Check it out.  Look at the moon reflecting on the water."
   Joe's shadow turned to his left and both figures took in the view.
   "I'm gonna miss Kevin," Rick said.
   "Yeah, that kid really grew on me."  Joe answered.  He scratched the back of his head.  "You know something?  If Kevin had asked us to go along with him instead of continuing on our trip, I would've agreed in a heartbeat."
   "No kidding," Rick said.
   I stopped listening.  I think the conversation changed course anyway.  It didn't matter.  I had heard enough.  I had made enemies of my friends.  They hated me, more or less.  It came back to acting like myself.  One of the bigger mysteries I had come up with.  I really didn't have a clue; I couldn't make myself act like myself.  I just couldn't, nothing made sense and it all fell apart when I tried.  
   Another thought had started to pop up, here and there, too.  It usually went hand in hand with the queasiness in the pit of my stomach and the stinging hurt behind my eyes.  A day hadn't gone by where I didn't curl up and hide from the outside world--where everything hadn't collapsed and I hadn't felt like nothing…less than nothing.  
   I could remember being maybe seven years old and waking up in the middle of the night with a stomach ache.  I didn't really know what was going on, and then the stomach ache got a lot more painful and then I threw up.  My mom woke up and walked me to the bathroom.  I can remember sitting over the toilet, horribly confused, not knowing what was going on with me and why I was throwing up every once in awhile.  I can remember folding my arms on the toilet and resting my head occasionally, just starting to drift off to sleep when another twinge of pain would ripple in my stomach.  I can remember bursting into tears whenever this would happen because that little twinge inevitably meant another bout of dry heaves.  I cried most of that night just begging for my stomach to stop making that little twinge of pain.  They were the most terrifying things in my little world.  For the next two days, the smallest rumble in my gut would make me break out in a cold sweat, fearing that my own personal hell was going to come back and visit me.  Three days later the twinges stopped coming and I slowly began to forget about them.  
   So far, on this trip, and for all the months preceding it, there had been a twinge every day.  There wasn't a complete twenty-four hours on this trip where I had been happy.  I no longer had any reason to think that anything was going change.  Tomorrow would be the same, and the day after that, and the day after that.  The same tired routine, the same fear in my stomach, the same desperate hope that thinking about my family hard enough would bring them back.  That was it.  Forever.  Nothing was going to change.  
   I was awake when Joe and Rick came into the tent.  I was awake when they fell asleep.  I was awake most of that night, thinking.  
   
   
   10
   
   It's safe to say that the next two days were the worst days of my life.  I guess some part of me had known that I wasn't acting like I normally do, but I had seen myself as a changed person.  I had a reoccurring image of myself that was quickly becoming the way I viewed my personality.  Whenever I pictured myself in my head, it was me from the back.  I'd be sitting hugging my knees to my chest, looking out over some rustic landscape.  My head would be slightly tilted, lost in thought.  So...great...nothing wrong with that.  Only, apparently there was.  I had never bothered to rotate that view so that I could see my face and, now, having done that, what I could see could only be described as a frown if not a complete scowl. 
   Joe and Rick had been having fun so far on this trip.  Well, maybe not so much when I was around.  For the most part, though, they had been enjoying themselves, they had been acting like themselves.  I hadn't.  I couldn't remember the last time I had fun.  There seemed to be no memory in my past that I could willingly call up that entailed me having fun.  Joe and Rick were having a blast.  I was wasting time.  Letting it slip away in my impatience to arrive in Montana and find some peace of mind.  
   We'd be in Montana soon enough.  There I could figure this out, but for now we were off to Yellowstone National Park.  And, since my friends were starting to get pissed at me, I decided to act like myself.  This is why those were the worst two days of my life.  I didn't know how.  Before, I had questioned myself and my actions.  Now I was actually trying to make myself act the right way, and I found out that I couldn't do it.  
   Kevin woke us all up and said goodbye.  I was mostly asleep during this, but I remember him telling me to look him up if I was going to be in Santa Barbara.  He made sure I had his address and he even told me the beach that he and his family went to a lot during the summer.  Butterfly Beach in Santa Barbara. He made sure I remembered that name, and then he let me fall back asleep.
   Maybe an hour later the rest of us woke up.  We ate breakfast in Jackson then drove back through the rest of Grand Teton National Park popping out on the north side.  It was a tiny little drive to Yellowstone and everyone was still settling down for the ride when we passed through the gate and entered the park.  It was around eleven when we made our first stop.  It was just a turnoff overlooking this insanely deep canyon.  The ground was covered in snow and all the trees within eyesight were stripped of foliage.  A fire had torn through recently and all that was left were trunks.  
   We all hopped out of the car and jumped over the wall on the side of the road.  We walked out on a little rock plateau and looked down.  There was a river down there--it looked freezing.  Something about how white it was made it seem like it had thawed out only minutes before we arrived.  Nobody was speaking; we all were sort of wandering around.  Rick went back to the car and brought out his camera.  Rick had Joe and I stand out on the edge of the plateau to take our picture.  Rick loves taking pictures of canyons.  We have so many pictures where he pretended to be photographing a person, but really there's just this speck on the picture and this huge canyon behind the speck, which, of course, was supposed to be us.  
   We all started walking back to the car when I saw Joe bend down mid-stride and pick up some snow.  In an instant a perfect snowball was in his hands.  He pelted Rick in the back of the head.  I thought that Rick might have gotten hurt and I was about to yell at Joe when Rick spun around and tackled him into a snow bank.  The two were wrestling on the side of the road as I was standing on the side of them, consciously aware of not being a part of what was going on, even if it was only a snow fight.  Joe was laughing as Rick managed to shove him onto his back.  Rick picked up a handful of snow and rubbed it in Joe's face, whitewashing him.  I tried to figure out what to do.  A million things ran through my head, but I rejected all of them.  Suddenly I got the feeling I was paralyzed.  I couldn't do anything.  I could only stand there and then it started to seem like that was exactly what I wanted to do.  Just stay out of it.  I watched as Joe tossed Rick off of him, pelted him with another snow ball, and made a break for the car.  He dove into the back seat and it was over.  Rick sat down in the passenger seat and I heard both of them laughing an exhausted laugh as I walked around to the driver's side.  
   We drove further into the park and Joe and Rick started talking about something.  It was just a conversation, no real topic, it meandered everywhere.  I felt like I was standing on the side of a raging river, waiting for a good spot to jump in.  One never came.  They were talking about the fire that had ripped through the park and I desperately tried to think of something intelligent to say about that subject, but the more I thought, the less my mind seemed to come up with.  And, then, the topic had changed.  They were discussing Glacier National Park, our final destination and I tried to remember all the brochures I had read and everything I had heard about it, but nothing really came up.  I kept trying to think of something to say, but there never seemed to be anything worthwhile in my mind.  I listened as the two went back and forth, sometimes giving little monologues, sometimes calling on some external source they had come across, sometimes cracking a joke.  I tried to remember wise-ass comments I had made and how I had made them.  Nothing.  I broke the river of their conversation down into parts as I listened, and still couldn't figure out how to join in.  I doubted if anything I said would fit.  It would be passed over or rejected.  I needed something to say.  I mean really "SAY", but the harder I tried, the less there was.  
   I was trying to be myself again in the world around me and, so far, I was a paralyzed mute.  What made it worse was the fact that I was completely conscious of my inability to do anything.  It took up space in my head and weighed my brain down as it crowded everything out of the way, becoming a single disturbing fact that wouldn't let me notice anything else.
   We started driving toward Old Faithful.  As we drove we kept winding back and forth across the Continental Divide.  Each time the road rolled over it there was a big brown sign stating the elevation and proudly proclaiming, "Continental Divide" in huge white letters.  After the third one Rick spoke up.  "Hey, Quint, pull over the next time we pass one of those signs."  So we kept driving and, sure enough, the road once again crossed the Continental Divide.  Water on one side would roll to the Atlantic; water on the other would wash into the Pacific...eventually.  
   I pulled over onto the side of the road and Rick starting slapping a beat out on the back of Joe's seat, implying that he wanted to be let out.  "Grab the camera" he told Joe, then he walked towards the sign.  He faced it with his back towards us.  He looked left, he looked right, and then he mooned the camera.  Joe and I were standing next to each other.  Joe had his camera in his hands and then he started dying of laughter.  There was Rick's ass facing us, and right above it, in big white letters, were the words "Continental Divide."  Joe held the camera to his eye but starting laughing again and he let his right hand drop to his side while he pushed his left palm onto his forehead, still laughing.  I saw a car coming towards us and I told them, but Joe just stood there, unable to control himself, and Rick was still mooning us waiting for the picture to be taken.  The car drove by and I was sure they would pull over or something, but they just honked and I saw the driver smiling and shaking his head as he pulled past us.  Everyone was laughing, so I laughed.  Only I didn't.  Not really.  I mean I belted out a guffaw or two but it didn't feel like laughter.  It wasn't true.  I was lying to the outside world.  "See?"  I was saying, "See?  I think this is funny."  But I didn't.  Not really.  I could see why other people would be laughing, but it wasn't striking me as funny and so my laughter was forced, it was a lie.  Joe snapped the picture and Rick pulled up his pants and we drove on towards Old Faithful.  
   Old Faithful sucked.  It was set up like a bull fight.  There were three rows of benches all around this geyser and everyone sat down and waited and then it went off and water shot everywhere and it was over.  I was expecting a huge rumble and an explosion, but the water just kind of oozed out at first and then sprayed higher and higher and then fell back down.  
   The whole time we were sitting there Joe and Rick kept looking around.  Joe kept saying that we should try to get a wave going, or maybe start up an Old Faithful chant with all of these people on the benches.  I told him that was a pretty dumb idea.  He shrugged and kept trying to talk Rick into it.  
   Something must have rattled lose there.  Joe's complete disappointment in Old Faithful and his strange desire to run around rallying up the crowd, which I had blocked, must have welled up inside of him because after the Old Faithful extravaganza Joe suddenly went loopy.  It was like he switched into high gear and wanted to do everything.  He kept yelling that he wanted to do Yellowstone extreme style.  He would sit in the back seat and keep shouting at me to pull over.  The first couple of times even Rick was getting kind of annoyed.  But as soon as the car would stop Joe would start shaking Rick's seat, frantic to get out.  Once the door was open he would spill onto the road wherever we had parked and go loping off toward whatever was there.  Towards "the shit" as he called it.  He kept wanting to stop and see the shit.  "Where's the shit?  Let's see the shit!  Where is it, the shit, where is it?  Take me to the shit!"  And he would have us pull off at tiny streams, random rocks, anything.  He would leap out of the car and go examining where we were.  
   I didn't think it could last, but soon Rick was getting loopy and then they both would run out of the car wherever we stopped and skid to a halt in front of the path or geyser or pool of rainbow colored water and lie down in front of it and stand on their heads looking at it or get on top of it if they could.  A lot of the stops were fields of rock with sulfur pits underneath.  Pools of water, boiling hot with a crust of beige over them.  There were wooden walkways built all over these areas.  You could stroll around the perimeter of these crusted over sulfur pits on the walkways that were provided.  There was a sign at the beginning of all of these walkways.  The sign showed a silhouette of a person stepping off the path and getting his legs burnt off.  The rock was thin, the sign was telling us, and the water is hot.  STAY ON THE PATH.  That's what the sign was saying.  STAY ON THE PATH OR RISK FRYING YOUR LEGS.
   Both of them, Rick and Joe, would just go off, and I'd walk around the wooden trail and pass one of them out of breath on a bench and the other one with his arms spread out looking up at the sky.  I couldn't tell what was so great.  I would just stroll around the path, end up where I'd started, and walk back to the car knowing I had been there and done that.  Well, at least I had been there, Joe and Rick seemed to be getting the "done that" part right.  
   At one of the last sulfur pits we stopped I took a look around.  I was in Yellowstone Park.  There were great forests and huge fields and these amazing pits of hot water.  I felt like this was great, it was really something.  Yup, I was in Yellowstone.  Joe was on one side of me and Rick was on the other and suddenly Joe said, "This place is horrible."  Rick chortled next to me and I was horrified.  "Christ," Joe said and took another look around.  "I feel like I'm in hell.  This is nuts."  He chuckled to himself under his breath and just looked around smiling.  "Horrible."
   "Yeah, well," Rick chimed in, "it beats Mount Rushmore.  At least they're not telling you how to enjoy this place and where you should take your pictures."
   "Mount Rushmore didn't look like the runoff area for the river Styx."  Joe slowly spun around, looking up at the sky and breathing in.  "This place is totally nightmarish."  Then he smiled.
   I started walking back to the car after that.  My legs felt really heavy and none of my joints seemed to be fitting together correctly.  At one point I kind of stumbled, tripped a little and had to step down off the wooden walkway onto the crust covering the sulfur pit.  I took a couple of plodding steps over this before colliding with the walkway in an attempt to step back onto it.  I tripped again and ended up sort of kneeling on the wooden path.  I felt exhausted.
   The rest of the day went like that.  I couldn't do anything right, I couldn't do anything at all.  I thought it was bad when I was a paralyzed mute, but that was just the start.  Now I was a neurotic paralyzed mute who didn't dare do anything because it just wouldn't work.  Somewhere in there it all ended--maybe when Rick got into a shouting match with a buffalo, or when both of them got really exited to go to Sheepeaters Cliff just by seeing the name on the map.  Somewhere in there, though, I just stopped trying.  I went back to chauffeuring Joe and Rick around.  I drove them through the park in silence, stopping everywhere they wanted to and looking at all the sites they wanted to see.  
   Around sunset, with a thick cloud cover over our heads, we left Yellowstone Park and passed into Montana.  Rick asked me to pull over at the state line.  Each of us posed in turn next to the, "You are now entering Montana" sign.  It wasn't a huge billboard or anything, just a wooden sign about chest high.  Joe went first.  Then Rick.  Then I walked over to the little wooden sign on the side of the road.  We were at our destination state.  I leaned my elbow on the sign.  For the past few months the state on the north side of that sign was my biggest source of hope.  I stood there facing Wyoming with my back to Montana and was surprised to find that some spark of that hope still existed.  I still felt as badly as I did all day, but there was still Glacier National Park.  We would stop driving for a few days.  We would settle down for a few days.  It was possible that I would get a few things straight.  Possible and quite necessary.  
   "All right, now smile," Rick said to me, peering through the camera.  
   I straightened up a bit, propping myself on my elbow.  The sleeve of my wind-breaker was kind of caught on my dad's watch, stuck in the ridiculously wide band.  I adjusted that, setting the watch properly on my wrist and letting the sleeve loose so the rest of the jacket would settle more comfortably around me.  Then I forced a smile for the camera, thinking the whole time about the state behind me and what I had decided it was going to do for me.  I thought about my cousin Jimmy, traveling in Europe somewhere.  He was the only person on earth besides myself who fully knew how much hope I was placing in Montana.  In fact, he most likely knew a lot better than I did.
   After the picture was taken the smile quickly dropped from my face.  I walked back to the car.  Rick and Joe were talking about something while Joe was fiddling with the radio.  I started the engine and pulled past the little wooden sign out onto the road.  And, so, we arrived in Montana...
   
   11
   
   ...I folded the Conoco shirt, tossed it back into the trunk and closed it.  I felt odd.  My garage was eerily quiet and still.  My footsteps sounded like gunshots as I walked away from the trunk and towards the garage door.  The squeak the door made seemed unholy, I felt like I was going to wake up the neighbors.  I had never heard it squeak that loudly.  I realized, though, that nothing was louder, it was just the fact that it had been ages since I had been awake while everyone else was asleep and I was strangely becoming aware of that fact.   
   I wandered into my kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.  Not that I needed it, there was no way I was about to fall asleep just then anyway.  It was around quarter-after twelve.  I think.  I know it was definitely after midnight when I poured my first cup of coffee because I remembered to wish you a happy birthday, Jack.  I actually said it out loud.  "Happy birthday, Jack," I said to nobody.  Therefore, it's pretty safe to assume that I was the first to say that tired old phrase to you at a little past twelve this morning.  You couldn't have heard me or anything, but I said it.  
   Although, come to think of it, you were probably out with your friends, and they probably noticed when the clock turned past midnight and the new day began, and they all probably screamed with joy and slapped you on the back and talked about how it was now officially your birthday and everything.  So maybe I wasn't the first person to wish you a happy birthday.  I did say it when I noticed it was after midnight.  Most of the reason I got all wrapped up in the past tonight was to explain why I wasn't going to be around tomorrow...which I guess is now today.  There is definitely an explanation in here, Jack.  
   I had gotten out of bed at about eleven-thirty and had wandered down to the garage a little after that.  I had only been standing next to my car for about fifteen minutes.  Time gets slippery when you're remembering.  Ask anyone who slips into their head while they're working, imagining or reliving a different scene.  You could slip off to the Bahamas for an entire vacation, and when you came back you'd have been gone only five or ten minutes.  It could really get annoying.  You'd feel like it should be hours later, at least time to break for lunch, but the hands on the clock would barely have moved.  
   While the coffee was being made I decided to put some clothes on.  I had been wandering around in my bathrobe and my feet were getting cold.  I came back downstairs fully dressed, I had two pairs of socks on my feet and they were still cold, but they were beginning to warm up.  I poured myself a cup of coffee and dumped about half the sugar bowl into it.  People always say that I take my sugar with a little coffee.  Once I had chewed my way through one cup I poured another and padded across my kitchen floor.  I said that there were only about three rooms in my house.  That's not exactly true; there's also the basement.  I opened the door and walked down the stairs into the storage room under my house.  
   I pulled out a cardboard box and began to rummage around in it, digging up all kinds of stuff that by all means should have been thrown away ages ago.  Eventually I found what I was looking for.  I had written this whole story down in a journal over time.  I had gotten paranoid about losing it at one point, and had ended up typing a copy on my lap-top computer.  My handwriting's pretty bad, but at that point I wanted to read the original version.  With all the crossed out words and odd little doodles I had made in the margin.
   My remembering of everything so far had been images, conversations, an attempt at running through it in sequence.  This far into the trip my memory couldn't quite put things in sequence and I wanted a fresher account of things.  Mainly I wanted to convince myself that this had all happened.  This trip was a long time ago, and even the strongest memories can seem a little distant over time.  Plus, I doubted that I could remember Montana correctly at all.  
   That's a lie, actually.  I knew damn well that I wouldn't be able to remember Montana correctly.  We met a guy named Ralph in Montana.  We stayed with him for about three or four days.  I haven't seen him since.  That's not a fact I'm proud of.  That's also most of the reason as to why I'm telling this story.  I don't think he helped me very much, although I find myself talking like him and quoting things he said to me all those years ago.  Which is to say that maybe he didn't help me exactly, but he certainly tried, and even if he wasn't what I needed right then he was still a helluva a guy and I never told him that.  I never would even let myself acknowledge that fact because I didn't like to think about it.  So I just ignored everything about Ralph.  Joe made it out there to visit him every once in awhile and Rick even went along at one point, but I pretended like I had nothing to say to him.  Next thing I knew, Joe was going out to Montana, not to visit Ralph but to attend his funeral.  I didn't go to that, either.  I should at least have said goodbye to him, but I felt too awkward seeing as how I actively tried to lose touch with him because I was pissed off at myself.  In life it's never too late until it's too late.  It's too late for Ralph now.  Not for Joe, though.  
   But I'm getting ahead of myself.  What's important is that we spent a lot of time at Ralph's, and he spent a lot of time talking to me, and I hated him for it.
   I walked upstairs with my journal and sat down in a big chair and just stared at the little book in my hands for a little while.  It was Kevin who convinced me to write this all down.  He's off in Europe somewhere writing for a travel magazine.  I haven't seen him in years either, but we sort of drifted apart, as the saying goes, throughout the last few years of college.  
   Joe, Rick and I didn't drift apart. I looked at my journal and thought about the three of us living in our spacious apartment in New York.  That's a joke by the way.  You pretty much had to stand in the bathtub to make your bed.  
   I can remember one day after work when Rick walked in while Joe and I were talking about one of Joe's graduate classes.  He walked in and put a spring on the table.  It was a little golden colored spring maybe two inches long and half an inch in diameter.  "What," he said emphatically, "do you suppose that came from."  Joe and I had professed ignorance.  "I don't know either," Rick said, "what on earth would this do in whatever it was in?"  He pushed the spring down and let it jump off the table.  "Why would you need something that does that?"  He picked the spring up from the floor and sat down in a chair and began to stare at it.  Joe and I went back to talking and in the beginning Rick would pop up with some smart-ass comment every once in awhile, but he got more and more absorbed in that spring.  I can still see his face, completely unaware of the world around him, lost in almost angelic contemplation.  The strangest moments stick with you.
   That was right around the time that Joe met Amy.  He must have something for girls whose names start with an "A".    It might have been a little before that because it became a little rare for all three of us to be home at the same time after Joe met Amy and Rick started his classes.  In fact, it definitely must have been before Rick started his classes because he certainly would have known what purpose that spring served if he had already started class.  And if Joe was hanging out with us and Amy wasn't there then she wasn't a part of his life yet.  And Joe's classes and Rick's classes were on different nights so they couldn't have been home at the same time unless it was a weekend.  Although I think maybe I'm wrong and that there must have been a few days in the week where nobody had class.  I don't know why it has suddenly become so important for me to place that one little moment of my life in it's proper chronological place, but it would be nice if I could remember Rick looking at that spring with complete clarity.  God, I miss him.  
   Come to think of it, that spring was definitely before Joe met Amy.  Rick had started carrying the stupid little thing around in his pocket for awhile until he lost it.  And I can remember it coming out of his pocket and landing on the table the night Joe introduced us to Amy.  I mean, we had seen her around obviously, but that was the first night Joe had invited Rick and me to dinner with them.  After that night she was no longer someone who Joe had dated a few times, someone we would see briefly before they left to go out.  She was someone Joe wanted us to meet and get to know.  Anyway, Rick pulled that stupid spring out of his pocket at dinner, by accident, I think.  He was reaching for his wallet and it rolled onto the table cloth over to Joe.  Joe looked up at Rick and Rick grinned sheepishly. 
   "You're still carrying this thing around?"  Joe asked.
   Rick gave a big shrug.  "I dunno, it just keeps winding up in my pocket.  I lost it the other day for a bit and I felt odd the whole day.  It's like if I lost my wallet or keys or something."
   "What is it?"  Amy asked.  She was a pretty girl who had grown on all of us throughout the night.  I can remember at one point Rick said something asinine about...I forget...I think in reaction to something she said about her family.  Anyway, Rick had put his foot in his mouth and I saw a ripple of fear and anger roll across Joe's face before Amy had just started laughing at Rick, letting him off the hook.  After that a funny little smile appeared on Joe's face and he had just stared at Amy with that little grin on his face while Rick tried to continue with what he was saying.  
   Joe handed Amy the spring and she had pushed it down against the table and let it spring up in the air.  Then she looked at Joe for an answer.  "I don't know," shrugged Joe.  "Apparently Rick found it on the street somewhere and picked it up and starting puzzling over it and it has been a constant companion ever since.  You see," he said happily, "Rick's kind of an ignorant boy.  If I weren’t here to take care of him, I'm not sure that he'd be able to tie his shoes in the morning."
   "At least he can change a pair of windshield wipers," I threw out, giving Rick some ammunition.  
   Rick picked it up and ran with it and the conversation became a little contest of all four of us listing some of the more brainless things that the other people had done.  Well, Amy obviously wasn't able to tell any stories about me or Rick, but she did offer up a few details about how nervous Joe was on their first date, and some blunders of her own back in elementary school.  We sat there laughing and ordering drinks for a long time that night.  I was a little wobbly when we walked out of the restaurant and I remember Rick was off to my side and then Joe, who was probably wobblier than I was, slammed into Rick in an effort to put his arm around him, which he managed to do.  I saw Joe put something into Rick's hand and saw Rick just laugh in thanks and then Rick put his spring back into his pocket and we all walked down the street and into some bar to sit and talk and have another drink.  
   Anyway, that's how I know that Rick finding the spring happened before Joe met Amy, so I've solved that little problem.  Yippee.  I opened my journal to start reading and then I was rubbing my eyes with my palms thinking about Joe and Rick and where they both went and then I began reading and more memories became distinct.  I can almost perfectly remember Joe, peering at the dashboard, leaning over the stick shift and the emergency brake.  "Ho...

