OCTOBER 2007

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Tremendous Power of Concentration
Part Two of Four
By Mike Smith, Sept 4, 2007

Read Part One

Chapter 3: I Want To Know What Love Is

A ten-day book tour had been planned for me and I had no idea what to expect.  I was scheduled to appear in places like New York City, Chicago, Indianapolis, Baltimore, and Bloomington, and most of these places I had never been.  I quit my crappy part-time job.  Elizabeth didn’t know if that was such a good idea, but after I convinced her how much money we already had in the bank, she said she’d think about quitting her job while I was away in New York.  She stayed in school since she was so close to finishing her degree.  I talked my friend Taylor into going to New York with me.

Although the publisher wanted to fly us out, we thought it would be funnier and more outrageous to drive, all the way from Kentucky.  I had to admit I felt a little weird about leaving my wife almost as soon as I married her to run off to New York with another man.  I figured I’d be okay, though, because I’m an adult. I’d be with Taylor and I’d have plenty of company. I’d be in fucking New York City for the first time in my life promoting my new book, which my publisher tells me people are buying like there’s no fucking tomorrow. If that’s not enough excitement, I don’t know what is.

Taylor and I started our journey at 6:30 on a Friday night. Our first stop was at a pharmacy to pick up some refills. I don’t know why, but I didn’t refill one of the more important prescriptions – migraine medication. I figured I’d be okay with the few pills I had left. Then we had to go Taylor's house for some last minute necessities, which included some sort of CD player device that hooked into my tape player. I never really understood what was going on with that. Then we stopped for fast food. I thought we would wait until we at least got to another state before getting fast food, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Already I was starting to miss Elizabeth, mostly because it just seemed wrong to be leaving my wife so soon after we had gotten married.  We were the type that didn’t part ways much when we were just dating.  With all the excitement, it felt like things were happening too fast.  It all just felt strange.

After Taylor and I ate, we got on the 264-West instead of 264-East. It wasn’t a good start at all, considering we had about 12 hours to go. That’s how long it’s supposed to take anyway. We turned around and started going in the right direction, towards West Virginia. We drove towards West Virginia for what seemed like forever.

Along the way, we listened to a mix tape that I made for Taylor.  He liked the mix tape I made for him. I liked listening to it again, too. Taylor played all kinds of music I had never heard before. The trip basically turned into Taylor’s jam session, where he constantly switched out CDs and introduced songs. This was one of the best parts of the trip.

We got to the West Virginia border at about 11:30 that night and admired how beautiful the oil factory was while going over the bridge that connects Kentucky and West Virginia. I couldn’t imagine it would be nearly as spectacular during the day. I decided that I would do my best to always see it at night.

We pulled off at the first rest stop to use the restroom and buy some snacks.  I told Taylor a story about finding a kitten at that very rest stop the first time me and Elizabeth went to West Virginia a few years ago, but it seemed like he didn’t think it was a very interesting story.  I excused myself to call Elizabeth and check in with her back at home. She told me that everything was fine and that she missed me. I missed her, too, but told her I would see her soon. We seemed fine with this logic.

Everything was going well in our relationship. In fact, better than just well. We were happy. We were having fun. We enjoyed each other’s company and hated not being around each other. What was even better, she seemed to really appreciate my work with all the attention it was getting and it felt good to be appreciated in this way by my wife.

Taylor took the wheel at 1:00 AM and we entered Maryland. I had never been there and was amazed at how beautiful the state was. Really big mountains! We stopped at gas stations throughout the night and loaded up on junk food like you wouldn't believe. Grape sodas, Cokes, Slush Puppies, candy bars, and lunch cakes. Taylor took one long drink of the slushie and got the worst brain freeze he’d ever experienced. He turned the radio off and curled up into the passenger seat and cried. I continued to drink my slushie. It was good.

I had slept a little bit in my passenger seat by 3:00. My neck was hurting and felt a bit stiff. We stopped at a Maryland rest stop and I noticed some cool graffiti on a stall wall. "SM + MC married 01/31/04" inside a crude drawing of a heart. Beside that, someone wrote, "Crossdresser needs hot cock tip!" I drew an arrow connecting the two. We also found a huge moth in the middle of the vending machine area. Taylor was afraid to touch it as he had had bad experiences with moths in the past. "It'll start flying around and stuff," he said. As we were leaving, we heard racket coming from the vending machine area. Taylor suspected it was that moth.

Taylor and I talked quite a bit about success on this trip.  He seemed proud of me.  I think he even told me a couple of times.  I was proud of him and was glad he was my friend.  We seemed to be driving toward something we had no idea about, something much bigger than us – what would happen when we got to New York? Would any of this actually be happening?

I took over the car again in the early morning hours while leaving Maryland. I noticed for the first time how aggressive Maryland drivers could be. I think it was around there somewhere that Taylor warned me that New Jersey is "all fucked up and you can't pump your own gas there."  A family breakfast restaurant called Friendly's in Edgewood, Maryland opened seven minutes late to let us in. We ate and talked about the trip so far and how we were almost there. After breakfast, we felt sick. It wasn’t so much Friendly's as it was Friendly's on top of the Cokes, cakes and candy. Taylor took the wheel again and I fell asleep, sleeping through my first tollbooth, Taylor later told me. I slept through a second toll shortly after.

We were supposed to enter Delaware, but all we saw were signs saying that Wilmington, Delaware was just up ahead. Suddenly we were in New Jersey! Delaware just up and disappeared on us somewhere.

We were nowhere near Brooklyn by 10:00 AM, the time I told the publisher I would be sitting in his office. I had spoken to my publisher on the phone plenty of times, but had never actually met him in person.  I had gotten the impression that he was a hardcore New Yorker, always pressed for time, and didn’t like to mess around with anyone.  I called from my cell phone and apologized.  I told him we were close, though.  In fact, we had stopped off at a Trenton, New Jersey Target store for some sweatpants.

