Her words just hang there, festering in the room. The air…sticky with anticipation of the next note to fall. As he lies in the corner languidly dreaming of pumpkin pie and tornadoes a whisper sets in his brain.

“Don’t sit like that. They’re watching you.”

“Who is?”

“They are.”

“There are only four of us here.”

“Yeah, and all of you are a little strange.”

“So.”

“So if I can see you sprawled out on the edge of insanity imagine what they can see.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Go ahead, try.”

Now, slowly conforming to the shape of a congealed mass of meat and consciousness, the realization of other masses of meat and consciousness in such close proximity becomes the anvil upon which he hammers at his neurosis.

“Ah sweet paranoia, I love you like the judgmental family you have become to me.”

“I love you too but should you really be talking to me?”

“Who else have I got?”

“You’re answering questions with questions again. Do you know how pretentious you must sound?”

“No I don’t.”

“If you say so.”

Another note breaks through the deafening roar of silence. Dulcet smooth tones that would make a baby’s ass jealous. So grateful for the interruption. Such train wreck conversations with himself.

“This can not be right.”

“It doesn’t feel that wrong though. Does it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Liar.”

Sigh.

“I know.”

He had such a lead glass view of the world. Don’t get me wrong, outwardly there was nothing especially unique about Will. The years and miles had left their mark but you had to search his eyes to see it. That is, if he ever let you look into them long enough. Those eyes. The kind of blue-gray that was reminiscent of a clearing storm on the horizon. He let me in once, as the angry black sky was chasing the sun from its rightful place in the heavens, a constant hiss of steam and air escaping from the half green logs of the campfire we huddled near, achingly damp air hanging on our lips, limbs and minds.

“You know, I don’t guess this is too bad of a life,” he half-whispered, half-sang.

“I suppose not.”

“Why did you come with me?”

“Not really sure, just kind of seemed like it could be an adventure.”

“I guess that’s as good a reason as any.”

A long pause, followed closely by another. I had learned by now not to pry. There was no breaking the lock on his soul. If he wanted to talk, words would fall from his lips in a cascade of purity and pain and if he didn’t, you were alone. No matter how close you were to him.

“You know I lost a bet once.”

“Only once?” I kind of half-chuckled.

“Yes.”

“Alright, you have my attention.”

“I bet someone that pain was just a figment of our imagination. That anything could be endured. That I would never break down.” A flash of memories in those eyes. God those eyes.

“Who did you bet?”

“God.”

“I’d say he had the advantage in that bet.”

“So it would seem.”

“How did you lose?”

“I don’t remember how. I just remember that I lost.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” Dammit! So close.

“I saw too much.” The statement was so matter of fact that I almost missed the shame in his face.

So much shame. What was he ashamed of? Seconds passed with the weight of desire and lust for more. It could have been years in his mind. Who knows? I don’t believe even he knew. I wanted to. From somewhere in the cavernous folds of his coat Will produced a pack of rolling papers and a pouch of weed. Watching his fingers work the broken crumbles into a joint, it was almost eerie to see the strained concentration in his face. Lips pursed, his prominent brow furrowed as if rage, peace and confusion were all fighting for attention behind the facade of tranquility, so urgently trying to be displayed.

“Here you go.”

We passed the joint between us in pensive silence. A silence only interrupted by the occasional explosions of wood resigning itself to the hungry licks of amber blue flame and halloween orange coals.

“So why did you come on this trip?” I wanted so desperately to get him talking again that I barely caught myself asking.

“Hmm?” You could almost bathe yourself in the disorientation on his face. How often does he disappear from the time and space around him? Do I even exist to him in those moments? Do I even exist at all or am I just a figment of his imagination like the pain he spoke of earlier.?

“The bodies.” His words stabbed at the silence like an angry lover.

“I’m sorry?”

“It was the bodies…the destruction I can handle. I’ve experienced destruction before. But those bodies. Color didn’t exist anymore in the traditional sense. There was no black, white or brown. They were something…else. Age didn’t matter either. God isn’t picky when he’s out to make a point. A child no more than two torn from his mother’s arms by the surge of nature and the greed of man. A couple lay under their burial mound of acrid furniture, clothes and feet of mud. You know, the kind of mud that sucks out your soul as it claims your left shoe. And her rosary still wrapped around her hand as if it were the only rescue rope she had. Who knows, maybe it was. I came on this trip to remember what beauty is.”

“How could you forget?” Such a stagnant question, but…

“It’s not that I forgot. Perceptions just…shift when you see something enough.”

He almost apologized those last words. I could easily taste the woefully brazen sadness that seemed to seep from his every pore and permeate the air in our little circle.

Like a stone breaking loose from its timeless resting place, Will rose and stirred the fire. The logs sprayed a powder of stars into the air in protest until settling into a new rest of decay and disintegration. A couple more logs added on to the fire brought forth another small fireworks display, only for us. The trees all around waved gently to each other as a passing breeze picked up to a dull hum. Leaves whispering to each other secrets that no man could ever know. I pulled my collar up in defiance of the wind and those secrets as Will did the same. From another fold in his coat Will pulled a pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. I pulled one for myself from the crumpled pack of Kents in my shirt pocket. The sharp ping of his zippo followed by the scratch of flint to steal helped us feed our habit.

