i'm so literary

who cares


        Days earlier I had secured a job building a web site for the father of a kid my sister goes to high school with, and I figured it was in the interest of everyone concerned for me to go and talk to him before I hit the road.  Last night's Tom Waits show had been fucking intense, so I still couldn't get that man's voice out of my head.  Fortunately my mind had kicked into ultra-practicality mode and I found myself determined to complete the necessary tasks and get on my way to Pennsylvania.  The last time my brain put itself in this kind of state was during college exams, but they were over now and far behind.  I was up most of the night packing but I managed to sleep for three hours, wake up at 6 am and eat breakfast with my family.  Three months of sleeping late and easing into my day had rendered me unprepared for the kind of get-up and go morning my parents and siblings practiced on a regular basis.  It was "Eggo this" and "Toaster-Strudel that."  At exactly 7:05 they moved in a single file toward the door and I kissed them goodbye, youngest to oldest.  I made absolute sure my sister hadn't forgotten her lunch, then sent them all on their way.  This quick and casual exit drew to a close nearly four months of picturesque suburban domestic life.  There was no one to cook for them now.


I did not feel homesick, because I was still home.


I took a shower, donned respectable clothing, moved most of my belongings into the front room, and drove my '79 Granada through 6,000 feet of drizzling rain to talk to Mister Richard about my intentions concerning his corporate web presence.  Unfortunately he was detained at length on the telephone with inefficient businesspersons and I found myself standing alone in a poorly lit foyer surrounded by stacks of paper and bins full of tiny, silvery drill bits.  The next room was full of machinery that vibrated with a bass-heavy whir and the occasional syncopated clank.  I held on to my pleather Boston University Alumni folder-pouch for dear life.  After forty minutes I exchanged a few words with the boss man; we both felt satisfied, and pledged our honor to conduct all further business via Email.  I made a joke, shook his hand twice, and climbed back into the Granada.


Needless to say, I was feeling rather progressive.


Three days before, Jonas and I drove up to the Tweeter in Hanover and had Wayne finish installing my stereo.  He mounted the deck in a black plastic box, on the floor, just under the dash.  As I drove back home through the rain to finish packing, I listened to a couple of cherry tracks from the second disc of my Rod Stewart collection.  There was no cruise control, but I didn't care.


Needless to say, I was feeling rather progressive.


After four Pop Tarts I set to work loading up the car with all of my stuff.  The original full size spare was indeed full size, and took up most of the trunk, but I vowed to bring it along anyways.  Because let's face it, you never know.  You never, never know.  I didn't have much to carry, anyhow, only a computer, a printer, a four-track, 250 compact discs, a comforter, two pillows, a camera, twenty shirts, five sweaters, four pairs of pants, a drum machine, a lamp, a table and chair, a guitar, books by Camus, Faulkner and Pirsig, some art supplies, a pair of boots, my P-coat, ten pairs of socks, a Rod Stewart poster, a painting I painted, a throw blanket, some photographs, and a toaster.  Once the car was full, I called Jonas, turned off all the lights, kissed the off-white carpet of my home, locked the door, and drove away.