Out of the Vein

Chapter 25: Out of the Vein, Part 3

It sounded like snickers coming from outside, but there was no way of confirming, at least not at this time. Alone I sat in the bathroom, once again forced to purvey over violent expulsions, a chronic theme that held the potential for serious medical attention, tremendous and erratic with each blow; a reaction over the abundance of booze and beef that had entered my body the night before—it had to be. There was no other explanation, not for this early morning episode—ugha—not again!

Pressure mounted from the inside, building and begging for a release, testing the structural integrity of my internal components, and nearing the threshold. I took my time, as would any logical test conductor; a clean discharge depended on it. Sweat poured out from my face, my breath’s deep and heavy, yet composed—always cool under pressure, that’s my motto. Steady now, no need to rush things. My muscles relaxed. Nice and slow, allow the natural order of things to once again take its place—

Whoa! Disaster struck at the sound of a thunderous boom; a colossal movement of eradication, leaving in its wake a heaping pile of destruction. The aftermath was just as curious. Strange noises could be heard, a relapse of imminent catastrophe, the combination of snickers and choking, oddly following the reverb of each push, and continuing to do so throughout the duration of my agonizing ordeal.

“What could it be? It’s 8 in the morning, no way could Bill and Gretch be awake. Impossible!” I shrugged it off, realizing it was the least of my worries at this point and refocused my efforts on the enormous struggle ahead of me—there was nothing else I could do.

It was another 20 unpleasant minutes before the rest of the chaos could be ultimately expelled, a process that involved large excretions of unwanted sweat and unnecessary energy, as well as a heavy clean up effort at the end. Ok. Just flush, slip away quietly, and nobody will be the wiser. Nobody…

I pulled the lever and watched as the toilet pushed a large mound of disorder deep into the catacombs of biological waste. Down it went, swirling and mixing into an eventual disappearance, moving closer towards it final resting place. Good. Keep going, keep going—wait, what’s going on? Don’t stop! Why aren’t you moving? Go down—down, not up! No! Stop, please… STOP— “Ohhhh no!”

An explosion of laughter burst through the walls of the bathroom, a full frontal assault on my privacy. I shot my head back and forth in a panic. What the—where’s it coming from? I looked to the door; locked. No way they’d get in through there. I lifted my head, then faded up towards the ceiling, and hauntingly remembered. The walls. They don’t reach the top of the ceiling! We’re connected… Oh God, they heard the whole thing—

“What’s going on in there?” hollered Lea from a distance.

“Uhh… nothing—nothing at all.” I darted back and forth in desperate search of some saving grace. “Say, you wouldn’t happen keep a plunger around the cabin, just in case something bad happens, would you?”

 

***

 

Any issue with a clogged toilet died quickly; nothing a few plunges couldn’t take care of. Besides, there were much more prudent issues facing us on that somber morning that trumped getting worked up over some stinkin’ toilet. I was going home, and this time, I was leaving my travel companions behind… for good.

I took my time packing my bags, holding out on the inevitable by ensuring absolutely nothing was left behind, anything I could do to delay the eventual goodbye. Strewn clothes scattered about the floor, another peculiar and perpetual theme of the trip that brought about flashes of the La Quinta Inn debacle and the rush from the Dude Rancher Lodge back into my immediate recollection, also aiding in my prolonged departure. I walked back and forth across the room, picking up each article of clothing one at a time, an excuse to observe all of the antiques sitting on the nightstand and hanging on the walls. Their presence provided momentary solace, artifacts that sparked a nostalgic reflection, becoming more captivating with each pass.

Pieces of jewelry passed down from generation to generation sat, having been around many necks of many family members throughout many decades, or clasped onto ears of different shape, size, and age; beautiful gems worn on occasions of love, celebration, heartbreak, and tradition amongst a host of others, many of those surely spent at the Pony Bar during a good portion of the 20th century. Pictures ranging from old to not so old spread between family heirlooms, scattered in a random, yet natural arrangement, a historical timeline of the Dutcher heritage. It was as if they were connecting Bill, Gretch, and Lea with past relatives, waiting for their deeply rooted traditions to be passed on to future generations, so they too could continue the story, as did their ancestors before them.

And now, for a long moment I stared, deep into the old family pictures, stuck in a trance and ignorant of any possessions or action occurring outside the bounds of that room. For that long moment, the commotion inside the cabin, the quiet commerce of Pony, the stresses of work, life, and the millions of problems plaguing the world, all of it became non-existent in the face of Medusa, leaving everything in that room frozen but for an idea, a glimmer of hope left floating in my head and barely hanging on, just enough to make me believe. I’ll make time stand still. Right here, right now, forever. I’ll never have to leave. And why can’t I? If only just for another long moment…

 

***

 

Lea, Gretch, and Bill lined up perpendicular to the doorway where my bags lay. I walked back from the refrigerator to confront the trio having retrieved the last of my coveted possessions, a final Rockstar for the ride home, beginning the awkward process of saying goodbye, something none of us wanted any part of, not even Gretch.

“Lea,” I began, having to take a deep breath before continuing. “Thank you for the hospitality—for letting me call this place home. I heard so many good things through the years and… I’m just glad I finally got the experience.”

“Oh,” was all she replied before delivering a smile coupled with the placement of her hand on her heart in a sign of flattery. “We had so much fun.” We went in for a hug. “You take care of yourself Zack. Thank you for looking after those guys this whole time.”

“It was the very least I could do…”

Gretch and I now stood face-to-face, careful not to show any sort of emotion towards each other. “Gretch,” I said, exaggerating the schwa in her name, a particular habit in Appalachian dialect I picked up over the years from conversations with my east coast relatives, as my parting words had not yet entered my head. “I just… I—“ What in the—there’s that stupid lump in my throat again! What the hell? “I think that—“ Oh my God, you’re choking up. Knock it off—get a grip, man!” “I’ll see ya,” I quickly said in a forced confession, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder. C’mon man. “I mean… I think I might—maybe I’ll… I’ll miss you.” My words somehow broke through her emotional armor, revealing a genuine smile for the first time, followed by a hug. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a genuine smile on my face either.

But something hit over during mid-hug. There was a revelation, similar to a message from God, only much stronger. My mind turned to mush, letting the unnatural presence take total control of my body. My jaws moved up and down, involuntarily instructed through a manipulation of muscles working to force out an unfamiliar language of spoken tongue, and succeeding quite magnificently, moving so fast that by the time a coherent thought could be sorted and analyzed through my head, the next one was already spoken—ultimate diarrhea of the mouth.

“Hey Gretch, I don’t know what you’re doing next month, or the month after, or even the month after that, but if I’m in Boise, which I might be, maybe we should get together for a drink, kind of like a date—well, not a date, but I guess it could be—I mean, with Bill’s permission of course—I know, we can go to Applebee’s! And I’m buying—that is, as long as it’s on the 2 of $20 menu—and only if you want to, which I’m sure you will—I know how you guys can’t pass up a free drink, heheh—“

“Oh my God!” Gretch scoffed and brushed the incident off, retreating to the den to act as if she was embarrassed by what had just taken place. Lea watched the interaction, shaking her head with a smile of pleasant disbelief that permanently stuck to her face.

I turned to Bill, delivering unto him a shrug of the shoulders and a sheepish grin. He took in a deep breath that lifted his entire upper torso, leaving on his face a sheepish grin of his own. “You need some help taking anything to your car?” he asked.

“Yea… yea I’d like that.”

 

***

 

I squeezed my suitcase, a case of beer, and enough old fashioned ingredients and whiskey to kill an elephant into the trunk. Bill placed my backpack and a few other items in the backseat and shut the door, leaving nothing but strands of overgrown brush bent by a warm gust of wind between Bill and I, two friends standing in silence in the essence of continental America’s final frontier. “Well, I guess this is it,” he said after a long pause, not knowing what else to say. I was thankful he spoke, for I didn’t have the words either. I hardly ever do, especially during moments like this.

“It’s been one hell of a trip,” I said to him, meeting him in a handshake that eventually turned into a hug.

“I’m really glad this happened. You don’t think this is the end, do you?”

“I don’t think so—no, it won’t be. But if so, for some God forsaken reason, I guess you can say we had one hell of an ending.” We shared a chuckle and then once again stood apart from each other, wishing we had more words to share. Nothing came to mind. In the absence of dialogue however laid a recognition, one too difficult to explain in a single goodbye. Something had changed during that two-week venture through the heartland of America and back, a growth between two men, an ultimate culmination of brotherhood. Something we can’t quite explain, but will never forget.

“I’ll see you soon my friend. Message us when you get home.”

“Will do. Take care Bill.”

 

***

 

The lyrics of Third Eye Blind played through the speakers of the Benz as I made my departure from Pony that late morning with a full can of Rockstar in hand, leaving me with much to think about on the drive to my parents’ house in Spokane, Washington.

I drove the coast just to see you
Why’d you take so long?
And I get that you know that I miss you and I
I know something’s wrong…

And then you speak to me
And everything is easy…

I’ve yet to come across anybody who can accurately describe the feeling one gets the moment an adventure is over in a single word or phrase. It’s like a turning point or a crossroads where a false known awaits you. There’s an intriguing element around the corner, yet a sorrow that exists over what you’ve left behind, and what you have to come back to. And whatever sorrow you’re feeling is partly overcome by a sense of accomplishment, taking part in something not many have attempted before you, something proudly displayed like a medal of honor. It leaves you in a state of ponder, encouraging you to continue your search, to understand the mysteries of life; eerily familiar to what was felt at the onset of your adventure.

