"I Put on Shorts"
It is the time of year
when the Sun calls
upon me to sail
to the isolated mountains
and white islands
amongst the green seas
to aid in His conquest
I propel my feet
like a nuclear missile
power enough to
obliterate an entire country
until it is all wiped away
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Lester Talks
I slept for eight minutes shy of ten hours and was late for work for the first time in my life. I still had four days until Lester returned and besides working, sleeping, and eating I read J.D. Salinger's complete collection of works. Sometimes it is easier to be concerned over Zooey or Holden than real life.
As soon as I knew Lester would be home, I pedaled my Schwinn right on over. He graciously let me enter and talk about what happened with Anna instead of what he did on his work trip. After, I told him he poured me a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk.
"Do you like her?" he asked.
"I don't know. I think I may have started liking her." I started digging through the bowl for the grain bits, eating them separately. "It kinda just hit me and I wondered why I hadn't ever thought about her like that before. I don't know what happened to me."
"You didn't have me around. You think you were just lonely?"
"Maybe. So feelings or attraction are contingent on environment?"
"Definitely, dude."
"So how do you know if they're real?"
"I don't know if they're any less real because they were influenced by . . . eh . . . stages of life?"
"But I will stop liking Anna now that you're back?"
"I don't know. Maybe not."
"I hope so. This is terrible." The grain part of the cereal was gone, and I started spooning what was left: all the marshmallows.
"Is it?"
"Is it?" I eyed him suspiciously.
"I mean, she's a cool girl."
"But she's Anna."
"She certainly is."
"Maybe I've missed other cool girls simply because I wasn't lonely enough to need them, to pursue them."
"You make it seem like that's the only reason to date someone."
"Isn't it? Isn't that why people get married? To be comforted by the fact that at least one person is supposed to be with them through the rest of their life?"
He fidgeted a little. "I don't know."
"Why did you want to date Emma?"
"Cuz she . . . she was a cool girl, I guess. I thought she would make me happy and that I could make her happy."
"Did you?"
He didn't say anything for awhile, and poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. I was tilting the bowl, slurping the remains of green milk. "Sometimes."
"I don't think I'm ready to date anyone."
"Me neither," he said.
"We never will be."
"No, we won't. But then, neither will they."
As soon as I knew Lester would be home, I pedaled my Schwinn right on over. He graciously let me enter and talk about what happened with Anna instead of what he did on his work trip. After, I told him he poured me a bowl of Lucky Charms with milk.
"Do you like her?" he asked.
"I don't know. I think I may have started liking her." I started digging through the bowl for the grain bits, eating them separately. "It kinda just hit me and I wondered why I hadn't ever thought about her like that before. I don't know what happened to me."
"You didn't have me around. You think you were just lonely?"
"Maybe. So feelings or attraction are contingent on environment?"
"Definitely, dude."
"So how do you know if they're real?"
"I don't know if they're any less real because they were influenced by . . . eh . . . stages of life?"
"But I will stop liking Anna now that you're back?"
"I don't know. Maybe not."
"I hope so. This is terrible." The grain part of the cereal was gone, and I started spooning what was left: all the marshmallows.
"Is it?"
"Is it?" I eyed him suspiciously.
"I mean, she's a cool girl."
"But she's Anna."
"She certainly is."
"Maybe I've missed other cool girls simply because I wasn't lonely enough to need them, to pursue them."
"You make it seem like that's the only reason to date someone."
"Isn't it? Isn't that why people get married? To be comforted by the fact that at least one person is supposed to be with them through the rest of their life?"
He fidgeted a little. "I don't know."
"Why did you want to date Emma?"
"Cuz she . . . she was a cool girl, I guess. I thought she would make me happy and that I could make her happy."
"Did you?"
He didn't say anything for awhile, and poured himself a bowl of Lucky Charms. I was tilting the bowl, slurping the remains of green milk. "Sometimes."
"I don't think I'm ready to date anyone."
"Me neither," he said.
"We never will be."
"No, we won't. But then, neither will they."