I had to learn how to navigate through New Jersey tolls. We stayed in cash lanes and avoided EZ-Pass lanes. I knew that at some point along the way, though, I would screw this up. This was not a comforting feeling at all. When leaving Target, getting back on the New Jersey Turnpike should have been easy, but I passed it up five or six times. Taylor was right about New Jersey. You can't pump your own gas. The first time they pumped it, I asked the attendant if it was customary to tip. He said, "If you want to." I gave him a couple bucks. Then I saw on the receipt that the tip was included. I had already been taken.  Elizabeth would have lectured me about this.  As much as I love her, I hate it when she lectures me when I make a mistake.  Taylor, on the other hand, just thought it was funny.

We were still trying to figure out New Jersey by Noon. Somehow we ended up in East Brunswick and my publisher, who now sounded a bit pissed off, had to guide us back onto the Turnpike. As expected, we found ourselves in the EZ-Pass lane leaving East Brunswick and couldn't back up. Sadly, we had to drive through the toll. "You'll probably get a ticket in the mail," Taylor said. He sounded so defeated by this point. "I think I saw something about the fine being like $25.00."  I knew the fine was more than that. I was starting to feel a little defeated myself, especially when I thought about how we would have to do all of this again, in reverse, in a few days.

After more tolls and more mistakes, we finally made it over the bridge into NYC. We saw the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty. We saw bumper-to-bumper traffic. We heard horns honking. I was getting a migraine. This was the beginning of the end for me. Taylor had no idea what kind of a shitty mood I was about to get in.

We avoided the thousands of pedestrians and the rude drivers and found ourselves on the wrong NYC streets. My publisher, again, guided us to his office. It took a really long time to get there, though. We had to drive on streets like Canal and Mulberry. The migraine was worsening by the minute. Taylor was afraid to drive on these streets. I was, too. It was my car, though, so I did it.

By 2:30, we were on the phone with my publisher again and finally drove right up to his office building. That’s how good his directions were. I parked in front of some graffiti that said, "Lick chops and basta ..." My head was pounding. It's going to be a bad one. I had taken all three of my migraine pills and nothing was working. We walked up the stairs to my publisher’s office and I shook his hand.  He was actually a pretty nice guy, but nothing like the image I had developed in my head from the e-mails and phone calls.  In other words, he wasn’t like a character from The Sopranos.  I introduced him to Taylor.  I told him about running that toll, expecting a bit of comfort. Instead, he told me that he was surprised I didn’t get pulled over and that the ticket I would surely get in the mail would be more like $125.

He gave us a schedule of events and appearances that would keep us busy for the rest of the week.  I was even doing a late night TV show.  It wasn’t Jay Leno, but my family could watch it back home in Kentucky, if they wanted to.  Not bad for a kid who didn’t even finish high school.  He also told us how to get the hotel he was putting us up in.  We thanked him and left, Taylor feeling excited, me feeling shitty.

We decided not to sleep. We decided to see the city immediately. I know this sounds impossible, but I remember next to nothing we did for the next five hours. After walking around for some time, Taylor knew I felt like shit. He dropped me off at one of his friend’s house – a stranger's house – and he left me there. I had no idea how he knew this person.  “It’s cool, he’s my special friend from New York,” is all he would keep saying to reassure me as the two of them left together, I assume to see more of the city.  At the time, “special friend” didn’t sound nearly as creepy, and I would have slept anywhere if it meant maybe getting rid of the migraine. It was a nice house from what I could see through my distorted vision. I raided the freezer and found an icepack. I used it on my throbbing eye and sore temple. It helped, but only temporarily.

I slept. I cried. I missed my wife. I wanted to go home. Only a few times in my life have I cried and not clearly understood why. This time it was the result of intense pain, sleep deprivation, and extreme confusion. Being thousands of miles away from home and feeling completely alone in a strange city doesn’t help, either, I thought. I would have done anything just to feel better. I know I was ruining the trip for Taylor, but what else could I do? I felt like shit and with migraines come debilitation. I have accepted it.

In that moment, though, I told myself that I was in New York and loaded up on as many Excedrin Extra Strength pills as I could find and that time, somehow, I would get better in time to enjoy my first night in New York. I kept having dreams, or hallucinations, I guess. I saw a map of the U.S. with my face on the state of New York and Elizabeth’s face on the state of Kentucky. I still can’t believe how far I drove. I slept. I cried. Slept. Cried. This cycle repeated itself until Taylor came back and woke me up a few hours later.  His special friend was passed out in another room, drunk.

I was feeling only a little bit better, but I told Taylor differently, as I didn't want to be the one to ruin the evening. We went to Times Square. I compared it to Las Vegas the entire time. The only real difference was I wasn't approached by young immigrants offering me cheap women. There weren't too many cars competing with the pedestrians in Vegas either. Times Square was cool and all, but it wasn’t the place to be if you felt like crap. Taylor wanted to stay out longer, I could tell. I wondered if he could see my temples throbbing. I stood my ground and told him that I had to go to bed. He dropped me off, let me in, and went back out to do some partying, maybe with his special friend from New York.

I slept. I cried some more, too. I called Elizabeth and didn’t share my true feelings, as I didn’t want her to be upset. I wanted her to think I was having a good time in New York or else she’d feel like there was nothing she could do to comfort me. My voice was shaky, as I tried to hold back my tears. I told her I had a little headache but that it would go away soon. I told her I loved her, that I missed her, that I wished I were there with her, that I’d see her real soon. I couldn’t imagine ever being apart from her again. I would be later. We would be apart. But in New York, that night, I could never imagine. We said goodnight.

Sunday came. I woke up at about 11:00 AM. I felt only remnants of the migraine that ruined my day that day before. Only minor throbbing now. I loaded up on Excedrin and Tylenol as a precaution, constantly thinking in the back of my mind that I would get another headache and that I had no more prescription pills left.