Whatever that feeling was, I had a lot of time to figure it out during the 6-hour drive to Spokane.

But I guess if I had to put a label to it, it feels like you’re running out of the gate at your heart’s command… almost like you’re running out of the vein…

 

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Chapter 24: The Lonesome Crowded West, Part 3 – The Emmy Award Winner

We emerged from the shallow depths of the Madison River lobster skinned and fully consumed of energy, the grueling, 7-mile journey by tube certainly taking its toll on our bodies. So thankful we were to have experienced several minutes of relaxation, to become one with the river and to exist, if only for a few hours, amongst a series of hazards that would mold us into honorary Pony natives. How thankful we were to say that we had endured the elements of the mighty Madison, our scrapes, bruises, and burns worn as badges of pride on our trek up the recovery ramp.

But perhaps most of all, we were just thankful that the whole damn thing was over.

In the backseat of the Benz laid my backpack with a new set of clothes. I grabbed for it, and then hesitated, opting to peak outside of the car for a suspicious survey of my surroundings. Bill and Gretch stood near the trunk, their undivided attention focused on deflating their tubes, something I had been ever-so prudent about since our exodus from the river, a calculated move to avoid a squall of harassment for being the last one with an inflated tube. With my backpack in hand and the coast clear, I calmly shut the door and slipped into the public outhouse undetected for a change of clothes and a quick whiz, one that was much deserved.

After my episode of relief, I dipped into my backpack and pulled out the green Old Navy shirt I had bought right before the wedding. The material was light and soft, one of those shirts that aren’t exactly a solid color, consisting of short, dark-shaded fibers of the same color scheme, but make you look both buff and awesome whenever you put it on—my favorite type. Josh Ulrich would agree, being that his whole wardrobe consists of them along with a couple of Patagonias and North Faces. Ben Woodward has a bunch of those shirts as well, but none of them make him look buff, or awesome for that matter. Sadly, the kid just kind of looks like a dingus, no matter what he wears.

With the words “Green Bay Packers” printed in yellow varsity style XXL letters however, I couldn’t help but think that this shirt was far superior to anything that Josh Ulrich ever owned (and definitely better than everything in Ben Woodward’s collection). There was no doubt that this was a one of a kind. I put it on, and dad body or not, I looked buff, and I looked awesome. It was a wonder why it had taken me until now to wear it.

I strutted out of the bathroom, giving Bill the “what’s up” nod as he folded and packed the rest of the deflated tubes into the back of the Benz. He nodded back with an impressive smile. “You guys ready to head back?”

“I think we should stop and get some more beer before we go…“ Whoa, wait—what is this? It wasn’t so much the suggestion that bothered me, but when Gretch lifted herself out of the backseat, a jolt of repulsion shot through my body. There she stood, clad in a thin green shirt with the words “Green Bay Packers” on it, written in yellow varsity style XXL letters, trying to look “buff” and “awesome,” or something stupid like that. I threw my hands up and rolled my eyes in disbelief.

“You just could resist, could you? You had to copy me. You saw the shirt I got at Old Navy, and you bought the same exact one, just because I got it. That’s unbelievable—No. I wish I could say I can’t believe it, but you know Gretch, after everything that’s happened this trip, this doesn’t surprise me; not one bit—“

“Zack, you saw me in line at the Old Navy,” she snapped back. “You knew I bought it, and you watched me pack this shirt in my bag this morning. You’re the one who copied me!”

This time, I actually couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of her mouth. I copied her? What an accusation! How dare she accuse me of copying her, after everything I’ve done for her! Oh, she likes the Green Bay Packers because of that one hunk Clay Matthews? No, she likes the Green Bay Packer because I like the Green Bay Packers. And she’s the one claiming otherwise? It’s revolting. It’s a travesty! It will not stand!!!

I stared at her with a set of impassioned eyes, brewing up a brutal response that would set the record straight, to create an embarrassment so overwhelming that the thought of an assertion much like the one she had just made would make her tremble in her sleep. I was about to make sure she’d never say anything so abominable for the rest of her life! My fists clinched and shook as I opened my mouth, squeezing every ounce of energy from my body into the ultimate comeback, a definitive insult, utter assurance that this would never happen, ever again!

“Gretch, You—I… Get—“ My mind raced with thoughts, thousands of them swirling, converging into a cloud of obfuscation. There was so much to say, any one of them warranting destructive results, yet all of them wanting to be released all at once! I opened my mouth again. “Gret…” It was a complete jam, impossible for anything to escape from my mouth’s tiny orifice. C’mon! Just say something—anything!

“Get in the car…” I said, my voice low and haunting. It was all that came out.

Gretch did as she was told and Bill followed her lead. I climbed in and sped off towards Harrison, stopping in Norris for a quick fill up on gas beforehand. We needed beer, and a lot of it.

20 minutes of Third Eye Blind and little conversation eventually led us to a local convenient store just inside of Harrison city limits. “I’ll be back in a minute,” said Gretch the moment I parked the car. She was quick to exit the car, as was I to follow her. “Why are you coming in?” she asked, confronting me with a look of perplexity spread across her face, as if she was the only one allowed in the store.

“I don’t know, I just want to make sure there’s nothing else we need, that’s all, heheh.” The truth was, I wasn’t really quite sure why I wanted to go in. Maybe it was just for the heck of it. She rolled her eyes and continued on towards the entrance.

“Oh boy, Packer fans eh?” said the attendant manning the store. “We don’t see many of you guys around here.”

“Oh yea, we’ve been fans for a long time,” I started, eager to hold a positive conversation about the Packers. “My family’s from Wisconsin, and we just love watching our boys play every chance we get, right Gretch?” Gretch was already to the back of the store, her focus totally diverted to the search of Coors Light. “Well, you know what she has her mind on, heheh.” The lady joined me in a soft chuckle.

“Oh boy, you kids must be so exited for the season!”

“Oh you betcha! She’s a big Clay Matthews fan, but you know me, I just have to root for my boy Aaron Rodgers.”

“Oh, he’s such a handsome fellow.”

“You know, I don’t want to brag, but I’ve been mistaken for Aaron Rodgers in the past…”

“I bet you have! In fact, you do look a little bit like him, if I do say so myself.”

“Haha, I know, I get it all the time… Yea, I really hope we get a chance to make it out there for a game or two this year. We just absolutely love it, and it’s always such a wonderful experience—” The sound of a 100-pound dumbbell slamming on the counter stopped our conversation dead in its tracks. We turned our heads, shaken up by the sound. There sat an 18 pack of Coors Light, and next to it stood Gretch, shooting us a short and artificial half-smile.

“That’ll be 16 dollars hun.” I reached into my back pocket to hand her my credit card, but by the time I got my wallet out, there was already a 20 on the counter. I gave Gretch a concerned look. She just shrugged back and returned a wide-eyed look like I was a moron. “What?”

“Thank you so much. Gosh, you two look so cute in your Green Bay Packer shirts.”

“Oh thank you mam. You have a wonderful day!” I replied with a giant smile on my face. Gretch nodded her head and gave the lady another forced, half-smile, squinting her eyes in a stuck up manner in the process. By the time we exited the store, her smile had disappeared and her nod had turned into a solid shake.

“What the heck was that all about?” she snapped.

“I don’t know, where the heck did you get 20 bucks from?”

“None of your business, that’s where!”

“GRETCH!”

“I found it in the parking lot of the gas station we stopped at back in Norris!”

“Gretch, that was somebody’s money! You stole!”

“What? I asked around. And it’s not like nobody you’ll be complaining later.”

She’s a criminal, just like her brother… “Whatever, let’s just go back to the cabin. This whole thing just makes me rotten.” We crawled back into the car and began the drive back to Pony.

“Alright! More Coors Light!” exclaimed Bill.

“Yep, another 18 pack,” I replied after a long sigh. “I can’t wait for steaks tonight.”

“Me neither. I think the grill’s gonna cook em’ up real good! You guys get anything else?”

“Nah, just the beef sticks we got back in Norris. I figured I might as well go in there and check, just in case. You never know, right?”

“Right—” A sudden release of pressure was heard from the backseat. Both of us looked back. Gretch had not only opened the 18 pack, but also cracked open a fresh can of Coors Light.

“GRE—“ I almost blurted it out by natural instinct, and for good reason too! She had the audacity to have an open container? In my car? While I’m driving? But as the word began to leave my mouth, I remembered the golden rule Lea had taught us merely a moon ago: You’re allowed to have a beer on the drive from Harrison to Pony. I let it slide without further mention and continued up the road back to the cabin.

Bill was quick to fire up the grill and get a start on dinner soon after our arrival, and who could blame him! If he felt anything like me, he was starved! I did my part by helping Lea whip up a few servings of “Idahoan” instant mashed potatoes, and Gretch even helped by prepping some corn on the cob! Well, at least I think she did. Who knows, she could’ve just stood around drinking more beer, which was more likely the case, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and say she helped.

Each of us salivated at the sight of four thick New York Steaks, fully seasoned and sizzling over a wood tempered fire, and continued long after they were lifted from the hot, grated iron they were cooked on. Our bodies released a heavy dose of dopamine the moment the savory taste of red meat hit our taste buds, sending each of us into our own form of fantastical exultation, proof that the hours of construction put into Bill’s grill was beyond masterful, and his cooking beyond that. But it wasn’t enough. Within minutes, my entire plate of food had been devoured… and I still wanted more.

