The interstate is whizzing past in a silent green roar but in the bus on my side of the bis on the bus on the bis funny how words sound when you say them differently and I wonder if they are still the word if a rose by any other name name name? Loud. I am sitting with Rooster. They put us on 5 buses. Or six. I can’t see, so I can’t count, so I tell Rooster the numbers. Straddle over him and kick Maggie out of her seat, Rooster looks displeased, she wobbles over to his seat against the rolling tilt of the bus, sit down next to Cap. One look and nod we know. His eyes and open mouth, slightly grinning but shaking his head in sluggish disbelief but keeping it together barely just barely. “Crunkasfuck,” he mumbles at me. We look around, trying to inventory our peers and yeah we look the most messed up out of the kids we can see. Wild. This was slated as one of the biggest nights out all year and we had a head start in the marathon. Miles deep. Headrush and time lapses back. I grin, thinking miles deep.
The others did the pre-game steps with us but we won the dance-off against the vape, leaning in pulling it out the glass ovaling our eyes. Shots of the Evan Williams and a couple beers then a couple more beers. Wood paneling in the Lodge warm and the chairs holding nice around me as the room vibrated, stretched and tightened into focus. Then we got in the car and someone drove us to campus, my eyes tight so all I could see of the street unfolding red carpet was a pin-prick to look at the sun when you’re a kid. Zooming like a camera back into focus and back to the pinprick. Eyes tight. And now the interstate. Gasping for breathless intakes one after another.
Into the city. Have to be back when they say so I remember and forget what the clipboard bearers have to say, without vision you can’t count after all so its up the curb and back down waltzing back and off and up and off and we go to the first bar. Stout, dark of coffee and rye bread. We sit together in the back room, a party of jocky bitches comes in and they don’t order stout. We are launching and sitting back down on all cylinders, Jacky’s jazz rushing rushing, and I find myself saying to Cap, “look how many fucking times Jacky uses the word ‘rush’ in Road, man, we know the thing is about movement and going but shit that scroll needed a thesaurus break man.” We sing happy birthday to Rooster, Adam’s voicemail taking it all in for him to wake up to in the morning. The girls take notice and one of them goes and buys a shot for the birthday boy. Grinning straight poker faces we thank her for the gift and tell Rooster to take his birthday shot so he does and we drink out our beers and it is getting crowded so we go off a wheeling group into the night to look for a bar off the beaten path where we can get some food and more stout without bumping elbow and foot into people we won’t miss.
We wander through alleys and a construction site. Wind through dark places. Touch streetlights in wonder and come together at the waterfront. Standing breathing together. There is a desperation in our desire. I want to drown the sober, cold knowledge this is a last thing. An unstoppable undeniable ending. Lights over the bay.
The next beer is the one I don’t need, the edge beer that leads to two more and a terrific crash into the void where minutes are hours and hours snap their fingers as they pass in moments. Wooden benches. More stout. Rooster shouts. I have irritated Cat somehow, not sure why I did it or how exactly and Howie is calm after leading us to the pub, I still remember the calm he had and how I don’t have it. Back into the streetlamp and ally night tramping quiet as cats who shriek and give chase and stop to piss. I dance close with R-, two stairways lead up to the dance floor and there is a choice, one goes past the tables and one goes outside, the drink and the missing and the sudden alcoholic melancholy that hits you a brick wall of wanting I know I would take the stairway out to the street, knowing there was no back, no un-doing of done gone and goner.
Down the stairs to the tables. There is an exodus and I am in flight from my conscience, waiting to be led to that promised land. We pour back in mostly liquid and I wonder who will be the one to puke because there will be at least one but everyone remembers the first one and it won’t be me, I am resolute in the window-watching. That’s the thing with riding a bus, man, you want to see where you’re going or where you’ve been but all you got is whatever shoots arcing past your window.
Source:
http://thebouncingdie.wordpress.com/2013/02/03/windows/
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