Many years ago, I was cool.
I had a job paying more than a $1.95 an hour.
If I needed to, I could go to the doctor, get my butt checked, and my insurance would cover the cost.
Something happened, not sure what, maybe I put my dick in the wrong whore back in the 1800s, or I didn't do the right drugs back in the day.
I'm trying to be positive, trying to write good things, like when I took a trip to LA with enough drugs up my butt to start a drug store.
The police kept asking, "Do you have anything on your person?"
Of course I do, it's up my butt!
But instead, I said, "No officer!"
Two days on a Greyhound bus heading south, trekking down the freeway at 80 miles per hour, stopping at every dead jukebox joint from Salt Lake City, Utah on.
"When we getting there Grandpa?" some little kid said, squirmming, staring out the window, watching the road moving on.
We would then stop here and the little kid would run outside just to be disappointed that this wasn't the destination.
I wasn't getting off till the end.
The driver knew.
He was in on it.
I shook my head.
The road was a long trip, through the desert, down into the valley, up into the mountains.
There was Mary Lou, a prostitute from Jersey.
"I got a cousin in LA! He says I can become a movie star!"
She would end up dead in some apartment, killed by a man who she picked up at some bar.
The news didn't remember her in the articles of that day's event.
The bus kept going, the kid and his grandpa left our crew somewhere.
I gave up on positive things.
Nobody wants to read the positive shit, at least the cool kids.
They want suicide and drugs, mad people who wish not to live, but not to die.
They want spring, fall, summer time.
Winter is for suckers.
Down on the street, people are writing about their mamas.
"Mama was a big woman. Tits to her knees. She had a shack in Milltown where for 75 cents a day, you could live and freeze to death."
Route 6 went past Milltown, down to the river, the river didn't have no name, but according to some of the old timers, it was called Shit Creek.
I thought about drowning myself in that creek, river, a sewage drain.
There I was, standing, waiting, for what?
The bus stopped here, according to the sign.
"Where does it go?" some old man asked from the seat next to me, the wind was blowing cold.
"I don't know, anywhere from here is fine with me!"
We both nodded.
The night turned to day, then back to night, and the day was fast upon us.
The river was following us, or we were following it. It smelled.
"Smells like America!" the old man said, smiling.
Nobody was paying attention as we rolled into some town, Dickstown.
"Where we at?" the old man asked.
I shrugged again.
There was corn, dead, dying, falling to the earth.
The sun was sinking into the earth.
We fell asleep as the day died.
Denver was close.
But we avoided that and turned south.
Nightmares on the bus are almost pleasant.
You don't sleep on a bus, you close your eyes and feel the road passing under your butt.
I took a trip on a bus a few times, my mom's family in Minnesota, my butt was in Butte, Montana.
Long journey, to go see your mom's family, pyschosis in their brains.
"Geeps!" my cousin, a hottie, called me, for whatever reason, known only to her.
She would be the first kiss of my life, behind the house, close to the lake, we sat close to each other.
Her scent was peach delight, her perfume mixing with the smells of the lake.
Her lips were soft, and I was gone.
"You kissed your cousin?" my friend, Chil, asked when I got back and told him. "What was it like?"
I was ten.
Devil didn't care, it was added to my List of Sins which is now going into its twelvth printing.
"Did you ever think we'd make it to Salt Lake?" the old man asked as we pulled into Fresno.
I shook my head.
The bus trips were getting longer, more surreal, just like life, except that was getting shorter.
I stood, stretched, tripped down the aisle to the opened door to outside, to begin my adventures as the Prince of the West Coast, dreamer, writer, donkey show manager, all the good jobs a man could have.
The sea was dying and so was I...
I kept moving down the road.
"Where are we?"
We were alive.
The only people for me were the mad ones, fat, skinny, long, short, whatever.
Were we alive?
Were we dead?
Was all of this a dream?
Kansas was out there.
Lizzy was there too, drinking gasoline, pretending it was alcohol.
She was a beautiful woman, ugly in soul. She would die in a car crash going up the mountain to ski.
The post card she had sent to me from Colorado, a few days before the accident, read, "Wish you were here...." and she had kissed it, her lip prints there.
I was trying to get there, one day late, there in time to hear the news.
The phone rang, my friend Joe, who hadn't heard.
He was her best lay, Lizzy told me one time, next to you of course.
Though we never slept together, we fucked a few times.
Lizzy's favorite line when asked about our relationship.
It was all the same.
I kept moving forward, Lizzy stayed young forever.
19 on the day of her death.
Remembering how she told her mom we weren't seeing each other.
"He's just a boy I let cum inside..."
I remember how her mom grabbed that shot gun and aimmed it at me. I took off, the shot rang out, barely missing me.
17 on that day.
She had laughed, almost falling to the ground in tears.
"You should have seen the look on your face! Priceless!"
She kept laughing.
LIFE. SEX. DEATH AGAIN.
We fucked the next night. She had a key to her dad's apartment. We fucked like rabid dogs in heat.
"We should drink his expensive booze!!!" she smiled as we laid in the bed, cuddled next to each other.
LIFE. BOOZE. MORE DEATH.
The bus stopped somewhere, some town, I forget where.
A deli on one side of the road.
A whorehouse on the other.
Guess which side I picked?
Turkey on rye, extra mayo and a bottle of cheap beer.
Whores you can find anywhere, a good turkey on rye, not so much!