To my left was Gretch, still with a substantial amount of food left on her plate, but her position and attentive nature towards her meal meant that any attempt at her food was at best a foolish endeavor. Bill on the other hand had grown negligent over his plate. Although a hearty portion had already been eaten, there it lay unattended, resting on the coffee table and still very much edible. He busied himself, toying with a collection of beer sitting next to Gretch and ignoring his remaining slab of meat altogether. “It’s now or never,” I thought to myself. “He won’t even know, playing around with the beer and all. And the way he’s acting, he’s probably all done eating anyway! I mean, I could ask—no, can’t take the chance. What if he says no? What to do, what to do—look at him poke at Gretch, obviously trying to show her something—knock it off! Concentrate—think stupid! He’s not looking! Act. NOW!”

With a single, swift motion, I lifted my steak knife and stabbed down at the slab. My knife pierced the strip like a hot stick of butter—success. I lifted the knife once again; the steak wasn’t there. Another knife had been stuck in it. “Hiya!” Bill screamed and swatted his knife towards mine, clinking together the metal ends.

“Hiiiya!” I returned with a counter attack. It was quickly deflected by another knife swat.

“Get back!” screamed Bill with a mighty swing of his knife across my body, his eyes lifted and his face long and serious.

“It’s mine!” I shot back after leaning back and dodging his swing, Matrix style. I countered, going in with a swing of my own. Bill jumped out of his seat and positioned himself in an aggressive stance. It all happened so quickly, the series of events moving faster than our brains could function, and the next thing I knew we were both on our feet, aggressing over what was left of the steak. “On guard!” I lunged toward him with my knife, my arm extended in front and body positioned like a master fencer. He took a few scoots back and came back at me with a lunge of his own, going straight for the kill shot. I deflected and rang my knife around in a circular motion in an attempt to induce confusion upon my foe. He copied my maneuver, both of our knives swirling around in between our bodies.

“Huwaaaa!” screamed Bill, shaking his knife in random directions in front of his body. I swatted my arm in a fury of madness only to be matched by Bill’s as our knives swung about, hoping that one would eventually make contact with something—hoping that contact would be one of our opponent’s vital organs.

“Yaawwwww!” My arm moved around fast—lightning fast; swinging and swatting in an out of control manner in front of Bill’s face, neck and torso.

“Ahhhh!” he screamed back, mirroring my attack style and speed—so fast that our blades began to appear as a solid sheet of grey, hovering around in front of us, waiting for Murphy’s Law to take effect.

“WAAAAA!!!”

“HUUAAAAAA!!!”

“WHHHHOOOOOOOO!!!”

“GUUUUUUUUYYYYYYSSSSS!!!” Both of us stopped in our tracks and turned our heads at the cry of the beast. Gretch sat back with her eyes wide and body trembling in horror. “What, in the hell, is wrong with you guys!?” Neither one of us uttered a sound, except for a couple of exhausted exhales. “You guy’s are acting like a bunch of animals…”

I took a long, hard look at Bill and he took a long, hard look at me. We remained silent, and nervous for another moment, before I finally spoke again. “…Are you kiddin’ me Gretch?” I blurted out, the words naturally flowing from my mouth.

“Obviously we were just joking around,” answered Bill.

“Yea, you think I want this stupid piece of meat?”

“You think we’re stupid enough to fight like this?”

“Yea, the steak was good, but c’mon!”

“Geez, way to spoil the fun, Gretch.”

“No kidding. Freaking out like we’re gonna hurt each other, give me a break—you know what, I’m not even hungry anymore!”

“Me neither. Come Zack, let us leave this Gretch to simmer in her paranoia.”

“Let’s do. I got a bunch of beef sticks to snack on anyway.” We grabbed our plates and left the party pooper outside to finish the rest of her dinner by herself. “I’m gonna need a stiff old fashioned after that one…”

 

***

 

“Psst, Zack,” whispered Bill as we finished up the last of the dishes. He whipped his head over twice, motioning it towards the bedroom.

“What?” I blurted, watching him tiptoe away.

“Shhh.” He made another head nod, this time towards the bathroom where the shower was running. A smile slowly grew on his face, causing a smile to grow on my face. He waved me over and I obediently followed. Whatever Bill had up his sleeve, it was going to be good… real good.

“Ok, here’s the plan. You lay on her bed and I’ll lie on mine. She wants to go to the Pony Bar really bad, so we’re gonna pretend to have fallen sound asleep. She’ll try to wake us up, but she wont be able to, and then she’ll freak out, really bad. What do you think?”

“Bill, you gotta know that I’m not some guy off the street that’s gonna suck up…” There was a serious look in his eyes as I spoke, ready to except any sort of news with a stroke of dignity. “…But that’s probably the best idea I’ve heard this whole trip.”

He paused for a second, acting as if he needed to hold back the tears before speaking again. “Then let’s hurry and get into position before she gets out!”

“Oh God, the shower just turned off. Quick!” We hopped into the room and jumped into position, letting a couple giggles out of our system before go time.

“Ok ok, she’s coming, shhh!”

I could hear her shuffling around the cabin, taking her sweet time wandering about, looking everywhere except for the most obvious place. “Bill? Zack? Where are you guys?” I clenched my jaw shut, doing everything I could to keep from letting out a chuckle and blowing our cover. “Is this a joke?” she asked as she continued her search, heading towards the den and asking Lea for additional help. “Mom, have you seen Bill and Zack?” I heard from a distance. Again, it took an extra effort to lock my jaw in place and refrain from making any sort of noise.

10 minutes had passed and the constant sound of shuffling continued to make waves through the cabin. It grew faint, then loud, then faint again, each iteration causing an increased stress on the muscles holding our mouths shut. The shuffling noise grew once again, and this time it maintained its presence, growing louder and louder, piercing, earsplitting, drumming into my skull—ringing over me now! Pounding and pounding, ready to explode!

Then, there was silence, but for the biological release and intake of air. The shuffling had stopped, and my heart was throbbing. A loud flick of the light revealed two bodies, completely motionless in the absence of darkness. “You guys look pretty stupid right now,” said a girl’s voice. No response was given. “Actually, you look really stupid!” Wow. It was like we were dealing with an amateur. “Oh well. It looks like I’ll just have to go to the Pony Bar all by myself then…” Gretch? By herself? To the Pony Bar? The statement in itself almost blew our cover it was so hilarious.

Suddenly, I felt a close presence next to me. It must have been Gretch, and she was up in my face, foolishly thinking she could break me. “Get up Zack. You’re faking, I know you are!” It took every muscle in my body, tensed in unison to keep me from letting out a snort. The culmination of up close and personal Gretch remarks was almost too much to bear. She hovered over my position for another minutes before walking up and taking a stab at her next victim—Bill. She had given up on me… for now.

Out of a small crack in my eye, I watched Bill, whose performance was impeccable. He even had a slight buzz under his breath, a delicate snore that sounded completely natural… almost too natural. “Bill, wake up!” she commanded in a stern and frightening voice. Yet again, she was afforded no response except for another set of rhythmic breathing. Man, Bill is good! Gretch went unphased, stepping up in her attacks.

She went straight for the face, grabbing his cheeks and squeezing them together like a bloated puffer fish. “Listen Bill, get up. We’re going to the Pony Bar, or else,” she said, speaking in some mystic dialect of evil (Actually, the conversation had much more substance. But because so many curses were used, about 90% of it had to be omitted due to personal blog standards). Yet, she continued. “If you don’t @$#$@&g get up right #$#@&% now, I’m going to beat the #$@&! out of your $&#@$ $#@, you $#@# $#*&$ $@^@&$@ @$@!(!#&^ @$%!!!!!! !!@#*$@#@!&*$^@%!*^! !^@@!*^$%!# ^$!@#^(^!%#(!^!!!!!”

To my absolute horror, the conversation went on. And to my amazement, Bill miraculously managed to keep his mouth shut and his body perfectly still. Gretch began throwing his head around like a chew toy, then proceeded to pick it up by the cheeks, giving Bill the old, cold stare down. “How can one man endure so much?” I asked myself. Then it hit me. No wonder he’s is keeping such a good cover. I think he’s actually out cold!

Gretch slammed his head down on the bed, where it bounced off the mattress and joined the rest of his limp body. She whipped her head back around and stared me down. I had seen that face before, a face where someone’s all pissed off for no reason at all—the worst kind—Ronda Rousey—screw this!

“Ahhh, oh boy, what a nap,” I said, stretching my arms and legs out. “Oh hey Gretch, what’s going on, heheh?” She continued her pissed off stare; no way of clearing my name. I leaned over and took a peak at Bill. My hypothesis was correct; he wasn’t faking, not one bit. He truly was dead asleep. As it turns out, a full day of floating the Madison mixed with a belly full of beef and beer had induced a state of sleepiness, and at this point, the poor kid wouldn’t wake up for the end of the world. “Well, I’ll leave you guys alone to deal with whatever it is you got to do for a little bit. I’m gonna see what Lea’s up to.”

I slipped out of the room, careful and light on my feet not to make Gretch even more enraged. And honestly, I didn’t want to bear witness to what Gretch was about to do next. And what was the point if I was utterly powerless in stopping her? Bill had carved his own destiny; his life was no longer in my hands.

 

***

 

Lea and I were watching the evening news in comfort when Gretch walked into the den, her head down and arms crossed. She took a seat next to her mom on the couch and shoved her arms deeper into her chest for an extra pout. “What’s wrong honey?” asked Lea, somehow unaware of the troubling events that had just taken place. Gretch said nothing, her only response being a sharp turn of her body away from her mother. By her overtly obnoxious shift, we could correctly assume that she was trying to say, “I’m mad.” Yet, her actions still warranted the obvious question. “Are you mad?”

