90 West

In the 1800's the state of Ohio, along with a few other frontier states, paid men cents on the heads of the bears and wolves they could hunt and kill. There were just too many of them, and they were dangerous. Eventually, they became less dangerous as they nearly disappeared all together and eventually the land was plowed for agriculture and as far as I can tell Ohio only needed to grow corn. Miles of corn rippled like waves in all directions, everywhere. It was mesmerizing like a pendulum and eventually I became dizzy and closed my eyes.

"We sure as hell need a lot of corn, don't we?" Domenic moaned in his sleep as he shifted his weight in the backseat.

"Yeah, and I thought Nebraska was the corn capitol of the universe."

"I wonder what this looked like before we just cut all the shit down."

"I have no idea, this is wild though."

Brandon was right and I looked out the window to try and grasp the utter vastness that spread before us like space. The horizon was a bowl and uninterrupted except by the occasional silo or farmhouse or tractor.

"This is just not a world I know."

"What if you were just standing in the middle of that field? You aren't doing anything for like a day. Nothing you can do about it. Just walking for a whole day. At least."

We rocketed past a man tinkering with the mechanics of a tractor, his back bent in a position that after years of labor appeared to be one of comfort.

"It is such slow work. Imagine waking up and looking out your window at these fields knowing you were just going to ride back and forth until the sun disappeared. Then doing it again."

We tore past rows of stalks streaming outside our windows.

"I don't know, man. I like this lifestyle I think."

"What lifestyle is that, delinquency?"

Brandon smiled and turned his head but kept his eyes focused on the asphalt, "Something like that."

Sometime around nightfall we cut off the highway outside Cincinnati. The landscape had changed drastically. Concrete enveloped the earth like cellophane and we were driving up a thirty degree incline, the Taurus straining for the first time all day.

"What is with all of the fucking hills?" Domenic grunted and appeared perturbed as usually is when he wakes.

"Relax, man. Jesus," Brandon rolled his eyes.

"You can see Cincy over there," I said as I pointed out the window through the houses built inches apart from one another. A few skyscrapers and neon lights burned through the night and it almost didn't feel like darkness.

I wouldn't have thought to stop in Cincinnati, but Brandon and Domenic had gone to high school with a girl who was now living there, and I obliged to the visit. As far as I can tell, people are places anyways.

I've spent hours, ironically, trying to put a day in perspective. Not in a deeply philosophical sense, but more frankly how one breath or one step or one blink of our eyes can vault us to a moment so fundamentally different than the one before.

We passed by an abandoned home which was surrounded by what looked to be a temporary chain link fence poorly set up and decrepit as if it wasn't so temporary after all, and I admired the shimmering metal in the night. For the first time in as long as I could remember I thought of Margaret and I felt uneasy. I didn't know how long the fence had stood but I didn't care. I noticed one side completely broken and useless as to the point of any fence and I wondered what the intention of it was in the first place, and why nobody seemed to care about it anymore. We took a right at the end of the street and I noticed a girl standing in the road on her cellphone waving in our direction. It had been a long drive, and we had finally arrived.

Emma's apartment was warm and I was very relieved to be there. She seemed genuinely happy to see my friends and it made me smile. I don't know when it happens in relationships that they become unconditional and unassuming, but it is nice to witness and I was very happy that evening.

After we settled for a little while and readjusted to the stillness of her apartment we walked up the street to have a few drinks so we could all catch up and meet and laugh and forget about any bull shit we were keeping hidden in the back of our minds. Emma's friend Nel met us at the bar and the five of us drank beer for a little while, but long enough to, on the walk to the bathroom, after the bartender looked me straight in the eye and said, "Dude, be careful. I just painted the left side of the floor so stay right," I walked directly over the newly painted floor and traipsed white footprints all over the bathroom tiles. Embarrassed I apologized and walked back to the table where we all laughed and decided to leave because Emma had to work in the morning.

The end of the night is unclear but I am quite sure the three of us ate an entire jar of Kosher Dill pickles before we slept. Even though I woke with stomach pains the next morning, I am very fond of that night.

The previous evening had lead us to the conclusion it would be in our best interest to catch the Reds vs. Cardinals game the next night while we had the chance. I have never been to a ballpark outside of Fenway and I was intrigued by the prospect because, well, I love baseball.

