Hey You, Over There

Hey you over there. I’m sitting on the porch kind of parallel to you, in a pile of glass. I’m trying to play it cool, drunk on a Sunday afternoon. You’re at your family gathering or perhaps a friendly tête-à-tête? You, yes you – the one over there in the overalls with the curves – the incandescent face and the shiny red hair. Please ignore my idiotic friend and his antics: the yelping, the shouting, the general making a nuisance of himself. He’s drunk. I am too. At one pm on a Sunday afternoon. But I can handle it. I wish you’d glance over again, perhaps without such obvious scorn. To be honest I can’t really tell how you’re looking at me, though. You’re only a couple houses over, but my vision’s rather blurry. I’m certain of one thing: you are quite lovely. My aching eyes feel you; a cool glass of water pacifying the afternoon sun’s harsh daggers.

Ignore the fact that I’ve been drunk since last night, never went to bed or showered, and may have indulged in Peruvian marching powder last night – and we’d be smashing together. I mean it. You’re lovely. I’m tanked. Say, are you drinking a beer? At last we’ve got something in common. Aside from basic human needs, that is.

Shut up pal o’ mine! I’m trying to impress – or at least not disgust her slightly tanned face, her standoffish posture. I’m trying to pretend I’m not a fuck up with a self-destructive bent; with a life line that may consist of 1) burnout, 2) rehab, 3) cirrhosis of the liver, 4) homelessness, 5) dialysis, or 6) an early demise. Don’t let her in on my secret, or not so secret, standard of living preferences. If I could just keep levelheaded, on ice – just maintain – maybe our lives could somehow intertwine. Maybe I could gain a genuine reason to wake up, beyond hair-of-the-dog; beyond trying to break away from this vortex of self-loathing and internal violence which often leaves me passed out and hurting all-over for days on end. Maybe.

Take a good look, honey! These stained features – nicotine teeth, sunken blood-shot eyes, war-ravaged organs and shitty tattoos – can all be yours! All of ‘em! Shut the hell up, mate! You’re an impudent jackass. Please don’t break my façade of aloof self-respect by mock-humping my head. I’m trying to sit here, in repose, endeavoring to attract the affections of the fancy young maiden hither down the lane; to lure her into my neurotic, self-deprecating web of borderline alcoholism and soul-crushing isolation. If I could just pretend for one more second that I had an ounce of respectability…Ah who am I kidding? I need another beer.

"1300" excerpt

This is an excerpt from my autobiographical piece "1300," the saga of my 23-straight-hour drive from Santa Fe, New Mexico to my home in Madison, Wisconsin.

Storm chasing is a profession, or at least a scientific curiosity. In my case it represented a metaphorical starting point on my unconventional journey.

Santa Fe features a prominent “monsoon” season during the latter portion of July through August. Otherwise rain and snow are somewhat uncommon, being mountainous desert and whatnot - although spring and early summer are also prone to an occasional soaking downpour. In this case, thunderstorms had ravished Santa Fe during the late evening, gifting us with a spectacle of sonic and visual fury. Fortunately, for driving purposes, the majority of the heavy weather had left the area, prior to my departure.

The most striking factor of high-desert electrical storms is their intensely striking beauty. Viewed from the mountains onto the mesas, storm watchers are treated to scowling black and gray wisps, which whip across the desert depositing jagged tongues of blanched whites, neon yellows and astonishingly vivid pinks along their course. Watching these fronts dance and weave, scooting around and down the mountains, is a breathtaking experience.

As I buzzed out of Santa Fe, up I-25 through Las Vegas (New Mexico that is - a town which eerily apes Haddonfield, Illinois – The stalking ground of Michael Myers in the Halloween films), the storms had a head start on me. I noticed patches of the typically arid interstate were littered with puddles whenever the storm-front had crossed over it. My headlights glistened in the inky pools as I sped through them, trying to keep pace with the rapidly-moving storms.