It was another sharp shift, deeper into the couch, her face barely visible at this point; no chance of possible eye contact. Why yes, by the looks of it, it seems as though Gretch is indeed a little upset. I lifted my hand and cupped it over my mouth in a direct path towards Lea as to call out into a deep canyon and create an echo. Yet, only a whisper was uttered, barely audible as to prevent anybody except for Lea from interpreting my message, both visually and orally. “She’s a little grouchy because Bill fell asleep.”

“That’s not even!” snapped Gretch, whipping around and confronting my accusation head on. Crap! How did she even hear?   “All I wanted to do was go to the Pony Bar tonight. Bill knew that, so he went to bed—on purpose. Just to make me mad!” Well, that worked out brilliantly if I do say so myself. “What are you smiling about Zack?”

“…Um, nothing, I eh just…” C’mon, think of something. Quick! “I was just thinking, since it’s my last night in Pony and all, that I wouldn’t mind going out to the Pony Bar with you for a drink or two, even without Bill.” Good save—wait!

“Oh Gretch, that sounds like a wonderful idea! How about you two just go for a couple drinks?” Like most good ideas that are given by a mother, Gretch wanted no part in accepting Lea’s. So she stood up with her head down and slowly walked out of the den. There had to be a kink in her neck and a strain in her arms or something, for her head remained stuck in the downward position and her arms looked to be permanently attached to each other in the crossed position as she walked away. And once again, Lea and I were left in the den to watch the local news by ourselves.

“I don’t know what happened? I really did want to go to the Pony Bar on my last night for a couple of drinks!”

“Oh don’t worry Zack. She’ll come around,” Lea assured. “Gretch never passes up a chance to go out to a bar, especially in Pony.” Her words ameliorated my concerns, but only slightly. There was still much uncertainty stirring in my mind, let alone the anxiety bustling about.

Sure enough, the Gretch came back five minutes later with her shoes on and covered in a sweatshirt, dressed like she was ready to brave the elements of nature. “Alright, I guess I’ll go,” she said in a melancholy voice, doing her best not to show positive emotion. “But all I want is one beer. That’s it!”

“Ah great!” I said, and with a mighty zip in my step, I jumped to my feet and headed straight for the door. “Lea, do you wanna come too?” I asked, leaning my head back into the den, nearly forgetting my manners.

“Oh, no thank you.” She wiggled her can of Coors Light in line with her head. “I’ve got enough here to last me through the night.

“Well then, what are we waiting for Gretch?” I zipped right up and out of there. Gretch followed behind, shuffling her way to the door as if she was unable to lift her feet off the ground, forced towards a place she wanted to go to all along.

 

***

 

It was a mild night at the Pony Bar, something you’d expect for a typical Thursday in the small, rancher’s town with most of the big-time cowboys waiting until Friday to come out and party. “What will it be,” asked the bartender as we took a seat at the bar, the same one that served us a day before.

“I’ll have a Coors Light,” said Gretch after taking some time to peruse the menu, a baffling maneuver since we all knew what she was going to order all along. Whatever.

“I’ll have a bud light, draft please.”

“That’ll be two dollars each.”

I reached in my pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “Oh check it out!” Amongst the pile of crumpled bills laid a Wooden Nickel. I showed Gretch; it looked as though she had one as well. “Here you go mam.”

“Thank you guys. Enjoy!”

Gretch and I sipped on our beer and furthered our examination of the knick-knacks lining the bar’s walls from the day before, a small respite of time before I threw a deluge of questions her way. “Don’t you have a lot of friends around here?” I asked. “Where are they all at? Don’t they like to party?”

“I dunno? They’re probably working and stuff. It’s still Thursday after all.”

“Oh yea. Where do they work?”

“At the ranches.”

“What’s so good about the ranches?”

“A bunch of rich people own em’.”

“Do they all live there?”

“Ya.”

“Really?”

“Ya.”

“All of em’?”

“I think so…”

“Do they make good money?”

“The engineers do.”

“Whoa, maybe I should work there…”

“You need connections.”

“Good thing I know you guys then!”

“Yea, sure… good luck with that…” The last comment seemed to have killed off any further discussions of Gretch’s friends and their places of work. We took another sip of beer and revisited our examination of the bar’s unique decorations, each of us choosing to remain silent until we figured out the next thing to say.

“So what the heck are all those semi-trucks doing driving by your house and spreadin’ dust everywhere? What a drag on the Dutcher Estate!”

“Oh yea, they gotta clean up all of the old gold mines.”

“What happened?”

“Back in the day this use to be an old gold mining town. It thrived, and there were all sorts of things! Town stores, inns, bars, brothels, you know, the usual stuff you find in the old west.”

“I hear ya.”

“Well, the industry started dyin’ and people moved away. So later down the road, some rich and greedy dudes came over to try and find more gold, but just ended up pouring a bunch of chemicals into the mines instead. And as it turns out, those chemicals are bad for the environment, so now they gotta go out there and clean it all up!”

“Sounds terrible…”

“Yea, but who knows? Maybe it’s good for the economy?”

“Yea, maybe.” I took another swig of beer and stared at the wall of liquor in front of me. It wasn’t a lot, but impressively large for a small bar in rural Montana. “Man Gretch, I can’t believe this is my last night here. I really starting to like this place… I hope I can come back sometime—I really do.”

“I hope so too.” Gretch’s amiable response threw me off a bit given our recent history, but I gladly accepted it after taking another sip of beer. “And to tell you the truth, I’ve had a lot of fun this trip. I’m glad we all got to go to Beth’s wedding together.”

“You know, I did too. In the end, I’m glad you decided to come with us.

“Really?”

Did I really mean what just came out of my mouth? “…Sure.” Whatever, I just needed a little appeasement to get her off my back. And once again, a mug met my lips and its contents entered my body.

“Oh look, it’s Revin’ Evan!” said Gretch, her face glowing bright as if Nickelback had just walked into the bar. I turned my head toward the entrance; in came a scraggily looking dude with glasses and curly black hair, sort of a Ben Woodward type of look.

“Revin’ Evan?”

“Yea, Revin’ Evan! He’s one of the most popular guys in Pony! He comes to the bar all the time!”

“Huh. Revin’ Evan, I would have never guessed…” And neither would’ve anybody else for that matter. His oversized black T-shirt with a creepy picture of Marilyn Manson definitely did not fit the style of fashion the rest of the patrons at the Pony Bar were wearing. However, he was quite colloquial in his dealings, immediately joining in jovial conversation with a few of the other regulars at the end of the bar.

Out of nowhere, a hard rumble sent a gasp out of Gretch’s mouth. Stumbling footsteps crept up from behind us, their lack of rhythm striking a sense of fear, reason to abstain from looking back and to instead take in another giant gulp of beer in preparation to the possibility of an unwelcomed encounter. The footsteps stopped—the deity was near. We set down our beers to a loud clink and slowly turned our heads to the left. A bulging belly enclosed by a long sleeve plaid shirt that was mere moments from bursting apart and tucked into a tight pair of wranglers covered the view of the regulars at the end of the bar. Within a matter of seconds, Revin’ Evan’s notoriety had literally been overshadowed.

“The name’s Wade,” said the deep and raspy voice next to us. “Is this seat taken?” Each of us raised our heads slowly upward towards the man whose cowboy hat and thick mustache perfectly matched the rest of his outfit, our stereotypical idea of an old, drunken rancher living in small town Montana.

“Please. Be my guest,” I said after a short moment of silence. He accepted my offer and to my luck, took a seat next to Gretch.

“Ain’t never seen none of you folks before. Where abouts you from?” asked Wade, the smell of hard liquor reeking from his breath.

“Boise,” answered Gretch, her answer short and succinct.

“Seattle,” answered I, my answer short and succinct.

“All you damn city folk are always comin’ here and visitin’ now a days,” he said, prompting each of us to take another swig of beer. Wade’s response was surprisingly welcoming, even though his intention appeared to show disgust. Whether or not he liked to admit it, I think Wade enjoyed meeting the new folk who passed through Pony on their travels. “What in the hell brought you out to a place like this?”

“My family owns the Dutcher Estate,” replied Gretch.

“Oh yea, I heard that name before. The Dutchers… Well Dutchers, looks like you’re almost outa beer.” Wade signaled for the bartender. “Hey miss, get these two another round and get me a shot of bourbon.” Despite his heightened level of intoxication, his good deed sparked further conversation, as well as a strange and mutual respect for the man we had just become acquainted with—at least for the time being. A minute later, the bartender came back with a fresh set of beers for Gretch and I and a bottle of whiskey to be poured into a shot for Wade. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass in the air.

“Cheers,” we replied, mirroring his gesture by raising our mugs. Wade wasted no time in drinking, already having his shot downed by the time our beer touched our lips.

“Another one,” said Wade without hesitation. The bartender wasted no time in accepting his request, most likely having previous knowledge of Wade’s drinking capabilities. We however, did not, and watched with a bit of dread as he waited for his next drink, which apparently couldn’t come soon enough. “You know, I’m a writer,” he added.

“No kidding? I’m a writer too,” I added, excited for the opportunity to talk, writer to writer. How happy I always am to speak of the frustrations our kind goes through when writing the next great novel, hardships that nobody else can understand; the months and years of preparation that goes into writing the perfect story and the reward you get after it touches somebody’s heart upon reading your work for the first time; a single gesture that reminds you that all the time and effort put into your creation was well worth it, a creation that nobody but yourself could have come up with. And with at least 20 more years of writing experience over me, I was dying to pick the man’s brain. “I’m actually in the middle of writing my first book right now!”