I took a shower and it felt really good. I woke Taylor up purposely, but pretended it was accidental. He asked how I was feeling and I told him much better. I was excited about my first day in NYC as a well person. We ate breakfast at a really cool little restaurant nearby. I don't remember the name of it. Lots of young people, great food, and a DJ! This was my favorite part of the trip, hands down.

We ate lots of awesome food, spent lots of time on the subway, and saw Ground Zero. It was weird seeing WTC. I thought I would be more emotionally moved, but I wasn’t. I didn’t really feel anything but disappointed. It occurred to me that the WTC site had already become a tourist attraction. Something to take pictures in front of. Something to tell people about when you get back to your hometown. I guess I just think that’s horrible. Regardless, Taylor took my picture standing in front of the site. I’m glad I saw it.

We enjoyed cheap but great Middle Eastern food at a nearby park. We ran into this guy after eating the Middle Eastern food and he knew so much about New York.  He even walked with us for a little while and gave us a running commentary throughout our little journey together. Unfortunately, I retained none of it. It was all really interesting while I was hearing it, though. We also saw a gross dog strolling through the park. His owner was walking him and we all commented, “Wow, what a beautiful dog.”  As he walked away from us, however, we became disgusted and almost threw up our Middle Eastern meals. The dog’s testicles hung so low they literally bounced on the ground.

We took the above-ground subway to the Museum of Modern Art. “We closed two minutes ago,” the museum clerk told us. Taylor was so disappointed because he likes art.  Honestly, I could give a shit.  Elizabeth would have enjoyed the museum, too, and that’s what I thought of, and that made me homesick again.  We got back on the subway and went back to the hotel. The subway system was the most confusing part of the trip. I had no idea where I was and hated all of it. I didn’t like the motion. I didn’t like the bumping into people. I didn’t like the confusion. If it weren’t for Taylor, I would have been lost. There’s no good way for a tourist to travel comfortably in NYC.

Back at the hotel, there was nothing to do, so we started drinking rum and Coke. Where were these alcoholic beverages the night before and why hadn’t I consumed all of them? That might have overpowered the migraine. Around 9:00, we watched fireworks from the roof of Taylor’s special friend’s place. Other tenants from that building invited friends and family over and alcohol was passed around freely. People were drinking and coming too close to the edge of the roof for our comfort level. We freaked out several times during the fireworks show, terrified that someone would fall to their deaths any minute. Everyone survived (we think). People smoked weed, too. The fireworks were particularly cool in New York.

We went to a bar after the show where I had more rum. Taylor got a beer and he finished a stranger's White Russian in two gulps. She would have wasted it otherwise. I finished Taylor's last beer in one gulp. He would have wasted it otherwise. I was feeling pretty good by the end of the night. I knew I would sleep well and looked forward to my final days in NYC.

We both woke up late, probably because of the booze from the night before. I looked over at Taylor, who was thrashing wildly in his bed. He looked to be having a nightmare. I didn’t wake him up.  I think he was a little angry with me over that when I told him.  The first thing he told me when he woke up was that he was dreaming about being served a $38 bowl of cereal. My publisher, upon hearing that, suggested it was because he was spending so much more money in New York than in Kentucky. I suggested it was the White Russian from the night before.  Taylor isn’t a big drinker and it doesn’t take much.

Our day didn’t start until about 10:30 and we decided to try New York bagels, which are supposed to put Kentucky bagels to shame. Fresh Bagels right around the corner came highly recommended. We never could find it, so I eventually forced us to settle for Bagel City because I was tired of walking around. I got peanut butter and jelly on mine. Pretty good bagel, but I wouldn’t drive to NYC just for that.

After we had done all of the events, from the national television appearances, to the book signings at Barnes and Noble, I was exhausted, but felt like a real writer with real fans.  Some of my family watched one of the appearances.  A few of them still didn’t even know I had a book out.  A few people were even recognizing me on the street.  A couple of women even hit on me in clubs after they read about me in one of the little weekly newspapers they had sitting at the bar.  Although I told them I was a newlywed, I have to admit I enjoyed the attention, and the women were attractive.  “Come on, George, you’re far enough away from home,” one of them said.  Tempting, so tempting.  Taylor just looked at me and continued to get drunk off one beer.

It was almost time for us to go home, so we were rushing around trying to do everything we wanted to do. We shopped at American Apparel and bought some expensive things. I bought two shirts for Elizabeth and two for myself. I felt just a little out of place in the store until a patron asked me if I worked there. He obviously didn’t recognize me from TV.  We spent way too much on an expensive Italian lunch before taking our final subway ride, where we ran into Peter Pan.

We took the F train downtown to Brooklyn and thought we were doing okay until a man dressed like Peter Pan jumped on at one of the stops.  He calmly announced to be from the United States of America National Homeless Federation.

"$.25 to feed the homeless is all it takes," he said. The 20 people on our car were already starting to get a little tense. "A quarter from each of you is all it takes." Taylor pretended to sleep. "Come on, don't be shy," he said. I thought about joining him. "What's the matter?" He raised his voice with each stop the car made now. "Are you scared?!" Other people were pretending to sleep at this point. "You worthless fucks!" Now he was yelling in my ear. "One fucking quarter!" This went on for about five or six more stops – yelling in different people's ears. Finally, people had heard enough. They stood up and started throwing stuff at him. They screamed and cussed at him and this man, decked out in green tights, looked frightened himself. A bigger guy in the back of the car took charge and insulted Peter Pan: "Why don't you get a job, you piece of shit?" The man exited at the next stop. An old man, who sat quietly the whole time, jumped off and chased after him. I wonder sometimes if this old man is still alive today.

Just as I started wondering whether or not Elizabeth was enjoying any of the new fame and fortune, she called me out of nowhere to tell me that she had just bought a brand new $47,000 car. I took the news well. I was only sort of upset for a few minutes but then I remembered I had no reasons to be, especially since I kind of prodded her along by persuading her to quit her job and go wild. I was so happy to be leaving NYC after the Peter Pan experience that I couldn’t really be mad about anything. I wondered if Elizabeth somehow tapped into that when buying the car.