   
   12
   
   ...lee crap, how long have we been overheating?" 
   "We're not overheating," I said.  
   "The hell we're not.  Have you looked at the thermometer recently?  Look," he said, jabbing his finger against the sheet of plastic covering the instruments.  "We're overheating."
    We were near Pray, Montana, heading towards route 90.  I looked at the temperature gauge and saw that we were most definitely into the red.  "We're stopping at the next possible place to try and find a mechanic.  I don't want to drive around with an overheating engine."  
   Rick was sleeping in the back seat and Joe simply replied, "Obviously."  
   "Yes, obviously," I replied.  "I mean, you really probably don't understand what could happen to the car if we kept going," I said.  I could feel Joe looking at me.  I glanced over at him and flinched from the look he was giving me.  "Well, you don't seem to care that the car isn't running right," I said.
   Joe just kept looking at me and I kept quiet.
   It was about eleven when we pulled off into a gas station maybe ten miles down the road.  It was a tiny operation with antique looking pumps and a gravel driveway.  I told Joe to fill the gas tank and walked inside.
   "Mornin'," the man behind the counter greeted me.  I nodded at him and asked if there was a good mechanic in the area.  He scratched his head, smiling.  "Yeah, we've got a good mechanic.  Probably the best mechanic I've ever met."  He paused here and I wondered if he expected me to say something.  "If you head east on route 90," he finally continued, "about fifteen miles you'll cross over 89.  Take that north a bit and you'll come to a town called Venice.  You'll find your mechanic there."  I thanked the man, paid him for the gas and left.  
   "There's a mechanic a bit north and east of here," I shouted across the gravel lot to Joe and Rick as I walked over. They nodded.  "Right, we'll pick up 90 east and then 89 north 'till we hit a town called Venice.  The man inside said to get off there."  Again they nodded agreement.  I walked around the car and hopped in.  
   Rick had the map and informed me when we were scheduled to run into 90 and 89.  We made it to Venice with no problems.  It wasn't exactly a big town.  I wasn't even sure if it could be called a town at all for that matter.  It did have a post office, so I guess technically it was its own town.  It also had a supermarket, a video rental place, a diner, and a little over a handful of houses, so I guessed it could stand alone as its own town. 
   We ate lunch at the diner and got directions to the mechanic.  He apparently worked out of a garage next to his house.  I made Rick and Joe skip dessert.  They were eyeing the peach pie on the counter.  We rode on to the automobile engineer's house.  I was anxious to get back on the road.  Our destination was a little outside of town.  It was just the way it had been described, a little ranch house with a garage next to it.  The guy sure picked an odd place to set up shop.  
   I walked into the garage and heard a radio playing softly in the corner.  An Oldsmobile was parked in the second spot and as I walked around it I almost tripped over our mechanic where his feet were sticking out.  I heard something metallic clang against the floor and laughter flowed from under the car.  He wheeled out from under the Olds, wiping his hands with a rag and smiling.  I can remember thinking, "Oh my god, it's James Dean," but that lasted only a second while his face was still partly shaded by the car.  He was probably a couple of decades away from Dean.  Still, for those few seconds, he had really looked like James Dean, and I've never even seen any of his movies.  
   "You startled me there, pal," he said, still lying down.
   I laughed politely, playing the part of the friendly customer, and started explaining our situation to him as he stood up.  He stopped listening to me after about the third word and I noticed his eyes looking at the name on my shirt.  I stopped talking and started waiting for the inevitable question.  Instead he just brought his eyes up to mine.  "You've got my name," he said with a grin.  
   I puzzled out what he meant by that and shook my head, "No, this isn't mine."
   He shrugged, "Oh, then your shirt's got my name," he said and started walking around the car chuckling.  "Where'd you get it, anyway?"
   "In a thrift shop in New Jersey," I replied.
   "Thrift shop, huh?  Nah, I thought maybe it was my shirt, but I've never sold any shirts to a thrift shop."  He looked at the shirt again, "Of course, I've never worked for Conoco either, but..." He shrugged.
   He seemed to be talking partly to me and partly to himself.  I started telling him about the temperature gauge in the car when Joe and Rick came in.
   "Hiya!" He saluted them.  "Lemme guess," he said, reading their shirts as they walked through the garage door.  "You're not Dan and you're not Steve, right?"
   Rick looked over at me, "Well, I see you've already not introduced us.  Good."
   Joe started laughing under his breath.  For the third time I started talking about the car's engine trouble and for the third time I wasn't allowed to finish.
   "We'd better get this straight now while we've still got a chance," he interrupted.  "My name's Ralph, Ralph Hemingway."
   Joe paused before replying, "Hemingway.  Right.  I'm Joe.  Joe Twain.  I'd like you to meet Rick Kerouac and Tom—"
   "Quint," I interrupted.  "Tom Quint.  Look, could you take a look at our car?  It's overheating or something."
   Ralph scratched the back of his head and shrugged, "Don't see why not."
   "That's a yes?" I asked.  Ralph nodded.  
   "Just pull her into that other space there and I'll take a look."  He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shook one out.  He offered one to Joe and Rick, Joe accepted and Rick didn't, and then Ralph pointed the pack at me.  
   "I've got my own," I said, and unrolled my pack from my sleeve.  Lighting up my cigarette, I walked to the car and pulled it into the garage.  The engine was still running hot from the drive over after lunch.  "There," I pointed.  "It's been running hot all day."
   Ralph came around and looked at the gauge.  "You know, I think your engine's overheating."  I nodded, glad that he finally understood.  "That was a joke, Quint," he said.
   "Oh," I replied.  I didn't quite get it.  Ralph could see that.
   "You see, you mentioned a bunch of times that your engine temperature was high, so when I came over, I said..." he seemed to think better of his explanation and shook his head.  "Never mind.  Just pop your hood."
   I did as I was told and we all gathered around the mechanic to look into the engine with him.  He crossed his right arm over his stomach and cupped his left elbow in his right hand.  Then put his left hand up by his mouth where he alternated between taking drags on his cigarette and rubbing the stubble on his chin with his thumb.  He just stood there like that, staring and smoking and scratching.  Occasionally he would make a noise with his mouth, a click or a two-toned whistle through his teeth.  Then he nodded and walked around to the passenger side of the car.  
   "What's up?"  I asked.
   "You have nothing wrong with your car, it's your actual thermometer that's busted."
   I wasn't very impressed with his diagnosis.  "And you could tell all that just by staring at the engine," I said.  
   "No," he said casually, and hopped into the passenger seat.  His head disappeared below the dash for a few seconds.  Then he popped up again.  He stepped out of the car smiling.  "Whoo," he whooped.  "Your car's a mess."
   "I know," I replied.  "I've been meaning to clean it up a little."
   "Nah, it looks fine.  Looks lived in."  I opened my mouth to ask him how he was so sure about the thermometer but he beat me to it.  "I couldn't tell exactly that the thermometer was the problem.  But it's the most obvious place to start since your engine looks fine for having been driven all day.  It's a good place to start since it'll only take a few minutes to check instead of digging into all the mechanical stuff.  There's also some condensation on it...on the face of the thermometer.  I'm pretty sure that's where the problem is."  Then he looked right at Rick who was fidgeting with some wrenches that were on a work table on the corner.  "You know anything about engines?"  Ralph asked.
   Rick looked a little startled at being singled out for a question.  "No.  Not really.  Well, I mean, a little bit."
   Ralph nodded.  "You wanna give me a hand while I check this out?"
   "Yeah," Rick said.  He sounded pretty excited.  "Yeah, definitely."
   Ralph nodded again.  "Me and Kerouac here are gonna take a look at your thermometer.  You two can do what you want.  You're free to help or watch or sit or read or...or whatever." 
   Read?  What the hell was this guy talking about?  
   Joe looked at the lawn surrounding the garage.  "Is that hammock safe?"  He asked.  
   "No," Ralph said.  "It's been known to attack people who come too close."
   "My bad," Joe replied, "stupid phrasing.  I mean will it hold me up or is it so rotten that it's gonna crumble when I sit in it?"
   "It's safe," Ralph replied.  Joe opened the trunk and got out his bag.  He took a book out and headed over to the hammock.  I walked out the garage door and headed over to a shady place under a tree.  As I was leaving I heard Rick start talking to Ralph.
   "I wasn't Kerouac.  He was Kerouac."  Rick said.
   "No...no.  He was Twain, you were Kerouac."
   "I'm pretty sure I was Twain and he...no, wait, maybe you're right.  Maybe I was..." I left them droning on about the names Joe had made up and sat down with my back against the tree.  I wanted the car fixed fast.  We were in Montana and all, but this wasn't the real Montana--the Montana I had been looking forward to.  While I was sitting in the shade I began to sink deeper and deeper into the past.
   Awhile later I was startled out of my thoughts to hear Rick laughing his ass off.  I got up and headed back inside.  It was probably five or six at this point. The sun wasn't setting yet, but it was certainly giving up on the day.  "What's up?"  I asked.  
   "Well," Ralph started.  "We fixed the thermometer easy as pie.  Then we put your car through a test run."  He pointed towards a device that I could only assume allowed him to run the car at various speeds without it actually going anywhere.  "I noticed a hum while it was running.  Actually, I noticed a roar while it was running."
   "What's that mean?"
   "Your bearing."  Rick spoke up.  "Actually bearings...plural."  This was when I noticed that the car was up on a lift.
   "Yeah," Ralph picked it up from there.  "Usually a noise like that happens when the bearing is worn out.  As the bearing gets thinner it starts to become louder and louder as it spins on the axle.  We took a look at them and, well..." He went over to the table on the side of the garage and picked some things up.  Ralph showed me what was in his hands.  "This," he indicated his left hand, "is a new bearing.  And this," he extended his right hand, "is your bearing."  The new bearing was maybe a quarter on an inch thick.  My bearing was maybe paper thin.  "If you had driven much further you would have ended up on three wheels.  About a mile after that you would have been driving a wheelbarrow."
   "Fantastic," I thought.  I turned and looked at Rick.  "This is what you were laughing at?"
   "Oh no," Rick said.  "There's more."
   "So," Ralph kept going.  "We were taking your wheels off to have a look at your bearings and this fell out."  Again he went over to the table.  He held up two chunks of metal.  "This just clunked off in two pieces like this.  It's only supposed to be one piece.  It's your right rear brake.  It plopped on the ground and Kerouac, here, looked at me and said, 'What's that?'  Then I told him it was your brake and he started laughing like a hyena.  Odds are they're all pretty worn out.  All your brake pads and all your bearings."
   I just started at him.  "What, exactly, are you saying?"
   "I'm saying that you guys are stuck here for awhile."
   "What did you do to the car?"  I asked.  "It just needed a new engine thermometer, it didn't need to be torn apart."
   Ralph held his hands out, palms up.  "I didn't tear apart your car, Quint.  It's old.  It needs repairs.  You can't keep running on the same bearings or brakes forever, you know, they need to be changed at some point."
   "Yeah but...crap."  My leg started tapping the floor.  "How long is the car going to be broken?"
   "Until I can fix it."
   "Yes," I said as calmly as I could.  "And how long is that going to be?"
   "Awhile," Ralph said.
   "What's up?"  Joe asked as he came in from his hammock.  We explained the situation to him.  "So, where're we gonna stay?"  He asked.
   "I guess we'll try to find a motel or a campsite."  I said.  "I'm not sure how we're gonna get there, but we'll figure something out."
   "You could do that," Ralph spoke up.  "Or you guys are more than welcome to stay here.  There's too many rooms in that house to begin with so there's plenty of space."
   "You serious?"  Rick asked.
   "Yeah," he went on.  "It happens all the time.  I'm pretty much the only mechanic in this area and this is Montana.  Some people have to come in from waaaaay out in the middle of nowhere to bring their cars in.  When they do, it's usually a big job.  They don't come all the way over here just for an oil change.  I get people spending the night all the time.  Of course, you guys might be spending two or three, but, same difference."
   "Works for me," Joe said.  Then he walked back over to the hammock to read.
   "Fine by me, too," Rick said.  Then he walked over to the sink to wash his grease covered hands.
   I would have liked to talk this over.  I wasn't sure I wanted to stay at this stranger's house in the middle of nowhere.  I didn't want to intrude, I didn't want to stick out, I didn't want to trust him.  I thought about calling Joe and Rick together and talking this over, but it seemed like they were okay with things.  It was either agree with them or act like a huge jack-ass and put up a fight right here and now, right in front of Ralph.  
   "Sure," was all I said.  Then I walked over to my tree to continue thinking.
   Rick and Ralph worked until about seven, then they rounded us up and we headed inside Ralph's house.  There was no main theme to the way his house looked.  The kitchen was bright and sparsely furnished.  The living room was all dark colors and thick wooden tables.  The bedrooms he showed us were soft, very soft, with huge fluffy blankets and creaky wooden floors.  We all met up in the kitchen after dropping our bags off.  Joe and I were in one room and Rick was in another.  They both played rock-paper-scissors over who got the big bed in the single room.  I didn't care very much either way.  
   "What do you guys feel like for dinner?"  Ralph said this as he stared into his refrigerator.  "Is steak okay?"
   We all agreed and he pulled out a few cuts of meat.  He took out a pan and made up some sort of marinade, throwing  odd things into the mix.  Then he plopped the steaks in to soak and went back to the fridge.  "Anything to drink for anyone?  Soda, juice, beer..." he trailed off.
   Joe and Rick took a beer, I decided to wait until dinner.  We went outside behind Ralph's house.  There were a bunch of chairs out there and a grill, which Ralph lit before sitting down with us.  We were facing west, looking over a small yard towards a forest and the setting sun.  Everyone started talking about something, but I wasn't paying much attention.  I was just staring into space thinking.  
   I was in Montana. For the past eight states I had been telling myself that Montana would be a wellspring of thought.  Now that I was there and was located in one place for awhile, I tried to conjure up a sense of arrival, of having made it to my goal which would allow me to think things straight.  When I had crossed the state line, though, I hadn't felt much of anything, just hopelessness.  But surely I could figure things out.  Most likely not at the mechanic's house, but surely once we got to Glacier National Park.  Joe and Rick could go hiking and I could walk a ways into the woods and find a nice place to sit and just think.  Something would come to me, we were in Montana now and we'd be at Glacier by tomorrow night.  
   After dinner Ralph pushed his plate back and lit up a cigarette.  He offered one to all three of us.  I declined his offer.  I took a good look at the man who was going to fix the car for us.  It was in his hands...his and Rick's.  Suddenly I got really antsy.  I wanted to be alone, right then, I had to be alone.  Joe and Rick were telling Ralph about Yellowstone when I stood up.  I mentioned that I was going outside for a cigarette and stepped out the front door.  There were three stone steps down to the lawn and I sat on the bottom one.  I had a nervous anxiousness in the pit of my gut.  I thought stepping outside would get rid of it, but it stuck around. 
   I was out there for maybe one whole cigarette when I heard the door open behind me.  My insides cringed at the intrusion, pulling away from the outside of my body.  Ralph came down to the bottom step and stood next to me.  I waited for him to start chatting things up or to tell me that they were gonna go have a catch and did I want to join in.  Instead, he hit me upside the back of the head.  WHAP!  It wasn't too hard, but it was hard enough.
   "What the hell was that for?"  I yelled at him.
   He just looked at me and grinned.  "You're acting like a horse's ass," he said.
   I just shook my head and didn't answer.
   "Why'd you come out here?"
   "No reason," I said.
   "Why'd you come out here?"  He asked again.
   "No reason," I replied again, this time a little louder.
   "Why?"  He asked simply, once more.  "You think your gonna find something out here?  Like peace, quiet, something like that?" 
   "Yeah, peace and quiet.  That's why I came out here."  
   Ralph shrugged, "It's all yours."  He turned and walked back inside.  I watched the screen door slam behind him and stared back out at the lawn.  The only thing was, I couldn't remember what I had been thinking and why I had come outside didn't make any sense.  My head still kinda stung from where he had smacked me and I heard the hum of conversation inside.  I had started a second cigarette while Ralph was outside.  I finished a good amount of it and walked in through the screen door.
   We sat around the kitchen table for hours that night.  At the end of the night there was an overflowing ashtray and a mess of beer bottles on the table.  When I got inside Joe and Ralph were talking about the book he had been reading in the hammock.  Rick stood up and began to clear away the dishes from dinner.  We all offered to help, but he sat us back down.  I insisted, and he let me help with the pots from the corn and the pan Ralph had used to fry onions.  I always used to take great joy from washing dishes.  Ever since I was little kid I loved to stand in the kitchen and scrub and soap and rinse.  I don't know why, but I find it soothing.
   We sat back down when the last pan was dried.  Joe and Ralph were going back and forth in conversation like a tennis match.  I remember being surprised by the content.  Joe, the king of the tirade, and Ralph, the mechanic.  They were discussing philosophy.  Plato to be more exact.  They were talking about a part that involved a cave somehow.  I didn't quite catch all of it.  They both knew passages by heart, they both had obviously given their sides of the conversation a lot of thought, they both knew what they were doing.  It was actually fun to watch.  I would've been surprised at Ralph's knowledge of this topic except for one thing.  Books.  They were everywhere.  His house was absolutely crammed full of books.  I don't mean like a lawyer's office either.  Each one had been read, by him, most likely, by someone else, maybe.  They spilled over everywhere.  In every room's bookcase were well thumbed copies of Steinbeck, Neitzche, Yeats, Salinger, Miller, Vonnegut, Shakespeare, and Hemingway to name as random a sampling as I can.  Everywhere.  There was even a shelf in one room that had all kinds of kid's books in it, all of them looked well thumbed as well.  So, it didn't seem so odd that our mechanic knew a little philosophy, maybe a lot of philosophy.  Certainly enough to keep engaging in discussion with Joe.  
   After a little bit, Rick starting playing with the table cloth.  Ralph glanced over at him and stood up.  He kept going with what he was saying as he wandered over to a desk in the other room.  He came back with an odd looking bunch of metal rings with some...I dunno...he came back with something.  He plopped it on the table in front of Rick.  "Here," he said.  "It's a puzzle. You're supposed to remove the rings from all that other stuff."
   "What made you get up to get that?"  I asked.
   Ralph glanced over at me.  "Kerouac was getting fidgety," he said.  "Seems like if he doesn't have anything in his hands he can't sit still.  I figured I'd better get him something to do before he started picking apart my tablecloth."  He looked back at Joe and finished his thought, snapping his fingers as he began to recall what he had been saying.  "I've wondered," he started, "every so often just who those people were who took the guy out of the cave to begin with.  I mean, they're never mentioned again.  If they were teachers or leaders, wouldn't they be outside the cave with the new philosopher?  They're not, right, they just disappear, which would make them...I don't really know.  Maybe that's pushing the simile a bit."  
   And they were off again.  I stopped paying as much attention to the dialogue and started watching the action.  Rick was tugging and pulling and twisting on the mess in front of him trying to get the large steel rings off of...all the other steel and what not.  It was amusing to watch him puzzle it out.  I had my money on Rick.  I gave the mess in front of him another fifteen minutes before he figured it out.  
   Suddenly his hands stopped moving and he just stared down at the puzzle.  He lifted his gaze from the table and his eyes met mine.  He had solved it, I could see that much in his eyes.  He stood up and walked over to the door that led into the garage with the puzzle in his hand.  He slipped inside and I heard a loud pop a little while later followed by a hissing sound.  I glanced Ralph's way and saw he was sitting in the same position he had looked at the car, right arm across his stomach, left elbow in right hand.  This time though, his thumb and forefinger were pinching the bridge of his nose.  His hand partially hid a grin.  
   "What's up?"  Joe asked.
   Ralph paused for a second.  He scratched the back of his head.  "I think it was Alexander the Great.  I'm pretty sure that was it.  He was headed east through Europe, conquering every town in sight.  So he comes across one town that had this knot.  It was this big complex knot tied by the King and, as fate had it, whoever could open it up would be able to conquer all of Asia.  So, in comes Alexander the Great, and he hears about this power-giving knot and he asks to be taken to it.  The way I imagine it, all of these wise men with white beards lead him to this room with the knot in it.  And these old men nudge each other and laugh at the idea of Alexander solving this puzzle.  And you've got Alexander, glancing over the crowd.  Then he walks up to this knot, he looks at this big mess for maybe three seconds before he shrugs, unsheathes his sword and just hacks the thing in two.  It fell apart, the knot was undone, he walked off to conquer some more countries.  Now, Rick there..." 
   That was the first time I had heard him use Rick's real name.  It was a relief not to have to hear him constantly use the same nick-name over and over.  
   "Now, Rick there is basically doing the same thing.  I've got an acetylene torch in the garage, which he just lit, and..." 
   He trailed off as Rick came back into the house and dropped a charred smoking ring on the table.  "...and there you go," Ralph finished.  "The knot is undone."  There was a small pause.  "Anyone want coffee?"
   Ralph seemed to realize that he had no more puzzles left for Rick, so the conversation became less a two-sided affair.  I still didn't say much, I just sat with my elbows on the wobbly table and my chin cupped in my palms.  Ralph served Joe a cup of coffee and fixed one for himself.  I watched him pour a huge amount of sugar into his cup.  A little after that, I realized I was tired.  
   "I think I'm gonna go to bed," I said.  I pushed my chair back from the table and said goodnight.  There was a chorus of "goodnights" from the table as I walked into my room. 
   The bed I was in was covered with a red, white and blue quilt.  I got undress and lay down under the blanket.  The bed was soft and warm while the quilt was still cool from lying unused all day.  I fell asleep in minutes.
   
