As I left the parking lot I could hear a faint humming. It could’ve been the belts but the engine seemed so far away at this point. Maybe it was my mind. I could picture the impulses jumping from one synapse to another as they churned out thoughts. I was lost among them but I knew two truths. First, they had been watching for quite a long time. Second, it was time to take action. I had not chosen the endeavor of heralding a new age of peace to the world, but I had been chosen. The media said so, even if no one else had seen the connections.
The van sputtered as I switched gears. Looking down at the gas dial I could see that I still had half a tank, enough to get me to Kansas. I had no clear indication as of my final destination but I knew I should head east. D.C. was east. I had been there once in fifth grade as part of class trip but I didn’t know if I could still recognize it. That had been a long time ago and I hadn’t paid much attention with the hushed ridicule of my classmates ringing in my ears. Still, I knew my experience as an outcast had served me well. I had become more of an observer than a participator. That was what allowed me to form my now valued opinions about society and the behaviors of mankind, perhaps that and the drugs. Either way, buried deep in the paranoia there was the truth that had the potential to end war. My day had come. Fucking finally.
The roads were quiet tonight. I could see the early March moon casting its gray light across the roofs of the houses, every so often caught by a tired bank of leftover snow. I had checked the weather before I left to make sure the added stress of a freak snowstorm would not hinder my mission. Still, at this point, I was riding on pure piss dripping faith. I turned the stereo on to the college radio station hoping that a perspective void of conglomerate agenda would be helpful.
“Some people think I won’t make it but I know that I will,
Escape the emptiness ‘cuz that shit is slow and it kills,
The flow and the skill
I made y’all believe that it last
You can make the future but it starts with leaving the past.”
The lyrics burned truth, and reinforced my decision, truly the words of Immortal Technique. Hip-hop was a godsend and I thanked the heavens for the underground shit that the station played. As the song ended and the announcers began I knew they were speaking to me.
“Some Immortal Technique for y’all,” one DJ said,
“True ‘dat, we need some change up in dis shit, wit’ ‘dis messed up administration yo and all the lies they perpetuatin,” said the other,
“We speak the truth y’all, you CAN make the future but you got ta leave that past shit behind y’all,”
“They ain’t no WMD’s and they ain’t no reason to be in Iraq y’all,”
“Truth man, we can change this shit, YOU can change this shit and we talkin’ to tha listenahs yo, y’all out there in radio land got to be tha change yo.”
I took this to heart. They were speaking to me and me alone.
“Thanks fellas,” I said knowing the microphones in the van would pick up my voice. I couldn’t be sure if they were listening but I knew someone was and I knew that these guys had my back.
I strained my ears for connections and messages for another few songs but the few I could make out didn’t seem to connect well, so I turned down the volume and zoned out on the passing stripes in the road. I was still high. I had smoked a final bowl before I left the condo, making sure to leave the nearly full eighth and my pipe in full view on the kitchen counter as a message to my parents that my mission was not at all about or resulting from pot. This was a spiritual mission; I had been ordained by God to carry this one out. They had presented me a few days prior with a letter saying that if I didn’t quit smoking pot and get a job they would evict me from the condo. In truth it had little effect besides an added element of stress, especially considering the severity of my current endeavor. I had been chosen to change the world and my blissfully ignorant parents were trying to ruffle my feathers with insignificant shit. They knew nothing.
As I passed the county line I thought about the past year, having been alone and ridiculed at a college of little circumstance in a farm town of little circumstance surrounded by simple minds of little circumstance. I thought about how my mind had been torn in half that quiet night as I let my hall mate’s ridicule permeate the folds of my brain. I thought about how that single incident had thrown me into a pit of crippling paranoia that I had been fighting like hell to get out of for the last year. Fuck them. None of that mattered now. Now I had a purpose, a divine destiny to fulfill and even though I could still feel the peering, judgmental eyes staring me down and watching my every move wherever I went, I knew that it would end soon.
Over time I had learned to accept the judgment. I had learned to accept the fact that the condo, my car and everywhere I went had been bugged and wired with hidden cameras so small, and so well placed, that even tearing apart the condo’s smoke detectors and appliances had yielded no results. I had learned to accept the fact that I was so important that constant scrutiny was now a fact of life. After all, the government, the people and the world had to know that God’s choice for a leader was in fact worthy of the divine ordination. Still the constancy of paranoia had worn heavy on my shoulders. Constantly being on my best behavior in addition to proving myself as a strong, levelheaded man had made me tired. In all honesty, I wished I had not been chosen, but Spiderman was right in saying that with great power comes great responsibility. I had to be a man and I had to follow through. Far be it for me to go against the very will of God himself.