We got lost driving through the city again and it took us about two hours to get to the New Jersey Turnpike. My publisher got us back via phone again, and I was starting to feel like an idiot. He had to have been glad to get us out of the NYC area.  We hauled major ass on the way back and made excellent time. We slept a lot more on the way back. We got into Chicago around 9:30 the next morning, where Shawn was to meet up with us. I was excited, since I hadn’t seen him since leaving Kentucky.  There was a rumor that he might be bringing Elizabeth up with him, in her new brand new car.

***

Shawn and I had our first fight in Chicago, and yes, there was alcohol involved. That part comes much later, though.  Elizabeth did, in fact, take some time off from work and come up with Shawn to Chicago to see me.  She decided to leave her new car behind, though.  She was afraid she would wreck it in the busy Chicago traffic.  Shawn, also a writer, was performing with me and a few others at a show in the downtown area.  He also brought Drew along.

At the reading, I decided to read stuff from my book I knew would make people laugh.  Sometimes I try experiments – new stuff I’ve written that I want to try out to see how audiences will respond, but that night, I wanted this audience to love me and I wanted them to buy my book.  And it worked.  In the store, reading, looking out into their faces, hearing them laugh every two or three minutes at my material, I knew I had them.  After the reading, I talked to the people who bought my book while Elizabeth waited for me to get through.  She looked at other books on the shelves.  I enjoyed signing books for people, but really I just wanted to get it over with so that I could see her.  I was glad that we had a hotel room booked that night.

After the reading and signing, we all went back to someone’s apartment, a ritual I would learn is very common practice among writers.  We drank Old Style, the cheapest and best beer in Chicago. I drank more than anyone else. This ritual was common among our small circle, and just like back in Kentucky, everyone but me seemed to notice.  I was just having fun.  Someone told me I might want to take it easy since we had to get an early start the next morning. I was sitting in a recliner with a can of Old Style and vaguely remember saying, “Listen, there’s a difference between getting a little buzz and passing out drunk!” Just seconds later, I was passed out in the recliner.

When I woke up, I remember there being some dispute about who was going to drive us back to our fancy ass Hilton Hotel room, where all of us were staying, thanks to my publisher. Elizabeth later told me that I was being really loud during this dispute and that some of the downstairs neighbors came up to complain. I apparently looked at them and angrily shouted, “Hey, I’m pretty quiet!”

Elizabeth began telling me to clean up my act.  “This drinking is going to get you in trouble one day,” she said, as if she felt sorry for me.  I could tell she was not pleased.  She doesn’t drink and often becomes upset when I’ve had too much.  I often become upset when she becomes upset over my drinking.

“It’s not going to get me in trouble,” I calmly, but drunkenly, said, “so let me have a good time.”  As one might imagine, these exchanges can make for some bad times.  Perhaps this had something to do with the fight that ensued between Shawn and I.

Shawn thought he was the least drunk and decided to drive. I thought Taylor and Elizabeth were the least drunk since they didn’t have anything to drink the whole night. Drew probably shouldn’t have had anything to drink since he was a diabetic, but he didn’t give a fuck and got wasted.  He was underage and his mom always got in touch with us before trips to make sure her son would be well taken care of.  We always assured her that he would be.  If only she knew what really went on.

Shawn was up front, while Taylor, Drew, Elizabeth, and I were in the back.  I was drunkenly forceful and obnoxious about two things as we drove around Chicago in the middle of the night:  I knew the exact route from that apartment to our hotel and I wanted a hotdog. We never found a hotdog and we found the hotel some two hours later, no thanks to me constantly yelling out street names. I remember looking at some Internet directions earlier and I guess I was trying to remember those in order to get us back to the hotel. What happened, though, is that I sounded more like a drunken asshole shouting random directions. Harsh words like “fuck you motherfucker” soon came out of people’s mouths and we all ended the evening on bad terms, especially my best friend and me. I especially felt bad that Shawn and I had yelled at each other and didn’t even say goodbye to each other before going to our rooms. We slammed the car doors and got on different elevators as if to say one last fuck you. Drew was oblivious to it all, thinking it was our dry humor coming into play. In the midst of all of it, he asked Taylor, “So, hey, are they really fighting?” Taylor answered yeah, with sad eyes.

The first time I get to see my wife and my best friend after getting back from NYC, we all go to be pissed off.  No fucking way.  I wasn’t letting that happen.  After cleaning myself up in the bathroom, I walked from my room straight out into the hall. Elizabeth asked where I was going, but I didn’t respond.  I stormed down the ritzy hallway, bumping up against the nice wallpaper. I decided I was going to go talk to Shawn, even though I didn’t know his room number. It was either 2341 or 2431. I knocked on 2341, swaying back and forth while holding onto the doorframe. The door opened some two minutes later. Through my distorted vision, I saw that it was some old man in a hotel bathrobe. “What do you want?” he asked, squinting his old eyes. This was obviously not Shawn. I just walked away.

2431 wasn’t Shawn either, rather a newlywed couple who obviously wanted to be left alone. I granted their wish. I almost gave up and went back to my room, to sleep on it for the night. Then I saw a courtesy phone and decided to pick it up. Instead of dialing every room in the 4000-room hotel, I called the operator and asked if she could give me his room number. She told me she could not for security purposes, but that she could ring his room for me. That was good enough. I was drunk and crying, but managed to speak my peace and give an apology, which he accepted. I felt better about everything. I went back to my room. Elizabeth was sleeping, or pretending to sleep.  I went to the bathroom. When I came out, Shawn was visiting. We apologized again and gave each other a hug. In the hall, it was more of the same, just a little more private. I was happy with the way things turned out.

