Outside, a fog surrounds the streetlights. In your tired, squinting eyes, the lights in the haze look like the great white ball of seeds atop a dandelion stalk, like the wind could come and blow all the light away and leave this ugly street in darkness. This is a creepy place. Drunk men are down there stumbling around by the curb, looking for their cars, peeing on the sidewalk, puking on themselves. How does that happen to people? What goes on in their lives to make that happen? Is it bad luck? Were they born into a life where that kind of stuff happens all the time, or did they make stupid choices? Is it somebody's fault? What can you do to help somebody like that? Are you supposed to try? Or do you walk around them?
Tonight, anyway, you close the curtains. You've got your own problems.
Have you done the right thing? By morning you have to have a plan. You lie down to think.
You wake up with your clothes on. You can't remember falling asleep. You're so tired. Why did you wake up? Ring Ring. It's the phone. "Hello?" you say.
"Excuse me, checkout is at eleven. It's eleven-thirty. Are you staying for another day? You're going to have to pay now if you plan to stay."
You were supposed to come up with a plan. That's why you came here. Now you don't even have enough money left for a bus. Whoa.
Go home now. It'll be a lot better if you show up on your own than if some cop or friend of the family drags you there. Go to #6.
Go out by the highway and hitch a ride out of town. Go to #7.
|buy the book|
|about the author|
|a note for