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Beginning of the Hauntings
I made two horrible mistakes. The first was to forget to get Lester's new phone number before he left for a week and a half on a business trip. I usually call him every other day to update him on what movies are worth watching, which are not, how the ferrets are fairing at work, and the ratio of cute girls to people who look like they are probably sex offenders at the library. The ratio is rarely pretty.
The second mistake was to invite Anna over. It was six days post-Lester-departure, a day off of work, and I had just watched my fourth movie of the day, Edward Scissorhands. That's when I thought about Anna, and considered inviting her over. Instead, I tried to put on I'm Not There which I had just got from the library, but couldn't get past twenty minutes of it. Quickly, I dialed Anna's number and casually asked her if she wanted to come over for a bit. She agreed and said she would need half an hour to get here.
In the meantime, I got out my two peacock feathers and practiced balancing them simultaneously on each palm of my hand. I should have thought about a plan for being with Anna. We have never just hung out alone together. She was no Lester.
"Hello," she said at the door, stepping in.
"Hello," I said.
She took off her shoes, balancing herself with a hand on the wall, and left her jacket beside her shoes. I've never been more aware of her body until that moment.
She sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, opposite the television. I sat in the same manner opposite of her and she smiled at me.
I thought about telling her how many days it had been since I showered, but decided against it. "How was work?" she asked.
"I didn't have it today." She blinked. "But in general, well. Some of the fish are getting too grown up and fat to be sold. Some birds are molting."
She didn't say anything. I was about to ask her the same question, but she pointed across the room and asked, "Are those peacock feathers?"
"Yes. I just took them out before you got here."
"Why do you have them?"
I smiled, happy she found something interesting to talk about. Sometimes I don't think I'm eccentric enough to be friends with two fine artists like Anna or Lester. "They're very useful in relieving stress. They help calm me when I'm nervous. All I have to do is try balancing them, one on each palm. The only way to maintain balance is to reach a state of unconcentration. If you focus on one more, the other will fall. But then if you try to concentrate on the falling one, the other you had been concentrating more on will fall because you are now concentrating on the falling one. You must concentrate on neither or both to obtain balance. So when I find my thoughts unbalanced, dominated too much by any one thing, I break out the peacock feathers."
"So why did you break them out before I got here?"
My smile left. She had me. "No reason."
"What?"
"No reason."
"Why would you need those peacock feathers for me?"
"I guess I've been thinking too much."
"About me?"
I was silent.
"Is that why you invited me over?"
"No. Lester's gone."
"You invited me over because Lester is gone?"
"I don't know."
Her tone of voice was something I have never known. "I'm gonna go," she said and I watched her silently, as she put on her shoes and jacket.
"Bye."
"Bye."
And she was gone and I didn't really know what I had done. Her tone scared me though and I went immediately to bed in order to escape thinking about it.
The second mistake was to invite Anna over. It was six days post-Lester-departure, a day off of work, and I had just watched my fourth movie of the day, Edward Scissorhands. That's when I thought about Anna, and considered inviting her over. Instead, I tried to put on I'm Not There which I had just got from the library, but couldn't get past twenty minutes of it. Quickly, I dialed Anna's number and casually asked her if she wanted to come over for a bit. She agreed and said she would need half an hour to get here.
In the meantime, I got out my two peacock feathers and practiced balancing them simultaneously on each palm of my hand. I should have thought about a plan for being with Anna. We have never just hung out alone together. She was no Lester.
"Hello," she said at the door, stepping in.
"Hello," I said.
She took off her shoes, balancing herself with a hand on the wall, and left her jacket beside her shoes. I've never been more aware of her body until that moment.
She sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, opposite the television. I sat in the same manner opposite of her and she smiled at me.
I thought about telling her how many days it had been since I showered, but decided against it. "How was work?" she asked.
"I didn't have it today." She blinked. "But in general, well. Some of the fish are getting too grown up and fat to be sold. Some birds are molting."
She didn't say anything. I was about to ask her the same question, but she pointed across the room and asked, "Are those peacock feathers?"