      13
   
   I had no idea what time it was when I woke up.  There were no clocks in my room.  Out of habit I glanced at my dad's watch on my wrist, stopped dead and filled with water.  Then I looked over at the bed next to me and, seeing it was empty, I got up and padded to the kitchen in sweat pants and bare feet.  The clock in there said it was about nine o'clock.  I wandered around the house a bit.  It was empty in every room.  I had gotten up expecting to see someone doing something, but nobody was around.  I began to feel bored standing alone with nothing to do and was about to go back to bed when I heard whistling coming up the front steps.  
   Joe walked through the screen door.  "Hey," he said.  "It's about time you got up.  We've been wondering how long it would take."
   "Is Ralph working on the car?"  I asked.
   "Nope, not yet."  
   I was about to ask him some further questions when I noticed that he had the same outfit on that he'd worn the night before.  That wasn't too unusual.  I mean, we all had been wearing just about the same outfit the entire trip, but Joe's T-shirt was the same.  I could see the top of Mickey Mouse's faded head peeping out from under his gas-shirt.  The same Mickey Mouse shirt he had been wearing yesterday.  We wore the same pants and the same shirt on the outside, but we all put on a different T-shirt, socks and underwear each day.  The outside was dirty, that was fine, but the stuff we ourselves got dirty from sweat tended to not look very appealing the next day.
   "Why didn't you change?"  I asked.
   "None of us have yet," he answered.  "We were talking for...well, forever, and when Rick looked up at the clock it was four-thirty already.  The time just flew.  Anyway, I remembered that I still hadn't seen a sunrise yet this whole trip.  I meant to in Jackson Hole but I was too lazy.  We were all wired on coffee anyway so we all decided to stay up."
   "So, you didn't get any sleep last night?"
   "Nah," Joe said carelessly.  "It's just one night."
   Just one night.  I couldn't imagine staying up all night and not sleeping the entire next day.  Actually, I couldn't really imagine staying up all night.  The night always seemed to drag after awhile and bed always seemed so inviting.  "So no one slept?"  I asked again.
   "Nope."  He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the orange juice.  Then he grabbed three glasses, looked at me, grabbed another one and said, "Come on, we're all over by the garage."
   As much as I couldn't understand why they had  stayed up all night, I began to feel a little slighted that nobody had invited me or woken me up for the sunrise.  I didn't say anything.  I just followed him outside.
   The sun was really bright.  It was the first time in a long time that there hadn't been any clouds around.  I squinted as I walked down the stairs and stretched my arms over my head.  Joe walked around to the other side of the garage and put everything he was carrying onto a little green table.
   "It's about time," Rick said to me as he poured himself a glass of orange juice.  He had a horseshoe in his hand.
   "You guys are playing horseshoes?"  This seemed very odd to me.
   "You're pretty observant in the mornings.  Anyone ever tell you that?"  Rick finished his glass and walked back over to the field or court or whatever it's called in horseshoes.  
   "Quint's on my team," Ralph called out from the far post.
   "We're playing teams?"  Joe asked.
   "We are now," Ralph answered.
   We played horseshoes in the Montana morning with the woods waking up around us and the light starting to make morning seem permanent.  Ralph and I won the first game, surprising considering I didn't have a clue how to play horseshoes.  Right then my stomach started to growl.
   "When's breakfast?"  I asked.
   Ralph shrugged.  "We had a snack pretty late last night.  Are you guys starting to get hungry?"
   Joe nodded and Rick said, "I could eat."  
   Ralph processed this information and decided, "All right, one more game then we'll go in for breakfast."  Ralph and I won that game too.  Ralph made omelets and we all sat down to eat individually as soon as ours was done.  Ralph made a pretty good omelet.  No need to mention that it was nothing compared to my mom's, though.  Hers were tastier, and not just because of the fillings she used, which were amazing.  One time she made roasted peppers and feta cheese omelets, which might not sound amazing.  I actually made fun of her when she proposed those fillings.  She looked at me with this confidence,  "I'm the cook here," she said.  "And if I say you're going to enjoy these fillings, then enjoy them you will, Tom.  Now it's either those or nothing."  I laughed and admitted defeat, which was a good thing for me because she was right, of course, and it was a good combination, which didn't stop me from making fun of her the next time she proposed an odd combination.  She had--
   "What?"  I said suddenly, aware that someone had spoken my name.
   "You looked a little out of it there," Ralph answered.
   "Oh, yeah.  How's the car coming?"  I asked out of nowhere.  It surprised me a bit.
   Ralph seemed a little taken aback by the question too.  "Well," he said, "we can't really work on it until we get the parts we need."
   "How long will that be?"  I asked.
   "My wife's on a parts run right now.  I called her yesterday afternoon and she should be back late today or early tomorrow.  When she gets back we can start work."
   For the first time I noticed the wedding band on Ralph's finger.  "Oh," I said, "you mean there's a Mrs. Froot-loop?  Can't wait to meet her."  I felt like an idiot after I had said that, it really came out of my mouth before I had a chance to think.  To my surprise everyone laughed, Ralph included.
   "Today or tomorrow, Quint," Ralph answered.  "Today or tomorrow."
   I nodded and stared into my coffee cup.  I let my mind drift back to frying pans and scrambled eggs, but the image wouldn't come as clearly as I wanted it to.  I tried a bit more and nothing came.  I sighed and stood up.  "I think," I said, "that I'm gonna go walk in the woods."  I hoped that the quiet and solitude there would help me remember more clearly.
   "Good idea," Ralph chimed in.  "We'll go too.  There's a deer trail out there, at least," he paused, "I think it's a deer trail.  I've never seen any deer on it.  No matter, there's a trail of some sort out there, it's a nice walk, and I'm assuming you guys didn't come all the way out here to look at the inside of my house.  Plus, horseshoes gets pretty old pretty quick."  
   "Shouldn't you stay behind to start on the car?"  I asked.  I didn't feel much like having company.
   "And do what?  Stare at it?  We don't have the parts."
   "What about the other car in the garage, the one you were working on when I came in?"
   "That's mine," Ralph said.  "I like to tinker.  She hasn't been out of that garage in a long while."
   I was going object to going for a walk, but it was my idea.  What was I supposed to say?  I had had a drastic change of heart?  So, basically I was trapped into taking a walk with Rick, Joe and Ralph.
   All four of us set out into the land surrounding Ralph's home.  The walk was nice and I found that I could drift into my own thoughts easily enough.  Ralph and Joe were chatting about something and Rick was acting like a ten year old, running all over the place, looking under rocks and climbing trees.
   What I had thought was the edge of a wood behind Ralph's house was just a small clump of trees.  Not too small, but by forest standards it was just a clump.  We passed through this on Ralph's trail and into a meadow.  The grass was high and bright green from all the past rain that we had driven through to get here.  There was a stream running through the middle of the valley and if everyone stood perfectly still, it was possible to hear the water running over the stones even though it was pretty far off.  It wasn't even visible as a stream, you could just see that something was cutting through the grassland up ahead.  I wandered over to a rock and sat down to light a cigarette.  Ralph walked over to me.
   "Sorry about last night," he said.  "I didn't know your family had died recently."
   I winced like I had been physically hit.  "Please, Ralph," I said, "don't try to sugar coat it."  
   "You can put all the sugar you want on it, it's still gonna taste like shit."  I found myself beginning to smile, but I wiped it off my face lest Ralph think I was smiling because of him.  "Anyway," Ralph went on, "I might have done something differently if I had known."
   "You mean you don't always smack your guests around?"
   "Oh, no, I definitely would've still smacked you, but I probably wouldn't have been so vague afterwards."
   "You mean when you called me a jack-ass?"
   "Horse's ass.  I called you a horse's ass.  And you were being a horse's ass.  I still would've called you one."  He scratched his head.  "Come to think of it, maybe I wouldn't have acted much differently.  Maybe I wouldn't have walked back inside, but I doubt it.  I guess I wouldn't have done anything differently.  Maybe  I just would have done the same thing in another way."  I looked at him wondering what exactly he meant by that.  He noticed my look and just shrugged.
   "Great," I said.  I stood up and walked away from him, but he started to walk right next to me.  He was really bugging me.  I barely knew this guy, after all.  "So you don't care about what I've been through at all."  For some reason he was pissing me off and I wanted to shoot him down.
   "I never said that, Quint.  I'm sorry about your family, but I'm not going to act all weird around you."  He stopped talking and looked over at me.  "Is that what you'd want?  Me to treat you all special?  Do you want me to take out the kid gloves around you?  You think I should stay away from you because of what you've been through?"
   I stopped walking and turned to face him.  "Go away Ralph," I said.
   "No, I don't think I will.  If I go away you'll just sit here like I've seen you do and detach from what's going on around you.  You can't live in the past, Quint, as attractive as it is."
   I had had enough.  "Look, you don't know me and you have no idea what I've been through.  You can save your little sermons for someone else and you can go on with your little games.  I know what happened to me and you just don't have a clue.  You wanna talk to someone, Joe and Rick are right over there."  I started to walk by him.
   Suddenly one of his hands flew out and grabbed onto my shirt.  He pulled me towards him and held me there with his fist still clenching my collar.  He wasn't angry, not really, it's not like he had snapped or lost his temper or anything.  He was perfectly calm, he just also happened to be using force.  "I've lost plenty of people, Quint.  I've seen plenty of sad things and thought plenty of bad thoughts about life as we know it.  But I'm not about to go dragging up my losses to wave in front of people's face as a source of pride.  I'm not gonna tell people every sad thing I've been through like I'm better than them in some way because of it; like I know something they don't, just so they'll leave me alone.  You wanna act like a horse's ass and drag up your memories of your family to try and get an edge on people, that's fine, but not on my time and not in my house."  He said all this as calmly as he would've said, "Did you enjoy playing horse-shoes?"  He looked at me, not trying to be threatening or to drive home his point, but just long enough to make sure I'd been listening.  Then he let go and walked over to Rick and Joe who had wandered down to the stream.
   Ralph was becoming a real pain in my ass.  He couldn't know what I'd been through, so to hell with him.  Bringing up my past to get to other people, as a source of pride?  What the hell was that?  I knew what I'd been through.  He didn't.  He didn't have a clue.  He was just like everyone else who didn't know, who hadn't seen what I'd seen about life over and over again.  
   He was, of course…completely right.  If I was stressing words that much in my own thoughts, the words "I" and "he", than it did sound a lot like pride.  It sounded like I was using trauma as leverage to separate myself from people.  I sounded almost like a martyr.  A self made martyr.  Was that really what I was doing?  It couldn't be.  I had really been hurt, scared, pissed off.  I wasn't making this up.  Still, just because the pain was genuine didn't mean I wasn't twisting it around to do what I wanted.  But pride?  I had never thought of it like that.  I closed my eyes and rubbed them a bit, like I had a headache.  
   I was a bit shaky so I sat down on a rock.  I looked over at the three of them by the stream.  Why didn't I go join them?  Was it pride?  No.  No, it wasn't pride.  I certainly wasn't proud of how I had acted in Yellowstone.  I had felt terrible that day, with everything feeling awkward and messy whenever I tried to join in.  I didn't need that.  If I couldn't fit in anymore with them then I didn't see any reason to try.  I usually ended up feeling like an idiot.  That wasn't pride, that was shame.  
   As I was thinking this, they all started walking back towards me, towards the woods and Ralph's house.  When they got closer Ralph looked up and saw me sitting on my rock, staring at the stream.  "You're doing it again, Quint," he shouted.  I snapped my head over to him and wondered what he was talking about.  Pride again?  
   I got up and walked with them back to the house.  We had been out there for quite awhile.  I guess we had taken a long route on the way out, it seemed a lot shorter on the way back in.  Maybe we just stopped to look at more stuff on the way out.  
   When we got back, Joe took his book and went to sit on the hammock again.  Ralph and Rick went into the garage and I saw Rick sit down on the table next to the wall.  Ralph lit a cigarette and opened the hood.  I followed them in there.  "What was I doing again?"  I asked Ralph.
   He looked up from the engine with his cigarette still in his mouth.  "Thinking," he replied.
   I started to think that over when he said, "There you go again."
   "There I go again, what?"
   "Thinking," he said.
   "What?"  I asked.  "I was thinking about what you said, trying to figure out what you meant.  So?"
   "Hey, Kerouac," he shouted over to Rick, sitting on the table.  Rick looked up.  "What're you doing right now?"
   "I'm sitting here talking to you," Rick said.
   "Okay, what were you doing before I asked you that question?"
   "I was trying to figure out how I would go about doing an oil change on my mom's car."
   Ralph turned to me.  "See?"  He said.  
   I didn't see.  "I don't see," I said.
   "Doesn't matter," he said.  "You're not doing it now."
   "Doing what?"  I almost shouted.
   He thought for a bit.  "Searching," he finally replied.
   He was being vague so I took another track.  "What you said outside, in the meadow.  About..." I trailed off.  I looked at Rick who was watching our conversation intently.  The idea that for some reason I was talking to this guy more in one day more than I could talk to my two friends on a whole drive across country started to get to me.  Plus, in some weird way, I felt like I was insulting Rick.
   "Come on," Ralph spoke up.  "You reminded me, I want to check on the screen door, I think it's coming loose."  
   I followed Ralph out of the garage and around to his front door.  He took his pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and shook one out.  Then he turned the pack towards me.  "Want one?"  He asked.
   "What's wrong with the screen?"  
   "Nothing," he said.
   I was getting nowhere fast.  "Thanks," I said.  I took the offered cigarette.  "Why are we here?"
   "You wanted us to be." 
   "I wanted to be outside your front door?"
   "Well, you certainly didn't want to be in the garage.  Wherever it is that you think this conversation is going you didn't feel comfortable with Rick listening to it."
   "What?"  His last sentence had almost made me dizzy.  Although, I think I knew what he meant.
   "You seemed agitated by Rick.  I saw that.  I took you away from Rick.  Okay?"
   "Yeah."  I said.  Ralph lit his cigarette and sat down on the top step.  
   I looked at him and realized I was having a one on one conversation with a man I didn't really like or know all that much.  "I don't know why you brought me out here, but I'm going to go..."  Go do what?
   "Those are some good friends you've got," Ralph said, ignoring me.  "I was up all night talking to Joe, he's a bright kid."
   "What about Rick?  I thought he was there too."
   "He sort of slept on the table intermittently.  He was there, just not a huge part of the conversation."
   There was silence as I imagined Rick sleeping on Ralph's dinner table.  "Yeah," I said.  "I guess they're pretty good guys.  I just don't seem to really be friends with them anymore."
   "You know something, Quint," Ralph said.  "You're a real horse's ass."  
   I tried to think of something insulting to reply that would shut Ralph up but I just frustrated my mouth in the attempt and Ralph continued in my silence.  "Those two guys are probably the best friends you've got.  Here they are, locking themselves into a road trip with you, which can't exactly be fun for them.  You haven't exactly been a hoot to hang out with lately, from what I hear.  Both of them are driving themselves nuts trying to figure out ways to get through to you.  Both of them want to see their friend again that badly, and you tell me that you don't think they're your friends anymore."  He paused here to let me think that over.  
   That was certainly a mouthful.  But I had changed.  People do that.  What right did these kids have to try and make me into something I didn't want to be anymore?  I didn't bother to tell Ralph that I was leaving.  Instead I just turned around and walked towards the garage.  My mind was traveling fast and I was starting to fill up with things I wish I had said to Ralph.  Only, I didn't want to say them to Ralph.  I felt like I should say them to one of my friends.  
   I walked into the garage and stood next to Rick, who was using an electric grinder on a piece of metal he had clamped into a vice.  Here was someone I could talk to.  I waited awkwardly in what was, for me, a pregnant moment while Rick finished whatever it was that he was doing.  The whine of the grinder died down and Rick stood back and looked at where he had made the metal shine.  He noticed me standing next to him he kind of started a bit, then nodded.
   I wanted to tell him the running dialogue that was going through my head, but nothing came out.  I started to say hello or something, but it seemed horribly wrong and I felt like I was interfering.  So I just stood next to him, feeling more and more awkward.  Then the door leading into the house opened and Ralph walked through.
   "Hey," he said, "you find that screwdriver yet?"
   "Uh...no," I said.
   Ralph grabbed a screwdriver from the work table.  "It's right here.  Come on."  He nodded his head back toward the screen door out front and walked back inside.  I followed him through the house and ended up on his front stoop, where he once again sat down on the top step.
   "Yeah," I said, my voice cracking.  "Rick's a helluva friend."
   Ralph arched his eyebrows inquisitively at me.
   "He didn't even say hi when I walked in."
   "Did you?"  Ralph asked.
   "No."
   "Well, it's probably your place to say hello first.  You've really been acting like a righteous hors--."  He stopped and screwed up his eyes.  "I need a new phrase," he said.  "Anyway, you know how you've been acting on this trip.  I doubt Rick would leap at the chance to say hi to you."
   "But you just said he was such a great friend."  
   "He is," Ralph said simply.  "You're the one whose been lacking in the friend department."
   "I've been doing just fine as a friend," I shot at Ralph.
   "You're lying," Ralph said right back.  "From what I hear of your trip, you haven't been there at all.  You've been lost in the clouds."
   "Well, it's not like I can join those two over there."  I waved my arm indicating the general area where Joe and Rick were.  "They act so...so stupid.  They just walk around babbling away."
   Ralph chuckled.  "They don't, by any chance, talk of Michealangelo, do they?"
   I threw my hands up in the air.  “What?”
   "Never mind.  Anyway, it's once again big bad Quint knows more than everyone else and can pass judgment on their actions?"
   "It's not that big of a judgment to make.  They...ah, hell, never mind."  There was silence.  I kept waiting for Ralph to say something, but there was silence.  I sat down on the bottom step.  "Okay, conversations," I said to Ralph sitting behind me.  "I can't have a conversation with them.  Either what they're saying strikes me as amazingly..." I searched for a word, "petty or, well, dumb.  Either that, or I can't join in.  It's like I have nothing to say that would fit in with their conversation."
   "That's because you're a horse's ass."
   "Oh, Christ.  I thought you were gonna find a new phrase."
   He continued past my comment.  "You don't have to have something brilliant to say to enter into a conversation.  Sometimes you just have to dive in and wait for the conversation to take you.  And as far as their conversation being dumb, you know what, who cares?"  He paused here before continuing.  "I heard about that bunny rabbit conversation you had with Joe.  That sounded kind of silly, but you had it anyway over lunch in high-school.    Who cares if it's stupid conversation, it might lead somewhere not so stupid, it might be a dumb topic but a good argument, it might be that if you joined in it wouldn't be so stupid anymore.  You don't have to be Hamlet every time you open your mouth, Quint."
   "I know," I said.
   "No you don't," he answered.  "You don't have any idea what that means.  And even if you do, you don't keep it in mind when you're thinking of saying something.  Instead, you wait and try really hard to think of something witty or interesting to say which, of course, makes it impossible to think of anything witty or interesting.  You're doing it even in conversations."
   "Doing what?" 
   "Thinking."
   "What exactly is wrong with thinking?"
   Ralph took another cigarette out of his pocket and lit it off of his old one.  He looked around at the grass in front of him, the few trees scattered over his lawn, the road that had turned mostly to gravel by the time we got to his house.  
   "What's wrong with thinking?"  I asked again.
   He shrugged.  "A lot of things just don't deserve the amount of thought people give them.  You can't hold a conversation because you're thinking about it so much.  Does that seem like a good use of thought?"
   "Yes," I said defiantly.  Ralph had a good laugh over my answer.  "So," I continued, "I should just blurt out whatever is on my mind and babble my way along like an idiot from way out in left field?"
   "If you weren't so lost in thought all the time you wouldn't be out in left field.  You'd be right there, where the conversation was taking place.  If you're in synch, you're not gonna sound like an idiot.  And, even if you do sound like an idiot, so what?  So you said something stupid, it's not the end of the world."
   "Yeah, but I don't want to join in the conversation.  What's the point?"
   "Things don't need a point, Quint."
   "I don't see why I should bother joining into a conversation when I don't feel like it and I don't see any reason to.  It's...it's..." I trailed off.  "Why bother?"  I finally finished.
   "Because it's not pointless and hopeless while you're doing it."
   "That makes it even worse," I shouted.  "That means it's just a charade."
   "What are you telling me, Quint?  That I don't know when I'm enjoying myself?"
   "Yeah, basically."
   "First off, you shouldn't do that to life."
   "Do what?"  I asked.
   "You seem to have made up your mind that life is sad.  Life isn't sad.  Life isn't happy either.  Life just is.  It's both and neither and more and less.  Anyone who has cried can tell you that life isn't happy.  Anyone who has laughed can tell you that life isn't sad.  There are sad moments and happy moments all throughout life, but that doesn't make it one or the other."  He picked up some pebbles that were next to the stairs and started trying to throw them at a tree about ten yards away.  "Besides, you still haven't decided that life is sad.  Not yet, anyway."
   "How's that?"
   "What do you do when you drift in thought?"
   I thought about that for a bit.  Sometimes I was with my family.  Sometimes I was just, "Thinking.  I think."
   "Therefore you are," Ralph said for some odd reason.  "Anyway, if you're thinking then you're searching for an answer, and if you're searching for an answer then you're not completely sold on the answer you stand by now.  You've still got some hope of some sort.  The only problem is, there's nothing to hope for, there are no answers."
   I had had enough again.  "Great, Ralph."  I said, deciding to just humor him with contempt until he stopped talking.  That isn't the greatest of strategies to use against Ralph.
   "Not answers in the sense that you're looking for," he went on.  "You've got problems in your head, problems between your head and everything you see going on around you.  You come out here and think in a quiet atmosphere.  You believe that by running thoughts through your head that you will come up with an answer or epiphany.  You expect a bolt of lightning to come out of the sky with an answer printed on it.  You expect a thought to come into your head that will suddenly cause angels to fly down from heaven or fate to do something that will signify that your thought is the thought.  The thought that will set everything right again.  Maybe a huge realization of self.
   "Life doesn't work like that Quint.  Huge signs from fate, that's not life.  Life is when you're walking through the mall and a cute girl catches your eye, and while you're watching her you walk into a display case and knock over three bottles of cheap cologne.  We rarely get signs from above or wherever when we're onto something.  And as for the self or soul, if that's what you're looking for, forget it.  You're as close as you're ever gonna get."
   "But I don't have anything, I'm still full of questions."
   "Right, but there are no answers."
   "None."  I said in a mocking tone.
   "Oh, there are plenty of answers, but none that stick.  You could claim that true love is the answer to everything.  You could believe that true love is the answer to everything.  You could find true love and have it be the answer to everything...for a bit.  Eventually it's going to let you down.  Somehow, somewhere, given some time, you'll be sad again even with true love.  There isn't a single answer, piece of advice or thought that fits into all situations.  They all fall apart at some point.  All advice fails."
   I was finding it hard to keep quiet.  "What about...I dunno...Look before you leap."
   "He who hesitates is lost," Ralph answered back.
   "Never put off 'till tomorrow what you can do today," I tried again.
   "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," Ralph answered again almost immediately.
   "Don't rock the boat."  
   "A little rebellion now and then is a good thing," he shot back, again, almost immediately.
   "So, they're all wrong.  Every quote, thought and idea.  They're all wrong?  That's what you're saying?"  I took a little pause.  "Hell, Ralph, that's what I'm saying."
   "No, they're not wrong.  They're just not right either.  It depends on when you say them and when you think them.  Everything's right in context."
   "Christ," I said.  "Why am I having this conversation."
   "Because you're lost."  He said.  "You haven't found the meaning of life yet."
   I took a deep breath.  "And I suppose that you have."
   "I had, I don't need it anymore.  Only people looking for the meaning of life need the meaning of life.  Everyone else is able to go on with things."
   As much as I wanted to keep quiet, I had to ask.  "And what, exactly, is the meaning of life."
   "The meaning of life, for people searching for it, is to try to find the meaning of life."
   "Ralph, I find that a little hard to believe."
   "Of course you do," he said.  "You haven't found the meaning of life yet."
   "Holy..." I massaged my closed eyes with my fingertips.  "I feel like I'm losing my mind."
   "So?"  He asked.  "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."
   "What does this have to do with having a conversation?"  I asked.  I had suddenly remembered what we had been talking about earlier and it seemed we had veered off track into moronic silliness.
   "Nothing, really," Ralph answered, "it's got to do with over-thinking, which has to do with conversations.  You can't over-think a conversation.  Well, I guess some you can, but as far as conversations we're involved in, that doesn't make too much sense.  You shouldn't wait until something inside of you gives you the go-ahead, it's never gonna happen.  There won't be a click and then you'll feel like opening your mouth again, you just do it, and that's it.  It's like riding a bicycle."
   "Of course it is," I said, in no way understanding what he had said.
    "Do you remember when you learned how to ride your bike?  You were probably in your driveway, and your dad would hold onto the seat keeping you up as you peddled around.  And he would—oh, by the way, stick with me, don't start thinking about your family just yet.  And he would walk along behind you as you rode along, and you would be fine and good as long as he was holding you, but as soon as he let go you would fall.  Then...one time, he let go without telling you, and you rode along for awhile, and you finally looked back, and when you saw he wasn't there, down you went.  What happened in that moment when you noticed he was no longer there?  You thought to yourself, 'How am I doing this?'  And, as soon as you started to really think about how you did it, you fell off.
