Even if it means no nachos, I don’t want to do any more of that hateful teaching! People who have never done any teaching seem to have difficulty understanding how I feel about this. Jesus, I’m drunk as a stolen hard drive. My hands are crying. Loving beer, savoring beer, enjoying beer is not so bad. But drowning in beer, rioting naked in beer—that won’t do! Running around drinking in this messy way—utterly stupid! Apparently, last night, I set fire to my elbows, no idea how or why. But my elbows are charred. The rain coming down in earnest and the wind blowing hard… It blows my jacket off (This may seem impossible. I assure you it is very possible.), and my shoes go flying too—what a disaster! But a nun passing by retrieves them for me—many, many thanks! Rain getting worse, wind blowing stronger all the time—nothing to do but stop for the night outside Rockford—but none of my former friends will have me. Let it be! is all I say and, looking like a bloated persimmon, I walk on. Finally can't go on any longer and take shelter in the lee of a roadside music store (vinyl records, odor of hipsters, etc.). I care nothing for music. I am the only writer I know who isn’t into music, and this makes me feel like rust or dirt or one of those disgusting, bloody apples lodged in the ass cheeks of Kafka’s cockroach. I sneeze. My fingertips shine an odd, waxy white. I wring out my clothes, eat a lunch of traditional nachos (per each chip, one dollop of cheese, one jalapeno), stay there for two hours. The waitress has really loud breasts. Time to move on. I buy a six pack of beer, Spaten Optimator. Deluge!—no other word for it—violent wind lashing, sheets of rain streaming sideways. Trumpets of rain. Hard coal and rocks. I feel as though bashed flat by hell or heaven—a rather splendid feeling in fact. I feel like dancing or singing my song. Things slacken eventually. Walking down the sidewalk drinking beer in the drizzle. Mouth full of dark fruit and bread and motor oil. Head sort of hollow and OK. My feet throb, as usual. With evening I am able to make it as far as downtown, Grand Rapids, but again nobody will take me in. Finally I go to Jaycee Park, where I find several bizarre steel baskets (I later learn they were constructed for a sport that involves Frisbees) and a large, pink, plastic sculpture in the shape of a hollow tree, much to my relief. I climb inside and read a little book (wet and wrinkled) of haiku and drink my seventh beer and sleep.
About The Writer
Sean Lovelace likes to drink beer and eat Velveeta and blog at seanlovelace.com and run, far.