Transport

Stark rides the vibe of bliss that comes from being alone among friends. His is one with the wheel, one with the road, one with the night that will pass into memory with him and his carload of castaways in Wichita.

Alpo lies in the backseat, curled up in the corner and sleeping deeply. He's passed out from the beer and a half he drank at the roadhouse. Gene and his girlfriend of the moment, Lucille, or maybe Lilith, occupied the other half of the backseat, limbs in lazy embraces. The late hour and the long night paralyzed their lovemaking. Only half coherent, Gene calls Alpo a cockblocker, an accusation he renews every time he nudges him to stop him from snoring.

Japes rides shotgun. He's giving the monologue again.Tonight it's something about the bus, about the bright colors and laughing girls and vivid sex traveling about in it would entail. Stark syncs his vibe to Japes' rhythm. He interjects an "alright" or "uh-huh" on just the right beats to punctuate Japes' thoughts and keep the poetry going.

Stark really likes these boys. He knows their quest is doomed. He knows all about the desire for experience and the manner of adventure is makes a man seek. He knows the moment the shine dulls, and experience becomes memory, and memory haunts a man. The only exorcism possible for the past is the present. But there's no stopping, no letting up allowed. All your presents are open, and you are surrounded by empty boxes, torn paper, and memories.

Apologies to Bauby

Apparently, I can blog from my Kindle. The tiny keyboard makes this an awkward proposition, though nothing compared to the challenge the author of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly faced. (Between the mountain and the molehill, the molehill gains by comparison.) The trick is to think through what to say before it's said, a talent few ever master.