"Yes. I just took them out before you got here."
"Why do you have them?"
I smiled, happy she found something interesting to talk about. Sometimes I don't think I'm eccentric enough to be friends with two fine artists like Anna or Lester. "They're very useful in relieving stress. They help calm me when I'm nervous. All I have to do is try balancing them, one on each palm. The only way to maintain balance is to reach a state of unconcentration. If you focus on one more, the other will fall. But then if you try to concentrate on the falling one, the other you had been concentrating more on will fall because you are now concentrating on the falling one. You must concentrate on neither or both to obtain balance. So when I find my thoughts unbalanced, dominated too much by any one thing, I break out the peacock feathers."
"So why did you break them out before I got here?"
My smile left. She had me. "No reason."
"What?"
"No reason."
"Why would you need those peacock feathers for me?"
"I guess I've been thinking too much."
"About me?"
I was silent.
"Is that why you invited me over?"
"No. Lester's gone."
"You invited me over because Lester is gone?"
"I don't know."
Her tone of voice was something I have never known. "I'm gonna go," she said and I watched her silently, as she put on her shoes and jacket.
"Bye."
"Bye."
And she was gone and I didn't really know what I had done. Her tone scared me though and I went immediately to bed in order to escape thinking about it.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Teller and the Listener
Most of the homeless people I encounter in the library are either old, missing teeth, or mentally unable to follow the simple structure having a conversation requires. Most are all three. That is why I like to talk to them. But Adam was none.
I found him lying on his back on an old, wooden bench in the fiction section, under a large window, the sun illuminating his dirt-stained shirt and torn-in-both-knees jeans. His legs were bent up with his shoes flat on the bench and he held a book above his face, as if it were some sacred text that he felt the need to raise higher than himself. His 90s jacket and blue cap were discarded beside the bench, along with a cloth satchel spilling bruised apples and scraps of scribbled paper.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
Without looking at me he answered, "Survivor. By Chuck Palahniuk.
"I've read it," I said carefully. "You like Tender? You on the run?"
He stuck a papyrus bookmark in the book, set it next to him, sat up and leaned forward while looking up at me. "How'd you know?"
"Why else would somebody so young be homeless?"
"There could be plenty of reasons."
"What's your story?"
He scratched his beard and stared at the bookcase behind me, folding his hands together, arms resting on his legs. "I'm only telling you this because I've had no one to tell a story to in a long time."
"That's all I'm living for right now. To listen to stories."
"The telling of them only gets old if the teller becomes bored."
"The listening of them only gets old if the listener becomes boring." We spoke the same language.
"I was a soldier in the Reserves right out of high school and went to weekend trainings once a month while going to college. While I was there I studied and became best friends with a girl who was in love with someone else. Alicia. She was deeply moved by, who she called, God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit. And so it was only natural for her to be in love with a guy moved by the same, a guy she called John who was spending a year in Malaysia as a missionary.
We were in a lot of the same sociology and history classes and knew each other's intelligence. We could debate and argue and always convince each other to see another view other than our own. We taught each other how to see different while everyone else was trying to see everything the same.
I figured out I loved her the day she got a phone call from John's sister. She told Alicia that John was in a boat on a river when a girl fell into the rapids. John and another boy had dove in after her. When the three bodies were finally pulled from the waters, they were torn from the rocks along the way.
She cried for days and wouldn't tell me why. She told me this was one thing she couldn't make me understand. I've never been more pained or angry. She wouldn't talk to me. She wouldn't let me tell her I just found out my unit was going to be activated soon, that I was going to be fighting in Afghanistan within five months."
"What did you do?"
"I made the mistake of blurting it out when she wasn't ready. After she told me her story I knew I couldn't go to Afghanistan and so here I am, on the run, running away from her for her."
I think my story is to tell other people's stories. I'm willing to see all at once what is beautiful and horrendous.