   "There are people all over the place who've fallen off their bicycles.  They all think they can't get back on, but they can.  If they just didn't think about it so much it would come naturally."  He stopped and laughed a bit.  "Sorry, that got a little more metaphorical than I thought it would.  But back to real, live bicycles.  Have you ever tried to ride one and thought, the whole time, about what your doing with your body and which way your lean and how you turn and everything?  It's impossible.  You go all over the place.  You lean the wrong way when you turn and you wobble and...well, it gets messy.  But that's only if you really think about what you're doing to make the bike go where you want it.  If you try to drag it all into the conscious, outermost thought processing layer, you fall.  It doesn't make any sense.  But, it's not like it's rocket science.  It's just riding a bike."
   "So," I said with as much cynicism as I could throw over my shoulder back at Ralph, "the world's problems are all caused by thinking.  Meaning that the answer is to stop thinking."
    "I told you, Quint.  There are no real answers."  He paused and chuckled to himself.  "You've apparently been doing a lot of this thinking stuff lately.  Let's see if all that exercise has done your brain any good.  What wrong with that statement?"
   "Which statement?"  I asked.
   "There are no answers."
   "Well...there have to be answers.  I mean—"
   "No," he interrupted.  "You’re going outside the statement.  Stay inside of it.  Now...again...what's wrong with that statement."
   I thought for a minute.  "I don't know, Ralph, the fact that it's coming out of your mouth?" 
   Ralph laughed at this...really laughed.  "Lord are you a smart-ass," he said still laughing.
   "Yeah...I am...so what's wrong with your rule."
   He continued laughing for a bit.  "Whew.  Anyway, you just answered your own question."
   "I'm gonna need more than that, Ralph."
   "It's a rule," he said, "it's a rule that says that there are no rules.  So, there you go.  There is an exception to every rule...even to the rule that says there's an exception to every rule.  
   "Anyway," Ralph went on, thankfully...I think, "as far as not thinking, yeah, it's obviously not always the right idea, but it makes a lot of sense."  A couple of pebbles whizzed over my shoulder at one of the trees a few yards in front of us.  "What do you think fears are?"  Ralph finally asked.
   "Fears too?"  I asked sarcastically.
   "Most of 'em.  You sit there and think about what's going to happen, what people will think or what something will do.  You anticipate, a form of thought.  And so, you get afraid."  He looked up at some birds that had been startled off their branch by something.  "How old were you when Jaws came out?"
   "Young," I replied.
   He nodded.  "After I saw that movie in the theater, you couldn't get me anywhere near the water.  I'm not talking about the ocean, either, I'm talking about a lake.  It's not like there were any sharks around where I was, but I couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if there were.  What it would look like swimming around, what it would do to me, what would happen, and I got scared."  He shivered suddenly.  "Blah.  That movie made the entire country think about sharks.  Truth is, there most likely aren't any.  There's just you and the water, but you can never know, which makes it a particularly gripping fear.  You never could say with absolute certainty, 'There are no sharks swimming with me.'  So you kept thinking, all the while in the water, if you were brave enough to go in...I wasn't.  I just stood on the shore and stared and thought and said, 'Well...maybe tomorrow.'  If I had just seen what was there, I wouldn't have even thought about sharks.  There were none in sight, the water was shallow, I was at a lake, there were other people in the water, they probably hadn't seen the movie mind you, but still, they were in the water.  They were splashing and having fun and they weren't being attacked by sharks.  That's what I would've seen if I my brain hadn't been in high gear.”
   He stopped here and made a funny face.  "It gets kinda confusing.  I've told you there were no answers, and here I am trying to give answers."
   "Yup," I said, "there you are giving answers...but now you're done."
   "Maybe, but it wasn't about to stop.  I could've kept talking and talking and going into different scenarios and laid them out for you and me and shown you where pitfalls were and where they weren't.  But you know what?  The only way for me to tell you what I'm talking about is to make you think for yourself.  Nothing I could tell you would save you from mistakes or pain.  You've just got to think for yourself and accept some responsibility for your actions when things fall apart."
   "But, Ralph," I said with mock sterness, "first you tell me to not think, and now you tell me to think for myself."
   Ralph stretched his legs out.  "Yeah.  The 'no thinking' thing falls apart.  It isn't so much a bad piece of advice as an absurdity.  It's impossible to do.  If you could, you would probably be pretty well off.  You would only be in the present, never living in the past or looking too hard toward the future.  And if you see what's around you and perceive everything as it is, you know what's going on and mistakes are a little harder to come by.  Who knows?  I guess if you're always in the present, then some presents are going to concern thinking.  So...so here I go again.  Listen to me loudly and clearly, Quint, whenever you start talking about the truth it's almost impossible to not start babbling around and around and around..." he trailed off.  "Babbling just like I am.  You've stopped conversing again, Quint.  You've let me continue with this not so little monologue and now I'm basically talking to myself, working out all kinds of things in my head.  If you start to really talk about something without anyone else adding to your conversation you just keep going and going, babbling away.  Just look at Plato."
   "Plato?"
   "Plato," he said.
   "Plato," I said.
   "Plato doesn't really give any answers.  He just talks and talks and expresses interesting theories and ideas and some great similes, but never does he just stop and say, 'There it is.'  At one point he describes something as impossible, then he goes on to describe how to go about doing that very same thing.  He condemns epics like The Iliad and The Odyssey in one chapter, then he starts quoting them in the next.
   "You want the truth?  Alan Watts spoke the truth.  He said simply, 'No one's mouth is big enough to utter the whole thing.'  That's the truth.
   "Look at how much I've babbled.  We started talking about...I forget about what, and then it became me just talking, and I'm bouncing all over the place.  As soon as I make a point I become full of doubt about it and then I try to clarify it and so on.  It becomes me trying to cover everything instead of a conversation about a certain topic."
   "So that's really how it works?"  I asked.
   Ralph laughed, yet again.  I was really cracking him up today.  "That's one of a million ways of putting things, Quint.  None of them are right and none of them are wrong."
   "But...to focus on one point...you think that I think too much."
   "I think you waste too much time in your head when there are amazing things all around you."
   "I'm not wasting time, Ralph.  This freakin' conversation is a waste of time."
   "You're a waste of time, Quint," Ralph fired right back at me.  "You've got your family on your mind.  As long as they're there, you'll never catch up to the present."  He paused and said softly, "You've got to say good-bye to them, Quint."
   "I know," I said.
   "No, you don't," he answered.  "You say that, but as soon as you have a free moment, you'll start thinking about them again.  You enjoy it, and those thoughts lead to others, and soon you're back inside your head, under the pretense of trying to figure out how to say goodbye.  You've got to face facts, Quint.  As painful as it is, they're gone.  Let them go in your head and heart too.  Say good-bye.  It's not like you'll forget them.  They won't just disappear.  They'll always be there, but you still have to say good-bye."
   "I know," I said a little more insistently, and a lot fed up with advice at this point.
   "No, Quint, you don't.  Not in any way shape or form, all you're doing is parroting.  Just because someone can recite the Bible it doesn't make them a saint.  There's a big difference between learning what people have said and knowing what people have said.  If you don't let it in, then you're just parroting, mimicking what might as well be babble."
   "I'm not mimicking," I said, imitating his tone of voice.  "All right?  I know what you're saying."
   "Bullshit," was all Ralph said.
   "You know what, Ralph?  That's real easy for you to say."  My voice was starting to grow louder.  "You haven't gone through what I've gone through.  It's easy to say, 'Just let it go, Quint,' when you have no idea what I've been through."
   He was quiet for while.  I was expecting, maybe, the same speech about pride and pity.  I had a feeling that Ralph didn't repeat things very often.  "So that's it?"  He said, finally.  "Is that really how it works, Quint?  We're born into life with a fresh slate, and we live for awhile, marking up our clean surface, until, finally, one day, we can say, 'Okay, I've got enough sorrow, heartache, troubles and pain.  I can quit now.'  And then we curl up and die long before we're dead?  Is that really it?  Or can we face the present with a clean slate and go on living?"
   "Maybe you can.  I can't."
   "I'm not going to play 'Match My Trauma,' Quint.  That's where you tell me what happened and I tell you what I've been through and we decide, once and for all, who's had it worse.  I'm not going to because, first of all, it's impossible to compare things like that, and, second of all, I'm not going to stoop to what you're doing.  I'm not going to hide behind my past and try to use that to make people listen to me.
   "Here's a question for you, Quint.  You should be interested to know the answer.  Ready?  Here it is..."
   I heard him stand up as I waited.  "Well," I asked, "what is it?"  I turned to look at him just as the screen door slammed behind him.  I could hear him whistling inside.
   "God damn it," I said as I flicked my cigarette butt across the yard and leaned back.  I thought about what Ralph had said and then I didn't anymore.  I wondered when the car would be fixed. 
   I stood up and wandered inside.  I went walking through the house looking at all the books surrounding me.  Ralph had wandered back out to the garage and I could hear Rick and him doing something to that Oldsmobile of his.  
   I stopped in front of a bookcase that was right over a heat register.  It was filled with Plato.  I took down one and walked back outside to where Joe was in the hammock.  He glanced up at me and then at the book I was holding.  "The Republic?  Doing a little light reading?"
   I raised my eyebrows at him.  He smiled and said, "It's been said that all philosophical writing after that has been just footnotes.  That book you're holding there, in many people's opinion, is the end all and be all of books."
   I lowered my eyebrows and sat down on the lawn.  Ralph had just called this book babble.  Surely there were philosophy students and teachers somewhere who understood it.  I had temporarily forgotten that Ralph and Joe had had a conversation about that very book only the night before.  Both of them surely understood it and respected it enough to talk about it.  One of them, though, had also dismissed it as useless.  
   Was this really babble?  Was there no end?  What had Ralph been doing out on the front steps, talking on and on?  His words hadn't made all that much sense.  I mean, they made sense, but they seemed to hint at something bigger that I couldn't wrap my mind around.  He had kept going and going, clarifying, and creating counter points as he went along.  Every second that passed seemed to change what he was trying to say. 
   I wasn't able to concentrate that much on Plato and I just read randomly around The Republic not understanding any of it until Joe hopped off the hammock a little while later.  
   "What's up?"  I asked him.
   "You hungry?"
   "Yeah," I nodded, "I could eat."
   "Let's go see if Ralph and Rick are ready for lunch."
   We walked over to the garage and ran into Rick and Ralph on their way to see us.  "Lunch?"  He asked.  We both nodded.  There was a weird quality to the air as we followed the two of them into the garage.  For some reason we all were speaking as little as possible.  Just nods and half sentences.  The silence began to feel almost oppressive.  
   A bee went buzzing by Rick's head at that point and I guess it seemed awfully big and awfully close, because Rick screamed awfully loudly.  What started as a yelp of fear kept coming out of his mouth until it was a huge, primal, fierce scream that cut through the air like a samurai blade.  Ralph, Joe and I popped up in the air, completely caught off guard.
   "Jesus," Joe said.  "What the hell was that," he was laughing like a window in a storm.
   Rick shrugged.  "There was a bee," Rick explained.
   "Thanks," Ralph said.  "Really, Rick, thanks."  He put his hand over his chest.  "A little louder and you would've given me a heart attack."
   Rick grinned sheepishly.
   "If the festivities are over," Ralph said, "let's figure out what we want for lunch." 
   "Cheeseburgers," Rick suggested.
   "Lasagna," Joe said.
   I shrugged.
   "Good suggestion, Quint," Ralph said, drying his hands on a rag.   "Let's go into the kitchen and see what we got."
   Rick walked over to the sink to wash his hands and Joe walked after Ralph toward the kitchen.  I waited a half a second before following after them.  I was positive that a strange look was on my face while I stood there.  I was in a weird mood.  Having decided that, I walked into the house.
   Ralph was emptying his refrigerator and freezer of anything that could possibly be prepared for lunch.  Cuts of meat, hunks of cheese, piles of fruit and a ton of eggs wound up on his kitchen counter.  He then opened cupboard after cupboard taking out cans of anything and jars of spices.  
   Then he took a few frying pans out and threw them onto the stove.  He turned the blue flames on underneath these pieces of cooking equipment and threw what seemed to be a few random pieces of everything into them.  I couldn't really see what he was doing because Ralph was standing between me and the frying pans.
   He fried onions and garlic in olive oil, he heated steak and chicken in nothing.  He went on like this for awhile before he started talking.  "If I had to name only one source for where I learned how to cook, it would be this, Bugs Bunny."  He threw some more stuff around, added a dash of this, a smidge of that.  Then he took out a pot and started transferring  some of the fried items into that.  "Whenever Bugs Bunny needed to cook something, say, a cake to drop on Elmer Fudd's head, he would take a whole lot of stuff, mix it together, and cook it."  He looked into the pot and emptied it out, then turned down the flame and threw a can of tomatoes in.  "Of course, his cakes always turned out perfect.  My meals didn't always do that, they'd turn out like all kinds of things, some barely edible, some really good, some just so-so.  But, as time went on and I continued to learn from the Bugs Bunny school of cooking, I learned what different spices taste like, I learned what makes a good marinade and what makes a good pasta sauce.  Now, I'm at the point where I can cook anything and make it turn out pretty good."  He continued his mad dance around the stove.  "Somewhere in there, I actually learned to cook."  Now he took out a bunch of bowls and divided up what he had cooked so far.  Then he took some pizza crusts out of the freezer, opened them up and put them into the oven to thaw.  Once they were warm enough he placed these next to everything else.  "We are having pizza for lunch.  Rick, you'll probably want this bowl and this bowl as toppings, they make a great cheeseburger pizza."  He looked at Joe.  "Lasagna is a little harder, but try these three bowls.  That should be close."  He turned to me.  "You can choose whatever you want from what you see.  It all goes together pretty well, if you start to mix things that will taste absolutely horrible, I will tell you."
   We all dug in.  Rick made his cheeseburger pizza, Joe tried the lasagna bowls, I freelanced and Ralph claimed whatever was left for himself.  After putting the sauce, cheese and toppings on, we threw them in the oven and waited.  "So," Joe said as we waited, "you learned to cook by simply cooking."
   "That's another way of putting it," Ralph said.  "However, I like to claim Bugs Bunny as my teacher.  It adds an air of credibility."
   A silence descended as we sat there watching the oven.  The quiet lasted maybe ten seconds with no one coming up with anything to say.  Then I learned one of the reasons that the conversation had gone on as long as it did last night.  I learned of Ralph's cure for the dead spots that strike most conversations.  "Once," he said, "this country fought in World War II.  Yet again an entire generation gave up whatever they enjoyed doing and gambled with death to basically save the world.  They put their youths on layaway for the next generation and went off to fight for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  Then some of them, much less then had left, came home and found that even the ones who had lived weren't quite alive, and that the youth they had set aside wasn't going to come back to them.  For everyone else that wasn't such a big issue.  The country was in a huge boom, quality of living was way up and that life and liberty stuff was perfectly safe.  The only problem was, after awhile, some people started to get antsy and they didn't know why.  Enter Jack Kerouac.  
   "He and his friends all stumbled across something at around the same time.  'The pursuit of happiness,' they figured, 'doesn't necessarily mean to me, what it means to someone else.  Your happiness is two point five children in a suburban home. But you had to fight for that setting, I grew up in it.  I find that life...well...boring.  I'm going off to pursue my own happiness.'  And so, they went on the road.  
   "They found their happiness in life away from what others had dubbed happiness.  They led a revolt, and they won.  A culture sprang up which ran opposite to what the majority was doing.  Kerouac talks of an image imparted to him by Gary Snyder, an image of a rucksack revolution.  A movement where people would just rise up and wander, finding happiness springing up at their feet.  
   "This didn't exactly happen.  The original gang was genuinely happy on the road, but some of the followers weren't.  If you're a shmuck, and you go on the road, all you end up being is a shmuck who is on the road.  Happiness wasn't handed to you at the entrance ramp to the highway, it had to be searched for within and without.  So, that movement started dying out, life wasn't to be found out on the road for some people.  Then acid came along.  
   "Aldous Huxley paraphrased William Blake and claimed that with the aid of these drugs, 'the doors of perception would be open, and man will see things as they truly are, infinite.'  To which people replied, 'Holy cow!  Happiness isn't on the road, it's in these pills!'  And so they dropped acid, and the doors swung open, and they were happy.  They perceived things about themselves that hadn't been heard of before.  Ken Kessey led a faction of this movement with the idea of spreading acid to all people everywhere.  With the idea of bringing everyone into the new world they had found.  His own version of the rucksack revolution.  
   "Problem was, people were certainly seeing new things on acid, but answers and happiness weren't necessarily forthcoming.  They stepped into the new world and even though it was exciting and let them learn things about themselves they had never imagined, they never came up with a single answer.  They just carried their questions with them through the doors they had opened.  It carried them only so far and Kessey was jilted by something he discovered, something that maybe rattled Kerouac, too.  Aren't the really happy people those people who have been happy this whole time, who can find happiness right where they are no matter where that happens to be?  Without acid, without the road, without anyone's say so?
   "It was at this point that someone started thinking, 'Hey, these non-mainstream movements are a gold mine!'  And suddenly the acid tests of Kessey's time became disco clubs charging five bucks for a gin and tonic.  And the road became tainted with people who were willing to spend money, but not effort, and everywhere became a tourist trap.  The encompassing warmth of Kessey's acid movement hadn't gotten them very far, so people started looking out for themselves.  Enter the eighties. 
   "One for me and all for me carried through most of that decade, and now we're at a point that's too close to the present to pick out prevalent trends."
   It struck me as odd.  No doubt the first time he did it last night it struck Joe and Rick as odd.  This was his cure for the seventeen minute lag in conversation.  He would tell a story.  Sometimes it would be history from a certain point of view, sometimes it would be the times of some famous person as dictated by landmarks in their life.  Sometimes they were really stories.  There was the story about the man who desperately wanted to come home and find messages waiting for him on his answering machine.  He discovered that the longer he stayed away, the more messages he had, so he got a job.  He, of course, put in for more and more hours and gave his number to everyone he met.  He was seen as a hard working young lad who was very sociable and easy to get along with.  He ended up becoming CEO of the corporation he worked for because he kept demanding more and more work. 
   He told of a man who discovered that people all over were slaves to oxygen.  "We will never be free," this man claimed, "until we could shake this oppressor."  He started a religion based solely on learning to hold your breath as long as possible and everyone started joining.  He was right after all, we are all slaves to oxygen, surely this is what is holding us back.  He continued his preaching until he was discredited by another man who found the real oppressor and stole his congregation.  The oppressor, the second man claimed, was gravity.  And on and on it went.
   He had hundreds of stories and observations that could be put into any pause in any conversation.  They were to be used when the conversation halted, so they didn't have to follow the flow of previous chatter.  In fact, the cause of the silence would most likely be people trying to come up with something that would follow the previous chatter.  Ralph didn't sweat that, he just spoke.  And, when he had finished, a conversation inevitably arose out of what he had chosen to talk about.
   I don't know how accurate his monologue had been.  But that didn't exactly matter.  Joe spoke up about the first subject of Ralph's little speech which wasn't surprising considering the fact that Joe probably got his mind all wrapped around that first comment about World War II and started setting up a soap box to stand on as soon as the opportunity presented itself.  
   "What you said about World War II," Joe said.  "What do you mean by...I mean...ah, hell.  That just doesn't seem real to me."
   "No kidding," Rick chimed in.  "The biggest thing I've been alive for was the final episode of Cheers."
   "I just can't imagine feeling that strongly about anything."  Joe said.  He went on but I stopped there.  I couldn't concentrate on what was being said because for the first time in forever, Joe has sounded a lot like me.  I didn't bother to follow all the talking after that.  I just kept sneaking funny looks at Joe and taking bites of my pizza, which Ralph sampled at some point.
   "Christ, Quint," Ralph said.  "That's incredible."
   I looked at him and shrugged.  "I didn't do anything.  I just put together the toppings you made."
   "Still, how did you know they would go together so well?"  
   It seemed like Ralph was singling me out for some reason and praising my pizza for some reason and I didn't like it.  "What?  I just put on what you had cooked.  It really wasn't a big deal."
   "Rick did that too," Ralph said, "and his pizza is horrendous."
   "Hey!"  Rick shouted.  Then he looked down at his half-eaten pizza and closed his mouth.
   "But seriously," Ralph said.  "Give Quint's a try."  They all did and they all loved it and I began to wish they would all shut up, which they didn't exactly do, but they stopped talking about me after a bit.  Their praise also scared me as much as annoyed me.  It seemed like obvious flattery that they were all laying on me for some reason, but it had felt nice, too nice.  I don't know, I just began to feel even stranger when everyone complemented my cooking and I just shut up and they all stopped throwing sentences my way and then lunch was done.  
   After we had washed the dishes from lunch we all went back to our little places.  Joe in the hammock, Rick and Ralph working in the garage, and me occupying spots of grass as I saw fit.  The only problem was, I didn't feel like reading any more of The Republic and the grass started to make my legs feel itchy.  
   Unfortunately my pizza popped into my head and I started thinking about what I had put in that pizza or what was any different from what Rick did to make everyone start going on about how good it was.  Joe had looked at me at one point and mock-chastised me for not offering to cook at any of the campsites we stopped at and making us eat at fast food places all the time.  I grinned as I lay in the grass.
   I turned to look over my shoulder and saw Joe reading.  I pulled a few clumps of grass and let them fall into the breeze.  I looked back over at Joe, he was still reading.  I shrugged and walked into the house.  I poured a glass of cold water.  I don't mean your average out of the tap, cold water.  Something about the water supply at Ralph's house made the water that came out of his bathroom tap almost ice cold.  It was great to splash on your face during a hot summer day.  
   I poured a glass of this water and walked outside to where Joe was sitting.  I approached the hammock in a way that would make me invisible unless he were to completely turn around.  I managed to get within a few feet of him.  Then I dumped the water on his head. 
   Joe fell out of the hammock and looked up from the ground with a bewildered look on his face to see who had broken into his peace.  "I'm bored."  I said.  "Entertain me."  He tackled me to the ground.  
   I got up and ran around the house thinking he was chasing me.  He wasn't.  I made it all the way around the house before I ran into him again.  He had seen me head around the corner and had walked over to the hose, which he had then turned on.  I stopped short when I saw what he was up to, but it was too late.  I was drenched in a matter of seconds and had to make a tactical retreat into the garage.  
   Ralph and Rick looked up from where they were standing over by the work table.  Ralph was explaining some part of an engine or drawing a schematic for a nuclear reactor or something else I didn't understand.  They looked at my sopping wet clothes and hair as I walked by them into the house.  I didn't let them ask any questions.  They might have realized what was going on and that it was soon about to spread to them.  I found a big pitcher in one of Ralph's cupboards and I proceeded to fill it with that beautiful ice-cold water.  I then ran into the garage and tried to dump as much of it as I could onto the two mechanics.  I didn't score a direct hit, but I made them wet enough for my satisfaction.  I nodded, full of this satisfaction, and walked out of the garage whistling.  
   I made a large circle around the hose, thinking that Joe might still be waiting for me.  He wasn't.  He had climbed back into the hammock, apparently having cooled himself off with the hose a bit first.  I walked over to him, lit up a cigarette and handed it to him.  He thanked me and I lit one for myself and sat back down on a new part of the lawn.   
   I lay on my back and stared up at the clouds.  Something kept nagging me, though.  "Ralph!"  I shouted.  "Hey, Ralph, come out here a second."  
   I rolled over onto my side and watched the garage door, waiting for Ralph to come out.  I was about to call for him again when I saw him walk cautiously out onto the part of the lawn that doubled as a driveway.  He was holding the pitcher I had used to douse him.  Apparently he had filled it up again expecting a trap.  
   He saw I was unarmed and then walked over to me.  "What's up?"  He asked.
   "What was that question you were gonna ask me?"
   "You really wanna know?"
   "Yes, Ralph, I wouldn't be asking if I didn't."
   He nodded, then he dumped his pitcher of water on my head and walked back to the garage.  I was slowly learning that Ralph knew how to make an exit.
   I lay back on the lawn again and stared up at the clouds through the trees and started giggling.  I starting wondering what the stupid question was.  I had an image of Ralph dressed in a graduation robe standing in front of a group of people going, "blah blah blah blah."  Then I imagined him standing on a box of soap as he did this and I really started laughing.  