I can remember vividly the first Red Sox game I ever attended. I couldn't have been older than five or six. It was late May, and the sun was unimpeded by clouds and the day was warm. I sat on my fathers shoulders slapping my glove and admiring the waves of people waiting in line and walking with purpose and laughing and cheering. I can remember the slow anticipation as we walked around the park and to the tunnel that brought us somewhere out in right field. I could see the daylight from the dampness of the tunnel, and as my father paced slowly moving with the tide of the crowd the field exploded into view and I smiled and my brother tugged at my fathers shirt, pining for a view.

We finally found our seats and I can recall not being able to comprehend how many people were inside the small stadium, and I looked at my brother, his blonde hair yellow in the sun, "My favorite player is Tim Naerhing," I said with conviction.

"Mine too," said my brother sitting by my side looking at me wildly.

"No! He is my favorite. Yours should be John Valentin." He was shocked and disappointed.

"Why?"

"John Valentin is only the best player on the team, and he has your favorite number, duh."

"Thirteen?"

"Yeah, like Dan Marino," my father was looking on and smiling.

"Ok. John Valentin is my favorite."

I don't remember much of the game except when I forced my father to take me to the bathroom just before Mike Greenwell hit the games only home run twelve seats in front of where we sat. We watched from the television outside the bathroom in the dark and uneven sewer like halls in the bowels of Fenway park. I felt bad but my father smiled and picked me up on his shoulders again and we headed back to our seats and I ate a hot dog and spilled relish all over my shirt. I remember nothing and I remember everything and the way the grass bent in the breeze and the water dripping in the tunnels and my glove and hot dogs. The commotion and excitement that is only real in dreams and taller than anyone like a giant I could see more than I understand. Flashes, like still frames of faces and laughter and the crack of a wooden bat and cheers. Flashes, like seconds in disarray and jumbled but there like a ball of yarn unraveling and tangling in knots but all the while there. My brothers face has changed but I remember his hair and his tooth which I knocked out and how he loved sipping through a straw through the toothless hole with a grin and it is gone but I remember.

The game was fun and we had skyline chili dogs and watched as the Reds beat up on the Cardinals and bought overpriced beers but our seats were free and that was fine. After we left we drove back to Emma's neighborhood and went for beers at a bar in which we met a man with whom I immediately became involved in conversation. He was drinking vodka, straight. Full cups emptying faster than anyone would want to digest, and it became apparent in his stories.

"Back in the seventies I ran away from home and ended up doing heroine on the balcony of Andy Warhol's apartment. They were all there, Vonnegut, Warhol, just hanging out getting smashed and those were the days, let me tell you. You think you know what it is like to live now? Those were the days, studio 54, I was there for that. Blowjobs in the bathroom, I was there for that. You have no idea. I can see you, I know you already before you even speak. You are young, naive, searching for something you ain't gonna find honey, you just ain't gonna find it anywhere until you know yourself. You pride yourself on your penis, and you love it. What do you think you are doing? You are heading to Tahoe? Let me tell you. They are ruthless there. They will chew you up and spit you out like you don't even know. The only real decision you will have to make is if you want to be bottom or top, they'll put a kilo of coke in front of you and let you do what ever you want. You are just bait out there for them, honey.

"Look at this girl, here. Why are you leaving her? All she wants is a man to pull his own weight and have good conversation. Why would you leave? Oh honey you are so young. I know, I've been there and back and you better watch out because you are just bait."

Barely able to get a word in we were entertained at first, but eventually as the vodka took effect it became more apparent that, as this six foot four inch man who weighed a solid two hundred thirty pounds and named Josh, was not going to stop.

Brandon had stepped out to have a cigarette and I noticed Josh was waving his arms and Brandon backing up, slowly become distressed and Domenic and I joined him to make sure he was alright.

"Dude, get this guy away from me. If he touches me again I swear to God."

"See you fellas aren't going to know what hit you. I can turn any man gay and that is just the truth, I've done it before and you don't have no peg to stand on."

"Alright, probably no."

"You say that now, but you just wait," Josh advanced a little closer, "you just wait, this ain't the first time for me ."