Here is a poem I wrote:
"Consideration"
The girl’s fingers are strong when they pump the keys on the piano,
her brain also, when she writes an A paper for Politics of Africa,
she laughs for a long time when jokes are told, but stops suddenly
when no one is looking, stifled by some memory, her big eyes
smallen.
How was I supposed to know the boy she was in love with died
nine months ago while he saved a girl from drowning
when she said, I just watched Black Hawk Down. Please don’t go
fight.
I answered, I’m sorry. I have to. And maybe I will die,
but then maybe I’m supposed to.
Okay?
I found him lying on his back on an old, wooden bench in the fiction section, under a large window, the sun illuminating his dirt-stained shirt and torn-in-both-knees jeans. His legs were bent up with his shoes flat on the bench and he held a book above his face, as if it were some sacred text that he felt the need to raise higher than himself. His 90s jacket and blue cap were discarded beside the bench, along with a cloth satchel spilling bruised apples and scraps of scribbled paper.
"What are you reading?" I asked.
Without looking at me he answered, "Survivor. By Chuck Palahniuk.
"I've read it," I said carefully. "You like Tender? You on the run?"
He stuck a papyrus bookmark in the book, set it next to him, sat up and leaned forward while looking up at me. "How'd you know?"
"Why else would somebody so young be homeless?"
"There could be plenty of reasons."
"What's your story?"
He scratched his beard and stared at the bookcase behind me, folding his hands together, arms resting on his legs. "I'm only telling you this because I've had no one to tell a story to in a long time."
"That's all I'm living for right now. To listen to stories."
"The telling of them only gets old if the teller becomes bored."
"The listening of them only gets old if the listener becomes boring." We spoke the same language.
"I was a soldier in the Reserves right out of high school and went to weekend trainings once a month while going to college. While I was there I studied and became best friends with a girl who was in love with someone else. Alicia. She was deeply moved by, who she called, God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit. And so it was only natural for her to be in love with a guy moved by the same, a guy she called John who was spending a year in Malaysia as a missionary.
We were in a lot of the same sociology and history classes and knew each other's intelligence. We could debate and argue and always convince each other to see another view other than our own. We taught each other how to see different while everyone else was trying to see everything the same.
I figured out I loved her the day she got a phone call from John's sister. She told Alicia that John was in a boat on a river when a girl fell into the rapids. John and another boy had dove in after her. When the three bodies were finally pulled from the waters, they were torn from the rocks along the way.
She cried for days and wouldn't tell me why. She told me this was one thing she couldn't make me understand. I've never been more pained or angry. She wouldn't talk to me. She wouldn't let me tell her I just found out my unit was going to be activated soon, that I was going to be fighting in Afghanistan within five months."
"What did you do?"
"I made the mistake of blurting it out when she wasn't ready. After she told me her story I knew I couldn't go to Afghanistan and so here I am, on the run, running away from her for her."
I think my story is to tell other people's stories. I'm willing to see all at once what is beautiful and horrendous.
Here is a poem I wrote:
"Consideration"
The girl’s fingers are strong when they pump the keys on the piano,
her brain also, when she writes an A paper for Politics of Africa,
she laughs for a long time when jokes are told, but stops suddenly
when no one is looking, stifled by some memory, her big eyes
smallen.
How was I supposed to know the boy she was in love with died
nine months ago while he saved a girl from drowning
when she said, I just watched Black Hawk Down. Please don’t go
fight.
I answered, I’m sorry. I have to. And maybe I will die,
but then maybe I’m supposed to.
Okay?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Old Poems
I wrote the following poems during high school back when I thought Emma (see Nov. 8 and 10) was perfect, through discovering she was not, and wishing she could see me as clearly as I did her. I will post my new poems soon.
"Good Memories"
It was that red sky in the Appalachians
Burning the stretch of healthy trees—
so easily forgettable.
It was your eyes, icy pools of water—
converting to ugliness.
—my mind forgets everything beautiful.
"A Trip Back from Music"
I am a writer but you don’t read my poems
they are not close enough to your melodies
the lyrics are too lonely, naked, and dry
can’t you see how I make the words wobble
with vibrato, how I make sentences progress
like chords and how people dance under the
influence of the themes, cry with the climaxes?