   Eventually a pickup truck pulled into the driveway and I heard Ralph shout, "Hoo-wah," from the garage.  Mrs. Froot-loop was home.  I watched Ralph walk over to the driver's side door and give his wife, sitting inside, a kiss.  Then he opened the door for her, smiling.  Rick had walked outside with Ralph and was standing behind him.  Joe got out of his hammock and went to stand next to Rick.  I got up to join them.  Mrs. Froot-loop stepped out of the truck.  She was wearing a gray sweatshirt from some college that had a buffalo as it's mascot.  It was old and worn and a few sizes too big for her, so the sleeves came down and covered her hands.  Her jeans had once been dark blue, you could see parts that were still pretty dark, but they had been worn down to a much lighter shade.  Her hair was light brown and was tied back in a ponytail. 
    "We have guests," Mrs. Froot-loop said happily.  "I'm assuming Ralph has been treating you nicely."  She directed this comment at us.  
   "Yes ma'am," Rick said.  "He stopped locking us in the basement after the first night."  Mrs. Froot-loop laughed.  
   "I'm Tom," I said.  I introduced myself quickly because I was getting sick of mentally referring to her as Mrs. Froot-loop.  
   "I'm pleased to meet you, Tom.  My name is Cynthia."  She shook my hand and looked me dead in the eyes as she said this.  I could've happily stared into those eyes all day.  There was no doubt in my mind that she was, indeed, pleased to meet me.  She was sincere with a contagious smile and, well, she just seemed real, dammit.  I had met her ten seconds ago and already I was glad I knew her.  She shook hands with Joe and Rick, who Ralph introduced as Kerouac, then Ralph and Cynthia walked around to the back of the truck where she pulled off a tarp that was strung over everything in there.  It was full of boxes.  Ralph looked in and started digging through the neatly stacked pile, messing everything up.  
   "That's not organized or anything, Ralph, dear," Cynthia said.
   "What?"  He looked up at her, his hands still gripping a box at the bottom of a stack, his body half in and half out of the truck.  
   "Oh, nothing," she answered.
   Ralph turned and looked at the mess he had made.  "Right," he said.  Then he dug around a bit more before retrieving a smaller box.  "Here's one of your bearings, Quint."  Ralph held up the box for me to appreciate.  
   "Great," I said.  
   Cynthia laughed.  "He's enthralled, Ralph.  Look at him, he's practically bursting at the seams with excitement."
   Ralph looked at his wife and turned to Rick.  "Well, you're excited, right, Kerouac?"  Rick shrugged.  "Ah, to hell with it," Ralph said and tossed the box back into the truck.  "How was your trip?"  He asked his wife.
   "You should've taken this one," she answered.  "Absolutely none of the dealers had any idea what we had ordered.  It was awful.  Plus, there's some rain coming in from the north.  It was all drizzly up there."  She turned and looked at Joe at this point.  He still hadn't quite dried off.  For that matter, neither had I.  "Did it rain here?"  Cynthia asked.
   "No," Joe answered. 
   "Oh," Cynthia said.  "Anyway, I'm glad it's your turn next time, Ralph.  This run was horrible."
   "We can fix that," Ralph said.  "Kerouac, close up the garage.  Clean everything and put it all away.  Joe, grab some beers from the fridge.  Then sit on the front steps and regale my wife with stories from your trip.  Tell her about when you wrestled the buffalo first.  Quint, you and I are going shopping for dinner."
   "Ready, break!"  Rick said.
   "You wrestled a buffalo?"  Cynthia asked.
   "No," Joe said as they walked towards the house.  Ralph walked around the truck and put the tarp back on.  Then he hopped into the driver's seat.  I just stood there next to the rear of the truck.  
   "Do you really need me to go shopping, Ralph?"  I called to him inside the cab of the truck.  
   He leaned across to the passenger side window and stuck his head out.  Then he nodded his head with his eyebrows raised.  "Yeah," he said.  His head ducked back in the window and he sat normally in the driver's seat.
   "Why?"  I yelled towards the front of the truck.  I heard him say something, but he started the engine at the point and all I really heard was a kind of murmur.  Ralph started backing the truck up until the door was in front of me.  "What?"  I said into the window.
   "Stop asking that question, you'll be a lot happier."  He was apparently very excited about something and was sort of bouncing in the car to a Paul Simon tune.  "Well, come on."  He finally said when he noticed I wasn't getting into the car.  I stood my ground for a little bit until I noticed that Ralph wasn't paying any attention.  He had starting to sing along with Paul Simon.  I was pretty sure that if I had stood there for hours he would have just sat there singing and smiling for hours.  I opened the door and climbed into the truck.
   Ralph shifted into reverse and we backed out of the driveway.  He seemed a lot more approachable now that he wasn't focusing in on me.  I decided to try and show Ralph, me, and anyone else who might be watching that I could be polite.  "Your wife seems nice," I said.
   "She is nice," Ralph answered.
   "That's what I meant," I said.  
   Ralph shifted into gear and we started the drive into Venice.  "She's a lot more than nice," he said.  "I thought she was just nice too, when I met her.  If she was just nice I'd be a much different person sitting here right now."
   "How's that?"  I asked.  
   "Oh, I dunno," he answered.  "I think I'd just be a lot more battered than I am now.  See, it turned out, she's not only nice, she's tough too.  A lot tougher than I turned out to be."
   Ralph had stopped listening to the music and if I had noticed that then I probably would've noticed that the conversation had begun to turn back to the crap we had been talking about earlier...but I didn't notice.  
   "What's that mean?"  I asked.
   Ralph looked over at me.  "Oh, just that I've been worse than you are right now.  And if anyone other than Cynthia had been my wife I doubt I would've ever really recovered."
   Now I certainly noticed where the conversation was swinging, so I turned the radio up and bit and looked for a station that wasn't playing commercials.  I finally found some Chuck Berry, and we rode into town in silence with Chuck singing about Mabeline.  We arrived at the supermarket and we walked towards the store.  
   "What do you think Rick and Joe want?"  Ralph asked as he snagged a shopping cart after passing through the electronic doors.  
   "I don't know,"  I said.  "What were you planning on getting?"
   Ralph stopped and leaned his elbows on the cart.  He started glancing around at the different aisles in front of us.  "Swordfish," he said.  "That's Cynthia's favorite and she's the reason we came storming out here to shop in the first place."  He turned and looked at me.  "Swordfish all right with you?"
   I shook my head.  "Joe and Rick like fish.  I've never really cared for it, though."
   "Fair enough," Ralph said.  "Would some sort of steak be okay for you?"
   "Yup," I answered.
   We walked into the butcher's section and began to search through the various pieces of frozen fish.  I glanced at a cutlet that still very much resembled a fish.  "Hey, Ralph.  What the hell made you start babbling about Jaws earlier today?"  I asked.
   He looked at me for awhile.  After a few moments he seemed to remember that I had asked him a question.  "Oh, I think your last name prompted that.  Quint's the guy who takes Hooper and chief Brody out on his boat to kill the shark."
   "Man," I said, "you were really off on a tangent there.  You just kept talking and talking."  He walked slowly through the saran wrapped fish stopping in front of some swordfish cutlets.  "I thought Joe could ramble," I went on, "but you just kept going into tangent after tangent."
   "That's the only way you can talk about things like that," he started.  "The truth keeps changing, so your words to describe it have to change along with it."
   "Yeah," I nodded.  "I get it.  What kind of sides were you thinking of getting?"
   Ralph gave me an odd little glance, then began pushing the cart towards the cuts of meat.  "I hadn't really thought about sides.  Corn is always good."  
   "How about some tomatoes and onions?"  I asked.  "You sort of slice both of them up and put some olive oil and vinegar over 'em.  Maybe some fresh mozzarella, if you can buy that anywhere around here."  I looked at Ralph and nodded.  "It's good.  My aunt makes it all the time."  Something felt strange about the way I was acting.  I felt like I was forgetting something, or leaving something behind.  
   "Sounds good to me," Ralph said.  He looked over the cuts of meat before choosing one for me.  Then he led the way towards the produce section.  When we got there I began searching for ripe tomatoes.  When I found one I would put it on the back of my fingers and try to let it roll down one arm towards my neck.  I used to be pretty good at that sort of thing in high-school, I was glad to see that I hadn't lost my touch.  I was able to roll each tomato down to my neck and back out my other arm to my other hand.  Then I'd drop it in the plastic bag Ralph was holding. 
   For some reason, for every tomato I dropped in, I would yell out, "Oooopa!"  I waggled my eyebrows at Ralph in mock-cockiness.  "Pretty impressive, huh?"  
   "Yeah," Ralph said slowly.  "Yeah, that's...pretty neat."  He began to walk towards another part of the produce section, "I'll get the onions," he said over his shoulder.
   We checked out and began walking towards the car.  Ralph stopped the cart in back of the truck and began handing bags to me.  "You, uh, you seem to be in a pretty good mood, Quint," Ralph said as he handed me the first bag.  I put it in the back of the truck and shrugged.  I started comparing my mood to my recent moods but Ralph broke in.  "You're definitely smiling more than I believe seems normal for you."  He thrust another bag into my hands and I placed that one in the truck as well and began to think about how often I smiled recently when Ralph placed another bag in my hands.  As soon as I had loaded the third bag something began to nag at me and the past began to crop up in my head.  
   Ralph looked at me with a little lopsided grin on his face.  "You do remember," he said, "that your mother, father and little sister died not too long ago in a car accident in New York?  You do remember that a large truck crashed into the side of their car and that they died on impact.  Or did you forget, just for awhile, how much you miss them."  He stared at me and through me as he brought my face, body and soul crashing into an endless oblivion.  
   I just stared back at him.
   He walked around to the driver's side of the truck and got in.  
   I just stared at him.
   He looked back and motioned for me to get in.
   I plodded my way to the door and sat down in the passenger seat.  "Why?"  Was all I could manage.  It came out in a hoarse whisper.  
   "That," Ralph said, "was the difference between ignoring your problems and dealing with them."  He put the car into reverse and starting backing out of the spot.
   "You fucking know-it-all son of a bitch," I said.  "What fucking right do you think you have to tell me how to live?"  My voice began rising.  "You're my God-damned mechanic.  Okay?  My mechanic!  You're not some freaking guru!  Your fucking petty ass ideas and moronic arguments are not going to do a God-damned thing for me, mainly because I don't want them to!"  I was shouting now.  My words had a physical presence of hate as they flew out of me.  "Just back the fuck off!"  I screamed.  
   He kept driving during my shouts and my insults and orders just crashed over him without so much as a flinch.  Crashed over him and receded like waves on a beach, washing back over me.  The stubborn son of a bitch didn't so much as blink.  Instead he spoke, and his voice was free of anger, fear, humiliation or apology.  "Better now," he said, "then when you're back out there rolling along in your tomb on wheels, conjuring up ghosts to try and edge out the real people sitting with you."
   I just shook my head and stared straight out the windshield trying not to completely fall apart in front of this guy.  
   "I don't know where that came from," he said.  "I don't know what you managed to wrap your mind around so quickly and so effectively, but it was a fragile peace, if anything."  The light changed green and he drove on.  "Something else would have brought you crashing down, hell, it most likely would've been you beginning to think things over again.  Either way, you can't expect the world to hold it's fire on you.  It was either going to be me, now, or anything else somewhere down the line, but you can trust me on this, something would've ended your good mood in the near future.  I know that seemed like a pretty cheap shot on my part, and you don't understand why I would've done that, but if you had gone along in that mood until you left here, and then life had taken it's own cheap shot at you, well, you would've hated everything around you and would've hated yourself for being even remotely happy."  He looked over at me.  "I doesn't make sense, now, mainly because I can't seem to just say what I'm trying to say."  He shook his head.  "Man, I haven't had to try so hard to get a point across in a long time."  He down shifted as we came towards another red light.  
   The bastard couldn't handle the fact that I found him to be full of shit.  He couldn't handle the fact that I had been in a good mood, a really good mood, for the first time in a long time.  I thought about rolling those tomatoes down my arm in the supermarket and smiling and suddenly felt like I was going to throw up.  My face was creased sharply everywhere from my eyebrows to my chin as a grimace took over me.
   "Just do me a favor," Ralph said.  "You can hate me all you want, just think about how easily that was shattered.  You just forgot, Quint, and forgetting isn't the way to end it."  
   After that I blocked out what he was saying.  I didn't want to be there.  I didn't want to look at any of the people that I was in Montana with.  I wanted to be somewhere where people understood me.  I jumped out of the car before Ralph fully stopped in the driveway.  I started walking toward the house but Rick and Joe would be in there talking to Cynthia and I certainly wasn't going in there so I walked around to the garage and opened the passenger door of the car.  I climbed into the back seat and sat lengthwise with my arms folded around me.  I imagined my sister sleeping in my arms as she had done on the way home from so many dinners in the city.  I closed my eyes against the sting that was rising behind them and hugged my sister as tightly as I could, my palms squeezing against my own sides.  
   The only thing I could think of was the pendulum of a clock, swinging back and forth, halting at the top of its swing for the briefest of instants before it went plummeting back down.  Just swinging back and forth marking off time. Tock-tick, tock-tick, tock-tick, and I just wanted it to stop, I didn't want to see it swing anymore, I just wanted to stay in the safety of my mom's overcoat but then it would swing back and it would flash by and the pendulum would be swinging again.  Tick-tock, and then it would plummet back, tock-tick, tock-tick, tock-tick...
   Knock-Knock
   Tick-tock, tick-tock why do I always turn to go over it again?  Why-
   KNOCK-KNOCK
   It's someone at the window...at the window of the cab, it's winter out and I'm in New York...but they're still at the window...just concentrate, tick-tick...tick-tick...KNOCK-KNOCK...tick-...GOD-DAMNIT!
   I looked up to see Ralph knocking at the passenger side window.  I reached up and pushed the door lock down.  Then, after a quick look in the ignition to make sure the keys were still in the car, I cowered down in the back seat and tried to regain my train of thought.  I heard something rattling against the door and I looked up to see Ralph holding a long blue instrument which he slid into the side of the car proceeding to neatly unlock the door. 
   He sat down in the passenger seat and I stared as hard as I could at the seat belt in the back seat.  We sat in silence for awhile.  I heard Ralph light a cigarette and I almost lit one up, but decided that if I did I would be acknowledging his existence in the car somehow and decided against it.  It started to get really smoky and I had to stifle a number of coughs.  
   After about a million years I glanced up and saw Ralph leaning back in the seat and looking out the windshield at the garage.  He was sitting in a cloud of smoke and I decided to light up my own cigarette to try and smoke him out.  I tried my hardest to blow my smoke towards his seat, but he ended that by turning the battery on and lowering the windows.  He looked back at me and I turned away as quickly as I could.  
   "You know," he said, "I didn't kill your family."
   I ignored the comment and erased it from my ears.  
   Ralph spoke up again.  "You're going to have to get out of this car eventually, Quint."
   "I know that, Ralph," I answered.  "You don't have to keep telling me the obvious."
   Ralph laughed here.  The son of a bitch laughed.  "Actually, it seems like I do," he said.
   I stayed silent and we continued to smoke.  
   Ralph looked out the open window.  "It's still pretty smoky in here," he said.  He tilted his head back and looked at the roof.  "Maybe we should put the roof down.  We could sit in here not talking to each other and smoke--"
   "Not a chance in hell.  Get out of the car, Ralph."
    He picked up a crushed soda can that was on the dash and turned it over and over in his hands while staring out the window.  A puzzled look came over his face and he looked down at his hands to see that the can was draining its last few drops of liquid onto his hands.  Ralph rolled his eyes and placed the can back on the dashboard.  "You're in trouble, Quint," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers.
   "Ah, yes, and you're just the person to help me, Ralph.  Get out of the car."
   Ralph was pushing his palms together and pulling them apart, noticing how sticky the soda had made them.  He stopped and peered around at me.  "Do you really think you're going to be able to hate me out of this car?  Do you really think I'd be sitting here right now if I were going to let something like you insulting me anger me?  I'm not leaving you alone in this car, so you might as well just ease up a bit."
   "Ease up on what?"
   "Your intensity.  You keep staring at things like you want to melt them, or something, so just ease up there a bit."
   "Look, Ralph," I said a calming down a little, "I just really don't need any of your bullshit right now."
   Ralph nodded his head a bit, as if mulling something over in his mind.  "Yeah," he said softly, "I know."  He reached toward the dashboard to pick up the soda can again but thought better of it and began rummaging through the side pocket, picking out maps and gas receipts and all kinds of junk.  He stuffed all this back into the door and reached up to open the glove box.  I winced as he did this and sat forward to stop him, but it was open already.  A stuffed animal poked it's smiling head out from between the owner's manual and some tape cases.  Ralph reached in and pulled it out.  
   I closed my eyes and turned the other way.  It was a little elephant wearing a clown suit.  All sorts of stains covered it, and there was some stitching on the side where the stuffing had started to come out a year ago.  I should've locked the glove box.  
   I kept expecting Ralph to say something but only silence was coming from the front seat.  I opened my eyes and turned toward him.  Ralph was hunched over the elephant, staring at it with a very odd look on his face.  He kept manipulating the front legs, making it wave at him or clap its hands.  He finally set it on the dash, taking care to prop it up so that it was looking back at him.  "My God," he said very quietly.  "How old would she be now?  Twelve?"  
   I stared at the elephant in the clown suit.  "You're way off, Ralph.  It was April’s fourth birthday."  I thought for a second.  "You're not even right if you were counting in months."
   Ralph looked at me as if he suddenly remembered that I was still in the car.  "Four," I repeated.  "She'd be four."
   Ralph turned back to the elephant.  He leaned forward and stared it in the face.  He closed his eyes and started shaking.  Slowly, very slowly, he began to make noise, and as it grew in volume I recognized it as a laugh.  I had heard Ralph laugh any number of times.  I had heard laughing all throughout my trip.  People laughing at good come-backs, people laughing at someone else acting silly, people laughing cynically, or at a nice turn of a phrase.  But I hadn't heard anything like this laugh.  I'd never heard anything like this laugh in my entire life.  Nowhere.  Not ever.  I looked at Ralph and saw him with his head leaning back, his face pointed up through the roof, up at the sky and beyond.  He was laughing so hard that tears were running down his cheeks.  Only that's not quite right.  He wasn't laughing that hard.  I guess I would have to say that he was laughing so fully that tears were coming to his eyes.  I really couldn't do anything but stare.  It was like witnessing someone getting the biggest joke in the world.
   He eventually turned back to look at me.  His face contained all kinds of emotions.  His eyes were dancing between smiling and sobbing and his smile was all over the place between exhaustion and bliss.  Plus he kept sniffling his nose.  "Hey, Quint," he said.  "Let's get out of this car.  We don't have to go to dinner or anything.  We can go out behind the house by the river.  I won't even say anything.  But let's please get out of this car."  He kept raising his eyebrows and shaking his head as he sat there, either clearing the tears out of his eyes or expressing some kind of disbelief at seeing an old friend again.
   I was still staring at him as if I were at the zoo and he were a tiger who was standing next to me at one of the exhibits.  I managed to nod and he opened the passenger side door and climbed out, pulling the seat forward to allow me to exit.
   I followed Ralph as he crept around the side of the house.  The kitchen window outlined a square of light against the deepening dusk.  It was dark enough to make the window the brightest thing around.  I stood for a few seconds and listened to the distant ripple of conversation straining itself through the glass.
   "And the cop asks him why he got off at that exit," I could make out Joe saying.  "So he turns to the cop, just looks up at him and says, 'I have no idea.'"  Then some laughter forced it's way out, through the muffling window, seeming to stop dead sometime before it reached my ears.  
   I turned to my left and saw that Ralph was already at the woods bobbing along toward somewhere.  Dusk was quickly being replaced by night and as I started after Ralph I suddenly slammed my shin into something on the lawn and toppled over in a heap of swearing.  
   I lay on the lawn tangled up with the lawn chair I had run into staring at the few stars that were beginning to come out.  Ralph's head came into view, looking down at me with a bemused look on his face.  
   "Hey, Quint, watch out for the lawn chairs," he said.
   "Ouch," I replied.  He helped me unravel myself from the chair.  I sat down and he pulled another chair towards me and sat down.  His chair was more like a beach chair, the kind where you could pull up on the arms and make the chair recline, which is what he did.  I was about to ask him why he had a bunch of lawn chairs out in the middle of nowhere, but then I tilted my head back and realized that in maybe an hour the whole sky would be littered with stars.  
   Ralph and I sat out there in silence for a long time.  I would've like to just sit there, unnoticed, forever, but I was being eaten alive by mosquitoes.  It was hard to sit in silence when I was constantly slapping myself trying to smoosh whatever bug was biting me.  
   Ralph was slapping pretty hard, too and eventually he got up and walked towards the house.  When he came back he had a few citronella candles which he lit, and a bottle of bug spray which he passed over to me.  Then he sat back in his chair and kept his part of the bargain by not saying anything.  
   Eventually I heard a soft murmur which became a conversation between Joe, Rick and Cynthia as they made their way towards us.  I looked to my left and was able to see absolutely nothing.  They had shut off the house lights before coming outside, and the only light source that was visible was the candles that Ralph had lit.  As they got closer I was able to make out what Joe was saying.  
   "...it's not entirely important how Holden ends up at the end of the book."
   "But do you think he's happy?"  Cynthia asked.
   "I don't know if happy is the right way to describe it.  No, I certainly don't think Holden is happy at the end, but he has made a connection.  Pheobe has gotten through to him.  Holden's always twisting around what people say in his mind and dismissing them, as if he understands everything they're saying and everything they possibly could say.  At the end, after all, Pheobe manages to slip in.  When she wants to run away too, that sort of brings it all home that it's not fair for him to run away and still yell at Pheobe for thinking the same thing.  Where Holden ends up at the end of the book--how he feels isn't as important as the fact that Pheobe manages to derail his supposedly all knowing mindset." 
   "Yeah," Cynthia said.  "Okay, that makes sense."
   "See?"  Joe said to Rick.  "It's not that complicated."
   "Marvelous," Rick said.  "Just fantastic.  I'm so glad I got to hear that again.  It's truly an important theory.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that as soon as you made your point there someone discovered the secret of cold-fusion."
   "Easy there, Kerouac," Ralph called out.
   "Oh, Joe can handle him," Cynthia called back to Ralph.  
   Everyone was within range of the candlelight and Cynthia's comment had focused attention on Joe and whether or not he would react to Rick.  Joe noticed all this attention centering on him and didn't look too pleased with the idea that his reputation was now somehow on the line because Cynthia had shown faith in his defensive ability.  Joe turned to Rick.  "Yeah," he said.  "Well, you're ugly."
   "I think that's a point for me," Rick said as he found himself a lawn chair and sat down.  Joe started towards one of the seats, but then opted for lying on his back on the grass. 
   "When did we start keeping score?"  Joe asked.
   "Ever since I've been winning," Rick answered.  
   "Winning what?"  Joe asked.
   "I dunno," Rick said.  "The conversation game."
   "Oh," was all Joe said.  There was a lull in the chatter that nobody bothered to fill.
   A commotion started up next to me and I turned to see Rick flailing his arms and legs in the air as he toppled over backward.  His lawn chair didn't have a base on it, its legs didn't bend and form a platform of support.  They were just four poles pointing down.  I don't know whether it was because the legs were hollow tubes, or the ground there was too dry, or maybe this just happens a lot more often than I've ever noticed, but the two rear legs of Rick's chair had speared themselves completely into the ground spilling him ass over head backwards.  "Hey, Rick," Ralph shouted.  "Be careful of those chairs, the legs sink into the ground sometimes."
   Rick's hand popped up giving a thumb's up sign.  "Thanks for the tip," he called from behind his legs.  "Where's the wine?"  Cynthia handed him one of the bottles they had brought outside.
   "Well then," Joe said from the ground, "I think it's obvious who scored a point there."
   "What do you mean?"  Rick answered back.  "You didn't score any points..."
   I leaned back in my seat and focused on the sky above me.  Instead of the stars looking like pricks of light on a black field, they were grotesquely in focus.  They looked like sources of light different distances away in the dark and very three-dimensional sky.  It wasn't a pleasant blanket of stars above me, it was all of eternity, and I found myself gripping the handles of my seat as I sat perfectly still and hurtled through nothingness at the same time.
   I took my eyes away from that view and looked at everyone sitting around me, but the candlelight made them seem imaginary and insubstantial in the Montana night.  The conversation had turned to how Ralph and Cynthia had met.  Apparently they had only known each other about a week before they were engaged.  This fact produced some laughter from the group that sounded like shrieking tires to my ears.  
   I was filled with a horrible longing to get away from where I was.  I was also filled with a feeling of reality clinging to me like a film, and I knew that if I got up and walked somewhere the black aura that was pressing in on my skin would simply follow me around.  The only way I could run away from something that wasn't coming from the outside was to shut off what was going on inside.  I began to wish that it was late enough in the night to let me fall asleep easily.  After that I decided to get fantastically drunk.  
   I drank I don't know how much wine until everything smeared into a nice blurry nothingness.  Then I excused myself and went to bed.  I just let myself fall face first on top of the blankets.  For a horrible instant the fall woke me up a bit and I thought I wasn't going to be able to fall asleep.  Right before I did I felt my eyes beginning to cry. 
   
