The Louisville Story

I'm sitting in my room with innumerable questions running through my head the same way a record player gets stuck on a certain part of a song on a vinyl.
"Why am I still alive?"
"Where does this luck come from?"
"Shouldn't we be in jail by now?"
"Did we even do anything of illegal merit?"
Christ. Adventures in this great country like what I just experienced are most definitely what life is all about. The man who tells no stories is the man who has not lived nor taken some sort of risk, and, by God, we risked it all in this most unusual, extreme circumstance.
Louisville, Kentucky is a city about thrice the size of Knoxville. For an eighteen year old meandering around with three underage high schoolers, it can be one of the most perilous places of your life. But goodness, if I keep going like this I'll tell the story in bits and pieces, and you'll never be able to turn all of those pieces into the journey we all survived somehow. Yes, somehow. Like always. But stories shouldn't be told in parts, especially good ones, unless you are one of those Greek bastards and you don't have the time to tell an entire story by word of mouth. Fortunately for me, I have all the time I need to write this story out. So, where to begin? Ah, yes. The night before seems like a good place, a night filled with overtones of safety and security.
Taylor and I had been skating around town whenever we met up will a fellow named Bronson Mills. For those of you know Bronson, he is a drug guru of sorts. At twenty-one years of age he has traveled all over these great states being experienced in the art of survival through drug use and connections with the right people. But I suppose that’s the only way to live, minus the drugs, unless that floats your boat, but I'm more of a land kind of guy.
Not long after meeting up with Bronson, Taylor and I found ourselves at his house discussing consciousness, rumors of LSD-25 being dumped into California's water supply during the sixties, the patches of hallucinogenic mushrooms growing wildly in national parks in Oregon, Grandfather Time and his tie-dye uniform, the Grateful Dead family, and thumb printing LSD.

I feel it is mandatory to describe exactly what thumb printing is, for it is a fascinating and horrifying concept. If ever you find yourself in California and in good standing with the Merry Pranksters, then you just may find yourself in the position of being allowed to thumbprint a pure LSD crystal. The procedure works like this: You lick your thumb, then touch the crystal, then lick your thumb again. What follows is about a year of full on tripping. If the Merry Pranksters allow you to do this, then it should also be remembered that they will take care of you for this entire year of delirium. For a solid year, you are held as a "prisoner" of sorts basically being pampered by a group of hoodlums. For some this would seem like a fashionable idea, especially to those of you who enjoy tripping, but to others would be total insanity. "One out of six people die from shock because of it," said Bronson. "You really have to stop yourself and think 'Do I want to do this?'"

Around twelve Taylor and I left Bronson's with a new destination in mind. Taylor and I both seemed to be suffering from some sort of horrible allergy problem so we figured the best thing to do was load up on cough drops, especially since we would be needed them for all the cigarette smoking that would be done the following day en route to Louisville for the moment we had all waited for - the Modest Mouse concert. Taylor and I next decided that shirts should be made to commemorate this event. We stopped at Wal-Mart and bought five T's of differing color. When we arrived at home, the only thing we could think to spray paint on them was various songs from various Modest Mouse albums. We then hopped in my bed and slept.
It was to be a glorious day of seeing the sights of a massive, beautiful town with a quick visit to the skate park finished up with the concert to end all concerts. Little did we know the horrors that awaited us...