I still had to work things out with Elizabeth that night.  Make-up sex turned out to be the solution.  No one else got apologies. No one else got hugs. No one else got make-up sex.  More “fuck you motherfuckers” were coming, though, between Elizabeth and I.  As for me, it was off to Indianapolis for a book festival.  Only Drew agreed to go with me on this one.  Everyone else went back home, as if to say, “Just in case you get too drunk again.”

“See you later,” Taylor said, as he got in Shawn’s car.  “It’s been too much fun, really.”

“I’ll see you when you back home,” Shawn said.  I told them both goodbye and how much I appreciated them being there for me.  Then I hugged and kissed Elizabeth goodbye, wishing she could stay and drive down to the next show with me.  Then I remembered what they say about wishing.

***

I wanted Elizabeth to go to Indianapolis with Drew and I for a few reasons:  Indianapolis is only two hours away from home, I missed spending time with her, and I thought we ended things in Chicago on a bad note.  But she couldn’t go because she had to work. She always had to work. I kept trying to convince her to quit, but she just wouldn’t.  She didn’t feel secure enough to do that. She would say, “not yet.”

I was really hoping she’d get to see this one because it was looking to be a good show – the Midwest Literary Festival, in which I was a featured writer. I wanted her to be proud of me. Oh, well. Maybe next time. We got on the road about 11:30 AM. Drew sang the entire trip. He changed lyrics like "I want you to show me" to "I want you to blow me" in Foreigner’s "I Want To Know What Love Is."  He was a little less creative with other songs, like Rod Stewart’s "Maggie Mae."  Those lyrics became, “But you turned into a lover and bitch ass whore you really wore me out.”

We arrived in Indianapolis around 5:00 PM. The festival was paying for the hotel. When we checked in, the clerk told us that we would be sleeping on the 3rd floor. "I would expect nothing less," Drew commented. It was a nice room and even had a futon. Drew got the futon; I got the king-sized bed. There was no discussion about this and I simply placed my bags on the bed and rolled around on it for a few minutes, marking my territory, as if saying, "I'm here. This is mine."

We didn't have anything to do until 12:10 the next day. Neither one of us were quite sure why we decided to get there 20 hours early. I looked on Drew's laptop for a while and downloaded music. We played that Foreigner song over Taylor's voice-mail about seven times, each time with Drew’s “I Want You To Blow Me” addition. We were obviously making our own fun to pass the time away.

Drew suggested going to the liquor store. I decided against this, after visualizing myself hung over at the festival the next day, or perhaps hung over in my king-sized bed still, sleeping through the entire festival, and thus making the entire trip pointless. I have to say, some of this decision was Elizabeth’s voice still ringing in my ears.  “This drinking is going to get you in trouble one day.”  I don’t know if I believed it back then, but it was like she was there in the hotel room, watching my every move.  Besides, I wanted to make a killer impression the next day. I would eventually exercise much less self-control in my life.  Drew didn't know that I'd decided against the liquor store, though. I simply did not comment on it whenever he brought it up the rest of the trip. "Uh-huh," I said. Dissuading Drew from the alcohol made me feel a little more fatherly than I was comfortable with. I didn’t have a problem with him drinking; I just didn’t want to do it that night. In fact, I bought him a drink the first time we ever hung out back when he was 19.

We decided to go out and find the festival, so that we would have some basic idea of where to go. It was within walking distance to the hotel. When going to find it, we noticed a weird rattling sound coming from under the hood of my car. We dismissed it (or at least we said we did). The festival was shutting down for that day, but we still got an idea of what the next day would be like – the next day was my day there and I couldn’t wait. The festival was small, but giving it its best shot. There seemed to be an art festival going on in conjunction with the lit festival. Smooth.

We ate at this place called Cody's American, where Drew chose "Scorned Woman" from over 500 hot sauces for his chili. He almost shit a brick when he found out how hot it really was. Afterwards, we found this huge stuffed animal in a dumpster downtown. Drew demanded I stop and pick it up. "Pop the trunk," he said. He jumped out and scooped this large animal up. His joy-filled expression changed and his enthusiasm disappeared within the blink of an eye as he rushed it to the car. He threw it on the ground and said it smelled like cat piss. We drove off. The trunk was still popped.

Still bored as hell, we decided to see Napoleon Dynamite at the local theater. The show didn't start for over two hours, so it was more Internet and History Channel back at the hotel. We even watched a marathon of the Three Stooges at some point. "These fuckers are hilarious," Drew commented.

We went to see the movie and noticed that the car sounded worse. I realized that this noise wasn't going away any time soon and worried about the drive to Baltimore, my next stop on the tour, the next day. I started remembering where things like Jiffy-Lube and Valvoline were. We hinted around that maybe we'd run the car through one of those places before driving home tomorrow, as if it was really that simple.

Drew said that Napoleon Dynamite was like most films he had watched while high. "See, you had the same experience and it only set you back $6 instead of $40," I said. We left the theater and Drew decided to look under the hood of my car. He knew a little more about cars than me, but apparently not much. He didn't know what the problem was. He burped several times in the parking lot – really loud burps. People looked at us – one even pointed. We went back to the hotel and went to sleep.

The next morning we enjoyed free continental breakfast. Drew complained about the cereal and lack of good fruit. He burped a lot – really loud burps. All of the businessmen and businesswomen looked at us – no one pointed this time. Drew told me that when he and his friends get together out of town, they go to random hotels that offer free continental breakfasts and they steal the bagels – bags and bags of bagels. I ate a couple of pastries and we checked out. It was off to the festival.

There were problems as soon as we got there. The Literary Salon, which was my performing location, was moved from outdoors to indoors at the last minute. Not only was it moved, it was moved to the lobby of an upscale Indianapolis apartment complex. The show started at 12:30. We had no crowd until 12:40 or so. A local school superintendent talked to me about my book for a little while and then I read to the few people who showed up. Several tenants came down and talked to festival personnel. Like me, they were confused as to why I was reading in their lobby. They complained and we were asked to leave. Only the school superintendent bought my book, out of sympathy I think.