“Oh, you’re one of those types of writers,” he said in a disparaging tone, prompting me to take another drink of beer. “You see, I’m a song writer; a poet!”

“Oh… that’s great. Poetry’s very hard to write. I have a lot of respect for people who can do that.”

“You see, what it takes for somebody to write in 4 chapters, I can do in 4 minutes—one song. Let’s see you do that!”

“Yea, you know, I wish I could do that…” And yet again, I was overcome with the urge to take another long drink of beer.

“I even have an Emmy Award!” Ok Wade, I finally get it. You’re way better at writing than I am. Please continue to berate me with your awesomeness. “I used to write country songs for daytime television, you know. I’m sort of a big deal.” Oh yea, I bet you are. “Say, look at these guys over there. I’ve never seen them before.”

Gretch and I looked forward to the other side of the bar where a new group of young patrons sat, picking at a large pizza they had brought in. “Maybe you should go over there and introduce yourself,” I politely suggested. I’m sure they’d be just as thrilled with your drunken ramblings as I am.

“Hell no, they can come over here and have a drink with me! Are you trying to get rid of me or something?”

“Of course not, Wade.” Damn it!

“Hey!” yelled Wade across the bar, sloppily pointing to a taller boy with thick-rimmed glasses and wavy, long hair. “Come over here!” The boy acknowledged Wade, but couldn’t understand him, or at least pretended not to understand him, and understandably so. “…I said come over here!” The boy mouthed ‘what’ again, and the exchange went on for several more minutes. In the meantime, Gretch and I sucked on our beers. It was required if this madness were to keep up.

The realization must have finally sunk into Wade’s head that the boy was not going to come over to him. Thus, he succumbed to another conversation with Gretch—better her than me, I hate to say. For the next five minutes, Gretch entertained Wade by listening to one of his ‘stories’ while I happily sat at the bar, entertained by my mug of beer.

“I’ll tell you wait,” said Wade. “You guys wanna drive up to the mountains and smoke a little pot?”

Uh, gee Wade, sounds fun,” replied Gretch. “But I don’t know if we can swing it tonight—“

Oh, you guys’ll be fine. I’ll drive ya. Don’t worry, I’m a good driver, even when I’ve had a little bit to drink.”

“I’m sure you are Wade.”

“We can all crash up there till the mornin’ too. My truck’s got plenty of room, and plenty of liquor too.”

“Sounds fun Wade. We’ll let you know if we’re interested.”

“I bet these guys like to party over here. Hey, you with the glasses—yea you!”

“I think we should get out of here soon,” whispered Gretch to me. It was an opportune moment, for the boy across the bar had caught Wade’s attention again. “Wade’s starting to weird me out a little bit.”

“Ok, but let’s just take this nice and easy. No sudden moves; that’ll arouse unwanted suspicion. Just finish your beer and we’ll make a nice and quiet Irish goodbye when the time is right.” Wade sat back on his stool, having been denied a drinking request for the second time that night. Strike two. Unfortunately, that meant his attention was redirected back to us.

“By the way, did you ever watch that show Gilligan’s Island?” I heard Wade ask Gretch. Gretch slowly nodded her head, not exactly showing interest in continuing the conversation. Wade however, conveniently didn’t get the hint and continued his slurring. “I always thought that one lady on there was the best looking girl I’d ever seen. Her name was Marian, and my God was she beautiful. But then she became a lesbian…” Wade took a nice gulp of beer before continuing his tirade about Marian and her sexual preference. Neither Gretch nor I was quite sure why he thought she was a lesbian, but arguing with the man at this point would’ve led to nowhere. “It broke my heart! I hate her!! We were supposed to be in love with each other!” It all makes sense. How else could she not be in love an Emmy Award winner like yourself?

“And I’ll tell you what. I used to go to bed and look at pictures of her, and watch her on the television screen. Yea, I’d sit there, and get nice and comfortable, and I’d undress. And then after awhile, when I was all alone, I would reach down and—“

Whoa whoa WHOA! The hairs on my neck rose and my senses ignited like that of a pup sensing an intruder trying to enter the house. That is sick! What is you major malfunction Wade?! He was oblivious, and continued on with the unnecessary details of his exotic fantasies involving the Gilligan’s Island character. Are you kidding me? Nobody talks to Gretch like that, and I mean NOBODY, drunk or not—Not while I’m around! This will not stand. If there was one thing I knew at that moment inside the Pony Bar where Gretch was being accosted right in front of my very eyes, it was that Wade had to go, and it was up to me—careful now. This Wade guy is drunk, heavy, and highly dangerous. His thought process is beyond rational. Play it smart, and whatever you do, do not piss him off… not on your account.

“Hey Wade, see that guy over there?”

“The hell you talkin’ bout, boy?”

“That guy across from us, with the curly hair and the glasses. See?” Wade looked out, meeting the boy eye to eye and starting a stare down. “He said he could out-drink you anytime, anywhere.”

“That son of a B—“ Wade rose from his chair, a mightily concerted effort that involved intense concentration and coordination and stumbled over to confront the boy across from us. Words were said, inaudible due to distance and incoherence, and shots were taken. For the moment, it looked as though Wade had forgotten about us and that we were in the clear… for now.

“Ok, can we go now?” asked Gretch.

I studied the scene, watching Wade interact with the others while adding excessive forms of poisonous liquid to his already bulging belly. “I have a feeling maybe we should hang out for a little bit, just in case Wade decides to get back in his truck…” I reached over to the spot where Wade left one of his beers, its contents low and far from refreshing, and picked up two thin, wooden discs. “Besides, we have two Wooden Nickels to use.” I called over the bartender. “Miss, can we get one more round?”

 

***

 

We waited around and watched as Wade made his rounds across the bar, attempting to convince everyone in his wake to share a drink with him. Most refused, including Revin’ Evan, but that didn’t stop him from insisting. Eventually his stumble of shame sent him through the door and out of the bar. And by the looks of it, he wasn’t coming back.

“You ready Gretch?”

“Yes… Yes I am ready. I’m very ready.”

I called over to the bartender. “Mam, we’re ready for the check please.”

“You guys are good. Your Wooden Nickels took care of everything.”

“Wow,” I thought to myself. “Three beers each and we didn’t have to pay a single dime.” A sense of guilt hung over me. I knew I had to compensate the Pony Bar in some sort of fashion, for never in my life had I been shown so much hospitality at any drinking establishment. It truly was a special place. I looked to my left passed Gretch and pulled out a couple of dollar bills. “You see those two babes next to Revin’ Evan? Give them each a Wooden Nickel, from me—no, from the Emmy Award Winner.”

She nodded back a most serious nod. “Will do.”

We turned towards the entrance and watched as Wade climbed into his truck and pull away. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

We kept our distance between Wade’s rig and ours on our way back to the Dutcher Estate. His truck swerved back and forth along the gravel road and we watched in terror before taking our turn off. Whether his destination was home, or to the mountains where he could smoke his pot, I just prayed that nobody else was around to meet him on that stretch of road, wherever it took him.

“Dear God,” blurted Gretch, the experience finally sinking in to its full extent. “Who in the hell was that?”

“…Wade… the one and only Emmy Award Winner of Pony. He’s famous… He’s infamous! He’s forever changing the culture. And as long as he’s in Pony, nobody should sleep safe… nobody…”

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Chapter 20: Out of the Vein, Part 2

You gotta steal the time of a life that’s passing by…

-Third Eye Blind

 

7 AM. The air precipitated as it left my breath. I stood at the edge of a lawn, alone, the last of my kind in a ghost town called suburbia. In front of me stood the Benz, my instrument to achieve the ultimate freedom. A freedom that looked so exhilarating… a freedom that scared the living shit out of me.

I entered the car with caution, a heavy sense of danger looming, with every part of me holding the belief that I was headed towards a catastrophe. My skin formed bumps and opened its passages for easy perspiration. My lungs expanded and contracted rapidly, inadvertently converting oxygen into carbon dioxide at a dangerously abnormal pace. Blood pumped through my vessels at an irregular rate and my mind raced around and around with crowded thoughts, causing a traffic jam inside my head, a combination that led to an indefinite stall.

The infant sun lifted over the streets, a source of life so far way, it looked to be in every way unreachable, its power over me an ostensible reminder of the hopeless nature present when tasked to challenge authority. “What the hell am I doing?” I asked myself while I sat in the car for several minutes, void of any movement. The irony provided a most chilling answer, one that was the least bit pleasing.

My eyes slowly diverted their attention to the center console where a piece of stationary stuck out. First noticeable from my peripheral vision, its unusual placement seduced me, drawing me closer as if it was asking to be plucked. I studied its pose, how and why it was placed the way it was, wondering whether to open it or forever remain ignorant of its contents. I wondered, it’s unique and captivating position sending me deeper and deeper into a dangerous trance, and then I wondered some more…

***

It rained the previous morning when I left Wisconsin. Of course it rained… it had to. It was relentless, and in stereotypical fashion I might add, just like in one of those sappy chick flicks where the hunk has to say goodbye to the babe and everyone’s crying and drenched and the rain is just pouring down all over the place—you know, Nicholas Sparks style, but way cornier. Purely coincidental that every time you have to say goodbye to somebody, the weather turns to crap.