The plan went something like this: Becky and her crew, which consisted of Cassandra and Stacy, would be picked up from school by Taylor and me after first period, to ensure that we made it to the concert on time and also just to be in good company. We would arrive in Louisville, skate the park, take some good ol' Myspace photos, then see Modest Mouse in concert followed by the quiet drive home as I drove while everyone else napped. At first glance you would think, "Sounds like fun, Dustin, why didn't you invite me?" Ye gods! The trip was more than worth it, but the cost was heavy, and today is one of those zombie days where it feels like at any moment you could wake up back at the Coyote listening to the tunes of Love As Laughter, Modest Mouse, and that other band whose name I don't recall, but thoroughly enjoyed, more so than I did Love As Laughter. Of course, both bands hold my respect, for I hold no musical talent, but I suppose, it's all in the ear as to whether or not you prefer one sound over another.
Taylor awoke to the noise of my cell phone ringing. We had slept in my bed, which made for an intimate scene between two heterosexual guys, but intimate nonetheless.
"Dustin, my mom isn't letting me leave until after second period."
The first scare of the day came from Becky. It wasn't as much a scare as it was a slowing down in the planned procedure. It was alright, of course. That just meant Taylor and I would be sleeping in a little later, for we still had to pick up Cassandra and Stacy after first period had ended. Finally, nine o' clock came around, and it was time for us to take showers. Separately, of course, you dirty minded bastards. We're not gay, just close. Intimate, so to speak.

Taylor and I waited patiently outside of West High, the "other" high school in town, until finally Cassandra approached the car.
"Has anyone called to get Stacy out yet?"
Another slowing down in the plan. Shit. Which one of silly teenagers would muster the courage to call a high school and sign one of our own out? And what if those office bastards decided they didn't buy the line we shot and called Stacy's psychotic mother. Then no Stacy would be in attendance for the concert she had bought all the tickets for. Unacceptable in my book. Cassandra told us she had to go home and that we should follow her to pick her up.
I told her I'd meet her there and that I'd make a phone call.
No, you silly children, I didn't call in Stacy's dismissal. No need to have some sort of strange kidnapping charge thrown on me by Sandra Lutz, for she would go so far as to do it. She is the kind of mother that figures out everything. A professional in her own field. And this instance was no difference. The phone call I made was to Becky's sister Stephanie.
"Just call in and say you're Sandra and that you want your daughter out of school by the end of second period. It'll all be smooth as glass."
Smooth as glass. Oh my, smooth indeed. When finally I arrived at Cassandra's house to drive her to Becky's house where some sort of female dressing and make-up ritual would ensue, Cassandra had more bad news. The school had figured that Stephanie wasn't really Sandra, so they did the other thing they knew to do: call Sandra and ask if it was really her that had called.
Oh, holy fools!
By the time we reached Becky's house, it was blatantly obvious that Stacy wasn't going on this trip. I can't describe the pain I felt when I finally came to realization of this fact. Christ! This wasn't fair at all. But viewing it from a Communistic viewpoint, it was for the good of the whole. Had Stacy gone with us, then that kidnapping charge would indeed be brought to surface, and I may not be writing this story right now.
Becky's father, who had received a phone call from Sandra saying the phone call to let Stacy out of school had been received from Stephanie's phone, decided to confront us about the conundrum. What happened wasn't what I expected.
Cassandra took the fall for the call. A noble thing, by most standards, but a dangerous thing nonetheless. Our trip could've been over right then. Lies are the only reason parents need to shut down a teenager's operations, and surely this was it. We weren't going to make it. But we did. We survived somehow.
The end of second period came was approaching, and the desire to see my girlfriend was beginning to become overwhelming. I ushered everyone into the car and began the drive down 160.
We sat in the parking lot and reminisced of times long past until Becky appeared in my rearview mirror.
"Stacy isn't coming."
It was a pretty heavy statement. Stacy, the one who had had the idea for the trip and paid for the tickets, wasn't even going to enjoy the sights of Louisville and the sounds of Modest Mouse, and this time, there was nothing any of us could do about it. Normally when a strange situation like this arises, we can find some way to get around it, or in some cases, walk straight through it, but this was incredibly different. The school was holding her hostage. Nothing less than a full on assault with machine guns and an Army issue Hummer could save the day. And so it was with heavy hearts that we moved on.
The next couple of hours were not as twisted at the fist few hours of the day had been. We drove in peace. It was a feeling that we wouldn't get much of that day, but at that time, in that car, on that road going who knows how fast with no sense of direction at all, for the directions had been turned into paper airplanes or hung from the ceiling of the car in decoration, we were at peace. The ride was filled with melodies from Taylor's soon to be dead iPod, laughter from all directions, and the sweet smell of brown sugar fig and Marlboro Smooth, the chosen cigarette of our group. I felt like the captain of a mighty boat that was drifting towards an island paradise.

