95 South

It has only been four days since we left and I have already found a way to forget a part of myself. My thoughts have shifted, however slightly, from concerns and trinkets with which I find ways to occupy my consciousness. I had originally planned on maintaining this journal every few days, but due to the lack of Internet access and the living of life it has become less realistic. I will, however, post whenever I can.

As we left Plymouth on the same roads we had spent a large portion of our lives circling like hamsters on a wheel, Domenic received a text message from a close friend. In it contained a few lines from Kerouac, which I will recite here, "What is the feeling when you are driving away from people, and they recede on the plain until you see their specks dispersing? - It is the too huge world vaulting us, and it is good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies."

As we sat, the three of us, gliding fifty miles per hour under the sun burnt sky, I saw Domenic turn his head. I was sitting comfortably in the backseat, and his feet were resting out the window on the side mirror. He looked at me and smiled, holding the phone so I could read the screen. I felt my bones go hollow. They drained entirely. Brandon craned from the driver's seat, curious and eager.

When we left his house I noticed his mother crying. She hugged him hard. It hurt to watch. As we leave, onto whatever, I think of those with who I have said to much, and those not enough. We are bearing down on time with enough force to watch it cascade like a waterfall. I feel I will never spend enough time with anyone before it is done. The wind was slapping hard. The sun was soothing on my cheeks. Brandon read the message and I thought he would cry. Instead, he pounded the wheel three times, and we laughed. We laughed so completely unaware of anything except ourselves. I suppose the journey starts here.

We headed south to Brooklyn. Domenic had friends he wanted to see before we left - Brandon and I thought we may as well start somewhere.

As we drove the sun followed our car. It arched through the sky as the trees ran still as statues by the window. Thousands of pounds of metal hurling towards each other and I fell asleep under the heat of the day.

I heard a horn blast and bus hydraulics release as my eyes opened in Brooklyn. Brandon was standing outside the car, directing Domenic into a tight spot somewhere on sixteenth street. The car was packed so full the frame was resting on the rear wheels. I stretched as Domenic put the car in park. He turned around, "Well, look who's up. How was your nap," under his breath, "you little bastard."

"Grow up." I opened the door and rested my arms on my hips and rocked to the tip of my toes, "That may have been the best way to start this trip."

The wind was blowing softly, weaving through the streets and dipping under cars and swirling around the street lamps. Domenic's friend, Austen, had been living in Brooklyn since they left college. I had met him before and I had enjoyed his company. We drank Tequila all day and after quite a bit of the bottle we ate dehydrated pea pods from Trader Joe's and laughed deep in the night.

"He's still at work I think," said Domenic, checking his watch, "He said his roommates were home."

We gathered clothes and items we figured we would need that evening, locked the car, and headed on foot to his apartment. Brooklyn breathes. It has a pulse, alive in the concrete and the leather which pounds it like tick, tock.

We rand the bell when we arrived at his apartment while a man in Rollerblades skated by being pulled by his pit bull on a red leash. As we waited, Brandon grabbed Domenic at the base of his neck and smiled wildly. He was holding a bottle of whiskey like a baby and I felt a grin inch across my face.

Someone came bounding down the stairs and with tremendous force swung open the door.

"Hey!"

"Oh my God! I didn't think you would be here!"

Domenic hugged the person who had sprung out of the door like a bat and the bag he was holding fell with thud on the sidewalk.

"When Austen told me you were coming I came straight over. How have you been buddy?"

"Incredible, I think... we may be treading on euphoria?" Domenic laughed.

"Hey Brandon."

"Julian. Great to see you."

"Bill, this is Julian. He was Austen's roommate in college. We have shared many a bottle together in the past."

We shook hands and I was impressed by his enthusiasm, we all felt as though this day was slightly different than yesterday.

"Austen told me about your trip. Are you really headed all the way?"

"Every inch."

"Oh wow. I'm jealous. I went on that sixteen day road trip with Smokesty through New Zealand. Best two weeks. No, the most free two weeks. I don't know how to explain that kind of free. No cell phone. Whole life of necessary in your car. Adventures. Damn, I'm jealous."

"It is hard to know what to expect, but I am damn glad you are here," and Domenic lead the four of us up the dark stairs into Austen's apartment.