"O.K. Let's get out of here, please, Domenic go get Emma. This is ridiculous."

We walked away in silence and then burst into laughter as we disappeared around the corner.

"It was funny at first, but Jesus, if he touched me again, Jesus. I honestly felt like he was going to try and rape me. I'm not even kidding."

"That was so weird. It was pathetic, I'm embarrassed for him I think. And I liked him at first too, he was funny."

"Yeah. Right," Domenic and Emma laughed and Brandon appeared too rattled to find the humor in it but eventually we were back in the apartment and all laughing and Brandon was able to relax and we listened to music until we fell asleep on the couch.

We drove north to Chicago the following afternoon.

15 North

We are in the desert. It is as hot as hell. The kind of heat that you embrace because it is the only way to feign comfort. This past week has been a blur. It is difficult to know where to start.

We left Manayunk, PA in the morning and arrived at Valley Forge by noon. The Grand Parade was a dry orange and we played catch for a while in the long grass. It was as warm as I could remember in the past month and we enjoyed it lazily without much discussion or excitement. For a while I stared off at the horizon and tried to imagine that winter of 1788 but it was difficult in the heat and a bee landed on me knee which was distracting. I watched as Domenic sprinted across the field and dove after a ball which he missed and it rolled down the hill. He lay in the grass on his stomach and slapped the ground with his fists. We left after an hour for Gettysburg.

We didn't arrive at the campground until dusk. Small particles were suspended in the air and it reminded me of snow. In a rush we set up camp. We had stopped for firewood and Domenic was fumbling with matches while Brandon and I set up a tent his mom had used in the seventies. It was in great shape and durable, but the pull cord on the door was rough as twine and difficult to use.

"Tonight is like practice before we really get out there."

Domenic had already burnt through half of the matchbook.

"Yeah, we need it. I'm a bit rusty," and Domenic smiled again striking a match and watching as it fizzled out in the leaves and twigs he had gathered in a small pile, "Toss me that lighter, I'm being ridiculous."

After we settled down Brandon carved open a few cans of chili and we boiled it over the fire. It tasted delicious and I thought how chili might get sickening after a month but right now it warmed my gut like coals and it felt nice. We were all tired and content and we sat around the fire quietly. I watched the smoke curl into the night sky. The flames were leaping as if to try and escape but the most they could muster was this thin, grey, transparent wisp that became the night and then was gone. I think home is here or wherever you let it be. That night we fell asleep to the sound of light rain and the darkness.

In the morning we drove north to Rochester. I was behind the wheel. As we came into the Catskills autumn was in full rush. Oceans of red and yellow rippled across cliffs and glistened in the day. Roads tore through valleys like scars and our tires were melting on the concrete. Ray Lamontagne's voice poured out of the speakers like smoke.

Our destination was Joeb's, my college roommate, to whom I had promised a visit since the day we met it seemed. He is my closest friend, a large part of my fondest memories of my life in New York. His interest are different than mine so we rarely compete and are able to offer objective views for each other.

Honestly, I don't know what it is - our friendship. As I write it I cringe at how matter of fact it sounds. As if that reason alone explains why I trust him like gravity; a few too many nights spent with John Jameson when we were younger and more reckless could lead to an innate feeling of home.

After a night in the city we drove half an hour to Joeb's house on Canandaigua. It was raining when we pulled down the long drive. The day was dreary and the nights were already catching up to us. Silently, we collected our things and hurried for shelter as the rain fell psh, pht all around and puddles formed at our feet. Joeb opened the door and the four of us hurried inside for shelter, breathing heavy and stomping our feet. I could sense the silence of the dimly lit house. It really wasn't a house in the way you could imagine one unless you hung out with George Jung in the late seventies. The entire west facing side was glass and it stood on a cliff with a pulley-like elevator to bring people down the rocks to the dock. Artwork lined the walls while statues and gargoyles posed in different corners threatening and strangely enticing. I stood in the kitchen corner and stared at the grey clouds and white capped waves pound the shore in wonder.

"So what are we doing tonight, Gatsby?"

Joeb smiled. "I don't know, poker? I have wine. I have a lot of wine."

"Well I'm happy."