"I think you should lay some mack down."
"I dunno, man. I just dunno."
"We'll see."

"So what do you think?"
"I think we make excellent match makers."

Louisville at last! What a brilliant town, I remember thinking. Absolutely beautiful! Astounding indeed! A city full of hope and dreams, a city where many famous people had been raised, city full of history and a certain kind of magic that I myself am somewhat familiar with.
We all decided that the first thing we needed to do was find the Coyote, the venue for tonight's show. As you enter Louisville from I-64, you come out on Jefferson Street. If you head south on this street for not much longer than a minute, you'll see the Coyote across the street and on your left. The Coyote is a small bar/club with a wide range of bands (Hanson, for instance) appearing on its stage. Christ! I'm getting ahead of myself again! I'll tell you more about the Coyote when we get there.
Our first stop was the skate park. What a magnificent skate park! But, Christ, what a wretched time I spent there. Rolling in on one of the concrete ramps, I snagged on thin air and found myself lying on my back with a knot on my head. Not a good way to start off a session at one of the greatest parks in the country, but it happens, I suppose. Eventually, I decided I had had enough of missing tricks and getting hurt. It was time to find food, but not before Louisville Skate Park had one more cruel gesture to show me. As I threw down my skate to jump on and ride off into the street, a bolt came loose and a wheel rolled right off. Needless to say I was airborne again.
The sight of the car was a relief. We were all beginning to become hungry and we were most definitely thirsty, due to the extreme heat. I opened the truck to lay my three-wheeled skateboard in along with other assorted items and watched Becky close it. And then it hit me. We had locked the keys in the truck.
Christ! What sort of individual would throw his car keys into his truck? That wasn't asking for trouble. That was commanding trouble to rain down upon us with all of his merry angels! Had we been home, this wouldn't have been so bad. I could've made a quick phone call and had a spare key brought to us, but what sort of fool would drive 4 hours just to bring us a spare key? No, I thought, we're going to have to dig our own way out of this grave.
I called numerous cellular telephone directories in search of a locksmith to no avail. There wasn't a Louisville location for any of the listings. I spoke to a nice woman who had no brains. I came to the conclusion that she was a very carefully constructed telephone recording, and screamed, "VIVA LA RESISTANCE," before I hung up abruptly.
My next idea proved more fruitful than the last. My companions and I cross the desert of the Louisville skate park to reach the Louisville skate shop. "Maybe they've got a phone book, or at least some cracked out pimp that'll do it for free if we auction one of you two-" referring to Becky and Cassandra-"out to him for a night." Of course this was a terrible joke to make at a time like this. We were all reaching maximum frustration, or at least what we thought was maximum frustration until much later in the night when we found how much nonsense we could really handle.
"Here's the book."
The phone book the man handed us looked as if it had risen out of King Arthur's tomb. It was in two pieces, and there were strange markings all over the pages. It was tie-dyed from strange spills. Finally, we found a number to call. There was no area code listed, so I was forced to ask the locals what the area code was here.
The Louisville locals don't take kindly to strangers. It's one thing if you're at the park talking about skateboard maneuvers, but when you flaunt your ignorance by asking what the area code was, they're smiles turn grim, and their knuckles turn white. A sense of fear washes over the asker.
"504," replied one of the bastards. We were no longer welcome in this part of the country.

If the Shark could talk, what sort of strange things would it tell to my friends? How many tales of drug-use or near-death experience would it conjure from beneath it's seemingly friendly appearance. Would it tell of past loves, or worse, past whores? Would it speak of tears and joys, or friendships and sorrows? Christ, good riddance. Just keep you're damn mouth shut, for all our sakes.