With a long, faintly deliberate pull, Will took the first drag. I have to admit that I watched him do this many times. It seemed like such a sacred ceremony to him. Always the first drag – long, slow, inhaling as if it were his last breath and he wanted to go out with a lungful of that sickly sweet smoke. And then as if out of disgust he sprayed a cloud of deceit and stagnant breath so quickly that it made you would wonder if he smoked out of pleasure or disdainful habit.

Words came swimming into my mind like a rancid vegetable soup. As I reached into my pocket for a pad and pencil Will broke free from the stranglehold of gravity with a graceful, faintly fluid motion.

“Still scratching your sanity out in those pages?”

“If you wanna call it that.”

“Sunshine, or wolf tickets again?”

“Not sure, I think I’m being too honest.”

A look of gentle grace spread across his whole being like a wave of lilac petals.

“No such thing as too honest.” He smiled the kind of smile that made me understand why so many people said he reminded them of an off- kilter jesus christ. Slowly he strolled to his truck and retrieved his bedroll. Watching him walk back I was reminded of the gentle tornado dance of leaves, paper and the random plastic bag you sometimes see. Such a delicate balance of tranquility and torment. Almost beautiful.

I awoke the next morning with a potato roll texture in my mouth and the lead blanket of morning fog smothering my bones. From where Will was sleeping I heard a dull coffin nail moan that seemed to last an eternity. Rising and falling, ebb and flow, aching then joyous, the entire history of emotion, ageless and ancient at the same time. And when it stopped, no sound dared respond for fear of retaliation or rebuke. The trees which had been dancing in the breeze and singing their life story along with Will now stood statuesque. The birds, before calling out in a chorus of laughter and shrieks, now seemed to wait with baited breath, hoping only that Will would moan again.

I was the first to break the spell he had woven. My faint head and burning lungs allowed me to regain control of my reflex to inhale. A gasp of air. So much air that I almost choked on it like a rushing undertow. My torso expanded to the morbid wretchings of inhalation and expulsion all at once. When I finally broke through the battle my body waged on itself and regained control I was sitting up and looking over to see Will sitting in much the same position, an utter look of peace, pleasure and joy emanating from him like a halo.

“That was interesting.” he smiled.

“Sorry I woke you.”

“No worries, obviously it was time. Everything ok?”

“Fine now. My lungs just decided that air was an inconvenient source of oxygen.”

“Been there.”

An hour later we broke into Portland like a dime store criminal in a slow whimpering rain. I saw what Tom Waits meant by “Diamonds on my Windshield.” The inner monologue that I witnessed through Will’s expression had to have been a strange one. It seemed to have ended well, with him all smiles as he fumbled with the radio.

“There’s never anything good on here,” he explained while still searching for a sign of purity.

“I give up. You wanna find something?”

I scrolled through the channels myself for a minute, enjoying the static between the stations more than the ridiculous belchings the poor machine was trying to pass off as music until finally finding a jazz station.

“Always listen to jazz when its raining,” I stated. As if I’m an authority, with Will sitting right here next to me. I’m an ass.

“A good friend of mine said that to me once.”

Thank god, maybe I’m not an ass.

“I’ve been wondering for a while now Will, where do your songs come from? How do you write?”

“I pick ‘em up along the side of the road and on the floor in public bathrooms. Then I take ‘em home and see how they fit together. Sometimes it works. How ‘bout you? Where do all of those stories you tell come from?”

“You wanna know the secret?”

“Sure, I could use an extra buck.”

“I pay a gypsy from France to write it all and then I just translate.”

“Nice. How much does he cost?”

“Jerry Lewis films. One per story.”

The switchblade sadness of Rickie Lee Jones’ voice shattered our words like the surf against the rocks. As “Coolsville” rolled across our ears and jabbed at our souls we drove through town in the rain. A brittle aging hipster strolled along casually, his pork pie hat pulled down and collar turned up. How many miles had he walked in those broke-down turnbuckle boots? Underneath a bridge a couple of hobos huddled together for warmth or maybe just some semblance of human contact. The choke-collar drunken-circus voice of Tom Waits moaning out “Invitation to the Blues” broke my concentration on the cacophony of life just outside my rain streaked window.

“I used to love the rain” Will almost whispered.

“What made you stop?”

“I guess I never really stopped, it just became more of a hauntingly morose love affair. There’s a sadness that wasn’t there before. I imagine the rain as a lonely housewife of a comatose husband who once captured her entire being and I am just her consolation. Some desperate grasp for physical contact after years of agonizing one-sided conversations. Kind of a strange comparison I’d say, but still. I feel a revolution coming on. Don’t really have any proof to back it up but I feel it. Down in my bones I can feel it. I don’t know who’s revolting or what’s gonna end up on top but things are about to change in a big way. This is gonna be interesting.”