In my best Kentucky hillbilly voice, I’m sure, I mentioned to the festival people that my car was “making funny noises.” They promised to find me a good mechanic by the time my part in the festival was over. I sat at a table and sold no books for a few hours. The Meineke they suggested was closed on Sundays. Luckily, Merlin's Muffler was open! Drew and I explained the problem and they agreed to look into it at no charge! They found the problem and fixed it within an hour, again at no charge! Sitting in a fucking muffler shop while on a book tour was pretty messed up.  Drew suggested giving everyone in the shop some free books.  I wasn’t interested.  They didn’t look like the kind of guys who liked to read.

Most of the way down to Baltimore, we had no car problems. About an hour or two away, the same thing started to happen – that weird rattling – and now the "Low Engine Pressure Oil" light came on. We eventually made it to a Toyota and they replaced the engine for free. I had a 60,000-mile warranty and I got it in with 59,700 miles on it. I felt like a cheater, especially since I was now rich and could even prove it, with a new house and a brand new car back in Kentucky.

I didn’t make any direct money for books at this particular reading, like I did in Chicago.  Direct money is nice.  People give me and sometimes the bookstore a cut of the money right there on the spot when they buy books.  A lot of that money on this trip was going directly to bars or liquor stores when the smarter thing to do would have been to put it into a savings account or something like that.  I guess I was too blind to see it, though, since the money I was making from the publishing company was coming at me so fast and was spending it so freely, as well.  I wasn’t thinking too clearly about anything.  I was just constantly looking forward to the next show, especially Baltimore since Indianapolis had gone so bad.  I think those tenants would have paid me to leave Indianapolis.

Drew sang a lot on the way down to Baltimore, too. I took lots of pictures on this trip, but none at the festival. They were all of Drew:  Drew pumping gas (in sunglasses), Drew walking out of the Taco Bell (in sunglasses), Drew washing my windshield for a penny (in sunglasses).

***

Drew and I arrived in Baltimore and met up with Jordan for the Baltimore Book Festival.  Elizabeth couldn’t go on this trip because of work, like usual. I was starting to get used to it and it didn’t bother me as much as it did at the beginning of the tour. Did this mean that I wasn’t having fun with Elizabeth anymore? Did it mean that Elizabeth and I were becoming more distant? Did it mean that something was wrong with our relationship? Was everything okay at home? I don’t even think I was asking those kinds of questions at the time, but maybe I should have been. Maybe it was a sign of things to come. Even though this was a short book tour, the fact that I was gone from home so much so early on in the marriage seemed like an indication.  Did this mean that I was going to be the kind of husband who was never there for his wife? At that point in our relationship, at least, I wasn’t there, and it just seemed like I should have been.  It seems like she needed me.  But I had books to sell.  And liquor to drink.

Jordan and I would find ourselves on this trip – at the bottom of a bottle of Captain Morgan’s. Our first and only night at the hotel involved a clerk named Rose. She was cute. Brown hair, nice body. She looked older than me, even though she probably wasn’t. She looked 30, but she was probably only about 23.

Drew and Jordan kept going back in to ask her where we could buy some liquor in Baltimore that time of night. She showed some racism and told them that the 7/11 was a good place to get booze, “but watch out for all the blacks that hang around there.”  Drew went back to her three more times for extra towels, ice, and who knows what?

We went to the 7/11, but Rose's predictions were not accurate. I guess she was maybe thinking of another 7/11. There was just one white guy there and a white lady. We looked in the liquor section. A young guy picked up a bottle of Jagermeister. Jordan said, “Nice choice.”  The guy said nothing and hurried to check it out like it was some big secret we wanted in on. We finally decided on Captain Morgan’s, although we considered Vladimir Vodka all the way to check out because it was a disgraceful $4. On our way back to the hotel, we commented several times that we would never be able to finish the bottle of Captain’s we bought.

Once back, Drew went into the office yet another time to invite Rose to enjoy the Captain’s with us. Somehow or another, they would end up sharing a room and their own alcoholic beverages while Jordan and I were left alone to finish off the Captain’s by ourselves.  We would never fully understand how Drew lured such a lovely woman as Rose to sleep with him.

Meanwhile, Jordan and I watched a movie on the Disney Channel. A kids movie about Halloween. After several shots of Captain Morgan’s, the movie took on more of an adult theme. This theme manifested itself in a call Jordan made to several people on his cell phone. “A 14-year old boy is living with his 38-year-old girlfriend who is also his mother – their son is a mummy.”  The film, we decided, was called Get Down Tonight. No one believed us.

More phone conversations continued, as Jordan got drunker until he somehow broke his cell phone. As drunk as I was, I still knew better than to let him have mine. It was early – 11:30 – I stayed up and tried my best to record what had happened in writing.

Jordan sensed something was fucked up – he woke up and saw me writing. He gave me a dirty look, as if he knew I was writing about it and that I was somehow cheapening the experience by not simply passing out, reflecting on it, and writing about it later. The table I was writing on was sticky. I was a bit freaked out by this and I was reminded of the cheap Vegas hotel that Elizabeth and I stayed at. I wanted to miss Elizabeth, but I think I was too drunk. For some reason, Christmas in August came to mind and I pictured Michelle’s face.  I decided that she would be my only victim of drunk dialing that night.  She didn’t seem to mind at all.  On the phone that night, I convinced her to come along on the Bloomington part of the book tour.  I remember being really excited when she agreed to go.

News about Saddam Hussein and George Bush was on CSPAN. I’m in my mid 20s and I have journals at home that talk about “Hussein and Bush.”  The journals are from 1990 or so and I wrote them when I was in elementary school. Different Bush, same Hussein. “Is the world safer with Saddam Hussein out of power?” CSPAN asked. Jordan didn’t answer.