Houses had long since become sparse and Denver was now a distant memory as I drove through the plains of Eastern Colorado. The clock on the stereo said 10:34 pm and I knew was alone on I-70 except for the faint glimmer of taillights about a half mile ahead of me. “Be prepared” was a motto I had learned in the boy scouts and it had served me well even to this day. I had kept camping equipment stashed in the back of the van for nights when I was too drunk to drive home. There was a sleeping bag, a therma-rest pad and a tent for the off nights during the summer when I actually did find myself camping. Perhaps this would be one of those nights although I planned to drive as far as possible before I crashed. I had also filled my backpack with the essentials before I left - a hooded sweatshirt, a flannel, wool socks, a pair of shoes, underwear, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. It wasn’t much but I only expected the trip to take a few days, two weeks at the most. Once I arrived at my destination, wherever it may be (I was running on pure faith at this point) there would be open arms, comfortable accommodations and most likely a good stipend to keep my needs met. Worries were as sparse as the houses on the side of the road. Worst case, I still had a few hundred in my wallet and a $1700 credit limit.
I waded silently in a pool of thought among the smoke of paranoia that drifted up through the dark water like blood. I had said nothing in the last two hours and I wondered if they were still listening. Chances are, they worked in shifts, sitting in front of the tape recorders and quiet monitors waiting for an indication of my nerves, watching my shoulders to see if they tensed, my hands to see if they jittered. I could feel them waiting for me to make a wrong move. So I sat silent, breathing deep to maintain a feigned composure.
The green signs by the side of the highway flew past blaring a disconcerting contrast that kept me alert. They had been my company and my only indication of progress on the lonely stretches of road. The Kansas state line had passed about a half hour ago and the signs had told me in their shrill reflective voices that Hays was still about 150 miles from here. Maybe I would stop there, maybe I would keep going. It all depended on what the voice of reason said. The soft whir of the road lapping my tires was calming. It was a constant that I had come to rely upon and it kept my thoughts of doubt to a minimum. But every so often I’d find myself dwelling on a blaring confusion, trying to decide if I was crazy or if I had justification for this trip even considering the lack of concrete evidence. It was a clear reality to me that no clear evidence was an indication of how extremely secret my mission parameters were and that if I talked to anyone I would most assuredly find myself in a mental hospital. It was either that or the idea that there were in fact, no mission parameters at all and that I was just batshit crazy but, fuck that, there had been too many signs, too many connections. This had to be real.
I was startled from my glaze by the sudden sputtering of my engine. “Shit,” I yelled realizing I had neglected to stop for gas. I had recalled seeing an exit with a side of the road gas station about three miles back. If I walked fast, I could do that in forty-five minutes, an hour maybe. Whatever had to be done. I was a man now; I had to learn to sacrifice.
I reached for my backpack and shifted my legs so I could reach down and put on the shoes and socks. This was no time or place for the shoddy old slippers I had worn thinking my only trekking would be a long ride on the tired wheels of my van. When I had finagled the shoes onto my feet and tied them with a double knot, I relaxed and pulled the hoodie and the flannel from the pack. I had read somewhere that at night the prairie can drop to temperatures well below zero, or maybe that was the desert. Either way, it was the middle of March and I’d be fucked if I didn’t dress for the occasion.
I climbed out of the van with iPod in hand, in case I felt the ugly pulling of a jilted guidance or a desire for some entertainment if need be. I had figured out long ago that “They” had the strange ability to broadcast messages to me if I put the iPod on shuffle. I didn’t know shit about how they did it but I figured it had something to do with satellites and computer chips. Despite all the betrayal on my family and friend’s behalf I knew music, in some form or another, would always be there for me.
The road was quiet mostly. Every twenty minutes or so I would be assaulted by the wind coming off a car that raced past despite the display of my naked thumb pushing into the road. When they passed I was alone again, thoughts abounding like the Seattle riots, the occasional conceptual couch burning mad in the streets of my mind. I could see the blankness of the prairie accompanied by the searing judgment of something, eyes maybe, which stared at me from deep in the corn and grass waiting to attack my delusion of safety.
