2003-05-28 - 10:21 AM
May 23, 11:01 PM,
I'm currently in the back seat of a giant church van. Going to Texas. What the hell?
So there's this thing going on in Texas. "Passion". Big christian conference type deal, not exactly my bag. Doug, Jenny, Andy, Stacy, Coral and Eddie are going. Cool, I think. Whatever, I'll catch them Wednesday when they come back. Andy suggested a few times that I come along, I laughed, we drank soda and moved on.
At some point, Eddie came into the conversation. "Alex." He said, totally seriously. "You should come."
It's something admirable/insane about Eddie, I've come to realize. He can suggest, in complete seriousness, the most absurdly unrealistic thing imaginable. I told him I couldn't. He asked why. Internal struggle commenced.
Why?
Because you shouldn't.
Why shouldn't I?
Several days of intense Christianity.
Good point.
Whether the idea of dropping me off at a hotel somewhere in BFE Texas was his idea or mine, I'll never know.
Should we go?
I dunno.
Travel
The word hit me like a ton of bricks, it penetrated every argument for or against anything at all. It would be close, sure. I'd get back to Tucson mere hours before my parents came to pick me up. That meant one hell of a quick cleanup, and one hell of a packing job.
Travel
It was still there, calling me, tugging at the back of my head. The last fandango, the great road trip to cap off the school year. The opportunity was staggering, the chance to be dropped off in a state that might as well be a seperate country, for the weekend, all on a whim. Texas, for god's sakes. Texas. And how was I getting there? How was this going to happen? Some of the best friends I have in this world were packing up a van and going on a trip. And they turned to me and said "Come along."
One of the greatest cases for the existence of an almighty being is the way there always seems to be a choice in matters like this, always an alternative. Always the opposite. Chance doesn't seem like it has the capacity for irony that fate does. It always seems there for me, the contrast crystallized in the spectrum of humanity I've come to be closest to in this world. There never seems to be a choice, here, between something bad and something else bad. It's always between the divine and depraved, and tonight was no different. As I was throwing my stuff in the van, I picked up a voicemail from my roommate. "Alex," he laughed, "We're doing shrooms. I hope you get this soon, I know you're having fun with Coral, but I think you'd have more fun with shrooms." Drugs, or Texas? A trip, or a trip? One mindbending night, or 5 questionable days?
Travel
That voice is still there. But so's the other. As the miles scream by with the yellow exit signs and golden arches and passing pickup trucks full of angry rednecks, toothpicks hung limply from their beady-eyed sunbeaten faces, the voice remains. It's still there.
You shouldn't be doing this. Turn back now, pretend it never happened.
But there's a louder one now, sitting on the other shoulder. Whether it's the angel or the devil I don't think I'll ever know, but the argument is pretty convincing.
Adventure, it says.
Friends. Travel.
----------------------------
May 27, Middle of the night.
Sitting crossslegged, sideways in a churchvan. Hurtling down Texas highway at 80 miles an hour, on my way to being on my way home.
Weekend rundown...
After getting camp set up, Doug, Stacy and I hit a gas station across the street from (I shit you not. It exists) a Piggly Wiggly, skimming the motel listings for lodging. The first name she listed off was the Budget Inn. I called, 30 bucks a night. Sounds like a plan.
Hindsight is 20/20, and my ass is telling me that the Motel Bates would have been a better idea. The night I got there, I was filling out the guestcard and busy getting registered, when 80 year old female Texas accent behind the counter told me (not asked me, mind you. Told me) to move to the side. I was blocking the barstool near the door with the 12-inch TV proudly displaying the weather channel. After dutifully hooking a sister up, I handed over my credit card, and a minute later, she gave me my room key, and I was off.
"Son!" She called out behind me. I turned around.
"You wount yer ree-mote control?" I was a little bewildered, typically seeking such an artifact out in my room.
The next day was somewhat uneventful. The christian 6 came over after a monsoon wailed their campground and made them it's girlfriends, and they took some showers.
I HAVE NO IDEA how the motel manager knew that 6 showers were taken that morning, but he showed up angry about exploitation of his facilities, and threatened to charge me for 6 people, an extra 15 bucks a night. The 6 left. The following morning, I awoke to the same proprieter calling at 8 to notify me to a water leak somewhere in the room, and to turn it off.
Interesting fact. When you use the toilet at the Budget Inn, the handle doesn't go back up, so the water, she just keeps a-flowin. So I manually flipped it up. Then I told him there would be no more drip, wondered how closely he watched the water meters (and if this meant he could tell how many showers were taken without installing a hidden video system) I went back to sleep.
Monday was a blur of "Punk'd", "Surfergirls", "Jackass", and the cartoon network. And my first DVD viewing of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Tuesday morning, I woke up to a knocking on my door. Wondering what water-related sin I had accosted my helpless, honest hotel manager who's just trying to make a living with, I answered. Some punk kid, 'bout 18 years old, shirtless and with half his boxers showing, stared vacantly back at me.
"Hey mayn, gottasmoke?" I shook my head no, grabbed some z's, then headed off to check out of my creepy, pink, duct-tape assisted excuse for a room.
While I was waiting for the van to pick me up, my STP (shirtless texan punk) appeared on the couch next to me. Then he tried to get a room so he could hook up with some girl he knew, but first he had to call the hospital so he could get in touch with her.
I'm stupid. I don't know how to back out of a conversation. I give up good and early, "shit my pants and dive off the deep end," hoping that immersing myself in such a depraved situation would prove, at the very least, entertaining.
"Why is she in the hospital?"
"Her mah got her in an accident, she's gonna be in a wheelchair for a week or two, goin' through rehayab." So he wanted to wheel her into the room, throw her on the bed, and get some? What the hell?
"Hey man, you got a girlfriend?" Conversation slowly exiting with small talk. That's cool, I can make my escape.
"Nope."
"Want one? I can have her bring a friend." Devoid of the STP context, this evoked a sort of "Where the hell were you when *I* was 18, you slick little bastard?" response welling deep within me. But taking into consideration that to this guy, "girlfriend" was a clever euphamism for (and I quote) "Awe, if she don't put out she's just a dumb bitch anyhow" he wasn't offering anything worthwhile. I was leaving in a half hour anyhow.
Then the crazy hotel manager guy showed up and kicked the kid out. First hint of customer service I'd seen from him in 72 hours. The kid had obviously been kicked out before, the guy recognized him as (he later explained to me) "That kid, he live around corner. Hops fence and asks for cigarettes, tries to rent room." Shirtless Texan Punk grinned at me, said "Later bud." And was off.
About a half hour later, the super 6 picked me up, and the ride home began.
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