   14
   
   I didn't get out of bed the next morning.  I didn't get out of bed until sometime well after noon.  I cringed away from voices that came near the door.  I didn't want to see anyone.  The only reason I finally got up was because I was starving.  
   I walked into the kitchen and found some cereal.  As I was sitting there, spooning soggy mush into my mouth, I heard Joe walking towards the house.  I hoped he wouldn't come in, but the front door opened and he appeared in the kitchen.  "Hey!"  He shouted.  "We were wondering when you'd get up."
   I sort of nodded and tried to ignore him.  I didn't want any interruptions.
   "Ralph and Rick have been working on the car.  They think they'll be done by this evening.  Bearings, brakes and everything."  He took a glass out of the cupboard and poured himself some water.  "Cynthia and I have been playing cards all morning.  We decided to go out to that stream again, but we also figured that we'd wait until you got up.  Supposedly it's possible to catch a fish out there."
   I didn't say anything.
   "So get dressed, we're going fishing."
   I rubbed my eyes and mumbled something about how I didn't feel like fishing.  Joe either didn't hear me or he ignored me.  He simply finished his glass of water and walked back outside.  I didn't think I'd be able to hide in bed anymore, so I showered and put on my original set of clothes, gas-shirt and everything.
   When I walked outside everyone called me sleepy-head or lazy-bones or something along those lines.  They all seemed to think that I was dozing peacefully in bed and that I had just woken up.  Everyone except Ralph.  He didn't say anything, he just looked at me.
   By now I had decided that maybe fishing wouldn't be such a bad idea.  I could probably wander away from Cynthia and Joe and pretend that I was searching for a personal fishing hole.  I figured I could get some peace and quiet out by the stream, no problem.  
   I stood outside the garage watching Joe, Cynthia and Ralph search for fishing poles.  Rick was toying with some type of equipment over by the work table.  Something seemed strange about the scene until I realized that the garage was also Ralph's work place.  It would have seemed normal to go looking for fishing poles in the garage, but this garage had a lift and a grinder and pumps and machines and all kinds of stuff.  It was easy to think of this place as a mechanic's shop and forget that it was also Ralph and Cynthia's garage, full of all kinds of everyday garage stuff...like sporting equipment.  
   I stood out of the way while everyone was searching.  I didn't want my mind trampled upon before I could make it to the relative peace of the stream.  Eventually they found the rods on the ceiling, held up by a few hooks.  Rick and Joe started trying to get them down and Ralph said he was going into the house to get the tackle box.
   He didn't walk into the house from the garage.  He started walking around the house towards the front door.  This took his path by me and as he walked by I heard him say quietly, "Let go, Quint.  It's killing you."  Then he was gone, inside the house.
   The words shattered every image and thought that I was holding onto from that morning.  Everything I was trying to preserve long enough to reexamine out by the stream broke up and floated away like a dream upon awakening.  I hated Ralph for a few seconds but that too drifted away and I was left staring at the garage.  The promise he had made yesterday afternoon to keep his mouth shut was now apparently void.  
   I made an abrupt about face and walked the way Ralph had gone.  I ran into him coming out of the screen door in front of his house with a tackle box in his hands.  I held up my finger to stop him in case he was about to talk.  "Look," I said.  "You don't seem like such a bad guy, and Rick and Joe seem to like you.  But frankly, I'm sick of you giving me little speeches.  Just say whatever it is you want to say, then stop.  I'm sick of it and I'm not listening anymore anyway."
   He smiled a little smile and said, "Yeah," as he rubbed the heel of his hand against one of his eyebrows.  "I'm trying, Quint.  It just gets confusing when I try to explain exactly what it is I'm trying to say.  Like I've been saying, there is no exact why to say what I want.  To say it exactly kills it.  It's—"
   "Ralph!"  I said loudly.  "Stop it with the talking.  No more.  Either you just act like a normal guy like you do with Joe and Rick, or just stop talking to me all together.  I don't need you messing up my life with your babble."
   "No," Ralph said casually.  "No, I think I'm going to keep trying.  I'll get it one of these times.  The funny thing," he said as he started swinging the tackle box by his side, "is that I keep getting sidetracked discussing the fact that what I'm trying to tell you is impossible to tell you.  The truth won't be limited to words.  And that's the truth."
   I turned and started to walk away.  The guy wouldn't listen.  I was trying to be reasonable with him, but he just wouldn't listen.  
   "Quint," he called after me.  "I'm not the one messing up your life.  You're the one who keeps messing it up trying to somehow clean it up.  There's nothing to solve, there's nothing to figure out.  Everyone's life gets dirty sooner or later.  It doesn't mean you stop living it, and it doesn't mean that you give up on being happy." I was pretty far away from him, but I stopped before I completely cleared the corner of the house.  I don't know why.  I really don't.  "You can't be afraid," he said and I heard that he was walking toward me, "to live your life even though your past isn't perfect.  Your present can still be.  Just keep living, you'll figure it out soon enough."  Now he was right next to me.  He stood there and looked at me.  "Just be careful," he said, "not to waste anything.  The only sad life is a wasted one."  Then he kept walking past me and back toward the garage.  I followed behind him.
   I felt amazingly tired, but I made it to the stream.  I left the three others behind; Rick had decided to join us at Ralph's insistence.  I found a quiet spot, threw my line into the river and began to think about that morning.  Some of the things that had run through my head had been so strangely sweet.  I couldn't quite remember what I had been thinking and I stared into the water trying to recollect.
   I hooked something from both worlds simultaneously. 
   Right when I started to remember, really remember to such a point that I was actually in the past, my rod suddenly bent at a crazy angle and line started flying off the reel.  I stared for a few seconds listening to the whirring the drag was making as more line was being taken from me by the fish.  "I don't know how to fish," I said out loud to myself.  Then I started yelling for someone to come over and tell me what I was supposed to be doing.  
   Cynthia took her time getting over to me.  Actually, I think she was running over to me, but I was pretty far away from everyone else.  While she was on her way the fish stopped taking line out.  I've seen a few movies where someone catches a fish.  They always pulled the rod back and then lowered it while reeling in.  I shrugged and started doing that.  Apparently that was exactly what I was supposed to be doing because Cynthia didn't correct me or anything when she made it over.  She just shouted encouragement and pretty soon Joe and Rick appeared too, cheering me on.
   The fish put up a pretty big fight.  I mean, I didn't really have anything to compare it to since that was the first fish I've ever caught, but my arms were tired when it finally came close enough to pull out of the water with the net Cynthia had brought over.  I plopped it on the bank and sat down next to it.  The fish flopped around, it's green and white colors flashing rainbow in the sun.  I started to try and pick it up by it's tail but Cynthia stopped me and told me to go wet my hands in the river first.  This seemed odd, but I did it.  Not that it mattered much since I couldn't come close to picking the fish up it was flopping around so much.
   "That's big enough to keep," Cynthia said.  "I'll go get a camera so we can get a shot of you with it before it dies.  When we get back to the house, Ralph can show you how to clean it."
   I raised my tired arms over my head and looked at the fish that had worn me out.  It had been one hell of a fight.  I reached into its mouth to take out the hook, which popped out pretty easily.  Then I turned and looked up and Cynthia.  "I don't like seafood," I shrugged and tossed my fish back into the stream.
   Cynthia stared at me for a second then started screaming at me.  "Are you out of your mind?  Do you know how rare it is to catch a keeper in this stream?"
   I looked up at her and shrugged.  "I liked that fish," I said.
   She stared at me and I laughed a kind of breathless laugh before standing up shakily and peering over the bank at where I had decided to fish.  The stream was about ten yards across and the bank I was sitting on was maybe three feet high.  It was steep enough to be considered a little cliff made of sand and dirt and loose rocks.  I looked down and I was peering into a deep hole.  I had actually found a decent fishing spot when I wandered off alone.  
   I didn't look down at the stream for too long.  I hadn't noticed it, but Cynthia had turned to whisper something to Joe and Rick. After a few seconds of staring down I felt a push on my back and suddenly my fishing hole was flying up at me.  I managed to lean far enough forward after they had shoved me in to pull off a shallow dive.  I swam under water for a bit and then came up for air.  When I turned and looked at the bank, I saw Joe and Rick looking down at me.  Rick turned sideways.  "Your stream's polluted," he said to Cynthia somewhere behind him.
   I did a lazy dog paddle over to the bank of the stream.  Level ground was three feet above my head and I was basically staring at the wall of a cliff as I floated in the water.  I looked up at Joe and Rick and they put their hands out for me.  I grabbed on to both of their arms and they began to pull me out of the stream.  When my chest was level with the bank I swung my feet up so they were against the bank wall.  Then I grabbed as tightly as I could onto Joe and Rick's arms and pushed off the bank with all the strength I had.  I went flying backwards over the water pulling Frick and Frack with me.
   I was the first one to go under and the last one to come up.  I barely had time to take a breath before Rick pounced on me and dunked me under the water.  When I came up from that, Joe bobbed up in the air and dunked me under.  When I came up from that I was allowed to keep my head above the water.  All three of us floated around for a bit before a sinister calm came over us.  Each one of us peered up slowly at Cynthia standing on the bank.
   "Oh no," she said.  "Not a chance."  She backed away from the edge of the cliff.  I laughed and started floating on my back while Rick and Joe climbed out of the stream.  
   I lay on my back until Rick came over with his pole and dropped a line into my fishing hole.  I started splashing and yelling, scaring away every fish that I could.  "This is my hole," I said, "and that was my fish and I'll be damned if I'm going to let the likes of you catch him.  Go find your own hole.  Go find your own fish."  I continued to splash and make noises that weren't very conducive for fishing until he left.
   I let the current swirl and bounce me around the little cove I had found.  I took deep breaths and let them out trying to make myself sink.  The water was cold, but nice.  After awhile, however, I started to get chilly, so I climbed up the bank and got out of the stream.  I plopped down in the grass on my stomach and watched the other three casting into the stream while the sun dried me off.
   I didn't have time to dry both sides; clouds started drifting in before my back even really warmed up.  I noticed that the sunlight was gone and rolled over.  A storm was coming in from the other side of the meadow.  This was probably the rain that Cynthia had been talking about when she had gotten back from her parts run.  The wind started picking up and Rick, Joe and Cynthia reeled in their lines and started walking over to me.
   I got up and we all walked back towards the house in silence, listening to the wind whip through the trees.  Everyone headed right into the garage when we got back.  Ralph had shut one of the doors against the wind and was working in artificial light.  Joe, Rick and I were shivering at this point.  He looked at us and crinkled his eyebrows.  "I have never seen anyone end up soaking wet as often as you guys do.  It's like a running theme in your life.  What happened this time?"
   Joe related the story of Old Quint and the Sea.  Actually, it was Young Quint and the Stream, but the way Joe explained it you would've thought I had hooked a twenty foot Marlin in the Gulf of Mexico.  I was smiling hugely by the time Joe got to the part about me throwing the fish back.  Ralph turned to look at me when he heard about this.  I felt like he wanted an explanation.  I gave him the only one I had.  "I liked that fish," I said.
   "Fair enough," he replied.  Then Joe continued to tell him about being thrown in the stream and everything else.  I walked inside to change clothes.  
   Joe and Rick passed me as I came back out.  They were heading in to put on something dry themselves.  I didn't see Cynthia when I walked into the garage and I asked Ralph where she was.
   "Battening down the hatches," he answered.  "There's a few things that can blow around out there if this wind gets any stronger.  We usually bring things like the hammock and the lighter lawn chairs inside whenever the rare storm blows by us."
   "I'll go give her a hand," I said, and I headed towards the open garage door.
   As I walked out onto the driveway I heard Ralph shout absolutely nothing after me.  I was grateful for that.
   I paused briefly before walking outside.  The wind was blowing pretty hard now.  I don't mean like a hurricane or anything, but it was a decent rain storm that was coming towards us.  I found Cynthia taking sheets off the clothesline and I started helping her.  After I had dropped my second sheet on the ground I decided that maybe I wasn't being such a big help.  "What else needs to be taken inside?"  I asked her.  She pointed toward the lawn chairs. 
   "Those'll rust if there's enough rain and the cushions will get soggy either way.  Start bringing them in."
   I walked over to the lawn chairs that we had sat in the night before.  I carried two inside and was joined by Joe who helped me bring the remaining chairs into the garage.  
   Once that was done, we both hopped up and sat down on the worktable.  Rick was helping Ralph with the car again and Cynthia was seated in one of the chairs we had just brought in.  She was toying with the rod I had been using.  I'd like to think that she was trying to figure out what I had done differently from everyone else.  Most likely, though, I had screwed something up and she was fixing it.
   I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes.  I flexed my arms and noticed that they were still a little tired.  I took a deep breath and enjoyed the feeling of wearing dry clothes after being soaking wet.  I rummaged around in my pockets and produced some loose change and lint.  "Do we have any cigarettes?"  I asked Joe, sitting next to me.
   Joe searched through his pockets and came up with nothing.  As I turned toward Rick, Ralph and Cynthia a pack of cigarettes landed in my lap.  I looked up, but whoever threw them had gone back to what they were doing.  I was pretty sure I knew whose they were, though.  "Thanks, Ralph," I said.  Then I lit one.
   I sat on the worktable staring out at the drizzle that had started coming down outside of the garage door.  The room had taken on a pleasant atmosphere, being cozy and dry and well lit while the storm began to open up outside.  I was almost hypnotized by the rain coming down on the other side of the door.  Ralph slammed the hood on the car and startled me out of my reverie.  "It's all done," he said.  "You're set to leave.  You guys should probably wait until tomorrow.  You won't get very far tonight if this rain starts really coming down."
   It suddenly occurred to me that there weren't a whole lot of days left before I was going to drop Joe and Rick off at the airport...and then...
   "Plus," Joe said, "if we don't wait till tomorrow to leave then we can't go out tonight, right?"
   "That's another good reason," Ralph said.
   "What?"  I asked.
   "Oh yeah," Joe said, cocking a thumb in my direction, "Tom was asleep."
   "I told these guys that I'd take you all out to the local bar after dinner tonight.  Kind of a farewell party."
   "Right," I said, but time on this trip had suddenly become measurable to me, and I wasn't exactly listening to what was being said.
   Ralph and Rick washed up and Joe and I went inside to see what was available for dinner.  Ralph and I had gone shopping the day before in order to pick up specialized fresh food, but there was plenty of frozen stuff in the freezer so another trip to the supermarket wasn't needed.  I noticed that Joe was being very lively as he took various packages of stuff out of the freezer.  "This is gonna be fun tonight," he said.
   "Yeah," I agreed without meaning it.  I was no good at bars.  I usually ended up sitting in the corner nursing a beer and watching everyone have fun around me.  Plus there was the fact that Joe, Rick and I were underage and you never knew when some local bartender was going to burst your bubble by not serving you.  "Yeah, it should be a lot of fun," I repeated.  I hated having my night shatter to pieces around me.
   Joe and I cooked dinner.  We ended up putting everything back in the freezer and making pasta.  Joe cooked the sauce, stirring in fried garlic, onions and spices.  I boiled the pasta.  I almost ruined it.
   After dinner everyone went into the living room with cups of coffee while Joe and I stayed behind to clean up.  I ended up dropping a plate.  Joe found a broom and dust pan and handed them to me.  He watched me sweep up the shards of glass.  "You all right?"  He asked.
   "Yeah, I'm fine," I said.  I swept up and threw the remains of the broken plate in the trash.  I sat down at the table and let Joe finish the dishes.  "Hey, Joe," I finally said.  "I don't think I'm gonna go out tonight.  I have to drive tomorrow and I'm actually feeling kind of tired.  I think I'll hang out here for a bit and go to bed."  Joe didn't say anything, he just finished washing the last pot.
   Cynthia came in at that point.  "Did you guys hear something break?"  She asked.
   "I dropped a plate," I said.
   She looked me in the eyes.  "Are you okay?"  She asked.
   "Yeah, I'm fine.  I'm just a little tired.  I think I'm gonna go to bed soon."  I stretched my hands over my head and forced a yawn.
   "You're still coming with us," she said.
   "No I'm not, I just said I was tired."
   "You cost everyone here a fresh seafood dinner this afternoon.  The least you can do is buy us all a drink," she said smiling.
   "Listen, that sounds great, honestly, but I'm really tired."
   "No you're not," she said.  "You're lying.  If you're nervous you should do a shot of vodka."
   Cynthia was suddenly as big a pain in my ass as Ralph was.  I put my elbows on the table and rested my face in my palms.  I groaned and picked up my head.  "All right," I said.  "How about that shot?"  My stomach lurched from the previous night as I said this.
   Cynthia found a shot glass in a cupboard somewhere and she took a bottle of vodka from the freezer.  Suddenly, Joe walked over to the table.  "I'll do one with him," he said.  He looked at me and smiled.  "Pour.  I'm kinda nervous myself.  I can't imagine that a bunch of mountain men will be too happy to see a couple of young punks from Jersey."
   Cynthia produced another glass.  I poured the two shots and put the bottle down on the table.  I was about to put the cap back on, but instead I asked, "Where's Rick?"
   Joe shrugged.  "RICK!"  He shouted.  
   Rick came into the kitchen a few seconds later.  He took in the scene and said, "Good idea."  Cynthia found him a shot glass and I poured it full of vodka.
   "To..." Rick raised his glass and trailed off, unable to think of a toast.
   "To thinking of a toast later," I said and grimaced as I caught a whiff of the vodka.  There were no complaints about my choice of toasts and we all clinked glasses and drank.  The vodka burned down my throat and didn't stop when it hit my stomach.  About a second later I closed my eyes and shuddered a bit.
   Rick took a deep breath and said, "Hoo-wah." 
   Joe just smacked his lips and let out a whistle.  Judging from our responses, I guess you would have to say that it was either pretty good or pretty awful vodka.  Cynthia laughed.  I looked up at her and said, "What, might I ask, is so funny?"  She didn't say anything, just stood there with a smile on her face that looked like it was about to break into a giggle.  "Get a shot glass," I said.  
   "I'm driving," she told me with that smile on her face.
   "Yeah?  Well I'm tired.  Get a shot glass."  She managed to hold her smile while she found a fourth shot glass.
   I poured everyone's glass full and we held up our shots.  "To that fish that Quint caught today," Cynthia said.
   "His name," I said, "was Henry.  I would appreciate it if you didn't call him 'that fish.'"
   "To Henry," she said.
   "Myself and Henry thank you kindly," I said.  Everyone clinked glasses and again we drank.
   I smiled broadly and said, "Mmmmmm," suppressing my usual instinct to a shot of straight alcohol, which was to shudder as I had done before.  I guess I looked silly enough with a fake grin on my face and my least favorite drink in my stomach because Cynthia broke out laughing.
   "This stuff is horrible," she said.
   "Mmmmmmm," I repeated.
   Ralph came in and shook his head when he saw the shot glasses and the bottle.  "You guys are drinking that stuff?"
   “It can’t be that bad,” Joe said, holding up the vodka, “there’s a cartoon donkey on the bottle.”
   "Come on," Ralph said, "let's go."
   We put the glasses in the sink and the bottle in the freezer and piled into the truck.  I didn't feel too hot on the drive over there.  The alcohol was sitting fine, but my head felt a little too warm.  
   The local bar turned out to be two towns over.  It was called The Watering Hole.  That was either very genuine or very cheesy.  When Ralph turned the car off I began to get really nervous, plus my head still felt a little too warm.  I shook my head.  "Ralph, they're not going to let a bunch of teenagers drink here."  I said.
   "Yes, they will," he answered, but I didn't find his confidence very catching.  
   I had heard this tale before.  Everyone knew a bouncer or bartender somewhere and knew that they'd be let in when they got there.  Only, that particular bouncer wasn't at the door that night, or the owner was there and the bartender didn't feel like being as risky.  "How do you know they'll let us in, Ralph?"  I asked.  "You friends with the owner or something?"
   Ralph looked back at me.  "Quint, I am the owner," he said.  "Half-owner, anyway."  Then he hopped out of the truck.  This was a new one on me.  I followed Ralph out of the car.  The rain was coming down in sharp, cold, needle-like drops.  I hunched over and tucked myself as far down into my collar as I could.  Then I ran for the entrance to the bar without waiting for anyone.  
   I walked inside and ran my sleeve over my face to dry it off.  The bar was low-lit with oak everywhere.  There were a couple of booths, a couple of tables, and a jukebox in one corner. The walls were covered with street signs and ads for liquor.  On my left was the bar, which covered about a third of the wall. The place was moderately full when I walked in, but the bartender noticed me standing in the doorway.  He was a fairly heavy guy with short hair plastered onto his round face and he had an apron on.  He raised his eyebrows at me, seeming to ask me why I was just standing in the doorway.  Then his face broke into a huge grin.  I wondered why he was smiling at me until I realized that he was smiling at Ralph who was standing behind me.  
   "Ralph!"  The bartender shouted.  "You haven't been in for awhile.  We've missed you."  He looked down the line at Joe, Rick and I.  "Are these customers of yours?"  
   "Of course," Ralph said.
   "Come on in, boys," he shouted out at us.  I began to catch on that his natural tone of voice was a dull yell.  "What can I get for you?"  He bellowed at us as everyone walked up to the bar.  All three of us just stood there, staring at him blankly.  "They normally like this?"  He asked Ralph.
   This was enough for Rick, who sat down on a barstool.  "I'd like one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer," he said smiling broadly.  
   "How 'bout if we just start with the bourbon and you can continue on if you want to," he thundered at us.  "Say," he said with a wink, "how old are you boys?"
    "Forty-three," Rick said.  
   "As am I," Joe said.
   He looked at me.  "I'm six," I said, "going on seventy-four."
   He barked out a growly kind of laugh.  "My name's Sonny Hasbrook, by the way, but everyone calls me Buzzy."  I couldn't get around this guy.  He seemed so...cheesy, but it was such a forward cheesy, like he knew what he was.   I was willing to bet that if I turned to him and called him cheesy or something, he would look at me and laugh, agreeing with me.  He lined up three shot-glasses and poured bourbon into all of them, which was odd because I thought that Rick was the only one who had actually ordered anything.  
   "Oh good," I heard Joe say, "bourbon."  He sighed and lifted his shot-glass.
   "Hah!"  Buzzy said...and let me just say here, that it is very odd calling someone by a nickname that you don't understand, especially a nickname like "Buzzy."  "What'sa matter, Dan," Buzzy went on, "you don't like bourbon?"  
   Joe looked up to see that Buzzy was looking at him.  "Who the hell is Dan?"  Joe asked.  Buzzy indicated toward Joe's shirt.  "Oh that, no, I don't work at a gas-station."
   "Well, who does?"  Buzzy roared out.
   "Dan," Joe answered.  I saw Rick lean over the bar and look down at me with a confused expression on his face.  I have to admit, for some reason that version of  our running joke didn't sound quite right, but I didn't get it to begin with so I just shrugged at Rick and looked back at Buzzy as his laughter died down.  All three of us raised our shots this time and clinked glasses.  "To..."  Joe began.
   "To Buzzy," Rick suddenly shouted. 
   "Okay then, to Buzzy."  Joe said.  We threw back our drinks.  Then I made a horrible grimace and shuddered.  
   Buzzy moved down the bar, shook hands with Ralph and gave Cynthia a kiss on the cheek.  He took out a mug and began to pour Ralph a cup of coffee when Ralph stopped him.  "I think I'll have a shot of whiskey first, Buzz."  I realized that Buzz was a lot better than "Buzzy."  I had time to ponder this because Buzz wasn't doing anything, he was just taking a good, long look at Ralph.  Then he turned and looked at Cynthia.
   "Make it two," Cynthia said.
   "Hell, I'll make it three," Buzz said quietly.  He poured three shots of whiskey and put two in front of Ralph and Cynthia.  Buzz lifted his shot and left it hanging in the air, waiting to see what the other two would do.  Cynthia lifted her glass and then Ralph lifted his.  "What're we drinking to?"  Buzz growled.
   "To Isabelle," Ralph said matter of factly, "to Isabelle and to Cynthia."  
   Buzz gave a solemn nod and drank his shot followed by Cynthia.  Ralph stared at his drink for awhile...for a long while.  He seemed to be entirely somewhere else.  Then he blinked and poured his whiskey out onto the floor.  
   For some reason the splashing sound it made as it hit the floor didn't sound so good to my ears, and the two shots of vodka began to have a little dispute in my stomach with the shot of bourbon.  
   "Buzz," I said thickly.  "Buzz, where's the bathroom in this place?"  He pointed to a doorway towards the back.  
   When I got to the bathroom I splashed some cold water on my face and took a deep breath.  Then I took a paper towel and dried up the water.  I stared at myself in the mirror for I don't know how long.  
   Suddenly, I heard the door open behind me and I looked up to see Ralph in the mirror.  "You all right?"  He asked.
   "Yeah," I said meekly, "I guess that last shot isn't sitting so well."  I made a grimace to show him how sick I was feeling.  "Maybe I should stick with beer."
   "Good idea," he said.  "Now come on.  Cynthia says you owe her a drink." 
   "I thought she was driving?"  I asked.  
   Ralph looked at me strangely.  “She never drives,” he said.  He walked out the bathroom door and I followed him back to the bar where Rick and Joe were beginning to get very talkative.  I was pretty sure they had done another shot while I was in the bathroom and I didn't feel like matching them shot for shot, so I bought Cynthia her drink and bought myself a beer and wandered away from the bar.  
   "I'm going to go check out the jukebox," I said over my shoulder as I walked away.  
   I walked back to the jukebox and took a look at the bar's music selection.  Then I noticed a dart board, but I couldn't find the darts.  Then I just took a seat in an empty booth.  The place was sort of full, so if I didn't come back from the jukebox it would probably just seem like I had ended up talking to someone on the way back.  Not that I actually felt like talking to anyone.  
   I tossed my pack of cigarettes onto the table and rummaged around in my pockets for my lighter.  As I was searching I noticed that the table was covered in writing.  There were tons of quotes all over the wood.  Most of them were written in black magic marker, but one was carved into the wood itself.  It was intricately done.  I doubt I could have carved words that small and have them still be legible.  It was on the center of the table but whoever had carved it had sat in the booth across from me.  As a result I was looking at the carving upside-down.  I kneeled on the seat of the booth and leaned over the table to read what it said: "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls."  That, of course, is from Simon and Garfunkel's Sound of Silence.  Any of the other quotes that intersected that one were written on top of the carving, so I figured it was either one of the first ones, or the first one there. 
   I sat back in my seat and traced the carving with my finger as I nursed my beer.  I looked up at some point and noticed that the bar was filling up even more.  There was something strange about the atmosphere in the place.  It took me awhile to realize that there was a lot of mingling going on.  Nobody was only staying with the group they came in with.  It was like everybody knew everybody else, which I guess they probably did.  The bar still seemed awfully crowded to me, but I did some quick math and figured out that it was Friday night.  
   While I was thinking all this, Rick wandered past the booth and noticed me.  He plopped down across from me and put something on the table.  He was pretty drunk.
   "Looka this," he said, and showed me what he had been holding.  It was a pepper shaker.  He unscrewed the top and then screwed it back on before taking if off one more time.  "See?"  Rick said.  He held the top of the pepper shaker up for me to examine.  
   "What about it?"  I asked.
   "These grooves here," Rick answered.  He pointed at the top of the shaker, then looked up at me to make sure I was paying attention, then he went back to pointing at the shaker.  "It's juss one big groove," he went on.  "See how they fit together.  One big groove.  And this one slides down that one and, presto," he looked up at me with pride as he screwed the cap back on the pepper shaker.  "Now they're back together."
   I nodded at him and then stood up.  He smiled and unscrewed the pepper shaker yet again.  "Juss one big groove," he said. 
   I was about to head towards another part of the bar, but looking down at Rick playing with his new toy I had to ask.  "How many shots did you guys do, Rick?"  
   He looked up at me and then looked around the booth I had just been sharing with him.  "I dunno," he said.  "You seen my beer?" 
   "You didn't have a beer when you came over here, Rick."
   "I guess I finished it," he said.  Only, his words were all running together, so what he actually said was, "I gueshIfinishtit."  Rick gave up looking for his beer and looked up at me, "The policeman bought me that one."
   "The cops are here?"  I asked, panicking a little.  Then I thought for a second.  "A policeman bought you a beer?"  I asked Rick.  
   He answered me with a good deal of pointing for emphasis.  "Yes.  Yes he did.  The tequila was kind of rough so we decided a beer would be a good idea.  But I guess I finished that one."
   I shook my head and clapped him on the shoulder as I walked past.  I was headed towards the front of the bar when I found some random guy standing in front of me.
   "You looking for the other gas-men?"  He asked.
   "Yup," I said without really thinking about it.
   "I just was talking to Dan over there," he said, indicated the far front end of the bar.  "I'm guessing you're Ralph?  Hey!"  He suddenly said.  "You've got the same name as Ralph."  I nodded to this guy and continued walking toward the front.  I noticed Joe sitting on one of the barstools talking to a couple of other people.  He noticed me walking toward him.
   "Tom!"  He yelled.  "Tom'll know," he said to the other people.  "Tom, what's the song that Big Bird sings about the ABC's?  I think it's got the same tune as Let It Be or something like that.  You know the song I'm talking about."  I held up my hands to indicate ignorance.  "You know," Joe insisted.  "It's Big Bird and he's got some weird red things around him and he's singing about A and B and C.  You know."  I shrugged again and smiled as I walked by.  
   I found an empty seat at the bar and realized that I had left my cigarettes at the booth with Rick.  There was a matchbook on the bar and I began to light matches, watching each one flare up and die.  The dull roar of conversation was all around me as I sat there and I found myself wishing to be back on the road.  Only, I didn't want to be on the road out of Ralph's house, I wanted to be somewhere in Illinois with Kevin still with us.  There wasn't a whole lot of time left on our road trip.  It was suddenly all flying by and I wasn't even that sure that we'd have a lot of time to hang out at Glacier National Park.  I just wanted to be able to sit still for awhile and not have to worry about driving somewhere else.  On the other hand, I didn't want to be where I was.  That left me with a desire to get back on the road as quickly as possible because I didn't want to be on the road anymore.  The only problem was I didn't know where I wanted to go.  I struck a match and smelled the sulfur as it exploded into flame.  There was barely any time left for Glacier.  There was barely any time left for anything.  In a few days I would drop Rick and Joe off at the airport.  This had made some sort of sense a long time ago.  Back when the whole country was in front of us it had made sense.  Something was supposed to have happened somewhere between point A and point B, but it hadn't, and now I was feeling horribly rushed.  I wanted to be alone but I didn't want to have Rick and Joe go all the way back to the other side of the country.  Kevin was on the west coast.  He had told me the name of the beach he usually went to in order to write in his journal.  I didn't want to meet up with Kevin, though.  I didn't want to do anything except be back in Pennsylvania and try this whole trip over again.  
   I lit another match and watched it burn from white to orange.  I guess we would spend what time we could in Glacier, then drive straight into LA to drop everyone off but me.  But Glacier wasn't supposed to be a brief stop, it was supposed to be the destination of our trip.  
   I lit another match and stared into the flame.  I stared, hypnotized, for a long while, trying to figure out just what I was staring at.  
   Suddenly Rick was on my left and Joe was on my right and one of them had their arm around me and the other was trying to get Buzz's attention.  
   "We're gonna do a shot," Rick said to me, smiling hugely.  "We're gonna do shot to Ralph."  I was pretty sure that if I did a shot I was, most definitely, going to ralph.  I managed to keep it down, and then Rick and Joe started having a conversation over my head, babbling about something or another.  I didn't want to be there.  
   We stayed until the bar closed and then we all piled into the pickup truck, which Joe insisted on calling the hick-up truck.  The rain was still coming down and we all had to cram into the front seat.  Rick fell asleep on my arm and Joe kept fiddling with the radio until he got The Who to come in with no static.  I stared out at the rain.  I watched a drop on the window swell and bloat until it got too big and went running down bumping into other drops along the way.  I saw the lights of a gas station twinkling off the highway somewhere and couldn't help thinking how lonely it all looked...


   15
   
   ...I closed my journal and took a deep breath.  My eyes were begin to feel the strain of reading page after page of my handwriting, which is illegible at its best.  I blinked them hard a couple of times and wandered upstairs to my computer.  I had wanted to read the firsthand version before, but now the version that was typed out on my computer was calling to me.  I never knew why I bothered to write all of this down.  Kevin had suggested I do it.  It started as just an exercise in writing, something to do to clear my head, then I realized that I wasn't going to stop after just telling about a few of the incidents on the trip.  I was going to write the entire thing out.  That was when I started copying it onto my hard drive.  I had hopes once of sharing this story with someone other than me.  That had never happened.  It had ended up complete but unread by anyone else.  Now, though, I think it's going to make it out.  That's really why I ended up upstairs at my computer, I wanted to add a few things here and there to make it clear that this story is being revisited for your sake, Jack.  Well...your sake and Joe's sake. 
   I also walked upstairs because I needed a break from reading.  Another cup of coffee in my kitchen looking out at the night was in order before I started on the rest of the trip.  
   The trip was now measured in concrete things like days and hours instead of vague notions of next week.  The clock was ticking, each swing of my mental pendulum brought me closer to the west coast and the end of my little experiment in salvation.  
   I wrote somewhere in Yellowstone that those were the worst days of the trip.  I guess that's true.  I felt awful watching Joe and Rick, unable to join them, but the thoughts that came up after Montana were darker...so much darker.  Too dark for me to really look at entirely rationally.  Such thoughts, when they turn thirty years old, take on a strange quality.  It would be like if I had worn a giant duck costume for the rest of the trip for reasons that were now lost to me.  Such a situation would make me wearing a giant duck costume seem even stranger than normal, because such a bizarre act should have some sort of drive behind it.  Some drive that I can still understand.  I've lost track of the drive I had at the end of the trip, leaving me with a very bold plan of action that doesn't quite make sense anymore.  I don't know, just keep reading, you'll figure it out.
   At the beginning of our trip, Glacier was to be the place.  And then I was to drop off Joe and Rick in LA and continue on my way for reasons that nobody, I'm sure, really understood, mainly because I never explained it to anyone.  Ralph, however, had taken over our Glacier time and we never made it up there.  That's all coming up.  I'm getting ahead of myself. 
   I stood in my kitchen with my cup of coffee and on an impulse I decided to go stand out on my front steps.  It was kind of spooky outside.  It was probably two in the morning at this point and absolutely nobody else was awake anywhere close to me.  All of the windows around me were dark except for mine.  
   I walked back inside and grabbed my journal and headed upstairs to my computer.  The screen flared white when I opened up this document and I realized that I hadn't turned the light on when I came in.  I decided to leave it off and scrolled through these pages, looking for where I had left off.  The glare of the computer couldn't be any worse for my eyes than trying to read my own handwriting.  It was strange to see everything I had gone through that summer reduced to pixels as it rolled up the screen past my eyes.  I stopped when I reached the point where Joe and Rick were running around hammered in that bar in Montana.  
   Somehow I feel I'm not doing my friends justice, letting them sit there in word form.  I can see them so clearly in my mind, some days more clearly than others.  It all seems so long ago sometimes, and it's thoughts like that which have kept me maintaining radio silence with Joe.  Who cares that much about people they haven't seen in about five or six years, which isn't exactly true, since I saw Joe five months ago.  And even if I hadn't seen him in thirty years, I still should definitely do something.  He saved my life, in a way...not that he ever really pieced that together.  Not that I ever really pieced that together.  
   It's certainly not like he was just another friend, neither him nor Rick.  They were both in my life since high-school started, and everything before that is kind of a blur, which means they were in my life for my whole life.  Or something.  I don't know, some memories are so clear, much clearer than these words seem to make them.  I can see Joe standing next to me the night both of us were supposed to meet Molly.  Rick had been so on edge that night that Joe had even ceased making fun of her name.  I'm going to try and play the game where I place this memory in time, so bear with me.  
   This was after Joe had started working as a teaching assistant during grad school.  This was definitely well after we had moved out of that little apartment where I slept next to the bathtub.  Rick had found a single and Joe and I had found a double and Rick would be over at our apartment after work every night anyway so not a whole lot changed, except that we didn't have to climb over the couch to get into the kitchen.  And then Rick didn't show up so often after work and then he told us that he had invited Molly over to our place for a drink before they went out.
   "I still can't believe you're seeing someone named Molly, Rick," Joe said.
   "No no no," Rick babbled.  "No talking about her name, Joe.  Okay?"
   "Come on, now, Rick," I said.  "What do you think he's going to do, start making fun of her as soon as she walks in the door or something?"
   "Yeah," Joe chimed in.  "I'm at least going to wait until she sits down before I start making fun of her."  
   Which had set Rick on edge again and then we both just had to relent or risk shaking Rick to pieces.  I have never seen him that nervous in my life, and he had introduced us to the occasional girl here and there with no disasters commencing.  But he was just floating around the apartment fidgeting with the lights, the blinds, the music that was on, everything.  "This just has to go perfect is all," Rick said as he flipped through the CD's choosing yet another song to have on when Molly showed up.  
   Joe looked over at me and I gave him a big, "I have no idea either," kind of shrug.  
   "And what about you, Tom?"  He asked.
   I knew what he was talking about.  "I don't know."  I said plainly.  "I just don't know.  Just never seems to work out."
   "What about Amy's friend Kimberly?  She seems pretty friendly towards you and she's beautiful and smart."
   "I don't know.  What's the point?"  I asked as Rick finally chose something on the CD player and then came over to watch us to make sure we weren't making fun of Molly's name.
   "Oh, come on, Quint," Joe said.  "Amy and I will meet for a drink and I'll have her bring Kim and I'll bring you.  It'll be fun."
   I sighed.  "Okay.  All right.  I'll go out with the beautiful smart girl, but just for you."  Rick was nodding his head frantically during this conversation, constantly okaying what was being said.  "Where is Amy tonight?"  I asked Joe.
   "Oh, she had to go to Houston on business.  She'll be gone for two days or so."  He started biting on his thumbnail with a gloom on his face.  "Hey," he said suddenly, "when is this Holly girl supposed to show up?"  Rick's eyes opened wide in panic to such a degree that Joe put his hand up apologetically.  "Whoa, whoa there Rick.  I'm sorry.  Molly.  It's Molly, just Molly.  I promise."
   After that there was a buzz at the intercom and Rick let Molly into the building and then he opened the door for her.  She was a fairly little girl with big blue eyes and Rick let her in and said, "Molly, this is Tom," and I shook her hand and said hello, "and Joe," and Joe shook her hand and said hello and then all four of us just stood there.  I guess with Rick's nervous energy Joe and I had expected him to, you know, say something at this point, but he just stood there grinning.
   "Rick?"  She asked, eyeing him a little strangely, which I guess we were all doing.  "Now is when you tell me to come in and sit down and offer me something to drink or eat."
   "What?"  Rick practically screamed.  "Yes!  Beer!"
   Molly just laughed and as she walked in to the apartment she took Joe and me by the arms and walked us over to the couch.  "Now, I want you two to tell me everything there is to know about Rick.  He talks so much about you that I feel like I went to your high-school.  For starters," she asked as she sat us down on the couch, "does he always act like this around you two?"  
   Rick and Molly never made it out that night.  The four of us ended up ordering in and having some beers with me and Joe prying all sorts of interesting information out of Molly.  Like where they had met, and how Rick had asked her out, and what he was like on their first date and on and on. 
   I keep wondering where Joe has gone, and how Rick was allowed to leave so soon.  I wish I could call Rick and bring him with me to see Joe.  Of course if Rick were still here then I wouldn't have seen Joe five months ago and this wouldn't be such a big nagging issue in my head.  I don't know.  Maybe if Joe had started a family like Rick instead of just getting married.  Or maybe…I don't know.  I've never been good at analyzing these things.  I think that's why I'm scared to go see Joe.  If it were Rick and me, we could team up on him. When he shot one of us down the other could step up, but Joe can run circles around me.  He always could.  I doubt I'd get a single ball into his side of the court that he won't slam back in my face.  Plus...plus I just don't know why I'd bother.  Maybe, though, that's why I should bother.  Because it doesn't seem fair that I can't remember why I would bother to go see Joe any more.  Just doesn't make sense. 
   I don't know.  I do know that I'm getting way ahead of myself yet again.  I've still got a few more states to go and what, to me, are some of the scariest thoughts a person can ever think.  
   It had still been raining the next morning when we all woke up to leave Ralph's house.  I got drenched just sitting on the stoop having a cigarette.  I can remember Joe trotting towards me after having put something in the car.  He had the collar of his gas-shirt up and was hunched in on himself to avoid the rain.  I can remember him yelling as he ran across Ralph's front lawn toward the step I was sitting on.  His slightly laughing yell, amazed that it was raining that hard, growing in volume as he ran towards me.  "Holy...