After a hearty lunch with Cousin Brian and one final stop at the Pick n’ Save to stock up on some Old Fashioned mix, I was back on the road, facing the barrage of rain, obstinate in its pursuit to challenge my driving skills. There was no time to feel sad or sorry, or even reflect on life events, my usual routine during a long drive home after vacation. All of my focus went into maneuvering through the thick web of rain punishing the external surfaces of my car as if I was stuck in a never-ending car wash at 60 miles per hour. The windshield wipers thrashed back and forth so fast and so frequently that I questioned the structural integrity of each wiper, whether they were strong enough to withstand the momentous forces acting upon them from each swing. I was almost certain once fatigue stress set in, each one would snap right off of their respective hinges and fly onto the highway, waiting to be crushed by the very structures they are tasked to protect while leaving me blind, sending me towards my inevitable doom.

Even with my wipers on overdrive, each swipe only provided a fraction of a second of limited visibility before the windshield was coated with another wave of rainwater. Despite the fury of water attacking my car, whose goal was to keep me from making it to Minnesota, a set of lights remained in front of me at all times; two, bright red lights coming from a structure whose blurry outline matched that of a truck’s, my guiding light out of the darkness. When it moved, I moved. When its light’s shone brighter, I slowed. I mimicked its every move, without any knowledge of who the man or woman behind the wheel was, whether or not they were a saint or a criminal (like Gretch). Yet, even the thought of a murderer as the operator of the rig wasn’t enough to stop me from putting all of my trust in the two red taillights in front of me; a pair of lights that would either turn my car into a mangled mess on the side of the road or successfully guide me through the three-hour stretch of road from Wausau to Minneapolis.

It was 4:30 in the afternoon when I stepped out of my car, safe and sound at the helm of the State Capital Building in St. Paul, Minnesota, where I was to meet Cambray before heading over to the Tin Whiskers Brewery a few skips away. Believing that my blind faith had been immensely rewarded, I took in a deep breath of relief, only to find that I had arrived in a city filled with smoke. The normally clean volume of air that covers the Twin Cities had been tainted with a thick haze, a result of the many wildfires that Bill and I were lucky enough to evade on our travels, until now.

Luckily for us, the quality of air and beer wasn’t exactly proportional at that time, making the variety of beer at the upstart brewery placed in the heart of downtown St. Paul well received. And although the Tin Whiskers lacked the fanfare and infrastructure of the Surly Brewery with their operation set on the bottom floor of an apartment complex, the brewers were able to deliver a quality product to us at a large quantity (although they did run out of their much touted “PILS-ner,” of which I expressed a small wave of disappointment).

So with an extensive supply of beer in close proximity and time to spare before John met up with us, we caught up on each other’s lives, something we had ceded from during our first gathering as a result of the birthday antics at the Surly Brewery and 1029 Karaoke Bar. I filled her in on the better details of the wedding, from how I ripped my favorite pair of shorts and the debate of whether or not we should be amiable to farm girls, to when we got to watch Beth and Blake get wedded. Of course I couldn’t forget about the excessive dancing that led to excessive perspiration, and I had to touch on the abhorrent behavior put on display by Bill and Gretch. She shared with me the latest updates of her life, and as it usually plays out with all my friends, we diverted our talk to the past, sharing a few laughs and smiles as we recounted the many adventures we had throughout the years.

The conversation became sentimental as the subject of our talk turned to friends, both old and new. I couldn’t help but bring up people like Bill, Mike, and Jay—especially Jay, leading me to share a few memories of him and how his simple presence was so meaningful to the people closest to him. He had a way of retelling a previous night’s adventure with his down to Earth personality and wit that never ceased to put a smile on each of our face, sending us into gut rolling bursts of laughter sooner or later at one point of story. And no matter how fun and wild a night with Jay was, it was always the day after, whether it be sharing a conversation over a lunch sandwich or a group of us sitting in a living room listening to him speak so gregariously that made his friendship worthwhile, that defined him as a great man, brother, and friend.

It was such a simple and meaningful presence in life that went unrealized until his unfortunate passing… a life I’ll always cherish, and a lesson I’ll never forget.

The brief pause of dialogue between us coupled with a stern look strewn across her face sent a shot of anxiety buzzing through my veins. It was a look that needed no explanation, evidence of how much our conversation had turned from colloquial to serious—funny how just a moderate amount of beer consumption can have such drastic effects.

I knew the question would come up sooner or later. It always does, and this time was no different, and just like in its usual, inevitable fashion, it would again catch me off guard. The talk of friends the past and current state of our lives, our dreams, and future aspirations should’ve been a dead give away.

“Are you ever going to move here?” she asked. “We’ve talked about it for years, but it still hasn’t happened…”

She deserved an answer; here at the Tin Whiskers Brewery in St. Paul, Minnesota… she deserved an answer I was ill prepared to give. And so I took another sip of beer and pondered over the question, as I had done, also for several years… “I just want to let you know that I really meant what I said in your birthday card.” Perhaps she knew better than me of where I wanted to be, and where I needed to be… where I belonged…

But I could never seem to provide a straight answer. Only a mush words delivered in equivocating terms was all that was ever forced out, a bare minimum offer for a satisfaction that was rarely attained…

***

Fear drives us in many directions. There’s a reason that stirring feeling swells inside when faced with peril. And for good reason too, at least for the most part, be it a kid staring down a giant bully, or the same young hunk asking a babe out for the very first time. It gives us time to swallow the gravity of the situation, helps us to put a grasp on the risks and rewards involved in such a decision, and in some cases, buys us time to realize the sheer stupidity involved with the thoughts rolling around in our heads (for instance, contemplating whether or not to take Ben Woodward’s advice and go blackface for a Halloween costume). In all facets of life, fear drives us. It also slams on the brakes.

And in that moment of contemplation, sitting in the comfort of the Tin Whiskers Brewery amongst a grand population of Boundary babes and next door to Wisconsin, friends, family, and the world’s greatest football team, it was fear that reemerged inside my head; a fear that provided an excuse, an artificial roadblock to hold me back, to keep me from reaching my ultimate goal.

“I really do think you belong here,” she said, as I was unable to divert from my prolonged moment of silence. “You have Midwest blood. It lives in you. You’d blossom here. You’d thrive here… Give it some consideration, not just for my sake, but for yours as well…”

John walked in a few moments later where he was embraced halfway to the table with the offer of a beer, consolation for letting me off the hook. Soon after we were joined by his coworkers, and being that there was a brew in each of our hands, the conversation turned much more casual. Though I enjoyed the respite, I couldn’t quite shake off the entrapment, the curse of complacency that lingered through my head, a feeling that lasted well past the last sip of beer at the Tin Whiskers.

Later that night we ventured over to the Uptown neighborhood in Minneapolis (near the infamous H&M incident) for a sushi dinner, where we met up with Lauren (the #1 boundary babe herself and potential future wife in 15 years) as well as Claire Brinstagram, always an added pleasure. Truly blessed by their presence and impressed by the restaurants music selection (a number of indie rock hits from bands like the “Yeah Yeah Yeah’s” who played at the 2009 Sasquatch Music Festival mixed with a little Modest Mouse), I offered up a round of Sake Bombs. Only Cambray and John could be convinced to join me for a round of shots, which were set up using a pair of chopsticks that held a shot glass filled with Sake over a cup of Sapporo, similar to what I had learned in Denver a week prior.

“Ok, when I say ‘Sake’ you say ‘BOMB’!” The ritual was met with less excitement than previously encountered with Bill, for John and Cambray, being that their level of sophistication was a bit higher than most, didn’t exactly take to yelling “Sake Bomb,” banging on a table, and spilling beer at a quiet sushi restaurant with much enthusiasm.

At the night’s end, we found ourselves back at Cambray and John’s apartment watching English reality TV. The particular show of interest involved a bunch of people who just go on blind date and talk about it, with some dates ending horribly and others with “happy” endings—and that was it. “Man, no offense to John, but I don’t how you can get into this stuff,” I thought to myself. They seemed to enjoy it however, so I soldiered through it in deference to my hosts, thus giving the show an appropriate chance.

“Hey, have you guys ever seen Baseketball?” Both of them shook their heads, prompting a condensed screening. If they thought that First Date show was funny, they’ll lose their mind over this! “Man, I used to watch this all the time in college. It’s seriously the funniest movie ever!”

Their mouths remained flat throughout the screening, replicating the same look given to me by a group of babes in the college dorms several years back, of whom I was also able to convince that watching the movie would be worthwhile. “Man, I miss English television,” said John. By the tone of his voice, I would’ve guess that he was unimpressed with the humor on display. I, on the other hand, was completely baffled, finding each “psyche out” in the movie beyond hilarious. Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.

“Well, we’re going to bed,” said Cambray. “I think we all have a big day ahead of us.” I agreed and made my way to the respective guestroom where I was to prepare myself for a slumber, but not before saying our goodbyes, just in case the opportunity wasn’t there in the morning. Before crawling into bed, I checked my phone for messages. Bill…

I slid my finger across the screen where his name was placed to open the full contents of his text. Many words were used for persuasion, but the message was clear:

Come to Pony. Meet us in Billings tomorrow by 5. A BBQ is waiting for you…

I lay in bed that night, wondering if it were even possible—if that were even a good idea or if I could actually do it. I checked the Google Maps on my phone for the best route. Minneapolis, MN to Billings, MT—12 hours, 840 miles. Billings… Pony… It seemed so blissful, yet at the same time, a distant dream I wasn’t the least bit prepared for.

