The last brick in the wall
So how long did you expect me to sit here twiddling my thumbs?
I’m sure you had time for two bathes and three breakfasts.
Can you hear the engine?
Damned straight it doesn’t sound good.
It’s dying.
It overheats half the time.
I’m lucky to have gotten here at all.
And you I have to let it idle while you fiddle inside.
I risk my life dodging fuck heads cutting me off on the highway to get here on time, and you’re fiddling around.
God! I hate this part of the country.
People are downright rude. And crazy.
They need to get ahead at everything, from red lights to the line at the Burger King.
They’d kill you for one less place in front of them.
But hell, it’s not just other people; it’s me, too.
I’ve been feeling odd ever since I got back from California, like something has changed inside of me.
Somewhere along the road I left the real me sitting like forgotten baggage.
I keep thinking that if I retrace my steps I’ll find me again.
I KNOW that sounds stupid.
But the more I think about it the more convinced I am that my leaving California was a big mistake.
I thought things would be good here.
But it’s all just bad memories.
Out in some parts of California, people are still friendly and used cars are cheap.
Even you would do better there.
Maybe you’d get back some of that Summer of Love flush to your face.
You’re starting to look like an old man.
So am I.
It’s the place, this foolish notion of the American Dream, wearing us down.
Yeah, I know you have a job now.
But it’s more like slavery, grinding out your life with each tick of the time clock, but instead of exploding, we implode.
Each day I spend at my job the wall between me and the road grows thicker. I feel like that poor guy in that Poe story, watching someone build a brick wall in front of him, the air grows staler with each passing day until I’m sure I’ll suffocate.
If I don’t get away soon, I never will.
Sure, I got a car. But it’s on its last legs and I know it wouldn’t make it half way before it dies of exhaustion, too.
My luck I’d wind up breaking down in one of those Middle American small towns where they still believe Jesus is coming to save them, and will crucify me because I’m not Him.
I took my job so I could save up for
another set of wheels.
I figured you might kick in half so we could have them in half the time
I figured me and you would split the moment I got them.
I figured we would be on the road before the wall got finished and we got stuck here.
With another car we could drive forever, maybe even outrun this insanity that people keep telling us is progress.
There’s music in the hum of wheels on the highway. It sings to you as you travel, making you forget all this crap about mortgages and stock options.
It whispers of freedom that’s just over the next ridge or the next, and if we travel fast enough and far enough, we might even catch up with it.
What do you mean? NO WAY
You’ve got to do it, man.
I’m counting on you.
Even if I could afford to get another car, it wouldn’t be the same.
It’s always been you and me, Ken and Hank, Batman and Robin.
And going wouldn’t be the same without you.
Please, Hank, I’m begging you.
I don’t want to hear that last brick put in place
Forget that crap about two weeks vacation every year. That’s just the length of the chain. After that this place or some boss yanks you back and puts your nose back against the grind stone.
I don’t want to be one of those guys who talks all the time in back of the warehouse about what he’s going to see and never sees it.
I don’t want to be down and out at 45, getting my kicks on the same bar stool my uncles sat on at that age.
I don’t want to waste my time getting some rich guy richer while I earn peanuts.
I don’t even want to be rich like most of the suckers playing lottery.
I just want to be free.
Damn, the car’s stalled.
I think this time it’s dead.
I am turning the key. But it’s gone.
And damn, I can’t even afford a tow truck.