This chapter doesn't have any sex in it. Even though it's a fairly long entry, there's really not any sex, so if you decide to wait until the next chapter, I guess I can understand. Because to be honest, with the exception of me and Adam Kemme, the characters in this chapter aren't even in the story anymore.

But just in case you decide to read this now or possibly at some point in the future, I'll explain that there's one journal entry followed by two pasted-in stories. That's what makes this such a long chapter, those two stories. Which I hope you'll read whenever you have the time.

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Thursday, June 15th

The past few days have been fairly eventful. I got in some good practice at #5 over the weekend, then on Monday I decided to check out #2, since they're having a qualifying tournament the day after #5's. (July 2nd.)

Well, soon as I showed up, who did I see but Adam Kemme. Only he was over on the pro side. So I took a deep breath, wandered over and said, "So you're a pro now?"

"Well, I've yet to play in my first tournament, but for better or worse I suppose that's what I am all right." Then he added, "So you're up here for the summer again?"

So I said, no, this time it looked like it was for good.

He's maybe four or five inches taller and has lost most of his baby fat, but aside from that, he looks pretty much the same. So he's still really good looking. And not nearly as standoffish. He wondered if anyone had showed me the shots on the amateur side. (No, I'd just got there.) So he could show them to me, if I wanted him to. (I certainly did.) And as usual, he knew about everything there was to know about the course. Same old Adam.

Except somehow, he seemed different. I couldn't put my finger on it, but he just seemed ... well, not quite as self-assured. He cussed a lot more than he did last summer. So he wasn't always concerned about talking precisely. And while he was almost as neat as always, in a way he wasn't.

After awhile, he wondered if I wanted him to show me the shots over on the pro course. He needed a good partner for some pot games. (Best ball is one of the favored games.) So that really made me feel good. Especially after he asked me to help him figure out some shots on a couple of holes he was having some trouble with. (See, there are shots played by the locals that might go in, but often there are better ones. You just have to experiment. Maybe you need to move your spot on the tee mat over a little. Hit it a little further down the rail. Or possibly something nobody's ever tried. And between us, we came up with some good ones.)

Tuesday afternoon, we got our first action. And we wiped out Robert Etron and some local turkey, along with some other teams. But we ended up playing Robert and his partner quite a few times, and the stakes kept getting higher and higher. (Robert was last year's #5 course champion. But I'll get to that shortly, for now, let's just say that he doesn't have any redeeming qualities that I can think of and leave it at that.) (Except to mention that until he gets his next paycheck from Burger King, he's also broke.) We cleared $140 apiece! (Pros play for a lot more than the JPPNAs do.)

So we were over at Hardee's after we'd finished for the day and he asked, "Do you think you could go to Joplin and Kansas City this weekend?" (Qualifying tournaments. Joplin, Mo Saturday, KC Sunday.)

"I don't know. Maybe. Who you going with?" (Maybe, because I didn't want to hurt Austin's feelings. So if he didn't want me to go... well, I wasn't sure. That could be a problem. And Adam had to be going with someone else, because he doesn't turn sixteen until next month.)

"McAteer." (At which point, my eyes widened.) Which I guess he noticed, because he quickly added, "Hey, it'll be cool. I really wouldn't be going with him myself if I had another way, but at least he'll wait until we get to our room for the night before we get tore up." (At which point my eyes must have gotten about as big as they could get.)

I managed, "We?"

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugged. "I got tired of being a geek, okay?.. Really, I suppose I still am one, I can't help that... but.. well, tell me something. Exactly why did YOU start last year?"

This was getting complicated. "I just wanted to be cool, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. I know exactly what you mean. ... So you want to burn one?"

So I didn't say, "No, I swore to Austin I wouldn't do it anymore," - this was REALLY getting complicated - no, I said, "Yeah, I guess..."

I feel bad about it, okay? Only with Adam, all bets were off.

When I was in the 2nd grade, there was this kid a grade ahead of me. One of those perfect kids. He could do no wrong. And while I didn't figure that I was the least popular, I did think I was pretty far down the list, so I often enough fantasized about how me and the perfect kid could one day become best friends. Saving his life a time or two would've been very helpful. Definitely. And so eventually, me and the perfect kid would go riding off into the sunset, friends forever. Well, in spite of some of the things I've said about Adam, he was in that category last summer. I'm not sure why, but he just was, okay?

But then on the other hand, you and the perfect one can share a terrible secret. So he's NOT perfect, but while the rest of the world might hold it against him, you don't, in fact, you'll even SHARE his imperfection. ... And you know what? I'm not sure where this voyage of self-discovery is headed.

So fuck it. Let's just get to the point. There are many ways to mess up and being a pot head is one of them, okay? But if he was going to do it and he wanted me to do it with him, then I would. I'd feel guilty about it later.

And I did feel guilty. When Austin called me around ten yesterday morning, I was like, "He's back! Yes!" then, "Oh man, what am I going to TELL him?" It was complicated. Or at least it was until he told me he was still up at Lake Superior and he was sorry, but he'd decided to stay up there for another week. Hearing one of his cousins in the background hollering for him to hurry up did stir up some green-eyed jealousy, but at the same time I felt like my problems had been solved. Really, it's complicated.

I'd reluctantly told Adam I couldn't make it out to #2 yesterday, but when I went running up to him a little past noon and said, "I can go!" (I'd been telling him it was up to my mom) and he said, "All right! So, you got any holes you're having any trouble with?" I was on cloud nine again. Which is weird in a way, because while it IS about sex, (I know when I've got a crush on someone), the fact is, I'll probably be doing good if I see him in his undies.

But then on the other hand, when we smoked one out in the woods behind the course today, he took a piss right out there. He turned his back, but last summer he wouldn't have done that. So who knows? I mean, he's changed. a LOT.

So. In roughly two weeks I've gone from hoping to do it ALL with Matthew, to hoping me and Austin might eventually jerk each other off, to hoping Adam will take a piss without turning his back.

Which is pretty sad all right, but really, I'm still hoping. For something.

But at any rate, I now present story number one. My final tribute to the summer of `94. Really, it's not a bad story.

The Great Reel

I was indirectly involved in this along with Matthew and Adam. Martin, Ray Kohle, Leo and McAteer were deeply involved. Abner Zimmerman, who lived in the upper parking lot in his Lincoln Continental, was also deeply involved. Other people who play important roles before it's finally over are, Robert Etron: last year's course champ who was detested by everyone who knew him except for maybe his parents, Lars: the general manager who often showed up unannounced to see exactly what in the hell was going on, William Bourrique: owner of our course and several others, some of which were pretty successful, Eugene Edward Taon: founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International, McArthur Vomi: lanky Putt'n'Putter of the decade (80s) who more recently had been named the greatest Putt'n'Putter ever to stare down a golf ball, Donna Freeman: the perpetually cheerful and bubbling Birthday Party Colonel, and a few others who can be introduced as the story progresses.