   
   16
   
   crap!"  Joe shouted at me through the rain.  He stopped on the steps and stood next to me, out of breath from his run and sniffling from the water running down his face.  "It's like a God-damned swimming pool out here.  You should come inside, you can finish your smoke in the kitchen."
   I craned my neck around and looked up at him.  I shrugged.  "It's just rain," I said.  
   "Yeah," he said.  "Okay."  Then he went through the door.  Rick and Joe were packing up the trunk.  I had already packed up the back seat.  I was happy with that arrangement.  I really didn't feel like dealing with all the stuff we had to cram back into the trunk.  
   We settled the bill with Ralph and then we all filed by Cynthia at the front door and gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek.  She said good-bye to all of us and stood in the doorway to see us off.  Ralph followed us out to the car.  He looked at Rick.  "Why don't you drive, Kerouac," he said.  "I think Quint had more to drink than you last night."  I was pretty sure that Rick had drunk more than Joe and me combined.  I started to protest but then decided that the back seat might actually be kind of peaceful.  I climbed in and settled down with all the bags.
   Rick stood outside the car, opened the driver's door and put his hand out for Ralph to shake.  "Don't accept any wooden trilobites, Kerouac," Ralph said, and shook his hand.  Then Rick climbed into the driver's seat.  
   Ralph looked at me, huddling in the back, through the open door.  I was waiting for one of his speeches or lectures.  He opened his mouth to say something once or twice, but ended up closing it again.  Finally he just took a deep breath and let it out thoughtfully.  "Live messy, Quint," he said after that.  Then he held my gaze for awhile before shutting the door and standing up to look across the canvas roof at Joe.
   "See ya, Joe," Ralph said.
   "Yeah," Joe said.  It was odd to see Joe at a loss for words.  
   Both of them were getting pretty soaked standing outside saying nothing to each other.  Then Ralph said something I couldn't hear and walked back towards the house.  Joe climbed into the car and closed the door.  Rick started the engine and we pulled out of the driveway.  As we drove off I could see Ralph and Cynthia standing by their front door watching us go.
   "What did he say?"  I asked Joe.
   "He said, 'Keep all your kings in the back row."  Joe answered.
   "What's that mean?"  I asked.
   "It means that I should keep all my kings in the back row," Joe answered.
   That wasn't especially helpful.  It was obvious that Joe didn't want to talk.  "What about you, Rick?"  I asked.  "What did Ralph say to you just then?  No wooden trilobites?  What's that mean?"
   "Well," Rick said.  Then he didn't say anything, he just kind of screwed his eyebrows up trying to find the right words.  "Well," he said again, "I guess it means not to accept any wooden trilobites."  
   Joe chuckled then turned to Rick.  "I guess I'll finish this off," Joe said.  "Hey, Quint," he asked, turning to face me in the back seat.  "What did Ralph say to you?"  
   "He said, 'Live messy.'"
   "And what does that mean?"  Joe continued.
   I stayed quiet longer than Rick had.  "I don't have any idea," I finally answered.  "Forget I brought this up to begin with."
   Joe shrugged and then put on The Joshua Tree as we headed toward the highway.  We didn't talk about where we were going, the only thing that could be heard was the music.  Our final destination was to be Glacier National Park, after that we would drive straight to LA airport and I would drop Joe and Rick off.  Then I was going on alone.  
   A clap of thunder boomed over us and I settled deeper into the back seat.  I was reclined across the width of the car, my legs resting on the luggage that was behind Rick.  Something was very wrong.  I knew for certain that I shouldn't be sitting in the car as it drove closer to LA.  I just wasn't supposed to be there.  I wanted to shout into the front seat that they should let me out, but that didn't seem to make any sense.  I felt like I was hurtling towards something, clawing at everything around me to slow myself down, but everything just kept going faster and faster and I couldn't place anything correctly in my mind.  I began to constantly shift around in the back seat, unable to comfortably lie there in any position.  
   As we drove along the only sounds came from U2 playing over the radio.  We came closer and closer to Route 15.  That was the highway we'd have to take to get to Glacier National Park.  "Anyone hungry?"  Joe asked from the front seat.  
   Rick turned to look at him.  "Yeah.  I could eat." 
   "Quint?"  Joe turned around and asked.  
   "Sure," I said.  "I'll eat."
   He nodded and we pulled off at the next exit that advertised food.  We walked out of the gray day and into a McDonalds.  Nothing on the menu really looked all that good to me, but I ordered a burger anyway and sat with Joe and Rick staring at my food.  I thought I was going to spit out the first bite I took.  I was positive that I wasn't going to be able to swallow it; it just sat in my mouth like a lump of cement.  I managed to make myself gulp and then I pushed my food away from me and sat there staring.  Some kids were running around shrieking and yelling while their mom was at the counter ordering for them.  They were hitting pitches with their screams that sounded like metal scratching glass.  It was all I could do to not shout at them to shut up.
   When we got back into the car Rick opened up our road atlas.  "We're almost at highway fifteen," he said.  "We turn north there for Glacier."  Everyone nodded and seemed fine with that.  "Look," he went on, "this rain doesn't seem like it's about to let up.  Maybe we should scratch Glacier."
   "And go where?"  Joe asked.
   I sat up very abruptly in the back seat.
   Rick flipped through the atlas and found the states south of us.  First was Idaho, then came, "Utah," he said.  "It's a desert down there.  It doesn't rain in the desert."
   "Let's hope not," Joe said smiling.  "We're practically underwater here."
   Rick flipped back to the Montana map.  "Okay," he said.  "So we pick up fifteen and head south..."  He trailed off as he noticed me leaning over the seat looking at the northern part of Montana.  I was looking at Glacier Park.  "Why," Rick asked excitedly, "are you looking up there?  You know what's up there?"  He spat on the top part of the map.  "Rain, that's what's up there."
   Joe started laughing pretty hard.  He took out his lighter, sparked it up and held it over the bottom of the map.  "But down south it's warm and dry."  He wandered the flame over the lands south of Montana.  "Ahhhh," he said.  "Nothing but sunshine for weeks and weeks on end."  
   "We're going to Glacier," I suddenly said.  "We can't...I mean...we have to..."  I trailed off, tripping over what I wanted to say. 
   "Quint," Joe said.  "I know that was the plan, but I don't feel like sitting in a tent for two days wondering when the rain will start to leak in.  Utah is on the way to where we're going, too.  We don't have that many days left so it'd probably be best if we started heading in a generally southern direction."
   He said that part about not having many days left so casually, like it didn't mean that much to him.  Joe was still talking but I just nodded and waved at him and slumped back into the back seat and closed my eyes and gave up.  
   Rick fired up the engine and we pulled out of the McDonalds parking lot heading toward route fifteen.  We hung a left there and were pointed toward Idaho and Utah. 
   Joe flipped through the atlas until he found Utah, then he began to study the page.  He looked up after a little bit.  "There's a park called Zion in southern Utah.  Maybe we should check that out."
   Rick nodded from the driver's seat.  "Okay," he said, "we'll hang out there for a day or so and then start moving west.  Zion...that's an odd name.  What's that mean?"
   Joe looked back at the map.  "I dunno," he answered.  "I'm pretty sure it's a place in Palestine somewhere.  I think. I'll look it up when I get a chance."
   "What's it look like?"  Rick asked.
   "It looks like a red square on the map, Rick."
   "Oh," Rick answered.  "Sweet."  Joe chuckled and then began to study the map again, flipping around at random from state to state.
   The rain cleared up by Idaho and I stared out at the state flying past us.  Joe and Rick were talking about something or another and their chatter drifted back to me as I tried to sink deeper into my position reclined across both back seats.  I felt so exhausted and I turned my face so it was right up against the back of the seat.  My fate had just been decided for me.  I stared at my dad's watch on my wrist.  I had told my cousin Jimmy that I was going to make it to Glacier National Park.  I had promised him that, actually.  Now that was out of the picture and we were constantly putting miles between us and Montana.  I looked at the watch on my wrist and hoped that Jimmy was happy and having a good time wherever he was in Europe. 
   For a whole state I sat like that, and I certainly didn't feel like moving when we stopped for dinner at a Wendy's in  Provo.  The sun was setting as I climbed into the back seat for the final stretch down Utah.  There was a stop for gas every now and then, but other than that it was straight driving and I didn't leave my spot the entire time.  We made it to Zion National Park at around midnight.  
   Rick turned off the highway and immediately got lost.  Rick was making his third k-turn when Joe spoke up.  "Um, Rick?  Do you know where you are?"
   "Of course," Rick said putting the car into reverse.  
   "So you know how to get to Zion."  Joe said.
   "Absolutely not," Rick answered as he put the car into first and finished the k-turn.  
   Joe smiled.  "Pull off into this parking lot."  I didn't see any of this from my vantage point in the back seat.  All I knew was that we could keep driving forever and never find the park for all I cared.  Joe and Rick piled out of the car and I heard them talking outside.  Apparently there was a map on the other side of the lot.  I'm not sure where we were parked, it wasn't next to a building or anything.  It might have been the beginning of a trail or something like that.  I heard Joe pop his head into the car.  "This is the wrong exit," he said.  "We've got to drive farther south on fifteen and then drive even more on another little highway before we even get to the park."
   I didn't realize that he was talking to me until I heard him outside telling Rick that I was asleep, which I was a little while later.
   I was woken up by the car door slamming.  It was too soon to be getting out of the car.  I opened my eyes and saw Joe looking at me from the passenger seat.  "We're not gonna bother with the tent.  Rick's pulling our sleeping bags out of the trunk.  We'll just sleep under the stars.  We're not really sure if we're even in a campsite, but Rick and I are exhausted and don't feel like dealing."
   I nodded.  I could handle a two foot walk to the ground.  We all lay down in the dirt and scrub grass of what we hoped was a campsite and in a little while I heard Rick begin to snore.  I lay awake for awhile trying to figure out if I was going to miss Joe and Rick after I dropped them off in LA.  I tried to think of everything that I definitely was going to miss and those were the thoughts that accompanied me to sleep.
   
   
   17
   
   There was a lot of yelling when we got up the next morning.  We were nowhere near a campsite and we were being kicked out by a park ranger who was pretty angry.  We bumped into each other trying to pack up and sheepishly followed the ranger to the official camping area.  He treated us like idiots because we didn't know the standard procedure for renting a campsite at Zion National Park.  Any question we asked him was twisted around to make it seem like were as clueless as a bunch of two year olds.
   When we settled that mess we drove to the park center and spent a good deal of time figuring out where the trails were and how we got to them and which ones were strenuous and which ones were lighter walks.  We finally made it out of there and decided to take the hike up to Observation Point.  It was a huge walk uphill, but we weren't looking for an easy one mile hike on the ground.  
   Joe remembered passing a grocery store outside the park.  We bought a hunk of cheddar cheese and some Triscuits and a summer sausage.  We bought firewood for that night and a bunch of bottles of Gatorade for the hike.  We dropped the camp supplies off, pitched our tent, and drove to the trailhead.  
   Nobody was saying much.  Everyone, even me, was too busy being awed by our surroundings.  When the sun had risen that morning it had revealed that we were in a massive canyon.  The walls rose almost straight up, so high and narrow that the sun only actually shined into the canyon for a few hours a day.  A tiny little river had carved all of this out of rock.  It was barely a brook down by the campsites, but as we drove toward the trails, it grew into a stream or river.  The water level was low and boulders broke through the river all over the place.  Sometimes it was shallow enough to let its bed of sand show through.  
   As we drove north, the canyon narrowed and the sides became steeper, if that was possible.  The parking lot was full at the trail head and we had to park along the side of the road at the end of a long line of parked cars that ended a good distance from where we wanted to be.  We were winded before we even got to the start of the trail.
   I gathered that our trail was going to go into the side of the canyon.  It led to the top of the eastern cliff, winding it's way into it and popping out above it all.  The first part of the hike was just a series of switch-backs walking back and forth waaaaaay up the canyon wall.
   We didn't talk much on the way up, it was too strenuous.  The morning faded away pretty quickly.  We were scattered all along the path as we hiked.  I would be way behind, and then pass Joe and Rick taking a break not to far apart.  A few minutes later, I would be resting and I would nod to Joe and then Rick as they passed by me, one after another.  There were tons of people at this point on the trail.  It wasn't that far of a hike and it kept the parking lot in view and provided some nice scenery of the main canyon.
   We finally made it to the top of the switch-backs.  The trail split here and we were to follow the left branch, into a side canyon that had cracked itself into the cliff we had been walking up.  We headed into this and I lost all track of direction.  We were inside the eastern canyon wall and the stretch of visible blue sky became even thinner.  It didn't look like a stream had carved this particular area.  I figured that maybe it was runoff from God knows how many rain storms that had slowly turned a shallow part of the rock into its own canyon.  
   I started getting incredibly antsy at that point on the trail.  I was seething with frustration and helplessness.  A small whimper came out of my mouth and I kicked a stone as hard as I could off the trail and into the canyon we were walking along.  I wanted out.
   Rick was ahead of me a little later in the hike.  He tossed a pack of cigarettes into the air over his head and they landed right on my chest as I walked forward.  I caught them and looked up to see Rick grin at me before turning forward and hiking on with a cigarette in his mouth.  I shook my head at him as I lit up a cigarette and kept walking.  
   I was getting very confused about how the trail we were on related to the canyon we had slept in last night.  We were in another canyon, apparently off to the side of the main canyon.  There were a few pine trees here and there on the right hand side of the trail.  On the left hand side of the trail was the canyon wall.  At one point we were at a spot where you could see through the pine trees on the right and I saw that the land over there sloped away, much deeper than I had expected.  I couldn't figure it out.  I thought that maybe we were walking up the base of this second canyon, but apparently the trail was cut into the side of this other canyon.  At one point we were definitely surrounded by stone.  The sloping pine trees had disappeared on our right and for some reason the trail was leading us through various boulder formations.  We were walking on a bed of sand and had to scramble with two story rocks towering over either side of us.  
   We passed a few people at this point on the trail, the few brave souls who had ventured out of the parking lot.  There weren't many and we exchanged a greeting with the few people we passed before leaving them to continue on their journey as we continued on ours.  Every time I thought I had the landscape figured out I'd look in one direction or another and find myself stumped by a view of a canyon where a wall should be or a wall where a cliff should be or something different than what I thought should be there.  
   The trail finally turned back on itself and we were headed west, towards the edge of the cliff we had first started walking up.  Nobody was around us.  Nobody else had made it this far up through the maze that we had just walked through.  The second canyon seemed to have even more canyons running off of it and hinted at the fact that it would eventually get narrower and narrower until it closed off...and then what?  Was there a large plateau where the second canyon ended, farther east of Zion's main canyon?  
   We headed west on the empty confusing trail and then it started to level off somehow, which was puzzling since we were, as far as I could tell, walking up a canyon wall.  And then I noticed that what we were walking on looked just like a trail in level country.  There was flat land around us and that didn't make sense because there was supposed to be at least two canyons somewhere around us.  I was completely lost, but I hoped that Observation Point would clear this up, seeing as how it should provide a view of everything and make it easier to map it all out.  
   It turned out that there was no Observation Point.  It was, in fact, an entire plateau, choppy with little rock formations and covered in brush and stunted trees.  The main Zion canyon was in front of us, but behind us was still a mystery and there was no way at all to tell how we had made it up to the top.  The view, taken by itself, was gorgeous, but as I looked around trying to find the parking lot where we had started and the switch-backs with all the people on them I began to confuse myself even more.  Where we were standing was as isolated as any other point in the trail.  It offered no solutions to that other, side canyon and where it ended up if you followed it, or what was behind us since there were rock formations blocking our view, or what happened to Zion's main canyon as it wound itself farther north.  I was at the end and nothing was any clearer.
   We all sat down on a natural rock bench and made little sandwiches out of the cheese, crackers and sausages we had bought.  We ate in silence and after we ate we all had a post-lunch cigarette.  Joe and Rick wandered off to explore the plateau.  I looked up about five seconds later and I was alone.  
   The way everything was scattered around and on different levels made it impossible to see anyone who had stepped out of your particular clearing.  I finished my cigarette and flicked it towards one of the bushes.  As I watched it burn itself out on the ground I noticed how out of place it looked.  I couldn't figure out why.  There were plenty of other cigarette butts on the ground.  I sat there staring at them and realized that they all looked out of place.  I picked up every cigarette butt in my clearing and sat back down.  It looked a lot better, nothing out of place.  Except maybe me.  I wasn't supposed to be there, but I couldn't exactly look at the place without me in it.
   I walked back over to the edge and stood there, looking out at the canyon.  I was at the top of the world and the view still couldn't explain anything to me.  I walked to the edge of the canyon and stared down, down at the tiny flecks of color that were cars driving up the road that wound through the canyon.  I stared down and felt the wind rushing up past my face, blowing back my hair and I spread my arms out at my side as I leaned forward and stared at the ground.
   Rick walked into my clearing from the left.  "You ready to go?"  He asked.
   I jumped a little bit and turned to face Rick.  I was breathing kind of heavily and I calmed down a bit before answering, "Why do we have to go so soon?  Feels like we just got here."
   "Yeah, I know, but..." he pointed north towards the narrower end of the canyon.
   "That is so perfect it's not even funny," I said.  A storm was coming in.  The outermost, light gray clouds were already almost upon us.  "We'd better get moving."
   We located Joe and started back down the trail.  It seemed a lot shorter on the way down, but it still wasn't exactly a pleasant stroll in the park.  On the way up we had to fight gravity to keep moving.  On the way down we had to fight gravity to stop moving, otherwise we'd just sort of bop along, picking up speed until we fell flat on our faces.  
   My knees started to ache and I had finished off the last of my Gatorade at lunch.  I looked up and realized that I probably wouldn't be very thirsty in a few minutes; in a few minutes I would be soaked.
   The storm held until we made it to the car.  The parking lot was mobbed with people getting out of the rain.  It was crowded and paved over and nothing compared to where we had just been, and where none of these people had gone.  A few drops were sprinkling us as we threw our bags into the trunk and we actually drove back out of the storm when we headed south to our campsite.  
   Our tent stayed dry throughout the entire storm.  It lasted for a few hours, keeping us confined until well after sunset.  Rick had some granola bars in his bag and we ate those instead of heading out into the rain for dinner.  I played cards with Rick and chatted a bit with Joe, but mostly there was just silence as we listened to the rain pattering against the nylon roof of our tent. 
   Everybody was exhausted and Joe was asleep before the storm even passed.  Rick and I soon followed him.  We didn't even step outside to see the stars breaking through the clouds.

   
   18
   
   The next day we woke up late and stepped outside to stretch in the mid-morning sun.  It was lunch time, so Rick and I ran into town and picked up some hot-dogs and a can of beans while Joe built a fire.  We cooked the hot dogs on sticks and heated the beans in the can they came in.
   "What're we gonna do today?"  That was Rick.  He was lying on a boulder in the sun.
   "I dunno," Joe said.  "We could just hang out here in the campsite."
   You could almost see Rick deflate with relief when Joe said that.  None of us felt much like doing anything except sitting around until it was time to move on. 
   "Yeah, maybe go check out that stream over there," I waved my arm, indicating the direction that Zion's stream lay in.
   Joe shrugged.  "I was just gonna sit and read, try to catch some sun."
   "Sounds good," Rick said.  "Do you mind if I take the car into town, Tom?  I wanna pick up some chips and stuff."  I hesitated for a bit, then tossed him the keys and he drove off.
   I toyed around with the fire until Rick came back.  He took two bags of groceries out of the back seat and brought a bag of Frito's over to his rock.  I grabbed a six-pack of Mountain Dew and wandered through the campground to the stream.
   The water level had risen since yesterday's storm.  There was only an occasional rock breaking through the water into the sunshine.  The water, though, was still maybe waist deep.  I took off my shirt and sat down in a shallow area, keeping my six-pack chilled in the water.  At one point I picked up some skipping stones, but the stream was too narrow.  Everything I skipped bounced once and then ended up hitting the bank.  I eventually just lay on my back in the cool water and drank Mountain Dew.
   Rick came over awhile later and swam around for a bit.  After he had floated his way downstream he swam back to the area I was lying in.  "When do you think we'll head out?"  He asked.
   "I dunno."  I said.
   "We should probably leave as soon as we're ready tomorrow," Rick said.  "Then after we spend a night in Vegas we drive to LA and Joe and I catch our plane.  And then you...what?"
   "Then I keep going without you guys."  I said, being evasive.
   Rick opened a can of soda and drank a sip.  He leaned back in the water and rested the can on his stomach.  "Right," he said.  "Are you going to look up Kevin?"
   "Oh yeah, probably," I lied, to Rick I thought, to myself as it turned out.
   He nodded and went back to balancing his soda can on his stomach.  I watched him for awhile before drifting off into thought, and then into a light doze.
   That was how we spent the second day at Zion--just sitting there, not doing much of anything.  We cooked and ate the rest of the package of hot dogs for dinner and sat outside watching the sunset and the stars coming out.  Once we were all through for the day and had nothing left to do but sit until we were ready for bed we started talking.  Eventually we ran out of things to say and we all climbed into the tent to sleep, worn out from the sun.

   
   19
   
   Rick woke us up the next morning at around ten-thirty.  He had the car all packed except for the tent and our sleeping bags.  We threw everything else into the car and I walked around to the driver's seat.  
   "All set?"  Joe asked and took a look around the campsite.  Rick and I nodded and then Rick pushed the seat forward to climb into the back seat.  Joe found something on the radio that I didn't recognize and we pulled out of Zion National Park.
   After a drive of almost pure silence with Joe and Rick napping throughout most of it we finally pulled over a rise of hills and saw Vegas stretched out in front of us.  We made our way into downtown and drove past drive-thru wedding chapels and adult book stores.  Once again we got lost, but we managed to find the main strip easily enough.  It's kind of hard to miss.  We drove past pirates and lions and roller coasters.  When we made it to the end of the line we pulled into the Luxor hotel, a giant glass pyramid with an Egyptian theme, in order to turn around.  
   We decided to splurge and stay right on the strip, and since we were already at one of the main hotels, we ended up getting a room at the Luxor for the night. 
   There were towers on each corner of the pyramid containing cheaper rooms.  We ended up in one of these.  "We don't get to stay in the pyramid?"  Rick shouted when I told him where our room was.  The room was cheap for the Luxor, but compared to the campsites at Zion it seemed like a penthouse suite.  
   Rick called the first shower and Joe took the second one.  The bathroom was full of steam by the time it was my turn, but there was still plenty of hot water and towels.  I peeled off the clothes I had been living in, off and on, for a few weeks now and washed the dust of the desert off my body.  
   Everyone took insanely long showers, and I was no exception.  It felt so nice to stand in the stream of hot water, it was almost hypnotizing.  I basically forgot where I was and when I realized I was in a shower I couldn't even remember if I had actually washed anything yet, or if I had just been standing there the whole time.
   When I finally finished showering I dried off and put on my other set of clothes and joined Joe and Rick in the room.  They were flipping through the TV stations, trying to find something worth watching.  I sat down on a big plush chair in the corner and watched the channels change.  
   We had stopped for lunch somewhere in Vegas, so none of us was really that hungry yet.  Joe finally found an old spaghetti western on one of the movie stations and we watched that for an hour or so.
   I got up after the sun set and looked out the window.  If you smooshed your head up against the glass you could look all the way down the strip.  The neon lights of Vegas were shining and blinking and I could make out people walking in and out of casinos all along the street.  Everyone outside started to make me feel a little nervous.  I closed the shades and immediately felt better.  
   "Man," Rick stretched his arms over his head on the bed and yawned.  "I'm sleepy."
   "What're we doing for dinner?"  Joe asked.
   "I dunno," Rick said.
   "They've got an all you can eat buffet in this place.  Let's go there," Joe suggested.  Rick and I agreed and we started to head out the door.  
   "Oh, wait," Rick said before we had left the room.  "I wanted to call home before it got too late on the east coast."  With the state I was in I didn't feel anything when Rick said that.  I saw Joe eyeing me kind of curiously, so I turned my back on him and looked out at the strip again.  
   After Rick called home Joe did the same.  I turned around when Joe was done and saw him sitting on the bed looking at the phone chewing on his thumbnail.  We walked out the door and were a little bit down the hallway when Joe spoke up.  "You're going to that buffet we passed downstairs?"  He asked.
   "Yeah," Rick said.
   "Okay," Joe said.  "I'm gonna go make a phone call.  I'll meet you down there."
   Joe walked back to the room, leaving Rick and me in the hallway.  I looked at Rick.  He rubbed the side of his nose with his finger and then nodded toward the elevator and continued walking down the hallway.  “You think he’s calling Alison?” he asked.  I shrugged.
   We rode the elevator to the lobby and found the buffet.  I found that I wasn't all that hungry and nibbled at my first plate of food.  Rick ate two plates while we both sat there in silence, both of us occasionally looking towards the elevator for Joe.  
   Joe still hadn't shown up by the time Rick finished his second plate, but we sat there waiting for him for another fifteen minutes or so.  "Well," Rick said.  "I don't feel like sitting here anymore.  I guess we should go up to the room and get him."  I nodded and we rode the elevator up to our floor.  I looked at Rick as he stood there in the elevator next to me, standing there with his gas shirt on, puffing up his cheeks as he stared up at the little light progressing through the floors as the elevator rose.  I was trying to get some sort of feeling as I stood there looking at him.  Something that would make it a reality that he was going to be leaving tomorrow evening.  I couldn't really feel anything, though.
   Rick walked into the room first and as I walked in behind him I saw Joe standing at the window looking out at the city.  When he heard the door open he quickly turned and grabbed a magazine off the night table and sat down in the chair and started reading.  His glasses were clenched in his teeth as he stared very hard at the magazine he had picked up. 
   "You ready to go?"  Rick asked.
   Joe didn't say anything.  
   "Come on," Rick went on, "we're going to go wander the strip.  Maybe check out the pirate navel battle thing."  
   Joe still didn't say anything.  "Joe?"  Rick asked.
   Joe raised his head from the magazine, finally acknowledging us.  "No, just go without me," he said very abruptly before going back to peering at his magazine.  
   "Come on, Joe," Rick pleaded, walking over to the chair that Joe was sitting in.  "This is our last night here.  I thought we'd at least wander around the strip for awhile."
   "I said," Joe said, tearing his gaze from the magazine again, "to go without me.  I'm not going out tonight."
   Rick looked at me.  "Uh oh," he said in a sing-songy voice, "it sounds like somebody is a little grumpy."  He walked over to Joe and started to pull the magazine down away from Joe's face.  "Come on little grumpikins, lets see you smile."
   Joe yanked the magazine out of Rick's hand.  "Don't give me that shit, Rick," Joe snapped.  "You can be so goddamned annoying sometimes.  I told you to go without me and I wasn't kidding.  Now go," Joe said as he pointed toward the door.  "Go!"  He shouted as Rick just stood there.  "You are the last person I'd want to be with tonight.  Okay?  I don't really need you to stand here and act all silly around me.  Okay?  It gets old, you know that Rick?  Your act gets really old really quick."
   Rick simply stood there without knowing what to say and as I looked at him I got that feeling that I had been searching for in the elevator.  That Rick was going to be leaving tomorrow.  Only, it didn't feel quite the way I thought it would feel.  And he looked so sad standing there trying to figure out what to say.
   "What's up, Joe?"  I asked.
   "Yeah, now I need you starting in on me," Joe sort of muttered as he stood up and walked towards the bathroom, away from the area that Rick and I were now occupying, leaving us standing next to an empty chair.  Joe stopped at the door to the bathroom and looked back at us still standing there.  "You can't take a hint, can you guys?"  He shot towards us.  "I do not want to hang out with you tonight and go look at the stupid pirates and the stupid tigers.  Okay?  Is that clear enough?  I'm going to the bathroom now.  When I come out, you two should not be here."  Then he walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.
   "Should we go?"  Rick asked me.
   "I have no idea," I answered.
   While we were debating this in our head the toilet flushed and Joe came out of the bathroom.  He saw us still standing there and started shaking his head.  He walked past us and sat down in the chair again and continued staring at the magazine. 
   "Come on, Joe, it's our last night together," Rick said.  He was met by more silence from Joe.  A silence that certainly indicated to me that Joe wasn't even listening anymore.  "You know something Joe?"  Rick shouted at him.  "You're a real prick sometimes."  Then he looked up at me.  "Come on," he said, and he stormed towards the door.  
   Suffice it to say, as Rick and I walked through Vegas that night our moods did not improve.  Every so often as we wandered from hotel to hotel Rick would start cursing to himself, telling off Joe in his head.
   We saw the pirate and we saw the tigers and I certainly didn't give a damn and I don't think Rick did either.  Rick was too angry to care and we were way too close to the end of the trip for me to care so we just basically stood around all night even though in reality we were walking all around Vegas.  
   When we got back to the room the lights were out and Joe was asleep.  Rick made a lot of noise as he got ready for bed, throwing looks at Joe's sleeping form every now and again.  I crawled onto the cot while Rick was banging around and went to sleep.

