Short Story From Ferrell
So I knock on the door, but no one's home. People file out of the church next door with dulled eyes and pitiful smiles. Well it was to be expected, they whisper in the morning sunshine. I think someone told them they sinned. Spiders over a flame, waiting patiently for the pendulum to stop and time to end. Exiles from paradise. You've got to hand it to them, those Puritans knew how to do a number on mans conscious. A man in a mickey mouse tie comes over and rubs my arm but his hand isn't a hand. It's one of those sticky hands that you have as a kid to grab papers and such. He's leaving a sticky slimy trail of contamination along my skin. I'm sorry my dear, you must be here to see Roger, but Roger's dead and the lines have been cut. I smile and walk away. What bullshit. The lines are fine. A slight exaggeration, a minor miscalculation coming off a five day bender. Roger is not dead, he's just lying in recovery on Vine. I kick a rock and jump on the tracks headed west. There's a dead bird between te slats, flies devouring the eyes, and I think to myself...good men are dying every day. But I feel fine so I keep walking. This line takes me right to the door. A cold one, maybe something to smoke. We'll watch Beach Party and laugh. I'll dance with Frankie Avalon and you can have the ginger haired knockout with teh cute accent. Hawkins will give us an insight to the universe while Hawkeye gives us a fix. It's good but not enough, so we'll carry the insanity on for three more days. Tomorrow maybe we'll try and eat something and we'll all be fanfuckingtastic. You can't ask for more.
Translation: We need someone to pick us up in KC on the 11th.
There is no contentment on the road, and little enough fulfillment...I know what I have missed...And still I wander, seeking compensation in unforeseen encounters and unexpected sights, in sunsets, storms, and passing fancies. ~Charles Kuralt