The wind came in waves, at times tearing at my face in bitter raw shreds and at times brushing soft like a mother’s touch. I kept my hood up to protect myself from its cold bite and thought of home. I thought of laying warm on my couch in front of the indifferent glow of the television, trying to make connections as I smoked. I could work from my house, why was I fucking around in the cornfields of Kansas on my way to a salvation I had no proof was there? If I had been chosen, I could surely direct the state of the world from the quiet comfort of my condo, what with all the cameras and microphones they had installed. I’d just need morning briefings, which they could air on C-Span if the idea of closed circuit television was out of the question. This thought resonated with me and as I walked, undeterred by the influence of corporate media, I cogitated. I was now switching back between this thought and the quiet realization that I may just be out of my fucking mind. Maybe it was time to go home. With a cautious jitter of my hand I selected the shuffle option on the iPod and waited for reassurance.
“You wanna ramble
To the break of dawn
You wanna ramble
To the break of dawn
You wanna ramble
To the break of dawn.”
The words glowed as embers in my mind and terrified me. For the first time in my life I hated Bob Dylan.
By the time I reached the exit and the gas station, my mind had been filled with influence and connections, many of which I had no explanation for. But the hero’s journey theme had presented itself far too many times for me to not take notice. Again I felt the uneasy truth that overwhelming responsibility was essential.
The fluorescent lights of the canopy lit up the night with a sickening garish blare, but seeing no other cars there I knew I was at least safe from judgment. I was not. As I entered the gas station the attendant, an old farmer asshole, glared at me with eyes that spoke volumes about his small town isolation insecurities. I wondered with an angry and nervous ferocity what the old fucker was looking at. All I could do was nod. My first stop was the commercial coffee machine that teetered on one of the side counters like a fat ugly beast of a woman. Coffee would give me some warmth and the spark I needed for the trip back to the van. I finagled the buttons for a minute or so trying to figure the piece of shit out until a large black woman jostled me out of my slumbering confusion with her abusive voice.
“You got to put da cup in first,” She said, “Den you push the blue button fo’ coffee.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, nervous under the invading guise of the attendant.
“Who you talkin’ too boy?” he said.
“Uh…I,”
I nervously glanced around for the large black woman seeing no one.
“Where are the plastic gas tanks?” I said, nervously changing the subject still quizzically scowling and glancing around for the large black woman. The attendant pointed to the far wall where car repair products adorned the hooks like anomalous Christmas ornaments. I walked over, picked up a gallon tank and brought it to the checkout with my coffee while the attendant’s eyes burned deep holes in the back of my neck. Why are you fucking staring at me you motherfucker! I yelled in my mind. What does he think of me? I thought, does he think I’m a fucking queer? I reached for my wallet displaying as much manliness as possible until his old smoke blackened throat let out a cough that startled me and I flinched.
“A gallon of gas too,” I managed to blurt.
“$29.53, the gas is at pump 3,” he said abruptly. I tried to keep my hand from jittering as I passed him my credit card. He took it, then looked up at me in a scowl. My thoughts teetered between wondering what the fuck the dude’s problem was and what the fuck he was thinking of me and I struggled with several deep breaths. My paranoia was screaming and I fought for normalcy. He handed me back the card and I waited in silent panic for the receipt to sign. When he presented it I struggled to keep my hand still enough to coax a signature. When I finished I grabbed my things and walked to the door as calmly as possible to not stir up any further commotion. As soon as I felt the cool night air brush my face I knew I was safe. Taking a deep breath I looked up at the sky and the quiet stars. I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger and took another deep breath to center myself. I walked quietly to pump 3 and filled the red tank, crouching down so as not to appear conspicuous. The thought that I would have to return to this gas station to fill up the car angered me so I shifted my mind to thoughts of home, the warm bed, the simple life of being a normal human being. My divination was as much a burden as it was an honor. I wished that life held simpler requirements of me but the thought that my journey would be the apex of my struggles settled me somewhat.
When the tank was filled I closed the cap, set the nozzle back onto the pump and turned my back to the station, walking into the night.