   
   20
   
   The drive to LA was hot.  I thought at one point that a good night’s sleep would mellow everyone out but it didn't.  Joe didn't want to see me or Rick, Rick didn't want to see Joe and I wasn't going to be seeing either of them anymore.  Which was a lot of fun considering all three of us had to cram into a two-door car.  Joe climbed into the back seat and Rick took the front seat and we drove through the desert with a horrible silent tension in the car.
   Joe just read in the back seat and Rick was practically bouncing out of his skin in the passenger seat as we rode on past cacti and sagebrush.  We passed the world's largest thermometer and an exit for a road with the bizarre name of Xxyz without anyone pointing them out or making any comments.  
   Rick started to calm down as the sun started to set and he stopped bouncing around altogether when we got stopped dead in LA traffic.  His nervous energy passed over to me, sitting behind the wheel in a sea of cars, none of which were moving.  We were so close to the airport and I was so close to dropping Rick and Joe off and continuing on with my journey that I was almost falling apart with frustration and anger directed at the wall of steel and chrome in front of me.  
   Rick, though, was completely calm.  He turned around in his seat and looked back at Joe.  "Who did you call last night, Joe?"  He asked.  Joe continued reading.  "What did she say?"
   "Why do you even care?"  I heard Joe ask from the back seat.
   "What's that supposed to mean?"  Rick asked.
   Joe didn't say anything for awhile and from the way Rick was looking into the back seat I was pretty sure a staring match was going on. "You know," Joe finally said.  "Whatever bond you might think we share, I can assure you that it doesn't exist.  You can be kind of amusing sometimes, but other than that you're just sort of a court jester I hang around with.  You're nothing to me Rick.  Believe me, I know what a real bond between people is, and looking at you right now I feel absolutely nothing.  You're such a silly son-of-a-bitch."
   "That's crap, Joe," I said before I knew I was even going to say anything.  "Rick's your second oldest friend."
   "Ah, yes," Joe said to me.  "Making you my, supposedly, oldest friend.  Yeah, I really feel that way, Tom.  Especially since we've been on this trip.  You've become a really large part of my life.  I don't know who would be there to mope and act pissy if you weren't around.  Yes sir, if you need someone pathetic to hang out with, you can always count on Tom.  My good friend Tom."  There wasn't a hint of anything but contempt in his voice.
   "You pick on me, Joe, and leave him out of this," Rick said next to me.  I pulled the car forward two feet before stopping dead again.  
   "I wouldn't have to say anything to either of you if you would just stop talking to me and stop pretending like we have anything to say to each other."
   "Who did you call, Joe?"  Rick persisted.
   "Who did you call, Joe," Joe said from the back seat, imitating Rick's somewhat nasally voice.  Then there was silence.
   "I'm going to be sitting next to you for a flight across the entire country, and I'm not going to stop asking, Joe, so you should tell me now unless you enjoy being interrogated for five hours straight.  What did she say, Joe?"
   Joe didn't say anything.  "What did she—"
   "God dammit, Rick, shut the hell up!"  Joe shouted from the back seat.  "All right, you want to know?  Yes, I called Alison, and yes, she told me to stop calling and that she didn't think we should be together anymore."
   "I'm sorry," Rick said.
   "I don't care," Joe answered.  "I really don't.  I mean, you were fun and all to hang out with but she was who I really cared about.  She was who I was building something with.  She's the one who knows me.  You were just good to have around when she went out of town.  Without her, you two suddenly seem very useless."
   "I'm sorry, Joe," Rick said again.
   "And I'm telling you that that really means nothing to me.  You get it?"  Joe’s voice was starting to raise in volume from the back seat.  "You are not really a part of my life.  She was.  You were window dressing.  Someone I hung out with because we had lunch scheduled together."
   "I'm sorry, Joe," Rick tried again, but his voice was growing softer and I could tell that Joe was getting through to him.
   "Jesus are you a sorry bastard," Joe continued to rail on Rick.  "I mean, how often did we even see each other outside of school?  We'd go to the occasional party together or something, but, if you didn't notice, I spent weekends with her, I spent vacations with her, I spent the time after school with her.  You can keep your damn sorrys, they don't exactly mean a whole lot."
   Rick didn't say anything.  He just sunk into the front seat in silence.  Now, I have no idea what made me do what I did next  Frankly, I didn't even really see it coming.  The car in front of me moved forward a bit and as I pulled up behind it I turned to Joe.  "Allison broke up with you?"  I asked.
   "Oh, hey, look who decided to open his mouth.  You I really have nothing to say to.  You just get me to the airport and maintain this fun silence you've been keeping up for the whole trip.
   "Allison broke up with you?"  I said, and now contempt was starting to sink into my voice.
   "Yes, that's what I just said," Joe answered.
   "Alison broke up with you!?"  I said for a third time and I was yelling at this point.  "My whole family is dead!" I absolutely screamed at Joe at the top of my lungs, my voice rough with volume.  And then I faced forward and pulled the car a little farther up.
   Woo-boy!  Was there ever a fun silence in the car after I said that.
   Rick said something that sounded like, "Ooo."
   Then I heard Joe speak up softly from the back seat.  "I'm sorry, Tom."
   "Yeah," I sort of muttered.  Now I was angry.  This wasn't how it was supposed to go.  I was supposed to have sat in the car in silence while Joe and Rick babbled about something and then dropped them off at the airport.  
   The silence continued all the way to the airport.  It wasn't quite as tense anymore, it was more of a prolonged awkward silence.  I parked the car and walked Joe and Rick to the gate without saying anything.  I made sure that they were all set to get on their flight and then there was a half-assed goodbye from both of them.  They kind of shook my hand and then I turned and started walking quickly towards the moving walkway that would lead me away from the gate.  With Joe and Rick behind me I rode down the walkway and then headed towards the automatic doors in order to get to the car, drive to a nice quiet spot and, in accordance with a pact I had made with myself back on the Jersey shore, take my own life...
   
   21
   
   I leaned back from the computer screen and stretched my back.  Then I got up and walked downstairs to get my third cup of coffee for the night.  It was probably three-thirty at this point.  Dawn was coming on quickly and I still had a lot to do.  For a minute, though, I just stared out the window again and sipped my cup of coffee.  
   It was maybe when I was in my early thirties that Ralph died.  This was after Rick and Molly had gotten married.  This was after Joe and Amy had gotten married.  I was the best man at both of their weddings.  I think that Joe and Rick's choice for this honor was motivated slightly by pity.  However, it was fairly misdirected pity.  I had come to the conclusion awhile before that that I was certainly not the marrying type.  
   Anyway, Ralph's death was after Rick had moved up to Connecticut and opened an autoparts store with a little help from Molly's dad.  And Ralph's death was after Joe had moved south, having been granted a professorship at a southern university. I stayed in New York working at my third job, I think, that I didn't really enjoy, but it didn't really bother me that much.  It wasn't like when we were all living in New York anymore, but it wasn't all that changed.  Rick was a little harder to get a hold of, but as soon as he started dating Molly it had become difficult to get a hold of him anyway, which isn't to say that he drifted away.  Neither Joe or Rick really did that until a few years ago.  I talked to them frequently and made it up to Rick's house for things like the Fourth of July.  And we both had our share of visits to Joe's classroom to see what he was teaching those kids.  Then I got a call from Joe one day and he told me that Ralph was pretty ill and that he was going to fly out to pay a little visit.  I've mentioned before that Joe kept in pretty good touch with him and this was probably the third trip he made out to Montana.  Third and last.  He asked me numerous times if I wanted to go, but I told him that I didn't really feel comfortable.  Rick wasn't going either.  Rick did fly out later when Joe phoned back and said that Ralph had passed away and that he was just going to stay out there through the funeral and that we should come out.  I just didn't feel right about it, though.
   "He asked about you," Joe told me when he got back.  He was in my apartment in New York.  He had flown back with Rick and spent some time in Connecticut and then came down to visit me.  It was summer, he didn't have a whole lot to do.
   "What'd he say?"  I asked.
   "He just asked how you're doing.  He told me to ask you if you remember his last words to you."
   That hit me pretty hard.  Ralph's last words to Joe had been said maybe two weeks ago.  His last words to me had been said twenty years ago.  "I remember," I said.  "Live messy.  I'm still not positive I completely understand what that means."  I sat in silence for a moment thinking.  "What else did he say?"
   "A lot of things.  Nothing else really directed at you."  Joe was staring at me.
   "You're mad, aren't you?" I asked
   "No...no I don't think I am.  He seemed to understand why you weren't there.  I don't think I did, but he did.  If you had hurt him by not showing or something, then I would have been mad.  But he knew you a long time ago and I think he understood."
   Live messy.  I hadn't thought about those words in awhile, but the more I thought about them, the more I thought maybe I should do something a little differently with my life, which is how I ended up buying a bankrupt deli in Midvale and taking some cooking classes and leaving New York and meeting you and so on.  Live messy, right?  Ralph hasn't seen anything yet.
   I took an old friend out of storage when I moved off of Manhattan.  My car had been stored in a garage for the whole time I was in New York.  I really couldn't bear to part with it.  She did not, in any way, run well anymore.  I decided that I was going to have to sell her.  I remember calling Joe and Rick with the bad news.  
   "You sound like you're in mourning," Joe said when I talked to him.  I heard Amy in the background ask Joe to ask me when I was coming to visit.
   "Well, that car meant a lot to me," I said.  "It just seems strange to turn it into scrap.  I'm actually thinking of just keeping it in the garage.  I haven't driven it in years, anyway, It's really just a large piece of steel now.  I mean, if it didn't run a few years ago and I still kept it, why should I get rid of it now just because it doesn't run?"
   "Maybe you shouldn't," Rick had said when I had pretty much gone through the same conversation with him.  I heard Molly in the background ask Rick to ask me when I was coming to visit.  "Do you think you could drive it up here?"  Rick asked.
   "Not a chance.  I had to have it towed out of the garage I was storing it in."
   Rick thought for a little while.  "Okay, then I'll come down there.  I can fix it up enough to drive it up here and then I'll go to work on it."
   "You can do that?"  I asked.  I sort of figured that a car could reach a point of no return where it just couldn't be fixed anymore.
   "Oh yeah, it just'll take some time.  I'm pretty sure I've fixed up worse.  And you sound so damned depressed about it."
   "I like that car," was all I said.
   "Yeah."
   "So you'll fly down here, and get her fixed up enough for the road, and then we're going to drive up to Connecticut."
   "You're going on a road trip?"  Joe asked when I related what Rick had told me. 
   "Yup.  You interested?"
   "Don't you think we're a little old for road trips?"
   "I won't mention it if you don't."  I answered.
   "When?"  Joe asked.
   "In a couple of weeks.  Rick's busy right now so it's going to have to wait a bit."
   "Sounds good to me.  I have this thing that I have to go to at the end of every year over in Ireland—"
   "You poor thing," I broke in.
   "Yeah, shut up, but when Amy and I come back from that I'll be able to come north."
   And so my little car once again rolled out of New Jersey with the three of us in it.  We only drove up to Connecticut, not LA, but Joe was right, it was still definitely a road trip.
   So, I had opened the deli and things had gone on like that for awhile.  But then Amy left Joe and Rick took up riding motorcycles.
   I'm not sure what time it was at this point, maybe around four in the morning, but I know that a scary thing started happening.  I began to lose my drive.  Going to visit Joe didn't seem like a very good idea anymore, and writing this enormous letter to you started to seem pretty silly.  When I sat down at my computer for the first time tonight, Jack, I had everything figured out.  This all made perfect sense.  But somewhere between Montana and LA, somewhere between midnight and dawn, it stared to fall apart.  I began to think that maybe I should scrap this whole project, buy you a nice birthday card and give it to you, in person, at your birthday party.  I began to convince myself that it's up to Joe to try and make contact with me.  I know that's not right, though.  And I know that if I wait for one day, then I'll wait for two days, then three, then a week, then forever.  I've already waited seven years.  That's way too long.
   I finished my coffee and then walked upstairs.  I forced myself to press on with the night as I had planned it, so I packed a bag and threw it in the trunk of my car.  Then I took a shower and got dressed.  Then I sat down in front of the white glow of my computer again and started reading.  I can remember heading towards the door of the airport, lost in thought, until a shout from behind me made me turn around.  "Holy...
   
   
   22
   
   ...crap!  What are you deaf!?"  I turned around...I think everyone in the airport turned around...and looked at Joe.  He was bright red having realized how loud he had just yelled.  Everyone was giving him some very dirty looks.  He sort of creeped his way towards me trying to avoid the numerous angry people who were staring at this person who had just cursed very very loudly.  "I was shouting after you through the whole airport," he said.  I didn't say anything and he went on.  "I just...I don't know.  I just wanted to say goodbye."  I told him that we had said goodbye at the gate.  "Oh, my ass, that wasn't a goodbye, that was still part of that fight from the car.  Look," he shuffled his feet.  "I wanted to tell you that I'm not sorry I came on this trip.  I didn't really mean any of those things I said.  I mean, I meant them, but I don't think that they're true and I just wanted to actually say goodbye to you and to tell you to hurry back and that you better send me some postcards and that you should call me as soon as you get back home.  Make sure you call me as soon as you get there.  Call me before you call anyone, even Rick.  You know, to make him think that I'm a better friend than he is...not that I think that, or that either of us are better friends...or...I mean, I'm not mad at Rick.  I just said that about calling me first to sound funny, it sounded bitter, but it wasn't....ah hell.  Look," he looked me in the eyes, "just hurry back, it won't be the same spending summer without you, you know?  Again not that Rick and I...Lord I'm making a mess of this.  Just hurry back.  Okay?"  He looked me in the eyes again.  "Okay," he said.
   "Now I've gotta go apologize to Rick, he probably thinks I went storming off to try and change my seat assignment or something, and I think they're going to start boarding and all...so I've gotta run."  He gave me a playful slap on the cheek and then nodded at me to make sure I was listening and then had to run back to the gate before I could say anything...not that I'm sure I was going to.  I couldn't exactly promise to hurry back when I wasn't planning on coming back.
   I felt low when I got into the car.  I drove through the hills of LA and out to Santa Barbara and asked around for a place called Butterfly Beach.  I began to feel a bit better as I drove, realizing that I would be through with all the pain, all the confusion, all of it by the time the night was over.
   I found Butterfly Beach, but it was only nine o'clock and there were still a few people sitting on the sand.  I sat in the car and waited.  I had fought against this since February, another few hours wasn't going to kill me.  A policeman came by and asked if I was okay and I pretended to be looking at a map and asked him directions to some random place and then drove off and circled around for awhile and then parked in front of the beach again.  
   I started fidgeting with my dad's watch on my wrist and thought about the last night my cousin Jimmy and I had spent together at the beach.  I thought about how we had sat around drinking and talking until it was pretty late at night, and about how he had decided to go to bed.  And how I had lain down but that every time I closed my eyes the room had begun to spin and how I couldn't fall asleep but could only lay there thinking.  And about how I had gotten up and crawled to the bathroom sobbing and how I had heard Jimmy laughing as he stumbled through the hallway, apparently unable to fall asleep either.  And about how he had opened the door and how I had been sitting over the bathtub and how he had bandaged me up and how I told him that he couldn't tell anyone and how he had found that ridiculous watch with the wide band to hide the Band-Aids he had put over the cut and how he had thrown up when he was done looking at all the blood and how I had completely cracked and told him that he couldn't, couldn't, couldn't tell anyone and how he knew he had to leave for Europe and how he made me promise to go on this road trip and how I would be in good hands with Joe and Rick and Kevin, who he didn't know, and how he made me promise that I would see him when he got back and how I acted like I had calmed down and that it was just the alcohol and how I said I felt better about telling someone else about it and how I had secretly told myself that if I still felt as horrible as I had for the last four months at the end of the trip that I wouldn't force myself to go on any more.
   I took the watch off my wrist and ran my finger along the butterfly Band-Aids that were underneath it.  Then I sat and waited until the beach was empty.  I got out of the car at around midnight and began to search around.  There was a big hotel or across the street from the beach, and its driveway was made up of a bunch of little rocks.  They were gray, not orangy-yellow like the ones in New Jersey.  I filled all of my pockets with them and even tied my shirt into a knot, forming sort of a basket with it, and then walked onto the beach and towards the water.  
   It was silent out there.  There weren't any crashing waves at Butterfly Beach.  Just very small little mounds of water that hissed up the sand a few feet and then receded back down.  There was no moon out and the only light came from the street lamps, throwing my shadow forward onto the wet sand.  
   I stepped into the water up to my ankles.  I thought about Ralph and Jimmy and my aunt.  I strode out until the water was at my stomach.  The pants started soaking up water and sucked onto my legs.   The weight in my pockets and my shirt was amazing and if I had bent my knees my legs would have buckled completely.  I thought about Joe and Rick and Kevin.  I took another few steps and the water was at my neck.  A swell went by and I gasped in a large mouthful of salt water.  I thought about my mom and dad and April and I thought about myself over the past five months.  Then I took my last step and my head was underwater and I was firmly planted on the ground when I thought about Joe at the airport.  
   I tried to empty the rocks out of my pockets but it was difficult to really get anything out they were packed in so tightly and I tried to untie my shirt but the knot was wet and it was impossible to manipulate and I started taking slow, heavy steps backwards.  I was choking at that point.  I wasn't making any progress backwards and standing was becoming difficult.  My lungs were roaring with pain and the surface of the water seemed like it was yards and yards above my head.  My head was getting dizzy and I was reaching the point where my mouth was going to open no matter what, which would result in me sucking water into my chest instead of oxygen.  I tried to kick myself to the surface but only managed to collapse myself onto the ocean floor, pinned down by the rocks all over my body.  Panic was racing through my body and I was kicking and flailing and clawing at my shirt when my mouth opened and the sea began to fill my body.  I felt a button pop and then another and then my shirt was off but the weight was too much in my pants and I didn't have the strength left to fight it.  Then I took off my pants.  My underwear slid with off with them.  
   If I had been wearing shoes I'd be dead.  I was wearing flip-flops and they popped off with the rest of my clothes.  I erupted up out of the water and breathed in so deeply that I was almost screaming.  I slowly dog paddled my way towards the beach until my hands and knees touched sand.  I crawled out of the water, making it a few feet onto the shore before I threw up.  Between gags my body was doing something else.  I don't know if what I was doing could be called crying, but it was something close.  I was lying there on my stomach, pressed against the sand, and I suddenly had the very awkward feeling that I was being watched.  I looked up and a very clueless looking guy with long hair was looking at me.  "Hey, man," he said, "you can't swim here at night."
   And then I was laughing and crying and vomiting up saltwater at the same time, which is a very strange act to perform.  The guy walked away and I sat up on the wet, hard-packed sand.  I just sat there panting for a long time and eventually realized that I was naked.  I crept my way back to the car trying to avoid the street lights.  I crouched outside my car for a few seconds.  I realized something standing there in the middle of the street completely naked.  I realized...I realized that my car doors were locked and that my keys were in my pant's pocket.  I really lost it at that point and I just took off running down the beach, stark naked.  I ran up and down the beach looking for where I had thrown up.  Once I located where I had come out of the water I dove into the water and swam out a few yards to find my pants.
   I eventually fished my clothes out of the sea.  I put them on and emptied the rocks out onto the sand.  I sat there that whole night, skipping each rock out over the flat water.  Listening to it splash along and then plunk in and sink.  I just sat there watching the stars move across the night sky.  Eventually the sun came up.  Then I felt someone standing over me.  "I thought you weren't supposed to be here for another week," the somebody said.  I looked up at Kevin.  "I'm glad you're here," he went on.  "Man it's been dull here.  I was all excited to get home when I was on the road with you guys, but when I got here I was bored stiff after the second day."  He sat down next to me on the sand.  "What do you feel like doing?" He asked.
   "I could use some sleep," I said.
   "Oh, okay.  It's Sunday today, is the thing, and my family usually meets for breakfast at this shop in town on Sundays.  It's been the least boring part of the week so far."
   "That sounds good, too," I said.
   "Okay, that's not for another hour.  We can just hang out on the beach until then.  I usually write while I'm out here waiting for breakfast.  I don't have to, though.  I mean, you're here and all, so I'm not going to make you sit here while I write."  He looked out over the ocean.  "Hey!"  He said suddenly.  "Have you been in the water yet?"
   Kevin stared at me as I flopped onto my back smiling up at the sky...
   
   
      23
      
   ...I blinked my eyes hard and then stood up and turned on the light in my bedroom.  My eyes were feeling the strain of staring at a computer screen in the dark for the past few hours.
   That was how my trip west ended.  That was how a lot of things ended.  I won't pretend that everything was completely hunky-dory after that night.  Things could get pretty bad during the holidays, and all.  They still can.  And I think there've been some lasting effects as far as me and relationships go.  I can't seem to keep one going for very long.  Hence my swinging bachelor-hood.    And there were plenty of bad night and bad days since that night I spent on the beach in Santa Barbara alone.  Just none quite so bad.
   I spent about a month at Kevin's house.  I eventually told him all of this.  I was sleeping in his brother's bed and before we would fall asleep each night he would start talking and then one night I stared talking.  He told me to write it all down.  He even gave me a blank journal of his.  
   We sort of drifted apart over the next couple of years.  It wasn't anything personal.  It's just that since I hadn't been back to school he had to find someone else to room with.  And as I've mentioned, the kid doesn't really open up during the daytime.  I mean he was still my friend and everything, we hung out with the same group of people, but I never really felt that close to him anymore.  He's writing for a travel magazine now which I read every so often.
   I don't remember exactly when Joe and I drifted apart.  I guess that's why it's called “drifting apart”.  It's just a slow process that you don't really notice taking place.  Although, I think Joe knew what was taking place.  I got word from one of our mutual friends in New York that Joe and Amy had split up.  I called and never really got him on the phone, and he stopped writing letters back and then a year had gone by, and then two, and now seven.  
   Rick I stayed in touch with.  It never really came up about where Joe had gone.  It would just get mentioned that we hadn't seen him in forever and that we both really had to call him, which I know I did, but there was never any answer.  And then Rick took up riding motorcycles.  I was there when he took his first ride.  Well, actually, that's not quite right.  I was in the deli and I heard this incredibly loud noise and then a motorcycle pulled up in front and the rider took his helmet off and, hey, it was Rick.  
   I heard from someone that it was a splash of oil on the highway.  I think Molly told me that.  I think.  I can't really remember.  All I know is that I had to go up to Connecticut five months ago and say goodbye to my second oldest friend in the world.  And that I saw my oldest friend in the world there.  And that he looked horrible.
   I stood there looking at the casket that contained Rick, who used to enjoy making his hand into a brontosaurus, for a long time.  I don't really remember much of that.  I know that Molly and their two children were there.  Molly was crying and their youngest, a little eight-year-old girl named Janet, looked confused and Rick's son, somewhat older, was trying to be brave.  I can remember hugging Molly as she cried and that I picked up little Janet when she burst into tears and then I walked outside.  Joe was standing on the walkway into the church.
   I said he looked horrible, but I guess that's not quite true.  He didn't exactly look horrible.  He was dressed fine.  And I don't think anyone is supposed to look fantastic at a funeral.  But he really did look horrible.  
   "Hello, Tom," Joe said to me, politely enough.  I nodded at him.  "It's a shame about Rick, huh?"  And this was just all wrong.  That was the kind of thing that a friend of a friend was supposed to say to another friend of a friend.  
   Little Janet nuzzled her face into my shoulder.  "Where are your glasses, Joe?"  I asked.
   "What?  Oh, I got contacts a few years ago, you know, it's a lot easier and all."  
   I was swaying back and forth, rocking little Janet in my arms.  
   "Do you, ahh," Joe began, "do you still own that diner, thing?"
   “Deli,” I nodded.
   "You happy doing that?"  
   "Yeah, of course."
   "Ah," Joe said, and nodded.  "Hey, is that Janet?"  He asked, leaning behind me to look at her face.  "I haven't seen her in years."  
   "You certainly haven't, Joe," I said.  
   "Yeah, well, I've been busy, you know."
   "Not really," I said.  "Why did you come here?"  I asked.  I didn't mean it to sound like, "Why did you come here, don't you know you're not welcome."  I was pretty curious as to what brought Joe up from the south after seven years of not hearing from him.  And I'm sorry if my manners weren't what they should be, it being Rick's funeral and all.
   Joe was a bit taken aback by my question and then he got somewhat aggressive and I think we got into a little fight which turned into a very large fight.  I don't see any point in going into the details of what we were saying to each other.  Dwelling on such an incident wouldn't be the most productive thing for me right now.  Joe was acting snide and I was acting angry and it doesn't matter who acted first.  Although, I've come to believe that if I had met him somewhere other than Rick's funeral, with a clear head, that nothing so horrible would have happened.  After shouting at each other for a few minutes I just turned and walked back into the church.  Partly because I didn't want to be fighting.   Partly because I wanted to bring little Janet back inside.  And mainly, I think, because some of the things Joe was saying were getting to me in a pretty hurtful way. 
   That was the last time I saw him.  He wasn't at Rick's house later on and he never came into the church.  For the past five months I've been telling myself that this is for the best.  That if that was how we were going to act towards each other then it makes sense to ignore what happened and pretend like it doesn't matter.  Just ignore our fight.  Just ignore our fight and the thirty or so years of friendship that came before it.  There's no way that such an act can be for the best.
   It was still completely dark out when I went downstairs for one more cup of coffee.  Then I sat down at my computer and started typing.  It's now almost dawn.  The sky is starting to turn a little pinkish.  
   I'm planning on leaving the printed copy of this story for you to find in the morning.  That's my birthday present to you, Jack.  Happy birthday.  And I'm going to apologize one more time for not being there in person.  I have to go see Joe, and I have to do it now.  Frankly, if I don't leave this morning I really doubt that I'll ever go see him.  I'll just lose my nerve.  I mean think about it.  I haven't seen him in seven years.  Who drives nine hundred miles to see someone they lost touch with seven years ago and who they got into a fight with the last time they met?  
   It seems crazy to me even now, after thinking this out all night.  I have no idea what I'm going to say to him and my biggest fear right now is that I'm going to fail--that he's going to egg me into a fight.  I think that's why I'm driving down.  I really need to figure out what I'm going to say when he opens his door.  I just hope that people don't actually drift that far apart when two people drift apart.  I don't think a friendship ever dies unless both people want it to.  And I don't think anyone ever really wants a friendship to die.  That's what I hope anyway, and that's the thought that I'll be thinking when I'm driving up Route 280.  
   You know where they had to blast through the hills and you drive through cliffs for a while?  I think I'll be somewhere around there when you get this.  I don't know where I'll be when you've finished it, but I hope that that same thought will be running through my head.  And I hope it will still be running through my head when I'm wandering around in the middle of the night trying to figure out where Joe lives.  I don't think anyone should ever want a friendship to die.  God, I hope I'm right.  And my God, do I hope I can do this.  
   Okay.  The nights over and I've spent enough time writing this. 
   It's time to go.  Live messy, Jack.  Live messy.
   
   
About the Author:
Joseph Devon was born in New Jersey. He grew up and began to write books. For a longer version of this story be sure and visit him online. You can always find news about his latest books, recent short fiction and all things Joseph Devon at www.JosephDevon.com. You can also buy a hard copy of what you just read. Drop by, you'll be glad you did.
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