You have missed the connection
out of O’Hare
but fail to see you can
still catch the Wolverine
all the way back to me
in Ann Arbor tonight
"A Trip to the Heart and We’re Both Coming Back in Coffins"
I devour you like ice cream.
I break the ice-shield around our Oldsmobile
chip at the windows, in negative degrees
no gloves, no hat, breaking plastic, big breaths,
red, raw, pry door open, out on the ice-roads,
slide towards incoming traffic, park at the store
to buy you ice cream.
I prey on you, swallow you whole, for my satisfaction,
but not my nourishment.
"When I Am Tired My Mind Works Better"
because I understand better
that I don’t understand anything at all.
Like when I stumble through endless
responsibilities that make meaning
and put to death the peace of a
filtered mind.
There is no perfect balance of
energy or sliced up pie-chart time.
And I wonder why my girlfriend
doesn’t cry when I talk about sad things
but the girl who won’t let me touch her does.
"You"
I am talking to you.
My words splatter
cough up dark red
my throat constricts.
I breathe and say:
I had a bad day.
I was alone and selfish and
I don’t think
I’ve ever had joy in my life.
Why can’t I tell you these things,
my darling,
without you thinking they have
everything to do with you?
"Good Memories"
It was that red sky in the Appalachians
Burning the stretch of healthy trees—
so easily forgettable.
It was your eyes, icy pools of water—
converting to ugliness.
—my mind forgets everything beautiful.
"A Trip Back from Music"
I am a writer but you don’t read my poems
they are not close enough to your melodies
the lyrics are too lonely, naked, and dry
can’t you see how I make the words wobble
with vibrato, how I make sentences progress
like chords and how people dance under the
influence of the themes, cry with the climaxes?
You have missed the connection
out of O’Hare
but fail to see you can
still catch the Wolverine
all the way back to me
in Ann Arbor tonight
"A Trip to the Heart and We’re Both Coming Back in Coffins"
I devour you like ice cream.
I break the ice-shield around our Oldsmobile
chip at the windows, in negative degrees
no gloves, no hat, breaking plastic, big breaths,
red, raw, pry door open, out on the ice-roads,
slide towards incoming traffic, park at the store
to buy you ice cream.
I prey on you, swallow you whole, for my satisfaction,
but not my nourishment.
"When I Am Tired My Mind Works Better"
because I understand better
that I don’t understand anything at all.
Like when I stumble through endless
responsibilities that make meaning
and put to death the peace of a
filtered mind.
There is no perfect balance of
energy or sliced up pie-chart time.
And I wonder why my girlfriend
doesn’t cry when I talk about sad things
but the girl who won’t let me touch her does.
"You"
I am talking to you.
My words splatter
cough up dark red
my throat constricts.
I breathe and say:
I had a bad day.
I was alone and selfish and
I don’t think
I’ve ever had joy in my life.
Why can’t I tell you these things,
my darling,
without you thinking they have
everything to do with you?
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Alexander Supertramp is King
So here we are all back home. Lester had to switch his phone number because Tobias kept trying to call him and whenever that happened, he wouldn't answer, but always looked horrified. When I asked him if he enjoyed the trip he said, "I think it was adventure enough for me for awhile." I'm glad I could help him feel better and give Tobias a better story, but I must confess I felt no better myself. I thought I might get something from the big trip, but I was too busy helping everyone else. Now that I am back at home, I don't feel right, and maybe it's Cormac McCarthy, but I feel lonely.
Not that anything is different now. I have Lester and Anna. I have the animals at PetSmart. I guess I realized how much I am alone and I used to be okay with that. I had my movies, I had my music, I had my books, I had you readers of my blog and that was enough for me.
That was enough beauty for me. Now I'm not sure, but I sure hope it is. I'm scared that if I go out and try to look for anything else, I will find nothing.
I want to be okay alone.