We all sat around for a few hours and had a few more laughs. We couldn't seem to relax so Brandon poured a few glasses of whiskey and we had nonsensical conversations which made us all smile and forget about everything else.

We decided, when Austen arrived, which at the time created an atmosphere in which my eyes watered, to head into Manhattan for the evening. I have a little experience in the city, but each time feels like the first time I have set foot there. The bustle, the knife of the night sharpened by the bright lights and heavy shadows, and motion - constant movement which makes the city streets feel like a jellyfish, forming and molding like waves in a maze, and my heart beats quick.

We set off for the west village to meet another college friend of Domenic's, who works as an ad spotter for Cartoon Network, and had appeared in Plymouth a few times over the years. I have grown quite fond of him. He is unassuming. I suppose it is impossible to explain that anymore.

We took the F train to twenty-third street and walked towards a row of bars. Brandon nearly fell to his knees with laughter.

"Dude, I have been here before! The Slaughtered Lamb! That friggin' place. I blacked out there with Finn and fell off a table. I honestly never would have remembered that if we hadn't walked down this street. My fuckin' God."

Domenic was bent over with his hands on his knees laughing. I couldn't help but collapse in convulsions. Brandon shook with a sincerity rare to find like diamonds. We took to the stairs across the street into a bar coined, 'Off the Wagon,' and we joked at never getting on.

"Two dollar Pabst!"

"I really only drink vodka, man."

"Two dollar Pabst."

"Alright."

We walked through the door which was more like a cavern and the night became fuzzy. We all stood around and ate hot dogs while Austen tried to occupy the bartender the majority of the night. She was wearing a tube top and had spotted glitter intentionally near her eyes, and he actually held her attention long enough for her to take a picture of us. As we stood, Domenic looked at me and tipped his glass as if to say he wasn't thrilled, but he had succumbed to the moment like a moth to a lantern, leaving any questions looming in the starry sky masquerading in Christmas lights strung above our head. It was free. It was fun.

I don't remember much more about the evening except falling asleep to the melody of Domenic and Austen reassuring each other they had not in fact lost their minds, and left for Manayunk, PA in the morning. We left a note, but could not do much more to express our gratitude for the hospitality.

That night we landed at the home of a close friend's sister. She was more than gracious and took us out to an open mic even though she had to be up at dawn. The night was exciting and the music teetered on bearable for a few hours. We had decided to sustain from alcohol due to our exhaustion and a general feeling of disgust, but one dollar yuengling's and the electricity of life lead us to a few glasses of Maker's Mark.

As we sat I noticed a girl stroll slowly to the folding chair parlaying as a stage. She picked up the guitar resting on the case and strummed very lightly a few times, glancing around to make sure nobody was watching. I was. I leaned back in my chair. The whiskey tasted musky and fine. I stared. I waited. Never expecting much - but intrigued by the sensation of something like a pot of water before it boils. She played.For many, conversations grew louder until they slowly lost steam and were smothered by the silence. For two minutes it was beautiful like a cloud of smoke. It felt mysterious and chilled. I don't know what this is but it is different. I don't care about time but it goes tick, tock. I love every moment because of this one. That night my eyes closed without questions.

A Dawning Preface

First, don't expect too much because this is not for you. It is only for myself, and I don't even care too much about it. When we decided - Domenic, Brandon, and I - to leave the Northeast for an indefinite amount of time I thought about not writing at all. It occurred to me spending too much time hunched over a notebook may cause me to lose track of my priorities, which are as follows: sunrise, music, avoiding fast food, visiting people i have lied to about 'making a trip' for years, cigarettes. I am not sure if it is the quitting or the smoking part but sadly the bottom wrung of the latter will be a major part of this adventure.

I also hesitate to refer to this trip as an 'adventure.' With it the word carries a pomposity like a jet plane carrying microwavable dinners and one thousand gallons of gasoline. Nevertheless, it has also occurred to my feeble mind the immeasurable value I would gain from the documentation of the next x months. As a species the restrictions of our intelligence is depressing, and writing things down helps. Try it.

I have staked the intention of this journal, after a long discussion with Domenic over a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon, will be honesty, which is bull shit. I will be as honest as I can about what has happened, who I think my friends are, and who I am, which is really only a sad reflection of what my interpretation of reality and my petty illusions of morality are lacking, however misguided.