As I neared the van I tossed the coffee cup into the field and focused on the blinking of the amber hazard lights sitting alone and quiet. Cars had stopped passing now but the wind still fluttered and bit at the nape of my neck. My feet whimpered with a soft ache and the tingle of the shoes rubbing listless against my ankles. I opened the gas door and cap and fumbled with the red tank until I had the nozzle situated tightly. My hands held the sweet toxic smell of gas but I thought little of it, instead rehearsing my movements for the return trip to the station to fill up the van. I could feel the quiet pull of my eyelids and the slow lethargy in my legs as I finished up with the tank and closed everything up. I wondered if sleep was a possibility but I knew I still had at least a good hour or two left in me before rest could lay its muted hand on my head. Climbing into the car I graced the ignition with a quick turn of the key and glanced at the clock on the stereo, which sat blinking and mocking like the eyes of the farmer. 1:53 am. I sighed, maybe another hour and I would stop. First, I had to orchestrate the drama of normalcy as I filled up the van. I knew the farmer would be watching and cursing out of spite for his simple lonely existence.
By 2:20 am the job was done and I careened down the quiet highway with the pull of sleep and thoughts of paranoid reflection sifting like fine sand. I wondered about the large black woman and what miraculous power she held that she could disappear like that out of thin air and thinner minds. My mind like my body, I concluded, was rather thick.
The scowl on the farmer fucker’s face was something that hung with me, a light confusion that boiled into discrimination. Still I knew better than to hold ill will for anyone, “they” would see that. The news stations would feed on that shit like badgers on a fresh deer carcass.
Again, my movements were rehearsed like a great work of masterful dramatic exposition as I drove down the road. For a time I wondered if the agents who were watching me had called it a night but then I remembered that they work shifts. At this time of night, chances were, messages would not be present on the radio. It was probably on automatic shuffle and influence was mute.
The thoughts wore on like the road ahead and as I passed Hays sleep started tugging. I figured just stopping by the side of the road would cause suspicion and unnecessary hassle by the authorities so I waited for the next exit. As I turned and explored the side country roads I found a dirt road that extended far beyond the reach of my high beams. I turned down, driving over washboard until I came to a turnoff a mile or two down with a large oil tank and pump that had been rusted to shit by God’s ever forgiving hand. I pulled in and turned off the van then climbed into the back to situate a temporary living space. The pad shed a few misplaced pine needles as I rolled it out and complemented it with my sleeping bag made inimitable by its duct tape patches. I lay down and stared at the ceiling. Every so often I caught a glint of an infernal satellite as it rode through the stars plotting my location.
Music from the iPod kept me occupied as I sifted through my thoughts and waited for sleep to come. Several hours of shifting my weight and trying to maintain a semblance of comfort brought me again to thoughts of home and the comfort of my bed. I missed the warm spike of smoke in my throat and the quiet haze that once enveloped me. I thought again of how, whatever they needed done, governance or guidance, I could provide from the comfort of my living room. I’d write my thoughts and philosophies in a blog or some shit which they could read and use to create legislation. If they wanted to keep things this secret they could at least grant me my comfort. Was this mission just to prove myself? And if it was, fuck them, I didn’t have to prove myself to anybody. I’m strong and I’ve kept the secret this long. Nearly a year and a half of handling paranoia had to prove some kind of strength.
As light crept up from the edges of the horizon and the stars dimmed I forgot sleep and climbed back into the drivers seat. I decided at that moment, perhaps to my detriment, that the mission had to be bullshit.
I was going home and I could rest when I got there. Fuck them, whoever they were. No evidence, no mission. No parameters, no mission. Fuck this wild goose chase.
In the soft morning light I could see where my travels the night before had brought me. It was a simple road and the oil pump had long ago surrendered its services to the grace and wear of nature’s hand. It had been surrounded by a chain link fence and locked up with a strong padlock made weak by rust. I could by tell by the weeds and grass in the road that whoever found time to pay homage to the tired oil pump beast of American enterprise did so rarely.
I plugged the iPod into the car stereo and selected a legitimate playlist of quiet, perhaps overly chill songs to match the tempo of the sunrise. This calmed my mind. No more messages here, at least not for now.