We sat by my car waiting for a phone call from a lock smithing service called Pop-Lock. It seemed decent enough. A woman who I assumed to be black due to her dialect told us it would be ten minutes before she would call back and give me a quote and a time for the locksmith to arrive. Alright, I thought, maybe an hour at most. We'll have time to get food and see Mouse.
"It will cost seventy-six dollars. He will arrive in one to two hours. Thank you for using Pop-Lock." The bastards had us by the throat. It was five thirty. If this man didn't come soon, then there would be no food for my Jews, and what kind of Moses would take his people somewhere without food? Christ, it was bad enough that Stacy wasn't here, we all received a lecture this morning, and the keys were locked in my truck, but to handle all of this confusion without a crumb? Gracious God! Lay mercy on we swine.
"Let's walk to White Castle!"
Yes, White Castle. It was almost a tourist attraction for us Tennessee folk. White Castle is equivalent to Morristown's Krystal. I had eaten there once before when I had made this trip with Anthony. I'm not sure if their burgers are better than Krystal's because it's something new and "exotic" or maybe, with the correct measurement of cooking oils, they have found a way to make a burger of higher quality. That memory of those glorious burgers was stained when a man wearing shorts in December tried to sell Anthony and me a pair of Air Jordan’s.
"What size you boys wear?"
Christ, I thought, he's going to cut off our feet and throw them in that box. We're as good as dead! The headlines will read: "TWO EIGHTEEN YEAR OLD BOYS WERE FOUND STUFFED INTO A DUMPSTER WITH THEIR FEET CUT OFF AND A METAL PIPE SHOVED UP THEIR RECTUM." Fortunately, my fear didn't come full circle. When we turned the man down, he looked like we had genuinely hurt him. Maybe he really did need help paying his rent or maybe he was too coked out to know the difference between Anthony being black and me being white. To hell with that trip!
We didn't make it to White Castle. A man called my phone.
"I'll be coming to your car in twenty minutes to open your lock."
Time to rally the troops!
"Come back to the car guys. I know we've already walked two miles in this heat, but I want to be there when he opens the truck."
The walk back was fun. More fun than the walk there. Becky coxed me into taking off my shoes and walking barefoot down the Louisville sidewalks. It was surprisingly refreshing. Then she surprised me again by offering to race to the car. A race? Christ, I hadn't run in ages. And the race was on. I'm sure I looked silly carrying a pair of Nike's and a woman's purse, but in those moments I felt fantastic.
Running is something that I was once great at. I used to run miles just for the fun of it. I suppose I was an addict to that runner's high. My running career came to a halt whenever I took up skating. It just lost its glow. But anytime I get the motivation to run, I do it, and by God it feels glorious. Becky beat me back to the car. We had left Taylor and Cassandra in our dust for they had decided to continue walking. When finally they arrived, the Pop-Lock van rolled onto the scene as if on cue. After waiting an hour in the blazing sun, it was a relief to see the man step out of the van.
"Hey, I'm Chad."
"Hi, Chad. Do you smoke?"
"Not cigarettes."

Fear and loathing.

