The photos are of the view from a hotel room in Detroit (that’s Canada across the water), and of a strange bear that at first glance I had thought was an old woman in an outlet mall near Aurora, Illinois.
Aurora, aside from being the setting of the Wayne’s World movies, is also the town in which the Illinois Math and Science Academy is located, and where E****a spent her formative high school years, at the aforementioned IMSA.
***
All throughout Michigan, flying along at 77mph, I had only the vague idea that we were heading towards Chicago and staying in some western suburb. Dave had set the whole thing up, really, and I just went with the flow. When I saw the sign for IMSA after getting off I-88, I said to Dave, “That’s interesting. You know who went to IMSA…”
“Beth works there. That’s where we’re staying.”
Without any effort on my part, Manos McFate brought me to my Louisville to chase after ghosts. After finding out that there would be no way to get access to the class of 1999 yearbook, I grew distraught, and the next day, I bought a pound of jellybeans, chiefly red ones, to carry in my inside pocket.
Since then I have tried very hard to put on my best face. I slipped a little in Chicago (j, sorry for being a drag), but I have been very good in Minnesota–making people laugh, singing karaoke, facilating new bonds between old acquaintances. All in all, I am being a model “old friend who’s always a good time when he’s in town.”
It is fucking hard. The facade is cracking, and it is killing me to keep it together. If I did not have to take care of what I said I came out here to do, I would take off first thing tomorrow morning. To the west, probably. Just hit the road for days and days until I’m at my credit limit and sporting a hideous Chinaman moustache. But I should really do this shit while I’m here, and I have to be home on Thursday to receive a package. Something I do not yet own already owns me.
When I wake up tomorrow I will clean up and go do what I have to do with a brave face. And I’ll keep that face on when I am with friends. But as soon as I get in thr car and am truly alone, I will let it go to pieces, until the road heals me again.
***
The song I sang was “Don’t Worry Baby.” I received lukewarm applause–either because of my awesome fake name (Fab Casablancas), or because of my awful falsetto.
The title of the entry comes from a fat man at the St. Clair Broiler today who lost his gun. The story really works better orally.
An earthen mound of a man walks in. Says he’s lost his gun. Says it was a 38 semiauto. Points to his empty holster, which looks like a child’s toy. Says he’s checked everywhere he’s been today. So he calls the cops. Cop arrives, gets all the details, pulls a gun out of his back pocket and asks, “is this your gun?” The fat man is incredulous. Says he’s never been so embarassed in his whole life. The cop leaves. There is no punchline. That was not a joke.
***
Tuesday night in Chicago, home on Wednesday night, Paris in April, Girl from Ipanema.