The engine was cold but it finally turned on the third try. I kicked the gearshift into first and slowly rumbled out of the turn off and onto the dirt road with the occasional bump and weary rock of the van. My thoughts had settled down in the last few hours but I knew it was probably a combination of the wear of a sleepless night and the cold calm of the morning. Eventually, I found my way back to the highway passing the trucks that had stopped for a rumbling rest in the turnoff of the exit. I wondered if the truckers saw me and then I wondered what they thought if they had. The morning gave new light to my situation. Wrestling still with the idea of insanity, I gave it strong consideration and decided I would let my parents know that I’d be willing to see a doctor. If insanity was a reality there were in fact no cameras and microphones in the van and at this thought my shoulders loosened. Still, there was no way to be sure. I could recall a day a few months prior, shortly after I had discovered the possibility of the numerous recording devices. I had found a wire of some type in my garbage disposal and after an arduous confrontation with my father about my house being bugged and the dangers of marijuana induced paranoia; I was alone in the condo. “I WANT THIS TO FUCKIN STOP,” I had yelled to any and all recording devices within range. That day as I left to attend class at the college, a large white truck pulled into the condo parking lot “Pest-B-Gone, Pest and Bug Removal” emblazoned across the side. I took this as a sign and waved to the driver to thank him and “them” for being cooperative. Of course, days later I found that I could still interact with congressional hearings on C-Span and was angered but by then I had considered the possibility that it was probably for the best. After all, I was pretty fucking important. They had to keep tabs one way or another. At this point, my confusion was the only thing that seemed real and still I said nothing.
Back on the road, I found additional comfort, once again, in the constant sound of the road against the tires. The austere whir of it gave me something to hold on to. The sun was peeking out now and I knew that in a few minutes its majesty would be blatant and unapologetic like the smug of a socialite. As I drove, other cars became increasingly present. This spiked my nerves slightly as I considered what they thought of me as they glanced into the large windows of the van as it lumbered down the road several miles below the speed limit. It hindered the forward progress of the assholes that drove like maniacs. Still, traffic was sparse enough to give me a couple minutes of respite between each confrontation.
Passing the infamous gas station that held the adventure of the night prior I raised my middle finger and said a healthy “Fuck you” to the attendant who I suspected still sat behind the counter like a sad, insecure, judgmental shell of a man broken by his own squandered talent and unrealized potential. Once again I thought of the large mysterious black woman and continued to drive.
I glanced at the clock, which read smugly 7:54 am. I had passed the Colorado state line about 20 miles ago and I started, to my chagrin, reconsidering the mission. I remembered the congressional hearings about the urgency of the situation, the liberal pundits clambering for the necessity for proper leadership and the many commercials about flying Southwest Airlines from Denver to New York and D.C. for $59. That was indication enough wasn’t it? It was clear that my philosophies about unification, partnered with the need for the numerous cameras and microphones, partnered with my God given talent to make these connections made me the leader they needed so badly, right? It was only logical.
There was still the question of why Southwest had advertised for New York as well as D.C. I searched my meager knowledge bank for indications of New York importance and was suddenly blindsided by the realization that the U.N. was in New York. Of course, why deal with the mess of an administration that characterized the U.S. when I had the option of helping those who ran the United Nations of the world as a whole? That seemed like the clearly better option.
I tried to put it out of my head as I drove reminding myself that I had no clear evidence of any of this but it reared back and constantly bombarded my consciousness like an angry pit-bull.
I played with these thoughts for an hour or two as I drove, taking deep breaths to calm myself from the pummeling fists of confusion. Denver was close now and I felt a seething confliction. I felt the pull of comfort in being among my things at home fighting with the pull of obligation and responsibility. I’d be damned if I turned back now and wasted another day driving back through Kansas. Driving was going to be arduous and time was running out. The songs had told me to go; the TV had told me it was time.
Denver grew closer and buildings and businesses were now a very real facet of the landscape. Before long, among the clutter of fast food restaurants and billboards that littered my field of view, a sign presented itself that spoke at me like God with an answer dependant on risk. “Denver International Airport, keep right” it read. I had to go, if for no other reason than to see if I was right. I swerved into the right lane with an abrupt resolve and heard screeching tires and horns as I weaved through traffic working my way to the exit. A momentary confidence allowed my shoulders to relax a bit as I reeled. This was right. It had to be. Music would never lead me astray. My mind was still bogged down with lethargy and confusion but I knew I had to man up and accept fate.
Nearing the airport I turned on the iPod and waited for any hint of validation from the secret control of the shuffled playlist. The first song started and I smiled.
“Truckin’ got my chips cashed in. Keep truckin’, like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin’ on.”
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