And so I lay in bed, wondering and dreaming, with a hint of anxiety sunk at the bottom my heart. I wondered and dreamed, until I fell into a slumber, wondering if it were possible, if it were a good idea… if I was actually going to do it…

***

“Cheers” said the front portion of the folded card, accompanied by a drawing of a fizzing can of beer, freshly opened. It was in my hands now; somehow, through the workings of a mysterious force inside the Benz, the card with a picture of the most coveted substance on the face of the Earth had found its way into my hands. A curiosity set in, a deadly curiosity, sending an urge fueled by a feeling of intrigue to open the card, to reveal its contents… to read…

Zack – I’m so delighted and proud to spend this milestone birthday with you in person. You are truly loved here in Minnesota, and treasured by your whole Midwest squad. I’m just going to take this opportunity to again request that you move to Minnesota. Please, just consider it. I hope this new era of your life brings you more happiness, closer to the goals you’ve been working towards throughout your 20’s, and maybe getting published. I’m so proud to call you my friend and thankful to have you in my life.

All my love, Cambray.

I stared out at the open road ahead of me, absent of any movement except for the glowing rays surrounding the sun, slowly rising above the Earth to once again proclaim it’s reign over the world. It stared back, an old western outlaw all too eager for a showdown, punctual as always. “How dare he challenge me,” I felt him say as a thickening film of sweat lubricating the steering wheel the harder I squeezed. I set the card back down on the center console—my ticket out, my ticket back to the Promised Land… my answer. With one last deep breath I turned the key, igniting the engine that sent a loud roar through the air, a message that I was not to be trifled with; that I would not be intimidated. I would not go quietly in the night, as was demanded.

With a flick of a lever that set the car into drive, I left the beloved land held so dearly to my heart, that small glimpse of heaven called the Midwest, taking with me a gallon of Old Fashioned mix and a set of memories that was to remain along my side for the rest of my days on this precious Earth. I pressed on my foot on the gas pedal and cruised into the west, where I would eventually meet the outlaw once again, waiting for him to catch up.

My breaths became heavier and more frequent as I merged onto I-94 West, triggering a cold sweat that bled through the cotton of my Surly crew cut sweatshirt. There was no turning back, and nothing to hold me back as I made my way across a barren tundra of crusted dirt and brush, a nearly 900 mile stretch across the sparsely populated state of North Dakota and into the frontier of Montana, not at this point. The weight of my foot held firmly against the pedal unbeknownst to my consciousness, causing a rapid acceleration that crossed lanes and weaved between cars at an expedited pace, knocking on the door of authoritative confrontation; a pace of which I was in complete control.

Several miles outside of Minneapolis, a line of cars clogged the left lane of the freeway, each one with the foolish idea that their single file presence eased the flow of traffic, a dangerous and corrupting idea that left them much too stubborn to admit the error of their ways. I flicked my turn signal and shifted into the right lane, buzzing past the long line of cars who weren’t the least bit enthralled with a man and his audacity to test their presence on the road, as if I were 2nd grader causing a stink by cutting to the front of the lunch line. My position was gaining quickly, inching closer and closer at a breakneck speed to the vehicle directly in front of me, its steady pace appropriate for the right lane. However, the laws of Physics in its ultimate justice were not in my favor, for no combination of time, velocity, acceleration, and displacement could send me safely in front of the line of cars set so obdurately in the left lane. I flicked my blinker once again to signal my return behind the leader.

It was a cardinal error. By informing the car directly behind me and to my left my plan to merge with ample time, I had given the competition prescient knowledge of my next move, who seized upon the opportunity and acted accordingly. The gap to my left went from wide, to modest, to short, and then to even smaller until it was non-existent, closed by the inconsiderate acceleration of an ego-threatened driver. I threw up my hands in disbelief. The driver lacked the courage to give me any eye contact whatsoever. Accepting the fate for the moment, I slipped in behind him to manage both my progress and position until the next opportunity presented itself.

“No! Thwarted once again!” A red sedan this time, having witnessed the whole scene, repeated the offense of driver in front of me, cutting me off and sending my car into an abrupt and dangerous swerve back into the right lane. This driver held no bones about expressing his attitude and all out rudeness with a few expletives mouthed through the car windshield. Again, my hands subconsciously threw themselves up into the air, accompanied a few choice expletives myself.

It wasn’t the first time I had witnessed extreme anger on a Minnesota highway. Coming back from the Boundary Waters a few lovely summers back, a rather sweet and soft-spoken Cambray had turned hot with psychotic rage when confronted with rush hour traffic near the outskirts of the Twin-Cities. Thus, the action on of the two drivers further cemented my opinion that road rage was an epidemic plaguing the usual and otherwise friendly people of Minnesota, who once again made their point loud and clear. I was not to pass, under any circumstance.

I retreated to the back of the line several cars away, a position I was doomed to stay in as long as they had their say, a long and dreadful line bound by a set of imaginary rules. They were rules that had no registry within me; yet, I was forced into their submission by the others following with blind obedience. We crawled passed the cars on the right, each one with just enough set distance to make a full pass impossible. The scenery, a forest separated from the freeway by two long strips of grass lining it received little acknowledgement from me except for the fact that it simply existed, for I remained in place at the rear, the bulk of my concentration waiting for my chance to strike, not knowing if that chance would ever come, but fully prepared nonetheless.

For several long minutes I lingered, my demeanor smooth and calm, not letting the evil deeds done unto me to deter my focus or keep me my from completing my mission. I stayed back, lurking in the shadows; waiting for my chance, a chance to get off, to show them that despite their best efforts, despite all of their power, I could not—I would not… be… restrained. I sat and waited… just one time…

Inch by inch I crept closer, my mind racing faster, a circulation of air flowing faster, in through my nose and out through my mouth; my heart pounding, faster! Each passing second increasing in its intensity, driving my desire to go faster, for these mobile roadblocks ahead of me to move faster, faster—FASTER! Faster and closer to a decision I was forced to make, a one and a million shot—odds I would take in a heartbeat!

My eyes gleamed passed the last remnants of a passed car, calculating the available distance between it and the one ahead, real estate with a severe diminishing return. Into 5th gear I went, prepping for the moment to move, to turn the impossible to possible, to show the world my unbound potential. 4th gear—the Benz revved and grinded well over 3000 RPMs…. “Any moment now…” I glanced over at the open space to my right, pinpointing the exact moment to release; every inch was precious. I glanced again, looking for evidence of a car, evidence I didn’t see, that wasn’t there—open space—GO!

I swerved to the right. A fierce roar of an engine pierced the atmosphere, sending shocking pulses across the freeway. “80… 85… 90,” the speedometer’s dial rotated, moving across the front dashboard console at a steady rate. Rekindled with a state of intense concentration fed by a psychosis previously felt only once before within the treacherous terrain of Wyoming, I blasted past my opponents with the remaining distance between me and the car in my immediate line of view quickly diminishing.

100 feet. Time slowed. My breaths, the engine, the beat of my heart; every audible sound augmented, forcing an acute concentration into the past and present. Flashes of Idaho and the majesty of the Gran Tetons drove through my mind. Then came a pint of puke from a Sushi bar in Denver, a never-ending cornfield, the sight of pure beauty softly cutting through a delicate plane of water lined with an untouched forest, a representation of all things wonderful and natural in the world. Then there was love… love sealed by two partners, created and confirmed in the company of friends and family, watching with delight over a body of water sparkling with rays of fading sunlight, sunlight that would disappear and allow an amazing sprinkle of stars, both natural and artificial to light the world for the remaining hours of darkness.

This was the end. “But… it can’t be…”

50 feet. “I won’t make it. Stop!” my mind screamed. I had misjudged the distance. There wasn’t enough time. “Go back. It’s not worth it!” Every cell in body pulled at my leg, working in tandem with my mind, begging for the release of the gas, anything to prevent turning a beautifully engineered piece of machinery into a useless mush of metal scattered across a plot of pavement. My eyes darted back and forth throughout the car. Panic set in. Death entered my head—flying, living and dying, a battered body lying next to his heap of steel, the remains of a disfigured frame once recognized as a car, its spilt fluids joining that of its operator’s, until both are fully depleted and marked useless.

My eyes continued to dart back and forth and front to back; then stopped, fixated on an anomaly in between—a miracle. “Cheers,” it said, a piece of stationary sticking out of the center console. My eyes darted back to the road while my body pulled with all of its might to send my stubborn foot onto the brake… but it could not… overpowered by a single force, a beating heart pounding against my chest. Faster… faster… faster—FASTER! It pushed my foot harder on the gas pedal, one entity against an entire army, standing in sheer defiance with one simple message. “No. You’re wrong.”

20 feet. A single instance of life struck through me, sending a wave of confidence through the body it was once against. No longer did I fear death or pain. There was just absolute freedom, for at least one, beautiful moment—absolute freedom.

10 feet. I turned my head, staring directly at my original rival forbidding me of progression. We were to never see each other again. However, I was to make sure he would remember this moment. He would remember this day, the day he failed, the day I conquered, for all time. He twitched his head my direction, a microcosm of acknowledgement, just enough to fulfill my satisfaction.

5 feet. Time sped back into its normal form.

1 foot. I braced for impact; my eyes set forward, guided by some unnatural force, beaming towards the vehicle in front, readying for it. Fully expecting it.

0 feet—

A twist of the wheel jerked the car left. The motor shifted into third, thrusting me across the pavement. The engine screamed louder—louder, harder and faster! An angry howl, one seeking revenge on its enemy after several years of torture.

“WHAAAAAA HOOOOOO!” I screamed, delivering my final deathblow to my enemy, an enemy separated by mere inches; inches that turned to feet as its puttered engine breathed its final breaths over I-94 West. I didn’t wait to watch him perish, didn’t care to watch such a pathetic display as the feet turned to miles, and then to many miles, miles that would eventually become states.