"It is true that many creative people fail to make mature personal relationships, and some are extremely isolated. It is also true that, in some instances, trauma, in the shape of early separation or bereavement, has steered the potentially creative person toward developing aspects of his personality which can find fulfillment in comparative isolation. But this does not mean that solitary, creative pursuits are themselves pathological. . . . Avoidance behavior is a response designed to protect the infant from behavioral disorganization. If we transfer this concept to adult life, we can see that an avoidant infant might very well develop into a person whose principal need was to find some kind of meaning and order in life which was not entirely or even chiefly, dependent upon interpersonal relationships."
-Anthony Storr in A Return to the Self
I am going to write some poetry.
Not that anything is different now. I have Lester and Anna. I have the animals at PetSmart. I guess I realized how much I am alone and I used to be okay with that. I had my movies, I had my music, I had my books, I had you readers of my blog and that was enough for me.
That was enough beauty for me. Now I'm not sure, but I sure hope it is. I'm scared that if I go out and try to look for anything else, I will find nothing.
I want to be okay alone.
"It is true that many creative people fail to make mature personal relationships, and some are extremely isolated. It is also true that, in some instances, trauma, in the shape of early separation or bereavement, has steered the potentially creative person toward developing aspects of his personality which can find fulfillment in comparative isolation. But this does not mean that solitary, creative pursuits are themselves pathological. . . . Avoidance behavior is a response designed to protect the infant from behavioral disorganization. If we transfer this concept to adult life, we can see that an avoidant infant might very well develop into a person whose principal need was to find some kind of meaning and order in life which was not entirely or even chiefly, dependent upon interpersonal relationships."
-Anthony Storr in A Return to the Self
I am going to write some poetry.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Invitation to a Journey Pt. 3 (Actually, we are on the journey at this point!)
I haven't written in a long time to give you time to digest my Gothic story. And because I've been busy with my new girlfriend: Cormac McCarthy. His books take some time getting through, and I don't recommend reading them unless you want to get a headache. I also don't recommend getting a girlfriend unless you want to get a headache.
I was right. It was a long and unhappy trip. By the time we got to Hollywood Tobias completely changed my story into some sort of cheap horror flick with a lot more blood than necessary, I vowed never to consume another energy drink in my life, and Anna did the most mind-boggling thing ever: she actually used an obscenity! Fuck! I can use those kinds of words. Lester can. Tobias certainly can and does. But Anna? I've never heard her say anything like that in her life, though to be fair that minivan did come very close to cutting us off of our only way forward while she was driving. And it's not as if the stress level in the car wasn't already thick as cream.
As we passed through states, as the sun became more prominent in the western skies, we shelled layers. We were too cheap to pay for any motels, and so we rotated driving through the two nights, forgoing beds and showers. We stopped only to micturate and to purchase the necessities for our diets: corn nuts, granola bars, and beef jerky.
Los Angeles greeted us like an in-law: any excitement of seeing them or the city quickly evaporated into boredom as the traffic jam stalled us for hours, spending way to long on any one subject or skyscraper, praying our exit was soon.
"Anna," I said. "Don't you think this is just so horrible?" She turned around to look at me, but said nothing. She was not smiling. "If you could describe how you're feeling right now with one word wh-"
"Long car trips are stressful," she said.
"At least we got the screenplay finished," Tobias added. None of us said anything. I didn't ask Lester or Anna, but I'm pretty sure they weren't pleased with it either.
Finally we got off 101 and onto Vine and I had an epiphany. "Tobias," I said. "We're not going to waste money on parking. We'll drop you off at your connections' and drive around. See if we can spot any celebrities. Call Lester when you're done and we'll pick you up."
"Alright. Just drop me off there. His office building is just across the street from Trader Joe's."