Chad let me have his lighter. Becky looked at it for a moment, and then let out an audible noise of disgust. I looked at the lighter to see why. It was a chopper bearing resemblance to some sort of Hell's Angels dream ride. Had I been an expert or fanatic about motorcycles, I would've treasure the image, but I am not. I removed the wrapping around the lighter and exposed it for its true color - white.
It took Chad another hour (it was seven o' clock) to cut the key. He blamed it on faulty equipment, but we blamed it on the pot. We would get the only stoned locksmith in town.
Christ! Only twenty minutes to make it to the show before it began! Would we make it? It seemed to me at that moment that any number of horrible things could happen to throw us back to where we were before. What if we get hit? What if the car explodes for no reason? What if a mountain lion jumps in the back? We're doomed, I thought.
Surprisingly, we made it.
We were just about to cross the street to the venue when we heard, "You there!" Oh God, this was it. We're going to be mugged and raped. This is the end!
"Do you have a spare ticket? I'll give you forty dollars for it!"
Sigh of relief. We began crossing the street to reach the concert, but didn't even stop to think about the possibility of a car running us down, which very nearly happened to the man who asked for the ticket who was walking right beside of me, which would've meant that I'd also be dead also. Thankfully, the car came to a halt. Must be fate, I guess.
I hadn't heard the guy say he would give us forty dollars for it, and the next thing out of my mouth earned a slap from each of my friends.
"We'll give it to you for twenty."
At the time, it seemed like a terrible thing to do. Here we were with a ticket that could've easily gone for fifty, and I had practically given it away. It wasn't until later that we looked back on that moment and thought about the good karma it brought to us.
We had finally made it. It was seven thirty when we walked in and the first band, Love As Laughter, was just setting up their equipment. We decided that a round of Mountain Dew was in order to celebrate our survival of the trip so far, for it was only sheer luck that we'd even made it this far.
We made our way to the middle of the arena, for it would be a battle to reach the front and show off our handmade shirts. It wasn't until Modest Mouse hit the stage that we were within reaching distance of the floor.
The next couple of hours are a blur of dancing, strange people, and spilt beers, of which we didn't partake in. The Mouse performance was so intense that at times I found myself thinking that it wasn't real and that I would wake up back at work daydreaming about seeing Isaac Brock and his crew on stage. But, ye gods, this was happening! Twenty feet away from me was the man whose lyrics I had obsessed over for two years. And not just him! His entire Mouse army!
Goodness, the nostalgia is almost overwhelming. It was an emotional time for me. I was totally engulfed in some sort of trance that caused me to wave my hands in the air and move my body the way the Israelites had for their golden calf. Oh, good times.
I believe, and maybe this statement should be saved for later when the entire story is told, but I just cannot hold it in any longer, that the entire trip can be summed up in one of Modest Mouse's lyrics. If it takes shit to make bliss, then I feel pretty blissfully.
Oh, yes. Bliss indeed.
After the concert, all was glorious. The street lights were like stars and the roads were the gold we were looking for. The passing of cars and the murmur of voices was like some sort of melody played out on from God's own violin, for we all know that the true choice of instrument for heavenly folk is a violin and not that wretched harp.
But our hunger had been escalating since about four 'o clock. If we didn't find food soon, our collapse in the street would soon be upon us. As we were walking back to my car, marvelous lights filled our eyes.
Louisville's Fourth Street is something like a smaller version of New Orleans' Mardi Gras, only it closes earlier, and nudity and public drunkenness were not taken as well; however, our trip down this well-lit street was filled with both. We quickly determined that we didn't have the money to eat somewhere up-scale and the local cafeteria was closed after eleven. How unfortunate that it was only eleven five!
We meandered our way to an overhead bridge, which spanned the length of Fourth Street. There, we took a load off our feet by relaxing at some of the tables that were sitting out for businessmen in their rush lunches. Becky and I shared sweet words and kisses while recreating the events of the day passed. Taylor and Cassandra had picked a table to themselves, which was only appropriate for each table had only two chairs. Ah, yes. Kisses and cigarettes. What's better?
Oh yes, I know. Seeing a drunken man and woman stumble up the stairs at the base of the sidewalk. Ha ha. Oh, and what's this? Wow. That drunken lady really did just piss on the side of the wall. How are women even capable of that? Wow. And she really did just fall over in her own urine. Poor swine. These are the folks that I live to see. The decadence of America. How wonderfully amusing, yet horribly disfigured and troubling.
Troubling. Much like the hunger in our stomachs. We took the elevator down. Taylor and Cassandra were in front of us. Becky and I felt like waiting for the crosswalk sign to signal that it was safe to cross, but the other two of our group decided to risk it. A woman in a van narrowly missed them. I couldn't make out what she shouted at Taylor, but whatever it was was enough to cause him to throw up a certain unwelcome hand gesture. Christ, I hope that police officer doesn't mind. And he doesn't. Keep walking, keep you're head down. Smile when spoken to. Quick, short answers. Exhaustion and dehydration was setting in.