I flew across the highway, past the last traces of the Midwest. There was no apology as I disappeared into the Siberian-like landscape of North Dakota, an unstoppable force with the world at its fingertips, a world waiting to be conquered as a challenge—one I gladly accepted. My heart continued it’s heavy beat, injecting my body with a double shot of adrenaline across the 850-mile stretch of I-94 West with several hours of daylight at my disposal. My eyes beat down the highway, eyeing its first victim like a madman possessed. This was what it meant to be alive. This is what it was like to love. This was what true freedom was.

“Bill! Gretch! I’m comin’ for ya!”

Pony, Montana. It seemed like such a lovely place…

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Chapter 1: Out of the Vein, Part 1: The Road to Wisco

Seattle to Boise

The look on Megan Mill’s face matched that of a soldier’s moments before he was to storm the beaches of Normandy. It was the beginning of a dreadful two-week long heat wave across the Pacific Northwest with scorching temperatures that would result in a large number of forest fires and grumpy residents all across the region. Hoopfest just so happened to land on the onset of those treacherous two weeks, with Megan Mills being one of the many unlucky souls who had volunteered to suffer.

“110 degrees, are you kidding me?” said Megan Mills, not at all enthused at the extended weather report displayed on her phone.

“…Man, that really sucks Megan Mills.” It was pretty much the only response Bill and I could give for what the participants of the annual 3 on 3 basketball tournament in Spokane, Washington were doomed to endure. The once energetic outing that brought about the most competitive of stars to test their skills on the court each year was now a ticking time bomb of gloom, a definite death sentence for all of its attendees.

“People like, die in this kind of weather! We won’t even be able to sit down on the pavement it’ll be so hot! And you know they never provide enough shade, and what about water? They better have water… God, we have to play at least three games. This is going to suck… big time…” Yes, the further Megan Mill’s talked of this year’s Hoopfest and the thought of her buns being given a permanent branding whenever she was to sit down on the sweltering pavement, the further her face filled with despair; preparing the eulogy to her own funeral.

It was an expression that was in stark contrast to the one’s on my and Bill’s face, for the heat wave she talked of was one that would not be felt by either of us. The trunk of my Mercedes-Benz E350 was nearly packed, ready to embark on an adventure, away from this retched two-week hot spell of which they spoke of, and that we were conveniently avoiding.

 

***

 

“So where are we going to stay?” asked Bill the night before as we shared a beer at a local bar in downtown Boise, a fancier joint that had a nice collection of microbrews, one that we were slightly underdressed for.

“Um, well, I guess I hadn’t really thought of that… Maybe we’ll just wing it or something.”

“Hmm. Sounds like we probably should’ve planned this a little better.”

“Ahh, we’ll figure it out. We got friends all over the place. Denver, Minnesota, Wisconsin—hey, doesn’t Shaun live in Pocatello?

“Yea, maybe we should call him up.”

“Ok, I think I will.”

At that point, how we would get there, what sights we would see, which locals we would meet, what stories we would excavate from their heads, and all the other important matters obviously weren’t given the appropriate amount of thought as it probably should have. “Oh well, too late now!” I thought to myself. Any worry of the matter would be useless. We had a little over a week to make it to Wisconsin to watch our friends Beth and Blake unite under the banner of holy matrimony (i.e. get married, get hitched, jump the broom, whatever…), and despite our lack of planning, we were excited, and we were almost ready, and all there was between us was 2,500 miles of country.

 

***

 

The extrovert inside of me was in full display that morning as Bill and I prepared for our departure with a few last minute to-do items left on our non-existent checklist, delaying Megan Mill’s of a departure of her own with our non-stop chatter, whose only supposed purpose was to further fuel her anxiety. “Hey Megan Mills, what do you think of Donald Trump? He might be the president someday? Oh boy, he sure does speak his mind! Are you mad? What about Bruce Jenner—“

“That’s Caitlin Jenner!”

“…Right, so sorry. He just got a—“

“SHE!”

“…Yes, oh boy, my mistake. She just got a major award. That’s going to turn the sport world upside down! And what time are you heading out to Spokane? You probably want a head start—you know, now that I think about it, I wish you would’ve told me! You could’ve stayed at my parent’s place, free of rent… oh, you’re staying at KCR’s in Kellogg? Geez, that’s like an hour away! Oh well, I guess it could be worse, but I bet Gretch will be complaining the whole time…”

Unbeknownst to me, an important meeting was awaiting Megan Mills at work, and it was her own politeness towards her guest that was the cause for her late exodus, one that risked an unfavorable chance of getting fired, or at least harsh chastisement from her superiors, a scenario equally as bad. Her tension was in full display each time she reached for the door, unwilling to show offense with a blunt statement in order to end the conversation. I, however, was blinded by an excitement steadily built up during my 7-hour drive from Seattle the day before, where a wonderful night’s sleep on her couch did nothing to curb the sensation. It was way beyond anyone’s control at this point. “By the way, where’s Gretch? Shouldn’t she be here to wish us goodbye?”

“I don’t know. Ask Bill, she’s his sister.”

“She’s your best friend Megan Mills!” he shot back.

“I can’t believe this!” I said, throwing up my hands in disbelief. “I drive all the way to Boise, and she can’t even stop by and say hi… a bunch of bull crap if you ask me.

“Tell me about it,” replied Bill. “And get this. She expects us to pick her up at the airport. Fat chance!”

“I agree!” It was quite apparent that morning that Megan Mill’s gracious spirit would not be properly recreated by a certain Boise resident, of whom I was more than willing to meet and share a few polite words with, up until now. I mean, c’mon! All we asked for was a simple goodbye from a friend, and in some regards, a relative; one goodbye that would bring luck to a couple of hunks who were about to travel thousands of miles across the country… luck that was expected, but never received. It was official. Gretch had stood us up. “Whatever. That just pisses me off. Where’s my freaking Rockstar?

“Where was the last place you left it?” asked Bill.

“I don’t know! Obviously I would’ve checked there if I knew!”

“I saw one sitting on the counter. I put it in the fridge a couple of minutes ago,” said Taylor, Megan Mills’ boyfriend.

“…Oh, thanks dude… Say Taylor, you’re from Wyoming, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. You guys planning to cruise through there?”

“…YEA—duh, I mean no—well, the thought crossed our minds,” replied Bill.

“Yea, it’d probably be cool to see the Gran Tetons or something, if that’s even cool to do nowadays.”

Gretch’s actions, or lack there of, would no doubt prove to be detrimental given the amount of festering that was to be done while driving through flyover country. However, her inconsideration was set-aside for the moment, as picking Taylor’s brain became our principal priority. Besides, we would have plenty of time to plot our revenge on the road.

“Yea, the Tetons are cool, but damn, Jackson Hole is crawling around with waaay too many tourists this time of year. It kind of sucks dealing with them all. It’s like none of them have ever seen a wild animal in their entire life. ‘Oh my God, it’s a moose,’ somebody will say, and everybody looses their damn minds!” I took in Taylor’s advice with great deference while Bill gathered a variety of Cliff bars that Megan Mills had kindly bought for us, knowing we were in for some long stretches. “Just don’t draw attention to the fact that you’re a tourist and you should be fine. All you gotta do is treat the locals coolly and calmly, and they’ll give with the same respect.”

“Understood,” I replied, with a heavy and sincere nod. “Yea, those types of people can be pretty ridiculous,” reaffirming his annoyance and scoffing in mockery of the stereotype. “Not me though.”

In time, the unfortunate working souls found their window of escape after I sporadically decided to burn a few calories around the block before our departure, presuming it would be difficult to continue with my normal exercise regiment during vacation, no matter how hard I tried. By the time I had returned and cleansed my body of the thick membrane of sweat developed during my run, it was only Bill, their two cats and I left.

With Taylor and Megan Mill’s gone, and Gretch—well, Gretch was pretty much dead to us at that point—there was nothing left for us to do. Our bags were packed, our teeth were brushed, deodorant applied, and after several months of anticipation, it was time. “You ready,” I asked Bill, having climbed into the Benz, waiting for his answer before turning the ignition.

“Did you ever get a hold of Shaun?”

“I did. Looks like we’re staying in Pocatello tonight.”

“Poci huh? I’ve heard… things…” Bill looked forward and took a deep and anxious breath. “I’m ready.”

I cracked open my ice-cold Rockstar Energy drink and took a long swig, letting the wonderfully processed chemicals assimilate into my bloodstream, something I would come to depend on throughout the duration of our trip. The engine turned and I pulled my Gucci sunglasses over my eyes. “Let’s do this. Say goodbye to Boise.”

“…Goodbye Boise…” Bill’s goodbye was soft and sentimental, as if it were his parent’s on his first summer at camp. His stare was blank as we pulled out of Megan Mills’ driveway, on our way towards Interstate I-94.

It’s hard to accurately describe the feeling one gets at the beginning of an adventure in a single word or phrase. It’s like a turning point, or a crossroads where a false known awaits you. There’s an intriguing element around the corner, yet a slight sorrow that exists over what you’re leaving behind, and what you’ll eventually come back to. And whatever sorrow you’re feeling is partly overcome by a sense of accomplishment, taking part in something not many have ever attempted before you, something proudly displayed like a medal of honor. It leaves you in a state of ponder, encouraging you to begin your search, to try and understand the mysteries of life.

And we had more than plenty of road to ponder, search and understand in front of us…

The Who’s “Baba O’Riley,” played through the speakers, a personal tradition of mine to mark the beginning of a journey as official, and into the east we drove with the ongoing keyboard loop to one of the greatest rock songs ever made, pushing us towards several more hours of daylight. It was now officially official. Our adventure had begun.

“Oh, by the way, do you mind if we stop at Carl’s Jr. before we go?”

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