We all exited the car. Anna handed Tobias the new manuscript we printed out at a library the morning prior and Tobias took it as if he were accepting the One Ring from Elrond at the council. He stood, staring at us, squinting in the sunlight as it haloed his shaggy, blond hair. He looked excited, as if he really was in his element. He looked as if he belonged to Hollywood. I thought it was appropriate to make a speech. I shook his hand firmly and said, "Tobias, your fate was in our hands until today. Now we pass off responsibility to you. Use everything you've got, grab a hold of your fate. Go on. Win this thing. Go on, and good luck." I thought it was a pretty inspiring speech and Tobias must have thought so as well because he saluted me, and without words, darted into the office building.
"Anna," I said. "Switch spots with me in the back. I'll drive."
When the doors were closed, I drove South on Vine, turned right on Sunset Boulevard, and then right on Cahuenga Boulevard back north. "Where are we going?" Lester asked.
I waited a few seconds before laying it on them. "Home."
"Home?" Lester asked. What do you mean?"
"Ray, you can't!" Anna looked like she was about to cry.
"We did what we came here to do. We set Tobias free. We gave him a story."
"I won't let you, Ray!" Anna said. "We can't leave him here without anything, with no place to stay, with no way back. I won't let you do this!"
"How are you gonna stop me?"
I was right. It was a long and unhappy trip. By the time we got to Hollywood Tobias completely changed my story into some sort of cheap horror flick with a lot more blood than necessary, I vowed never to consume another energy drink in my life, and Anna did the most mind-boggling thing ever: she actually used an obscenity! Fuck! I can use those kinds of words. Lester can. Tobias certainly can and does. But Anna? I've never heard her say anything like that in her life, though to be fair that minivan did come very close to cutting us off of our only way forward while she was driving. And it's not as if the stress level in the car wasn't already thick as cream.
As we passed through states, as the sun became more prominent in the western skies, we shelled layers. We were too cheap to pay for any motels, and so we rotated driving through the two nights, forgoing beds and showers. We stopped only to micturate and to purchase the necessities for our diets: corn nuts, granola bars, and beef jerky.
Los Angeles greeted us like an in-law: any excitement of seeing them or the city quickly evaporated into boredom as the traffic jam stalled us for hours, spending way to long on any one subject or skyscraper, praying our exit was soon.
"Anna," I said. "Don't you think this is just so horrible?" She turned around to look at me, but said nothing. She was not smiling. "If you could describe how you're feeling right now with one word wh-"
"Long car trips are stressful," she said.
"At least we got the screenplay finished," Tobias added. None of us said anything. I didn't ask Lester or Anna, but I'm pretty sure they weren't pleased with it either.
Finally we got off 101 and onto Vine and I had an epiphany. "Tobias," I said. "We're not going to waste money on parking. We'll drop you off at your connections' and drive around. See if we can spot any celebrities. Call Lester when you're done and we'll pick you up."
"Alright. Just drop me off there. His office building is just across the street from Trader Joe's."
We all exited the car. Anna handed Tobias the new manuscript we printed out at a library the morning prior and Tobias took it as if he were accepting the One Ring from Elrond at the council. He stood, staring at us, squinting in the sunlight as it haloed his shaggy, blond hair. He looked excited, as if he really was in his element. He looked as if he belonged to Hollywood. I thought it was appropriate to make a speech. I shook his hand firmly and said, "Tobias, your fate was in our hands until today. Now we pass off responsibility to you. Use everything you've got, grab a hold of your fate. Go on. Win this thing. Go on, and good luck." I thought it was a pretty inspiring speech and Tobias must have thought so as well because he saluted me, and without words, darted into the office building.
"Anna," I said. "Switch spots with me in the back. I'll drive."
When the doors were closed, I drove South on Vine, turned right on Sunset Boulevard, and then right on Cahuenga Boulevard back north. "Where are we going?" Lester asked.
I waited a few seconds before laying it on them. "Home."
"Home?" Lester asked. What do you mean?"
"Ray, you can't!" Anna looked like she was about to cry.
"We did what we came here to do. We set Tobias free. We gave him a story."
"I won't let you, Ray!" Anna said. "We can't leave him here without anything, with no place to stay, with no way back. I won't let you do this!"
"How are you gonna stop me?"
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