It all got started last summer after the home office declared McArthur Vomi to be the greatest Putt'n'Putter of all time. If the home office said it was so, then the malcontents at #5 would say that it wasn't. So since McArthur had been held up by the home office to be the epitome of what every right-thinking, properly-uniformed member of the PPPNA, APPNA and JPPNA should aspire to become, he of course was sneered upon by all our malcontents. And there were a great many PPPNA members across the nation who felt the same way as we did.

Although I will admit that McArthur Vomi is a good putter. There's no way I can deny it. If I could, I would, but I can't. He's won two World Championships, three National Championships and according to "Putt'n'Putt Fun", more than 43 qualifying tournaments. Whatever THAT means. It might mean 44. Or maybe not. But he's not sneered at because he can't putt a lick. Nor can the dislike be attributed to his corny witticisms or his stupid, doting galleries, although that does have a lot to do with it. No, the biggest reason McArthur is disliked is simply that he's seen as an all too visible representative of the home office, i.e., Eugene Edward Taon, founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International, and to make matters worse, last year the home office decided to send him on an all-expenses paid exhibition tour of 53 cities in the U.S. and Canada including four in Quebec. Which is where they mostly speak French. So maybe McArthur should consider having his last name changed. But anyway, at each stop, McArthur would play a match against that course's "champion", determined in a match-play tournament a week or so prior to his arrival.

Last year's Minneapolis #5 champion was Robert Etron. I'd rather not dwell on his appearance, so I'll just say that he is UG-LY and leave it at that. Although he's always properly attired. His momma makes sure of it. But apparently there's nothing that can be done to stop his belt from rolling inward at the top of his belly. (Aside from wearing it a little lower, I mean. I don't guess that's ever occurred to him.) I think it runs in the family, because once his momma and his poor little hen-pecked pot-bellied daddy showed up at the course and damn if their belts didn't roll inward as well. His momma was wearing neon green polyester leisure slacks. Imagine that.

Right. I'd just as soon get it out of my mind as well.

But oh well, whether a person is UG-LY or not isn't of any great importance, it's what's inside that counts, right? Well, in Robert's case, his personality was worse than his appearance. He's not a good loser. But he's an even worse winner. Whenever he lost, he would stomp off, climb into his 1982 Cadillac Sedan DeVille, slam the door as hard as he could and roar away with blue smoke billowing behind and everybody would give each other high fives and all that. But if he won, he would STAY. And he would gloat and stride majestically about and it's a wonder somebody didn't hit him over his head.

From what I've heard, he first started inflicting himself on #5 at age twelve when his mother would deposit him, one free pass and fifty cents at ten in the morning and come back to pick him up at around three. So of course his mother was soon told to stop doing that, but in reply, she said she'd take the matter to the Better Business Bureau. The daytime man back then was an old geezer who certainly would never have put up with the JPPNA and he wasn't about to put up with a whining fat momma's boy, so he told Robert's momma, "Lady, next time you leave that kid on my course, I'll brain 'im with a putter. Now you take THAT to the Better Business Bureau!"

But she instead took the matter to William Bourrique and Henry, the crusty old geezer, was terminated. For that reason, Henry is revered as a martyr, even though he would not have countenanced even for a minute today's JPPNA.

And so Robert continued to hang about like a fly. At first, his attempts at putting were laughable, but he doggedly stayed with it.

Then things took a sinister turn. He reached age eighteen and could stay out late at night and make trips to out-of-town tournaments. His momma and daddy usually took him. He began to every now and then putt fairly well, then as time passed, often very well.

By last year he had that `82 Sedan DeVille and a job at Burger King. He still lived at home, but he was 22 and could stay out almost until 11:30. He became an absolute terror as he stalked about the course, always properly attired with the official PPPNA rule book in his back pocket. Many were the people who wanted to drill his beady eyes out, fewer and fewer were the people who could, and no one, not even R.L., who in `94 had the eighth lowest stroke average in the PPPNA, could ALWAYS do it, and certainly not at #5.

On the night of the special course championship which determined who got the privilege of being McArthur Vomi's straight man, twenty-six putt'n'putters paid their $10 entry fee. But of course, none of the malcontents competed. (There were eleven fairly proficient putters among the malcontents, not including the JPPNAs.) Only four foolish JPPNAs played, and with the exception of Russell, none were likely candidates for the all-star team. So Martin encouraged the malcontents and the JPPNAs to remain in a group and harass Robert and it was to that supposed end that we gathered together in the upper parking lot and harassed practically everybody in the tournament. But in spite of that, at last the final match was reached. Robert was on a roll and apparently gaining in strength, no doubt fueled by our negative energy. His opponent in the finals was Randall Herring, quietly determined and dour. Since nobody cared too much for him either, we all left at that point. (Us malcontents.)

So by now, you might be wondering some more about Martin, seeing as how he was the manager. Well, Martin really wasn't what you would call Putt'n'Putt management material. He never could take it that seriously. But he couldn't make himself go out and find a better job either. His folks were a bit disappointed since he was an adult with above average intelligence, but he just felt that Putt'n'Putt, especially at #5, was more entertaining than "The Rocky Horror Show" or even "Plan Nine From Outer Space". But still, he tried to have a successful course. Most of the time. Or at least sometimes.

But anyway, Martin decided to film a mock documentary using his camcorder. I think it would've been a lot more fun if he'd let somebody besides himself and Leo use it, but I guess he still got some interesting stuff.

First "we" got some shots of Robert grimly practicing for his date with destiny. Martin said he was going to dub in background music. Like "Eye Of The Tiger", the theme from "Jaws", some stirring John Phillips Sousa, some nauseous elevator music and possibly some crying violins.

As for the actual video; many of the shots came on hole #8, which was because of the big decorative bush behind it. In deep concentration, Robert would tee up, carefully walk his ball's intended path and take his carefully measured practice strokes, but just as he was about to actually putt, the bush would part and there would be a couple of JPPNAs not even thinking about leaving. I was in that bush a few times myself. So with slow and menacing strides, staring balefully and breathing heavily, Robert would advance on the distraction in the bush. Only at the last instant would we flee the scene. Once before regular business hours, the bush parted to reveal Matthew's bare behind. And another time, there was Tallis Kito's. I sort of wanted to do that myself, but I never quite got up the nerve. Too bad. But I think the best shot was when several dirt clods came flying out of that bush and just totally BURIED Robert's putt. We crushed that baby. That was beautiful.

Oh, and Martin got Leo to narrate the film. He was good at speaking in hushed apocalyptic tones.

We thought about it, but finally Martin decided it wasn't feasible to ignite the bush.

We did a few interviews with various Putt'n'Putt habitués. Although the remarks were edited, because we were after inane and ridiculous. So what we ended up with were several variations on "Well, I'm sure he'll be ready to play" and some statements fragmented beyond comprehension by dubbed in electronic tones signifying expletives masked.