Joeb brought us down a spiral staircase to the basement, "Remember I told you Paul's family had that old hard cider recipe? Well I ordered these guys from Kentucky."

He opened a door into a cement room and flipped the light. Standing in the buzzing halogen were four fifty gallon cedar barrels, so large I began scanning the room for an explanation to how they arrived in the basement in the first place.

"Yeah, these held one batch of Kentucky bourbon, which is what the recipe calls for. Brewing two hundred gallons of this shit."

"Send us some when it's done."

"I think I am going to brew one barrel for six months, one for a year, and the other two for three years."

"Wow. That is quite the project. You didn't want to start smaller in case you mess it up?"

"Hey. Johnny Tsunami. Go big or go home."

We talked about cider for a while but it didn't last too long because none of us knew anything about cider or cedar barrels so Joeb told us a story as he took us through the rest of the house of the gay couple that had owned the house before him. They had installed a window in the shower.

"They said it was so you could see it from every room in the house."

All of the bedrooms were beautiful. Each were enclosed by one back wall and three walls of glass facing the lake.

"The sun is a bitch in the morning."

"Oh. I'm sure it is," I saw Domenic roll his eyes sarcastically and I muffled a laugh.

That night we drank wine until we could barely keep our eyes from closing. It was raining indoors was comforting. We played cards and joked until inevitably Joeb and I found ourselves in a conversation we would usually discover just before we went to sleep.

"It's been a long time now, but I still think about it, yeah."

"You alright though?"

"Yeah, I don't know what that means, but yeah. I guess I am just hard-boiled about the whole thing, which I guess is the strangest and in a twisted way the hardest part."

"I saw she has a new boyfriend."

"Yup."

"So what was all that talk about figuring herself out?"

"You tell me."

"It is so weird how time ticks along by so slowly but so much shit changes so fast, or at least it feels that way. Just thinking back, I mean, I just never saw any of this. I guess I don't even know what this is, really."

"Yeah, it's all fucked up. The more people I meet, the more people I miss, the more people I start worrying about, the more I go crazy."

"We're young, though."

"We are young as hell. Cheers. Let's get sleep."

I woke the next morning to the sun showering through the blinds. It was early, and I tried to ignore the heat but it was like a blanket and I was sweating and awake.

I went downstairs and Domenic was drinking coffee and writing in his journal. I saw him take a sip without lifting his pencil from the page. Joeb was pouring a cup for me, and Brandon was sifting through laundry slowly and breathing slowly to try and focus.

"How long have you been up?"

Brandon shrugged, "No idea. Twenty minutes?"

"You guys want to take the boat out?"

"Hell yeah."

We rode the elevator to the dock and waited under a gazebo for Joeb to lower the boat into the water. We were all pretty disorientated but the coffee helped. As soon as we launched out to the middle of the lake and picked up speed, the sun vanished behind a thick film of grey.

"Sonofabitch."

"This is still the best way to start the day," said Domenic as he dove off the side as the boat slowed and he disappeared under the colorless water. It consumed him completely, and he emerged spouting water from his mouth at the back of Brandon's head.

"What the-? You oaf."

Domenic laughed, he looked up at the sky and with his arms thrust forward and propelled backward with his toes poking through the surface towards the sky.

"Throw me them there ski's, there."

We spent the rest of the morning taking turns water skiing until it became too cold and our stomachs were sick.

At one point while Brandon was skiing he kicked off one ski with the intention of riding slalom. Joeb was driving, and we he turned he saw the ski spin off and assumed Brandon was falling. He released the throttle slightly, and Brandon's weight lurched forward the foot he had not fully managed to land on the ski began to extend back behind his now off balance body. When Joeb realized his error he pushed hard on the throttle, and Brandon's body was jolted forcing his back leg to shoot upwards until it was parallel, like his panicked torso, to the water. For one instant, an image I will never forget, Brandon skied content, in his size 32 white Hanes boxer briefs cuffed around his thighs like a diaper, as perfectly as a figure skater, his face torn between excitement and inevitability, he balanced himself the only way he could without thinking, before he lost a grip on the toe rope and it skirted across the surface like a stone and his face pounded the wake like a drum.

We left Rochester that afternoon for Cincinnati.