The next thing I knew, all of the Captain Morgan’s was gone. The heat was on full blast and the door was wide open, letting the cool air compete with the warm hotel heat. Jordan woke up every now and then, pulling the covers over his head, wondering how he heard the heater but felt so cold. He didn’t connect the deafening sound of the tractor-trailers going by on the Interstate to any of this. I remember waking up to see other people – guests, I suppose, looking inside of our room. I didn’t think about the fact that our wallets were sitting on the sticky table right beside the door all night. I closed it early in the morning.

Jordan went out for chips in the middle of the night and almost got hit by one of those trucks. Housekeeping arrived at 7 AM and I was up, doing fine, somehow. No trace of a hangover. Comparing me to Jordan, who lay there like a corpse, the housekeeper must have thought I killed him in the middle of the night after taking a hit of speed. I engaged her in nonstop conversation. How long had she worked there? How did she like it? Would she be going to the festival that day? What kind of stuff did she like to read? Jordan, severely hung over, dragged out of bed at 10 AM with my prompting. “Man,” he said, “How are you like this? You had more to drink than me?”

“I don’t know," I said, "I don’t feel any of it!” If we had chosen Jager, we would have slept through the festival. We would still be sleeping to this very day. It would have killed us. I drank seven Mountain Dews and I think that’s what saved me. Jordan was disturbed to learn that housekeeping took everything, even his beloved Captain Morgan’s bottle – the true symbol of a lost night.

Jordan and I were ready for the festival and called over to Drew’s room to ask if he was ready.  “No fucking way, man,” he said.  “I’m having too much fun.”  We left Drew at the hotel and figured we see him later that night when we got back after a long day of selling books and hosting seminars.

The festival was pretty lame.  It was mostly old people, although I made out pretty well in the bookselling area and did some promotional spots for local TV stations.  It was a long day, though, and we were glad to see Drew at the end of it.  By the time we got back, Rose had left hours ago.  They would never see each other again and it turned out that Drew wanted it that way.  I think they had some kind of falling out.

We weren’t planning to stay up late – that formula always spells disaster, but we were invested this time, in the same thing. We had to be up for a class in which we were guest speaking at 9:00 the next morning before the last day of the festival began.

Drew had vodka at the hotel room this time, but nothing to mix it with, so Jordan and I stopped by and picked something up. Instead of regular Sprite, it was Aruba Jam Sprite. We all seemed to enjoy the Aruba Jam and vodka mix. I even noted aloud that, “Man, you can’t really taste the vodka at all.”  We didn’t really see the danger in that statement right away. Before we knew it, Jordan was running around hugging us and saying stuff like, “I’m really glad we’re all friends!”

After the Aruba Jam was gone, Drew started to chill the WV shot glasses he had bought somewhere that day as souvenirs. That’s really the point of the evening I remember thinking to myself, We may not be guest speaking after all tomorrow. I also remember thinking, But that’s okay. After the shot glasses had a few minutes to get frosty, vodka shots were handed out among the three of us. As we toasted, I examined our biographies:  A single Kentucky writing student named Jordan, 22; A single Kentucky writing student named Drew, 19; A married Kentucky best-selling author named George, 25. Whatever we ended up toasting to, I really toasted to the biographies. I toasted to them at least three more times in the next ten minutes with Jordan and Drew.

Drew wanted to talk about writing and I was getting drunker and drunker. I just nodded my head a lot and watched a really bad episode of Saturday Night Live. He told me that my book meant something, and that in turn meant something to me. He said he had read other books by other local writers, but he didn’t want to write a book himself until he read mine. I was moved and wanted to talk more, but I didn’t want to throw up on someone I had motivated so much. I promised myself that I’d call him next week after we had slept this night off and we would talk about writing then. I never followed through.

At some point, I was starting to sober up a bit and I started putting Drew’s stuff outside his door. Little things like socks and underwear. Just to see what would happen. Nothing did. No one noticed. Jordan was pretty drunk and wanted to start drinking water, but it was too late for all that. I went to the bathroom and was gone for maybe two minutes. When I came out, it was like a nuclear explosion happened. The TV was off, the room was dark, and everyone was passed out. Jordan had vomited all over himself, too. I woke Drew up and asked if he was okay.  He told me he was, but needed some insulin to keep his blood sugar up or something.

“Is Jordan okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “because he’s covered in his own vomit?”

I think Drew started puking after he said that. Jordan would sleep in that sticky, vomit-covered t-shirt for at least two more hours, as we had to be up by 8:00 and it was now 6:00.

8:00 came too early. I got Jordan one of my shirts and he would have to guest speak in that as he threw up all over the rest of his clothes at some point in the wee hours of the morning. The last time Jordan wore one of my shirts he tripped over a tree stump in front of my neighbors. Anyway, I didn’t want to cancel the guest speaking because I actually didn’t feel as messed up as I thought I would. Jordan, I’m sure, felt pretty much like I should have. As soon as we walked outside, the lady in the next room was outside and said, “Beautiful morning isn’t it?” Jordan’s shirt just barely covered the vomit that made its way onto his shorts. It was good enough, though. We guest spoke and pulled it off, although he did pass out in the car during the first fifteen minutes of class and I had to go down and rescue him.  I hoped my eyes weren’t too bloodshot for the interview I had scheduled with Channel 9 News before we headed to Bloomington.

Chapter 4: In the Cold November Rain

The last stop on the book tour was Bloomington, Indiana to read at a place called Boxed Up Books, where I had read before. Elizabeth was working all weekend, so she would not be able to go along. I had come to understand that she would probably not be going to any future readings with us, unless they were local ones. The renewed interest that Elizabeth found in my work once it took off seemed to be dying, even halfway during this short tour.