We tried to interview Robert, but he wouldn't talk to us.

We also intended to do some man-on-the-street interviews, retaining only the blankest expressions, but we never got around to it.

And we were going to interview Robert's momma! We WERE!

Well, sort of. We were going to start with a shot of her front door. While normal people have welcome mats, even if they don't really mean it, Robert's momma wasn't concerned with social niceties, so what she had was a "Posted No Trespassing" sign. McAteer was assigned the task of knocking on her front door, since it was felt his very appearance was guaranteed to elicit vile pithy remarks, a slammed door and threats of violence with a .357 Magnum. But Martin and Abner assured McAteer that she probably wouldn't really start shooting, because soon as she threatened him, he'd just get OFF of her damn front porch and nothing else was likely to happen. Or so they said.

The scene was to go thusly: Announcer, speaking breathlessly: "We are now at the home of Robert Etron, where our intrepid reporter, Gary McAteer, will delve into his mother's deepest and most heart-felt emotions concerning this sure to be a classic match between her son, Robert: newly crowned Minneapolis #5 champ, and world famous putting pro McArthur Vomi: recently declared greatest-" (About then the door would open, so our narrator would say): "Ladies and gentlemen, the door is opening. Gary?"

(It was hoped it would open, but in all probability it would only crack, night latch still latched, her beady eyes peering balefully out at McAteer. But we hoped we could at least get a shot of her in frumpy house coat, her hair in curlers.)

McAteer: "Uh, Mrs. Etron, I'm here-"

Then pithy remarks would issue forth. Panic stricken, McAteer would beat a hasty retreat. Only the beginning of his headlong flight would be shown though, as the video would suddenly start to weave wildly about and focus on blurred images of power lines and the tops of trees. Then sounds of pandemonium and gun shots would be dubbed in. That would have been great. But sadly, we never got CLOSE to her house. We should have, but everybody chickened out.

So in spite of our best intentions, nothing much really would've happened, but then came The Great Reel. Then things started getting out of hand. But before I sail off into this part of the story, I suppose I should tell you what a reel is.

A reel is a fabrication, the more improbable the better, designed to be accepted as fact by the intended victim or victims so that the perpetrator(s) of the fabrication might eventually make light of the victim's gullibility. The reel is considered complete when the "fish" (victim) is "reeled in". (Advised that he or she is a damn fool for believing such a preposterous story. In so many words. But if it's Robert, you can just call him a damn fool because he can't catch you.)

For a reel to reach classic proportions, it should be maintained for at least a day. (It isn't considered good form to stay with a reel for much longer than a day, because at that point the line between a reel and an out and out lie starts getting blurred.) The more people in on the reel the better, because a large group of people laughing at the victim will be more humiliating than just one. And the degree of difficulty would be higher with a large group as well, since it's more difficult for a large group to be in on it without somebody letting the cat out of the bag.

Oh, and often it is necessary that several people be reeled even if there is only one primary target.

The victim of the reel that became an avalanche bearing down on the main perpetrators, (Martin and Ray Kohle), was supposed to be Robert Etron. Of course. It started like this on a Saturday afternoon.

"Hey, Ray Kohle. Since you don't have anything else to do, why don't you start on your Putt'n'Putt Fun again? I got something this morning that might give you something to work with," said Martin and with that, he sailed the memorandum (which had been transformed into a paper glider) towards the picnic table. It landed in front of Ray Kohle. He looked at it questioningly.

"Read it," encouraged Martin.

Ray Kohle could be as demonstrative as any JPPNA, and he put on a decent act after he finished reading. He suddenly stiffened and appeared to be in shock. He just sat there with a fixed stare for close to a minute, then he started slowly sliding off the picnic bench. Well, slowly sliding to the floor can be accomplished over at the Hungry Heifer since their booths have padded surfaces, but all Ray Kohle managed at the picnic table was to abruptly strike the back of his head on the bench. Once he finished cussing, he resumed his place at the picnic table.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" said Martin.

"Yes it is remarkable," said Ray Kohle. They were of course referring to the memorandum.

The memorandum was a "suggested" publicity announcement written by someone in the home office which was to be read over the course P.A. system during peak business hours so as to create additional interest in McArthur Vomi's visit. This was what Martin was supposed to read, out loud, so everybody on the course could hear it: "Picture this. He's a tall lanky man, standing a full head taller than most men his age. He walks at a determined gait with paces that reflect the perfection toned into his entire muscular system. He is a man who, at the age of nineteen, began playing a game called Putt'n'Putt. Since that time, he has matured and watched Putt'n'Putt grow into a full-fledged sport with thousands of followers across the continent. His name is McArthur Vomi, acclaimed by his peers to be the greatest putter ever to stare down a golf ball. We of the (Minneapolis #5) Putt'n'Putt are proud to announce that on (Friday night, July 1 at 8:30), McArthur Vomi will be here to do battle with (Robert Etron), (Minneapolis #5)'s very best putter in a no-holds-barred 36-hole match. Beyond a doubt, this match will be played over and over again in the minds of Putt'n'Putt fans around the world. You are cordially invited to witness this event, free of charge. Thank you for playing Putt'n'Putt."

Honest. That's what it said. Not to belabor the obvious, (meaning that I probably will anyway)... Well, just once, okay? I mean, what exactly IS a no-holds-barred match?

Could it mean: "Yes folks, here we are at the final hole of what has been a truly classic match. Vomi is one up. If Etron is to have a chance, Vomi, the greatest putt'n'putter of all time, must miss. Vomi putts. It looks good. Oh, my goodness gracious! It's a perfectly putted putt!! It can't miss! No! WAIT! Here comes Etron! He's... he's AFTER the BALL! BUT IT'S A PERFECTLY PUTTED PUTT BY THE GREATEST PUTT'N'PUTTER OF ALL TIME! But ... but.. no. Oh my god. Etron has just KICKED McArthur Vomi's PERFECTLY PUTTED PUTT OVER THE RAIL! The crowd is in a frenzy! Vomi- WATCH OUT!!... A right jab! A left! No! NO!!! NOT THE PUTTER!! Vomi is DOWN!"?

No, it couldn't possibly mean that.

Something like that did once happen in a JPPNA match, though. Almost.

But anyway, back at the picnic table, discussion turned to the possible identity of the author of that memorandum. It was generally agreed it must have been Eugene Edward Taon, founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International himself, as only a complete megalomaniac could be capable of such a thing.

About a week before, Ray Kohle had started writing up a mock "Putt'n'Putt Fun" and he completed several pages, although he didn't finish. He wasn't a strong finisher.