We half expected a parking ticket to be on the shark when we arrived.
"Nothing here. I guess you were right, Taylor!"
Yes, leave it up to Taylor to save the day. Wait, he hadn't done anything, only said:
"No need to worry."
Maybe his voice had dictated the future? Heavens! I better keep him around. Load him up on X and have him say good things all the time! Wait. That's totally illogical. Keep your head together, Dustin. It's only hunger.
We made our escape from Louisville down a one way road. I'm surprised we weren't pulled over and shot for such blatant disobedience of the law and also that we didn't enter the freeway going against the flow of traffic. Either situation would've been potentially fatal, but I would've much rather faced one thousand oncoming cars and semi-trucks than one bullet.
Sixty-five miles later and still there was no sign of a Taco Bell, the place we had all voted to eat at. In a desperate move, I wheeled the shark off of the interstate onto some exit outside of Lexington.
"I'll just ask where one is. I can't wait any longer for food." The general consensus in the car was the same. Everyone was starving. The gas station attendant was nice enough. She told me the directions, and sure enough, there were right.
We split our order into three separate orders, a potential fiasco for any Taco Bell worker at one, two, or maybe even three in the morning, for by now I've forgotten what times everything happened at. I only remember it happened.
The woman who handed us our food and exchanged our money was black and obviously a racist. She handed us one straw less than we needed, two packs of mild taco sauce, and tried to take most of Becky's change. Fortunately, we got that back and still managed to be polite as we drove off. It wasn't until I realized that everyone had a straw but me that I became somewhat angry. Of course anyone can make an accident, but this woman had pushed her luck too far. Thoughts crashing the shark into the window and demanding a refund swirled through my head. Yeah. Take it too far, way too far, and they won't have a clue what to do. They'll bow down before your every command. Shit, maybe I should burn the whole place down. I've got white linen sheets in my truck! We can have an old fashion KKK rally right in the middle of Kentucky.
But these thoughts soon fled my mind when I realized the absurdity of such things. Instead, I simply drove around to the window to ask for another straw. The conversation went like this.
"Hey, I need another straw please."
"There were three straws in there (as she hands me the straw)."
"Yeah, and we had four goddamn drinks."
Awkward silence followed by me driving off.
We ate in the parking lot, and laughed at my victory over racism the only way I knew to do it. As we were eating something strange happened. A Mexican and his woman pulled up to the front door of Taco Bell. They waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, the woman who had served us came out with a Taco Bell bag. She handed it to the man who then handed her money, then stepped back into and disappeared into the back. The Mexican examined his load.
"Drug deal," I shouted through a mouthful of chicken burrito. And sure enough we were right. Taylor was the first to see the marijuana.
"There it is, in all of its green glory."
"Stop thinking like that man! We're straight-edge remember! Shun the temptation."
I remember thinking, "Christ that'd definitely mellow us all out a little." But what were we to do? Run up with our skateboards and beat it out of his hands? Yes, fantastic idea. I should do it. WHOA WHOA WHOA! Head down. Smile when spoken to. Eat your burrito.
Soon after, the Mexican drove off into the night to smoke or sell what he had just purchased.
It was at this time, while we were headed back to the interstate that Cassandra decided to tell us about how unlucky white lighters were. Christ! No wonder we had a stoned locksmith, racist servers at Taco Bell, and the next great horror of the night (or early morning, depending upon who you are.)
By now you're thinking, alright Dustin. When does this end? You're shooting bull now. I wish I could say that racism was the final terror we faced that night. But it'd be a lie, and some of the story would be lost in time if I didn't tell it honestly.
It was just on the other side of Lexington when I decided to stop for gas. It seemed like a quick run in, pay, pump, and run out kind of deal; however, the flashing lights behind me seemed to say otherwise.
Fucking hell. Everything that life could throw at us, we faced in this day, and now the final hammer was being dropped - the authority, the police.
"How are you guys tonight?"
"Pretty good, officer. We're just getting back form a concert in Louisville trying to make our way HOME!"
"I see, I see. Well you ran right through that stop sign back there and failed to signal your turn. Any of you been drinking tonight?"
A chorus of "No’s” and nervous laughter flooded the car. It was true we hadn't been drinking, or even partaking in drug use, but you never know when some asshole fresh pig straight from the slaughterhouse will decide to search your car. We were already running dangerously late, but if something went wrong, we were as good as dead.
"Well, I haven't decided whether or not I’ll give you a ticket. Do you all have ID? Are you all eighteen?"
Everyone except me claimed to have left their ID at home and also to be legal.
"Well, let me write down your names, date of birth, and social security number to check and make sure we don't have any runaway's."
The truth about the ages quickly surfaced, but the officer didn't seem to notice.

