BOSTON 23

From the webbed street corner to the telephone whine, every last goddamned thing in this town was haunted. From deaths and births to kisses and goodbyes. I needed an out. Delinquent car insurance be damned; I had to drive.
Pennsylvania seemed like a good place to drive around. I got the two most essential ingredients to the onset of any expedition: french fries and coffee.
I started to drive; the cigarettes danced to the song of the night; it was a good song. I figured once I got into the heart of Pennsylvania, I would retrace Rabbit’s Run, maybe meet a nice prostitute and settle down for a while. Fiction is always nicer on paper, I suppose.
Two hours passed, and I was out of state but not yet out of mind. In fact, this state brought me closer to the wheel. The upcoming off ramp cried of a girl I knew. I turned down the stereo and listened for her to call.
"Yeah, baby, that’s funny. I’m in your neck right now. How about I stop on by?"
Fuck fiction. I turned the stereo back up and kept driving into the dark. The sign would say "Brewer: 483 Miles" if I had been reading instead of driving, but I was driving, so there were no signs; only a deer scattered highway. I imagined a deer jumping out at any second, bringing me to a downward tailspin. No insurance. Car totaled. Me stranded. Keep driving. Rest stop, fuel stop, coffee break, go.
For a second I knew where I was and where I was going. A sobering clarity which would be clouded by a wrong turn. Drive, don’t look back, go.
Pottsville 43, hit 422, then 23, head south to the Gulf, get faked out in West Virginia, and head back home to a mentor who didn’t exist. Bullshit. I was near Philadelphia, and I was tired and dulled by the monotony. Drive.
I had to take a rest, but there are no hotels in these small towns. Perhaps God would help. United Baptist Church next left. If someone rolled me while sleeping in a church parking lot, I think that would be a fair enough answer; some undeniable fate. Sorry, but you were supposed to die; that was where your string ran out.
I read the sign in the parking lot: "For your safety and ours, please no loitering. No car may be here for more than three hours."
Fuck. Drive. 24-hour supermarket, clerks glaring eyes, discounted for quick sale cinnamon rolls, sleep in the lot. I laid down in the back seat, cocooned myself in a sleeping bag to ward off questioners. I imagined I looked like a bundle of Christmas gifts being hidden from thieves. This pleased me.
No sleep, too much coffee. At least I had ten minutes away from the deafening cry of the pavement. I remembered that I had planned to go to Walden Pond this weekend with a girl. She never wanted to see me again, but I still wanted to talk to that fuck Thoreau.
Drive. Eight more hours, and I would be there at 2:00PM. Sounded like a solid plan. New York City 72 miles, stuck in commuting traffic, drive, stop, drive. I was operating on automatic. Head north, I wished I had a cigarette. Sleep is now a forgotten dream. I had a date and would not be late.
"Walden was about 200 pages too long. Economy was brilliant and pertinent philosophical fodder, but who the hell cares about the 20 pages you spent looking at a bird? Or the whole chapter where you debase other imposter ponds?"
Boston 79. Drive, head north, almost there. I’ve been awake for 29 hours. Concord and no signs. Stop for directions. He didn’t speak English. Drive. Stop for directions, perfect Massachusetts accent. Solid. Walden Pond, $5 parking.
Thirty hours is a long time to go without sex. Public restroom, empty. Orgasm took out my stomach; I had been running on those nutrients alone, and now I felt hollow. Looking down, my glasses slipped from my head toward the bottomless latrine. Close call. I would have been completely out of luck; I’m legally blind and then some. Someone entered as I finished up in the stall.
Fresh air. I walked. The pond was beautiful. I called my friend in Boston; I needed a place to crash. No answer. He might still be back home for the funeral. Phone rings, he called back, I’m set.
Stumbled upon a woman sitting next to the pond with her manuscript. Sucker. Although it would be nice to believe this place to be an eternal wellspring of inspiration, something about the gift shop told me otherwise.
I fell upon the site of Thoreau’s home. Nine concrete markers around the perimeter. Phone rang. Too much technology in this place of solitude. Lost signal. I called back.
Mother called, brother had a stand-off with the police, Waco-style. Wouldn’t surrender. Paranoid schizophrenia, thought the police were out to kill him. Had FBI come in to protect him, he surrendered. Poor fucking kid. He never hurt anyone, he was just lost and alone. And now it’s back to Club Med for him. I should have been there for him more, but I was just as lost as him.
Fuck. Walk. Thoreau spent an entire chapter talking about the purity of his pond and the superiority of its water. I knelt down and drank it. And again. It was delicious. Walk. Railroad tracks and couples in love.
Thirty-two hours awake, I needed to sleep. As I left I saw a sign: "Fish in pond have been found to have low levels of mercury. Children under 12 and pregnant women should not consume them." I had a bed waiting for me. Cleaning up the world would have to wait until tomorrow. Boston 23.