"Putt'n'Putt Fun" is the official magazine of Putt'n'Putt. It's purely promotional, so it's free. And it's just as well, because I can't imagine anyone subscribing to it. (With the possible exception of Robert.) At best it's maudlin, at worse, nauseous, sort of a cross between "run Spot run, see Spot run" with exclamation points shotgunned all over the place in an attempt to add some excitement and the thoughts of Eugene Edward Taon, founder and chairman of the board. Ray Kohle took particular exception to the magazine's portrayal of JPPNAs as youngsters who joined solely for the thrill of wholesome competition. He didn't like the word wholesome at all. He disliked it even more than janitor, I guess. Then there was the curious concept of friendship and sportsmanship being instilled into the JPPNAs by dedicated coaches. (And he also didn't much care for "dedicated". So now you know three words you had to be careful with around him. Janitor, wholesome and dedicated.)

But anyway, Ray Kohle thought awhile and finally decided the best possible article he could write was an obituary. Yes! That was it! Only before he even got the purple prose neatly arranged, it turned into "The Great Reel".

It was simple. Eugene Edward Taon: founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International and McArthur Vomi: lanky putt'n'putter of the decade (80s) who more recently had been named the greatest putt'n'putter ever to stare down a golf ball, were both shot dead in Rapid City, S.D. by a deranged ex-JPPNA. Well, almost before Ray Kohle could say "I've got an idea" and Martin could say "Oh hell yes and this is what else we'll do" the Putt'n'Putt flags were at half mast. The only ones in on the reel ended up being Ray Kohle, Martin, McAteer, Leo, Abner, Matthew and Adam and myself, since we all happened to be on the course at the time.

Martin said we really could convince Robert that his date with destiny had been canceled, but we had to keep a straight face.

"Damn well better, or I'll kick somebody's little ass" said Abner. Nobody had ever seen him kick ass, but we'd heard he could if ever riled up. He might could even kick Marianne the Hungry Heifer's killer waitress's ass, so that gave us a very strong incentive to maintain.

"Now just think," coached Martin, "of exactly how you would react if this was really true." This was directed primarily at Matthew, Adam and myself, since he apparently assumed the "adults" could be convincing. And as a matter of fact, they were, by the way.

"I'd say it's about damn time," said Matthew. And in regards to Edward Eugene Taon, founder and chairman of the board, that probably is how he would react. In the `93 playoffs, Matthew was almost kicked out of the JPPNA by you-know-who when you-know-who noticed him wearing his snappy white sun visor backwards. So Edward Eugene told Matthew to put it on right. "Now!"

Matthew then told YOU-KNOW-WHO, the founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International, that there wasn't anything in the rule book that said which way was right, and that's when it hit the fan big time.

"I'm just going to act shocked, surprised and mostly speechless," said I.

In so many words, Adam allowed as how he would be shocked, surprised and speechless as well and finally Matthew decided he'd go for shocked and surprised.

Soon afterwards, the moment of untruth arrived when Robert drove up. As he majestically strode across the course, we all ignored him.

"Okay. This is it. Don't fuck up," hissed Martin.

Robert was almost within earshot. Who was going to break the news first?

Ray Kohle cleared his throat. He hadn't even seemed to notice Robert, which of course was impossible, due to his constant heavy breathing. "Well, I won't lie about it, I never liked either one, but the game sure will be different, I know that. I mean, Eugene did invent the game and like him or not, Vomi could putt. I don't know, I guess he had his good points. It sure is hard to believe, though." He sounded sincere, I have to admit it.

"What do you mean? Why are the flags at half mast? What happened?" At that point, we looked up and noticed Robert.

"I don't guess you've heard," said Martin with insincere sympathy. That was also realistic, because that's exactly how he'd react, I know.

Abner then spoke very much in character as well, he came right to the point. "Eugene and Vomi got themselves shot this morning."

"NO!! It can't... well, are they going to be all right or..." Robert trailed off.

"Nope. They're dead," said Abner.

Robert's mouth flopped open. I imagine his brain went, "They're trying to trick me. But no, it must be true, else why are the flags at half mast?"

He sat down heavily. "I just can't believe it," he said.

"Well, you can believe it or not, but it happened," said Abner, then he asked Martin and Ray Kohle if they were going over to the Hungry Heifer.

"Sure, why not?" said Ray Kohle very carefully.

So they left. Moments later, McAteer said he had to go across town. All he said as he got up to leave was, "It's a bummer, dude," and he was gone.

Adam and I were maintaining a downcast, uncomfortable silence. One simply never knows what to say in such situations. Myself, I was keeping in mind the image of being backhanded by Abner, and besides that, I had to wonder if we were possibly desecrating something.

But as for Matthew, well, he seemed to be totally unconcerned, he just sat there popping his bubble gum.

This lack of concern didn't escape Robert either, for suddenly he said, "I bet you don't even care, do you?"

"Nope" answered Matthew, then as Robert sat there glaring and breathing heavily in shocked disbelief, he blew a large bubble and popped it.

It was then that Leo began talking about the mysteries of existence and non-existence. I'm almost sure that's what he was talking about. True, some of his remarks didn't seem connected to anything in particular, but that happens often enough in metaphysics. Besides, Leo had maybe ten years of college. That's why if you were having a conversation over at the Hungry Heifer and he sat down uninvited at your table, listened for a short time and then made an observation, you were always afraid to mention that his learned observation didn't seem to be connected to what you were talking about, because maybe it really was after all. There was always that possibility. Not even Adam, who is profoundly gifted and goes to a private school which stresses academic excellence, knew exactly what Leo was talking about most of the time, he SAID he didn't, and that's quite an admission coming from him, believe me. I'd known him for about two days when right out of nowhere he said, "In case you don't know it, my IQ is 156." I wonder how he found out? I never could get anybody to tell me what mine was. But maybe I don't want to know anyway. I'm not exactly sure.

But anyway, when Leo started expounding, we decided we'd head off to the Hungry Heifer ourselves. Robert stayed behind. I looked back before going inside the restaurant and he was still standing up at the counter listening to Leo and nodding his head as though he understood.

Inside, we discovered things were starting to escalate as Martin was telling James, the owner, and two of his ancient waitresses why our flags were at half mast. They were because Eugene Edward Taon and McArthur Vomi had been shot dead in Rapid City, S.D., that's why. So he couldn't have told them "It's a joke," I mean, James doesn't joke about our flag - well, he doesn't joke about much of anything actually - but he sure as heck doesn't joke about Old Glory, no sir. But I don't think we were being unpatriotic, we were just flying the flags at half mast.

Me, Matthew and Adam were sitting three booths away taking all this in. Even Matthew was starting to look a little worried. Then all at once Adam jumped up and without a word, headed for the bathroom, walking fairly fast.

"Guess the kids are taking it pretty hard," said James.

"I don't think they know how to deal with it yet," said Martin.