Christ something just occurred to me. "...don't have any runaway's." Eighteen year old individuals don't run away. They do what they want. That bastard knew all along. He just wanted to let us think we had gotten away with lying. Well, shit guys. I guess he wasn't so dumb after all...

Finally, the officer returned.
"Sorry it took so long. We had a report of a stolen car out of Michigan matching yours. I just had to make sure that you weren't thieves. Here's a warning. Drive safely and get home!"
A sigh of relief. We were off the hook. The next day, Taylor summed it up like this: "We should be in jail man. You and me should be waiting for our parents to post bond while Becky and Cassandra are sitting in their rooms crying. What the hell is up with our luck?" Luck, indeed. That was the topic of conversation for the rest of the time my companions were awake. I'm sorry to say this Stacy, but had you been there, I'd have probably been slapped with that kidnapping charge we laughed about. A blessing in disguise to me, but still terribly unfortunate to you. At least you'll get a shirt out of all this.

Strange luck I have. Anyone who comes around me always experiences it. It's something out of a movie. Becky calls it "the worst, best luck," for you see, I always find myself in the strangest, absolutely impossible to survive situations, and not only do I survive, but I do it with a degree of grace. If you ever want to experience this strange luck, then just call me up and offer a road trip. Sure enough, we'll almost die at least twenty times. At least.

The rest of the ride was quiet. Becky said she would stay awake so I wouldn't have to drive alone, but I knew has soon as I started playing with her hair that she was going to crash, which was alright. She's beautiful when she sleeps, and I wanted some time alone to consider the day. Had all of this nonsense really happened on account of a concert? Cassandra had said earlier that day, "We have gone through more than anyone to see this band." At the time, I wasn't so sure. Of course, we had gone through more than most just to see a band perform and even lost one of our friends on the way, but at that moment I couldn't be sure. Now, as I'm sitting in my room at three in the morning reflecting on the situations we endured, I am convinced she was right. We had fought like hell to stay afloat when all around us terrible things were happening. That's the spirit of us teenagers today, I suppose. You can't keep us down. We shape our world out to what we want it to be, and when we can't mold it right, we put up with it.

Finally, we had arrived back in Morristown, back down Panther Creek Drive, back up the street and down to hill to where Cassandra lived, where our female companions would be spending the morning, for it was already past six when we arrived.

"I love you."
"I love you."
Mwah.

Taylor and I, barely conscious by this time, somehow made our way to his house. The bastard made me sleep on the floor with no pillow and a sleeping bag. But that's the thing about us teenagers. When we can't change what we don't like, we put up with it.

Contributed by: William Steinbeck