Nirvana’s Nevermind is stuck in the CD player.

I am in Texas.

Supposedly, when I got home, I had a few more things to take care of. Being back in Portland isn’t anything different than I thought it’d be. The familiar paranoia of running into him is more of a homecoming feeling than an annoyance anymore.  What I used to find as a comfort, the knowing I wouldn’t run into him anywhere around the world because he is too much of a coward to do anything or go anywhere, had become more of an annoyance and a reminder I was alone than anything.

I wrapped up a few freelance requests and now I am faced with my worst nightmare:  an entire month of vacation.  The publishers demanded that I take my vacation. I’ve been selling it like crazy, and with all the overtime, the accumulation loomed over me, a perpetual figure on the calendar and on my paystubs that said “symbol of a lack of social life.”

So here’s what I did.

I bought a Porsche. Its a 1996 911. And it is beautiful.

I met someone who was selling it on Craigslist.  He was situated down in Dallas. It seemed to be in perfect condition, so I called and asked him what was wrong with it. Low miles, perfect paint, beautiful. He said nothing was wrong with it, he just needed to get rid of it because he was leaving the country for Europe indefinitely, within three days.

So, I used some of my miles, hopped on a plane, and flew down to Dallas. I drove it about twenty miles, paid him cash for it, and here I sit, staring at an artificially reddened sea, with a Porsche just outside the cafe window, that belongs to me.

I felt a bit guilty as I stood filling up at a BP station, watching the greasy tide lap in and out, hearing slightly retarded seagull cries. They’re probably brain damaged from eating dead or dying fish affected by the spill.  But then, I was in Texas. The biggest state in the Union. The Oil state.  So perhaps instead of feeling guilty, I should have had a bit of a “God Bless America” moment. After all, it IS British Petroleum.  Leave it to the Redcoats to royally fuck our planet up.

It has its quirks.It belonged to an ex wife, and then his teenage son, and other than monthly drives and warm ups, it’s been sitting, covered in his garage.  Some of its personality includes: an old Betty Boop air freshener that I’m pretty sure has been there since 1996.

There is porn in the glove compartment.  Ironically, the magazine is flipped to two women finger fucking each other on the hood of the very model of Porsche, same color and everything. I may be driving a car that has facilitated lesbian porn.

Its black. And there is no air conditioning, and I am in Dallas. The seats are black leather, but there are white, fuzzy faux fur seat covers.  Which leave me looking like I own either a cat, or a wooly mammoth as a pet. ‘

There is an old Jansport backpack that was shoved under the drivers seat. It was bugandy, with writing all over it in white out.  In the front pocket I found concert ticket stubs to Hooty and the Blowfish, and also, a bag of 16 year old weed, and a few ecstasy pills that are the same age.    An MTV Spring Break ’99 flyer for Mexico, and to finish it off,  I’m pretty sure there is some old dried cum on the ceiling.


What will we do together? I don’t know. What really matters is that for now, I’ll not be flying.  Or, I will, i just won’t be on an airplane. I won’t be seeing the world from 30,000 ft. I won’t have to watch a safety speech about how to buckle my seatbelt. In fact, I probably won’t be wearing my seatbelt. I won’t have my attention drawn to the left or right side of the vehicle every time we pass a mountain. I won’t have to prepare for take off or landing. I won’t have to go through security every time I want to go somewhere. I won’t have time to sit and read a book, I’ll be too busy driving. I won’t have to worry about my music being too loud, or a random person next to me snoring or touching me. I won’t have to eat airplane food, I won’t have hot towels handed to me. I won’t get snide looks while sitting in business class from people moving past me toward coach. I won’t deal with flight attendants. I might get a speeding ticket. I might pick up a hitch hiker.

All I know is I’m here, its hot, the mall in Dallas has valet parking, and I have an entire month to do whatever the fuck I want to.

I’m going to go get in my sex-mobile now and start it up and take a deep breath.

Its a hot fucking day, and it smells like teen spirit.



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