A minute or so later Adam returned, wiping his eyes. Later I found out what happened. He almost lost it. He said he was sitting there listening to the funeral tones and all at once it was like he could actually see Eugene Edward Taon, founder and chairman of the board of Putt'n'Putt International in his casket with that same overbearing expression on his face Matthew and everybody else saw back in `93. He said it was like he was there looking at him. Dead. And as he envisioned himself paying his final respects to the founder and chairman of the board, what flashed into his head was, "Yep. He's dead all right," and with that thought came an almost uncontrollable urge to bust out laughing. But he managed to hold it in until he hit the bathroom. So that's one reason I think there might be some hope for him.

But anyway, when we returned to the course shortly afterwards, we discovered that the situation had escalated even further, as Donna and Traci had dropped by the course in our absence. And for once I had to agree with Leo. I mean, what else could he have done? Robert was standing right there at the counter, so when they asked why the flags were at half mast, he had to tell them the shocking news. Then Traci - that's Donna's cheerful and bubbling friend who sometimes helped whenever Ray Kohle or Martin ended up booking three or more birthday parties at the same darn time - wondered when the funeral was, so he told them 1:30 Monday in Great Falls, Montana. Because that's where the home office is, which is because that's where the founder and chairman of the board was born, built the first Putt'n'Putt and will be eventually buried. Sooner or later.

But at that point, Traci said they should go to the funeral.

Donna said she wasn't sure if she could, but if it was okay with her folks, they would. And they left sorrowfully.

"Her old man will never let her go," said Martin with what appeared to be forced conviction.

Leo shook his head. "Naturally, I assumed if I placed the funeral in Great Falls they wouldn't even consider-"

"What are you trying to say?" interrupted Martin. A note of concern had crept into his voice.

Leo took a deep breath, then calmly said, "Donna called ten minutes ago. They were just leaving."

"What!?" screamed Martin, "Why didn't you tell them it was a REEL?"

"I TOLD her to stop by the course to TALK to me for a few minutes before they LEFT, since that was ALL I could do, because Robert was still STANDING here!" exploded Leo.

"So IS SHE?"

"No, she is NOT!"

I thought Martin was going to have a stroke. After awhile he regained a little composure, not a whole lot, but at least some. He barked, "Ray Kohle! Go get your road map atlas!"

Ray Kohle shrugged and got it.

"Now figure out the mileage to Great Falls," ordered Martin.

"Well, I'm not sure which way she'd go," said Ray Kohle reasonably.

Exasperated, Martin then hollered at me to please see if I could figure out the damn mileage because it looked like Ray Kohle didn't even know his ass from a hole in the ground.

Ray Kohle shrugged and shoved the atlas over the counter. "Go to it," he said.

"Okay," I said. (I often enough had my nose stuck in his atlas because I liked planning imaginary trips.)

So I came up with a figure in a very short time. "Well, I might be off a few miles, because they give mileage at every damn intersection on the Interstate, I really hate damn Intersta-"

"How damn far is it?" Martin more than screamed.

Well shit, if he wanted to be that way about it, I'd just tell him then. "984 miles," I said.

"Oh my God!" shouted Martin. I wouldn't be surprised if they didn't hear him all the way over at the Hungry Heifer. Once again he appeared to be having a stroke, a big one this time, then he frantically grabbed the phone. Calming himself as best he could, he dialed Donna's house. And she was gone. Just like Leo said. And no, Martin did not tell Mr. Freeman it was a reel. One simply does not tell Mr. Freeman his perpetually cheerful and bubbling and only daughter is going approximately 984 miles as a result of being reeled. Well, right. I guess they WOULD have to come back. So okay, 1968 miles. If they didn't make a wrong turn.

So Martin jumped into his Honda Civic hoping desperately to catch them. Ray Kohle shook his head as Martin peeled rubber headed off, off and away and said, "I don't know if he knows it or not, but that ain't the way to the Interstate."

About a minute or so later, Martin apparently had realized the error of his way, as he zoomed by going the right way. See, he would've been going the right way at first, but they were doing some work on the exit ramps, so they were closed. But you're right. That's not really important anyway. I'm sorry.

Ray Kohle shook his head again. "It still don't matter. If Traci's driving, Al Unser Jr couldn't run her down, not with a fifteen minute head start, he couldn't." (She LIKED to drive, which is probably why she decided to go to the funeral in the first place, because she didn't know one thing about Eugene, not one thing. Which is also why she wouldn't drop by to talk to Leo because she knew, I bet, he was going to try talking them out of it.)

So you're probably wondering where Robert was during all that commotion. Well, he left right after Donna called. Leo said he looked resolved.

Okay. Matthew had to leave for a dental appointment, Martin had been gone about twenty minutes and Leo had left as well, which left Ray Kohle in the clubhouse. The phone rang. Ray Kohle sighed and picked it up. It was Robert. Naturally I didn't catch both ends of the conversation, but Ray Kohle's end told most of the story anyway. It went pretty much like this: (Most of the pauses between Ray Kohle's sound bites are for whatever Robert was saying.) "Good afternoon. Putt'n'Putt, may I help you?" ... "Where you calling from?" ... "Oh, well what does your mother think about that?" ... "Oh. Well, okay, but I sort of doubt if your mother-" ... "Well yeah, I guess it's time you did something on your own all right. Okay. So you got something to write with and some paper?" ... "Good. Now you're on I-35W north so... go to the next exit and turn around. Go back to I-94. Then you take the west exit. Now just stay on 94 until you get to... hold it a second." (He turned to the map of North Dakota.) "Okay. Now when you get to Jamestown, N.D., you exit on U.S. 52 west, okay? Stay on 52 until you get to the Canadian border-" ..."It's a shortcut, okay?" ... "So when you go through customs.." ... "Yeah. It's at 1:30 Monday, so when-" ... "Yeah. Right. Monday afternoon. So when you go through customs, just say you'll only be visiting for about a day-" ...."Well, look Robert, in case you didn't know, it's almost a thousand miles-" ... "Damn near. You still going?" ... "Well, okay. So you go through customs and you're on highway 39. Hold it a second." (And he turned to the map of Saskatchewan.) ... "Yeah, they'll probably take your credit card. Stay on 39 for about 33, 87, okay, for about 132 miles till you hit highway 6. Go north." ... "Okay, I'll wait." ... "Got it? Now stay on 6 through Regina-" ... "It's in Saskatchewan." ... "S-A-S-K-A-T-C-H-E-W-A-N." ..."Stay on 6 until you get to Melfort. Then take highway 3 to Prince Albert." ... "Then you go... oh, 27 miles to Shellbrook and that's where you get on highway 55 which you stay on until you get to Green Lake." ... "So you're getting closer. At Green Lake, take highway 155 north and just keep going. After awhile, 155 turns into 909. ... But keep going on 909 until you see the signs for Great Falls. Then you can ask directions to the course and they'll tell you where the funeral is." ... "That's okay." ... "Yeah, Donna and Traci are on their way." ... "No, I'm afraid I won't be able to make it. Martin's going though." ... "Well, see you when you get back. Have a good trip."

