with Fiore Amore
There is no place on this planet more freakish than Middle America. Nothing has been more antithetical to enthusiasm, such potent fuel for that most pervasive disease known as depression. My descent into it was a point-blank stare into the raw id of this country. Convention dictates that writing has a sense of place. The soul of America, however, is placeless. To be there is to be nowhere, surrounded by an inescapable mirage of sameness nothing short of nauseating.
For the sake of good storytelling, I’ll attempt to give shape to the American Nightmare.
Here’s the scoop: I and five other poor, sick bastards got jam-packed in some schmuck’s trailer with two bottles of becherovka and a case of beer. One of them insisted to the point of distress that the host blast Metallica on his shitty bluetooth speaker, and he did. The soundtrack was then laid for a verbal void so excruciating that I hardly began to notice when the conversation melted around me. Where was I? When? Who’s this kid in front of me and why is his puke all over the table? Wait, didn’t I show him my tits 20 minutes ago?
Next thing I knew the trailer was gone and I was sitting on the living room floor. Someone was on the phone with the police, something about a gunshot and some other group of bored kids with nothing better to do then wage a war to the death against suburbia and everything it stood for, only for it to lock them in place.
Then, a conversation.
“What do we do with them? They can’t just sleep in the truck.”
“Weren’t they going to get a hotel room? There’s one just a few blocks down.”
“Are we really gonna make them pay for that, though?”
“What else can we do? Drive them home?”
“Why not?”
Some corralling and another phone call later, and we were off in the dead of night. Me and another guy took the front, with the other four following in the truck. So began a four hour road trip to and from Nowhere, USA. The daydreamed convertible romp through the deserts of the Southwest gave way to tunnel vision and the spins among pitch-black pine trees. This was nothing short of a mad and mundane parody of the great American road trip, embodying despair as opposed to adventure.
When we reached our destination, my bladder vowed its revenge on me, and thus I was compelled to enter the restroom of a kind stranger. What I saw in that mirror was something ghoulish, unrecognizable, distorted. Arrays of ants covered every surface. I could feel them calling me as they marched in formation, spinning like black suns. Soon I was dragged to the floor, drowning in a hideous pit of my own creation. A spectral figure appeared, saying in a performance worthy of the old Universal horror films that I needed to call my ex-boyfriend. Naturally, I did, and all that left my poor gob was gibberish and tears.
As time melted away my ears were assailed by knocking, yelling, and inquiries as to my well being. It had been three hours, according to my sleep-deprived friends on the outside of what was now my universe. Where had Time gone?
The ride back was suspiciously silent. I figured it was probably my fault. The ants agreed. All that had transpired that night was wallowing in my own melodrama, having embarked on a strange and winding road without destination.
There is no point to this story.