I take insult at my 'American-ness.' The way it is exploited and that I find it just. I am disgusted by the truth that despite any rants I punctuate or sparks I ignite with my words it is still in itself hypocritical. I write with my ego. A gruesome, pathetic, powerful influence. I have accepted this and chosen to overlook the hypocrisy because I'd never get out of bed if I didn't.

I am reminded of an old friend with whom I attach a respect I can say with certainty I do not, nor will ever, associate with anyone else on this earth. Her name was Margaret Pilsner, like the glass, and she was a bold, obnoxious, dim-witted, motherly, brilliant Atheist who succeeded in inspiring me to stop trying to speak to God. She'd say, "If it is the way they say it is, there ain't nuttin' you can do about changin'. If it isn't, well then you are walking around muttering words to yourself like a fool, while enough other fools make you think you are somethin' you ain't to make you sleep better at night.'

Shortly thereafter I stopped attending Catholic Mass. It may have been around the time the pastor at my parents church was guided from the alter in handcuffs because the man had decided to unbuckle the belt of an alter boy and put his mouth on his pecker before his sermon. This same man would then step out from behind his sacred robes and remind my parents and a whole flock of other croons to take care of business in the morality department by giving the church a few extra dollars so they can continue to spread the "good" word.

Margaret was stubborn. She blamed most of what she referred to as the 'fecal matter' of the world on the way in which we are tragically wired. She rarely held anyone accountable for anything. Her two sons, one who had joined the Marines after September eleventh and was killed in a training mission three months later, while the other took to a heroine addiction and still frequents McSorely's and with who I still have a chat from time to time, left home and rarely spoke to her.

When we were younger I can remember the three of us sitting around her table while she brewed coffee and smoked cigarettes until the kitchen appeared to be engulfed in a dull blaze. I was reading the funnies on the back of the newspaper Margaret was reading across the table. I would try to finish reading each strip before she became bored with whatever headlines she was reading and turned the page. Margaret knew it too. She used to enjoy playing that game with me. We never spoke of it, and I would never complain when she turned the page before I was finished. It just was that way.

After about half an hour of silence save the ruffle of newspaper and the tick, tock. of the clock, Margaret, who had been deflecting my eyes and shooting anxious looks across the table, slowly folded the paper on her lap. She stabbed her cigarette in the ash tray amid the ten she'd already inhaled that morning.

I sat patiently. I could recognize her look of discomfort, as if what she wanted to say was poking her softly but firmly in the small of her back. After a deep breath and long sip of coffee she parted her 'cherry fever' coated lips and smiled, "William, don't ever apologize for anything. I mean it. Don't ever apologize for who you are or what you did, even if it is the most foul or selfish thing you can imagine. Promise me that. I want to hear you say it. Say, 'Margaret, I will never apologize for who I am.'"

I remained silent. She continued without more than a pause.

"If anyone ever makes you feel like you need to apologize, Fuck 'em," and she swung her arms across her body and her bracelets rattled as her fingers slowly gripped her forearms like dominoes.

"It ain't anybody's fault, and there ain't a damn thing anyone can do about it, but people think we are all rushing to somethin'. By the grace of Tuesday I don't have the slightest of what they think they are heading too but it ain't nothing different than anything. Listen to me: this is it. It won't ever be more or less. You are just sitting here, and that is how it is always going to be, and it isn't your fault. It just is. Don't waste your time apologizing when there isn't a soul on this planet who could sit here and tell you different. Me and you, we are here, and we are going to be alright."

Margaret died on a Thursday six years after that. I was older and I didn't go to the funeral. I don't even know if there was one. I was busy and I had not spoken to her since Timmy died in that training mission. Truthfully, the whole business of her death didn't rouse in me much emotion. Last month I pulled in the cemetery in which she was buried. I'd drive by it every day on my way to work. I walked along the headstones until I reached her barren grave. Her tombstone read, quite perfectly, "Here lies Margaret Pilsner, honestly." I smiled and walked slowly back across the lawn. The sun was boiling the earth. I have grown to hate a lot of things. I am leaving on Monday with my two friends. I do not apologize for what has happened. Thank you Margaret, this is it.