Yes, Robert decided whether his momma grounded him or not, he was going to that funeral. I was sure she'd be out looking for him soon enough. But I still had to ask. "Just where in the hell are you trying to send him, anyway?" I wondered.

"Well," said Ray Kohle expansively, "You do understand that he don't know the first thing about geography, I mean he's WAY below average, so he'll probably end up getting lost and asking directions, but still, if everything goes right, he ought to end wa-y up in... well, I'm not sure. There's no town here. Just Tumor Lake. Then I guess he'll have to turn around because there ain't no more road either. Just a big lake."

He pointed out Tumor Lake on the map. It looked pretty good. I have no idea how far it was. They don't give mileage on those little twisty blue roads.

But yes, not long afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Etron stopped by the course wondering if Ray Kohle knew where their Robert was, it was past their supper time.

"He said he was going to Eugene Taon's funeral," he answered calmly.

"Just who is this Eugene Taon and why didn't Robert say something to me about it?" asked Mrs. Etron.

So Ray Kohle said Eugene was a Putt'n'Putt maintenance man and he had no idea why Robert hadn't told her first.

Unfeelingly she snapped, "And just WHERE is this janitor's funeral supposed to be?"

"Philadelphia," said Ray Kohle.

So. Traci and Donna were headed for Great Falls. Martin was trying to catch them before they got there. It seemed like Robert was headed in the general direction of the North Pole. His parents were headed for Philadelphia and I was beginning to think Ray Kohle ought to seriously consider leaving the country himself. I mean, this was getting out of hand.

Okay. Around 7:30, me and Adam were over at the restaurant wondering how everything would end up when who did we spy pulling up outside but Lars and William. And the flags were still at half mast. We told Ray Kohle to talk to Abner and he tried to, but Abner thought we ought to just go through with it. WHY? What more could we do to Robert anyway? He was already REELED, damn it! We could have mentioned to the folks at the Hungry Heifer that somebody sure must have a sick sense of humor, calling us and making up a story like that about our founder and chairman of the board, but nooo.

And so we were about to race off and raise the flags ourselves, Abner be damned, but it was too late, because even before we could exit our booth, ancient Miss Mary; James's mother or grandmother, I'm really not sure which; scurried up to Lars and William who were just then sitting down to eat before their surprise course inspection, and she said, "Isn't it just awful about Mr. Taon and that Vomi fella? What's this old world coming to? How old was that little boy that shot them, anyhow?"

TO BE CONTINUED

(A short editorial aside.) Well, you see, a good way to finish this would be to leave it hanging because then one's imagination could just run wild, but the way it did end was almost anticlimactic. But it was still sort of interesting I guess. So I'll go ahead and tell you how things worked out.

---

So okay. First, when Lars and William came steaming over to see just what in the hell was going on, Ray Kohle said a Dick Bennett; who said he was calling from the home office; had informed them of Eugene Edward Taon's and McArthur Vomi's deaths and "You mean it didn't HAPPEN?"

"No!" exploded William, "I've never heard of Dick Bennett in my life! Don't you even know who works at the home office?"

"Well no sir, not everybody," said Ray Kohle.

"Where's Martin? I thought he was supposed to be on now," asked Lars.

"Well, uh, he decided to go to the funeral," said Ray Kohle.

"Oh, my GOD! Who ELSE decided to go?" wondered Lars.

"Well... Donna and Traci. And I guess Robert."

"I hope Robert gets lost," said Lars fervently.

"I suppose it's possible," said Ray Kohle.

"I KNOW it's possible," said Lars. Really. NOBODY likes Robert.

So you see, that storm was weathered very nicely and after telling Ray Kohle the course was a complete mess and he should check out rumors just a little more closely next time, Lars and William left for a surprise inspection of Bloomington #2. Whew! Except for Donna and Traci, Robert and Mr. and Mrs. Etron being scattered all over the country, of course.

Well. First, Mr. and Mrs. Etron drove around the neighborhood for a couple of hours, but they didn't go to Philadelphia. It became apparent they weren't going when they stopped by the course shortly after ten that night, wondering if Ray Kohle had seen Robert yet. I guess they didn't figure he could even find his way out of Hennepin County.

So Ray Kohle sadly told them that somebody had played a sick joke on the course and he hoped Robert didn't go all the way to Philadelphia.

To which Mrs. Etron replied, "He had just better hope he don't go to Philadelphia! I'll tell you one thing, when he gets home, he's going to STAY home. I think he's taking this Putt'n'Putt way too seriously. It's time he grew up."

"Yes ma'am," said Ray Kohle.

But Mrs. Etron wasn't finished. "ALL of you ought to have something better to do with your lives and why don't you get rid of that earring? Do you know what that looks like to me?"

Very calmly he answered, "I suppose I can imagine, ma'am, but the truth is, I like it."

"Come on Paul" said Mrs. Etron to her wretched husband, "This place is making me ill."

"PHHTTTT!" went Ray Kohle over the P.A. system as the Etrons reached their car.

Next, Martin miraculously did catch Donna and Traci after all, just beyond Fergus Falls. He then explained the whole thing, apologized profusely, paid for their gas and mentioned how he'd be fired if word ever got out, so the girls forgave him very sweetly, promised not to tell, (BOTH of them are in the National Honor Society), said it was a nice drive anyway and then they went to Applebee's. But at least Martin was kind enough to call the course which allowed Ray Kohle to let them in on the new official version. Although Donna didn't entirely approve of Ray Kohle, she nevertheless decided it would be much simpler for all concerned if they went along with the new version. And so they did.

Robert ended up in Iowa.

Iowa? How in the hell did he get THERE?

Hard to tell, really, but that's still where he ended up. In Iowa. And I guess when he tried to ask some city policeman directions to Great Falls, Montana by way of S-a-s-k-a-t-c-h-e-w-a-n and mentioned starting out from Minneapolis, something must've gotten lost in translation, because his momma and daddy had to go get him. He followed them back home I guess. He probably had to, else he might have ended up in Costa Rica.

Anyway, Robert was returned home sometime Monday night. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed with no sign of him, so we had no choice but to shelve our documentary. Late Thursday Randall was told he would oppose McArthur. But then Friday afternoon who should appear but Robert! He was no longer grounded! So he played Vomi and lost eleven and nine. Eleven and NINE!! He didn't even stick around for the post-match ceremonies, he just stomped off, climbed into his 1982 Cadillac Sedan DeVille, slammed the door and roared off in a cloud of blue smoke.

Running Away

At the start of the fourth chapter, I mentioned how I was headed for Australia, only my plan didn't work out too well seeing as how the next day I was at the academy. So you probably surmised that I didn't get very far.

To be honest though, I did manage to get pretty far away, all the way to Mississippi, in fact. So okay, my first day at the academy was four days later, not the next day. Same end result, but it took me longer to get there.

One time Dr. Danko got exasperated and said I kept trying to look at myself as though I was only an interested observer. So I reminded him that that's exactly how HE looked at it - I mean, you never want to get personally involved or anything - and besides, it's a good defense mechanism.

Well, maybe. Looking back, the first part of this story is kind of funny - now that I'm older and wiser, it is - and the way it ended was at least educational. Only I'm not going into much detail about that last part.

* * *

Although if things ever end up going the way I want, then I WILL go into detail. So at least you've been warned.

But whether it's mostly made up or not, if you think about it, chapters two and three of "Getting Kicked Out Of the House" would seem to indicate that I know more about sex than I let on. Well, I could say that I've read a lot, and that's true enough, but then last January I had some first hand experience. Only in this case, it was pretty far removed from what I'd been dreaming about.

I started thinking about running away a month or so before finally getting around to it because... well, just because, that's all. As long as things were going decently well at home, there was no sense in tempting fate. But then I got busted. So that was bad enough, but after the first part was over, I found out about that Christian academy. Soo...

Well, I guess I should tell you about my plan first. So okay. Once the time was upon me, I would be out of the house early the next morning, supposedly to make up a test. That's a good excuse and it didn't seem likely to raise any suspicions because I'm not really a morning person. So I wouldn't be getting up early if I didn't have to. I didn't think the school would call my house if I was absent just one day, but they might, so I guessed I should get as much of a head start as was possible.

I made the assumption that once I was a few hours late getting home from school, there would be police looking for me all over the southeastern United States. I now know that's not how it works, but thinking that it did, I decided to hitchhike to Birmingham, after sending them off on a wild goose chase towards Florida. I would accomplish this by leaving my books at a bus stop five blocks from my house. So soon enough, they would be found along with a notebook in which I'd stupidly doodled "Florida here I come" several times. I marked through "Florida here I come", but I was sure the police could still make it out, because I still could. Crafty, yes?

I planned to take a city bus as far in the direction of Mableton as possible. Mableton is west of Atlanta, on U.S. 78, not yet completely swallowed by the suburbs. U.S. 78 runs parallel to I-20 most of the way to Birmingham. I didn't like the idea of hitchhiking since I'd never tried it before, but I wasn't going to walk. I figured a fourteen-year-old who didn't even look that old would arouse the suspicions of any law enforcement officer if seen thumbing on the Interstate, so that's why I opted for 78. Where I guessed I would still look suspicious, but there would be fewer cops and hopefully they would figure I was a local going a few miles down the road, since it was mostly local traffic on that highway anyway.

I would take my cello. I usually took it, because I was in the orchestra. And I was also TIRED of being in the orchestra because I was sick and tired of lugging that damn thing to school every morning... but that's aside from the point. So back to my plan then.

Inside the case aside from my cello, I would stuff in some clothes and my empty day pack. I could always buy more stuff further on down the road. In Birmingham, I would transfer my clothes into the day pack and pawn my cello. I figured I'd get at least $400 for it. I'd buy a few more things I might need, then I would take a city bus to the airport and catch a plane to New Orleans. There was a flight leaving at 9:15 PM, Central time. Nobody would expect me to fly, so nobody would expect me to be 479 miles from Atlanta less than 24 hours after leaving, and certainly not in New Orleans because they would be checking the routes to Florida.

I figured once on the plane I would have successfully run away, but like I mentioned, New Orleans wasn't my final destination, Australia was. I would have preferred Minneapolis, but since my mom didn't have custody, I was pretty sure that couldn't work. And besides, it gets very cold in Minnesota. So Australia it was. I knew everybody would be worried and I was sorry, but I'd let them all know I was all right when I was far enough away or seventeen, which ever came first. That's because in Georgia, once you're seventeen they can't make you stay at home.

After reaching New Orleans, I would either take a bus to Grand Isle, La. or hitch, depending on how well hitching to Birmingham worked out and how much money I had left. I just liked the looks of Grand Isle on the map. It was down on the gulf coast, almost due south of New Orleans, although to get there you first had to go 53 miles southwest to Houma, then wind around through the bayous another 68 miles more or less southeast. In Grand Isle I would find work on a shrimp boat. Then after two weeks or so, I would steal a small boat and head down the Intracoastal Waterway to Brownsville where I would slip across the border INTO Mexico. And it was at this point that things got interesting. I was going to get in touch with a big dealer and smuggle drugs back into the States until I had enough money to catch a plane to Australia. No problem. Well, I'd probably also have to get a fake passport, but mules can make a lot of money in a hurry. Smuggling drugs made me a little nervous, but I figured I'd get away with it because nobody would suspect me since I was so young.

So anyway, I slipped out with my cello around four in the morning. Although the story about going to school early for a make-up test was no longer necessary, I still dropped my school books at the bus stop five blocks from my house. At four o'clock in the morning. Then I walked steadily for about fifteen minutes, mostly north, then not so steadily for about forty-five minutes as I was stopping to rest about every three or four minutes. That cello wasn't getting any lighter. I was SICK of that thing.

I finally ended up in North Druid Hills around 5:30. Then I saw a city bus heading downtown, so that's where I headed.

I'm not sure what difference it made, but I decided not to try thumbing until I'd walked at least a mile or so beyond where the bus let me out as far west as it went on 78. So I had just stopped for about the fifth time and was catching my breath, I mean I didn't even have my thumb out, when this guy driving an old rattletrap Chevy pickup stopped and asked where I was headed.

I took a deep breath and said, "Birmingham, I hope."

The guy said, "Well boy, I'd say you're in luck 'cause that's right where I'm headed if you don't mind going through Gadsden first."

No, I didn't mind if he went through Gadsden. Even after we stopped four times to let the truck cool off, I didn't mind, not one bit. I didn't even mind his Hank Williams Jr. Well, to tell you the truth, I DID mind those tapes and I don't want to hear "A Country Boy Can Survive" again for as long as I live, but at least I couldn't be expected to talk over the racket that truck was making and old Hank too, so I guessed I could live with it. Mostly I just nodded whenever it seemed the guy (Jim) was expecting some sort of answer from me.

But of course the times we were waiting for the truck to cool off he did ask some questions. So okay, I was sixteen, I knew I didn't look it, but I was. I'd left home about three months ago and I'd been up in New York, but now I was going home. Well, New York was a bad place to live and anyway, I knew my mother was worried about me. And I guessed maybe I needed to get back into school. What happened to my face? Well, I'd been in a fight. And I lost. Did I have a girl friend? Well, yes. Her name was Heidi. Which was another reason I wanted to get back home to Birmingham. And so on.

Jim was going by Gadsden to pick up his old lady who had been staying at her mother's while he was looking for work in Atlanta. See, he'd found a good-paying job as a pipe fitter. Only when we finally steamed into Charlene's mother's driveway, Charlene was in a right bitchy mood, in fact, it looked like I was in the middle of a major domestic quarrel. So I was out in the front yard waiting when he came storming out and told me to get in, we were leaving! Which was a relief, because I don't think I would have wanted to ride to Birmingham with Charlene anyway. Only after he went a couple of blocks, he decided maybe he'd better go back and see if there was any way he could patch things up. But first he was putting me on a bus for Birmingham.

I politely said no, he didn't need to do that, he could just drop me off on the highway and I was sure I'd get in without any trouble.

Only he said he'd feel a lot better about it if I would stop being so stubborn and just let him put me on a bus and maybe some day I'd see him out on the road and I could pay him back that way. So okay, he talked me into it. (I had a longer version of my first ride, but I've decided to go with the shorter one.)

So I got into Birmingham around three that afternoon after waiting about two hours for the bus in Gadsden. Within a block of the bus station I found a pawn shop. Then things started going wrong. Shit, it was my damn cello, so I figured I could sell it. Well, no I couldn't. And so outside I found a man who finally agreed to try selling it for me. And that is the last I ever saw of my cello.

I hung around waiting for that ass hole until past six, but finally gave up and went back to the bus station to do some thinking. And that's when I spotted the Runaway Hotline poster. "You can get help no matter what time it is", that's what caught my eye. Well, I figured there had to be a catch, but I'd heard they wouldn't tell your folks where you were unless you wanted them to and they wouldn't try to trace the call, so finally I decided it was at least worth a try.

I don't guess they were trying to trace my call or anything, but that lady I was talking to sure was trying to pressure me. I was expecting it in a way, but I didn't expect her to come as strong as she did. I mean, she was cool about it and I knew there were risks, but ain't life a risk? Well, according to her, if I was picked up by the police, I'd be lucky. I figured she was trying to scare me though. And I already knew there were bad people out there, in fact one of them had my cello. She laughed when I said that. She had a nice laugh. But then she went back to the pressure routine again. I thought to myself, "Damn! What IS this?" Maybe there was a one in fifty chance I'd get killed. So? If my number is up, it's up, that's all. I'm not saying she was quoting odds on my being molested or killed, but the way she was talking, you would have thought the perverts were lining up at right outside the bus station. I didn't want to talk about it, so finally I asked her what the deal was on the runaway shelter.

It wasn't much of a deal. Not if my folks had to be notified within three days, it sure wasn't. So once I heard that, I told her I had to go and hung up.

I guessed I should get something to eat. But not at the bus station, not when I had all of $2.12. I got bored in Gadsden while I was waiting for the bus, so I ended up spending too much on video games. Well, I don't know, things had just been going so good at that point. Although at least I got a single at Wendy's while I was waiting, but since that was all I'd eaten since about 5:30 the previous night, I was really hungry. Hungry and DUMB. Anyway, eventually I got a Whooper Jr and some water at Burger King. Then I found out what bus to catch so I could get on I-59 south.

So after I got off the bus, I walked the short distance to 59 and just stayed on the shoulder of the ramp and hoped a cop didn't spot me. I stood there for a long time and I'd almost given up hope, but at last two dudes in a BMW stopped. Turned out, they were pretty cool. And they were also pretty well stoned. The guy driving asked where I was headed, I told them New Orleans and that was about it except for did I smoke and a little later did I want something for cotton mouth. I did know they were going to Tuscaloosa to pick up their dates at the University of Alabama. The guy driving seemed in pretty good shape, which was a comforting thought and really, if he hadn't been going so damn fast, I probably wouldn't have worried at all. The other guy was just hanging his head, either in a stupor or prayer. For the life of me, I couldn't see what he hoped to accomplish when he picked up his date. It was a very quick trip to Tuscaloosa. For the most part, I just sat quietly in back and thought about dying. But we made it in one piece and they ran me out to the other side of town before letting me out just so I didn't have to walk all the way through town.

After a little bit, I started thumbing again. Thirty-six cars passed, but number thirty-seven stopped. An old man who hardly got over fifty, so this time there didn't seem much to worry about. Unfortunately, he was only going about ten miles down the road and when he let me out, it looked like I was in the middle of nowhere. I didn't guess it mattered at that point if I hitched on the highway, especially since if I stayed on the ramp he'd let me off on, I'd probably end up seeing another car around daybreak. So I started walking. Every time I heard a car approaching, I'd turn around and stick my thumb out.

About thirty minutes later, when the last underpass I'd seen was a couple miles back and there was no telling where the next one was, it started to rain. It was somewhere in the high thirties that night, and it was POURING, so in no time at all, I was soaked and feeling miserable. But I thought maybe I'd get a ride easier that way because people would feel sorry for me. Well shit, I guess about a hundred cars went hissing by without even slowing down. But finally a car stopped, and no, it wasn't a cop. The reason I say that was I just had a funny feeling when I saw his brake lights come on.

* * *

I'd had premonitions before, only most of them turned out to be false alarms. Thinking that you might be in trouble when there's a good reason for feeling that way doesn't really count as a premonition in my book, but at any rate, this time it wasn't a false alarm at all. I didn't know that at first though, at first he seemed cool enough. He said he was going to Dallas. He didn't have much to say, but for just a little while I was thinking my luck was still holding. In fact, I was thinking about changing my story so I could ride with him the rest of the night. I was running things through my head, something like: "I don't really have to go to Grand Isle, even if it does look good on the map. Texas is closer to Mexico anyway. And besides, if I ride with him towards Dallas, then I don't have to worry about thumbing in the rain, or at least not tonight. I can get some sleep. I don't guess I'll go all the way to Dallas though. ... So what about Corpus Christi? That looks pretty good on the map too, and maybe it won't be as cold."

So anyway, I was still trying to figure out if it was my momma who lived in Corpus Christi and I had just at that moment decided that I should stop killing her with worry, or if it would be better to have my uncle living down there, when we exited. There was nothing around there, so I'm sure I looked at him kind of puzzled like.

He said, "Just keep your mouth shut. Just do what I tell you, you got it?"

That's when I knew that lady on the telephone was right. I mean, I didn't know what was going to happen, I didn't know if I was going to live or die, but I knew I was in more trouble than I'd ever been in in all my life.

---

The two stories in this chapter were really about me. The reel story was because I had so much fun retelling it. With the possible exception of sex, I think that's what I like to do best, so it's a big part of who I am, and it's who I want to be.

But Running Away is also a part of who I am. I know I'm not unique and I know it's been a lot worse for other kids. Some don't live to tell about it.

I don't know. I guess you play the cards you're dealt. Sometimes, you're going to play them wrong. It seemed like a good idea, or it seemed like you didn't have any other choice, but whatever, it turns out you goofed. But as long as you survive the screw-up, well, you just keep playing, that's all. I'm still me and for the most part, I like being who I am. So I'm still trying and I'm still hoping.

I'm sorry there wasn't any sex in today's entry, but I hope to make up for it soon. Maybe not in the next entry, but it seems as though I'm making progress on more than just one front. So you can't ever tell.