Dennis met up with us halfway between Baltimore and Bloomington. I don’t remember where I met Dennis, but I’m sure it was through Michelle and Paul, as he was pretty good friends with them at that time. Dennis told me he invited quite a few people to the Bloomington reading because he used to live there and knew a lot of people. I was pleased to hear these things.  Dennis liked to talk like Arnold Schwarzenegger at really inopportune times, like during job interviews.

I had known Michelle for what seemed like years but really it had only been a little over one year. We always disagreed when trying to figure it out. She and I had been through a lot with the progressive dinner and Christmas in August and felt like we were getting to know each other pretty well.  She wrote stories, too, and was going on the trip with us to read one of them at the bookstore with Jordan and me.

Michelle had always been one of my favorite people to hang around because it seemed like she thought I was the funniest person in the world. We literally laughed for five minutes straight at a party once. I was drunk and she may have been, too. Someone was telling a story and we laughed at the wrong parts. Our laughter, which was never subtle, interrupted the entire party and for about five minutes we were in our own little world of laughter where nothing else mattered. We became laughter for those five minutes.

Jordan, Dennis, Michelle, and myself departed from a roadside diner somewhere between Baltimore and Indiana after a quick bite.  The best part of this road trip was all of the really elaborate my friends and fellow performers would have to make in order to meet.  We once drove five hours to pick someone up to watch me read and because of traffic, I ended up missing my own reading and signing.

Like Elizabeth, Paul didn’t want to go on this trip. I don’t remember why, but I remember thinking that Michelle and I had even more in common than I originally thought. Maybe I was reading too much into it, but that’s how I read it.

Dennis, I think, wanted to drive his brand new SUV because he was afraid to leave it at the diner, but Michelle had told me that Dennis wasn’t the best driver. He had totaled a jeep before. His jeep’s name was Gunther. I made it clear that I wanted to be the driver on this trip and after a few minutes of awkward silence and silly excuses, we decided that made the most sense. He ended up parking it way out at some abandoned business.

The drive up was fun. We listened to Bob Dylan, Neil Young, and CCR – all of my favorites. Michelle and Dennis were in a band together, so they were big music fans. Michelle and I even shared a taste for oldies and Christmas music. We listened to one of Dennis’ CDs that featured his version of Britney Spears’ "Toxic."  Dennis talked on the phone the entire trip. He got in touch with long-lost friends in Bloomington and invited them to the show. We rarely got to talk to Dennis and I joked that we’d need to call his cell phone if we really wanted to. He found out there was a Thanksgiving party somewhere that night and added our names to the guest list. “Some guy’s gonna drink 37 beers at this party tonight,” Dennis said.

“Is that guy me?” I asked.

Michelle rode up-front with me and we did most of the talking – music, writing, and all of the other things we had in common. There was a lot of laughter in the front seat of my car that day.

We arrived in Bloomington ahead of schedule and I was pleased with the way things were going. We had about an hour until the reading. Dennis told me to go to the Indiana University dorms to pick up someone named Heather. I never really found out how he knew Heather. We drove around for about thirty minutes looking for her. Even though Dennis and Heather were talking to each other on the phone while we were looking for her, the dorm system at I.U. was apparently so complicated that none of us could locate her.

The sun had just gone down and I was becoming a little concerned that we were going to cut it too close. I just started driving in circles at high rates of speed in an effort to piss Dennis off and to perhaps focus him on finding Heather. I rolled the windows down and asked random female students standing outside if they were Heather. They were not and they did not like me. I also asked two guys.

We eventually located Heather, somehow. She wasn’t what I expected. She looked like she was about sixteen and when she opened her mouth a whole bunch of nothing came out, disguised as a weird mixture of sorority girl attitude and nymphomania.

We quickly found the bookstore and Dennis asked us where we were going to eat. My watch said the reading started in 20 minutes and Dennis was disappointed to hear that we’d have to eat after the reading.

Heather asked us how old we were. Jordan was 21, Dennis was 21, Michelle was 25, I was 25, and Heather was 18. She was later heard on her cell phone, which was permanently attached to her right hand, saying that she was “hanging out with a bunch of old people.”  She looked young and acted even younger, but I still thought she was older than 18. The acne on her forehead should have given me a clue. Holy shit, it’s her first semester in college, I thought to myself. All she talked about was making out with people and smoking weed, a lot of which (if not all of it) I thought was bullshit. I would come to find out it was not.

We went inside and squared things up with the bookstore owner, whose house we were staying at that night. She was a short little woman with short hair and was really hard to read. She appeared pretty disinterested in everything, but I don’t think she really was. She organized these shows and she had a fairly popular bookstore, so she must have just been hard to read.

All of us went in the back to a little lounge area and quickly started to refer to this place as the green room, or backstage. We all sat backstage and tried to organize the show that would be starting in less than five minutes, all the while listening to Heather talk about how high she was an hour ago and asking us if we were all virgins, my wedding ring clearly visible on my left hand. “Yes, my wife and I are saving it for our 50th wedding anniversary,” I said. Heather called me a smartass and kept on asking us. Michelle said, "I have a kid!" as if to make Heather look more ridiculous.

Once the order of readers was assigned and the intros were written for Dennis, who would be hosting the event at the owner’s request, we went out into the main area and got started. My first thought was, Wow! There are a shitload of people at the store, all waiting to hear us read, and it was a good feeling.

We all quickly discovered that Dennis had no material planned and had to recite song lyrics from memory. This was the biggest disappointment of the night – however, the night was young – there would be bigger disappointments. The rest of us were prepared and kicked ass on stage, “on stage” being out in the middle of the bookstore. Dennis’ phone rang in the middle of Jordan’s reading. The clerk at the counter asked Dennis if his custom ring was an Alanis Morrisette song – during Jordan’s reading. He said yes and Jordan was eventually allowed to continue reading. All in all, it was the best performance we’d done as a group, except Dennis’ song lyrics and cell phone interruptions. After the show, I got directions to the bookstore owner’s house so that we could crash there at the end of the night.

At this point, things were going well and I sensed that we’d be celebrating. The bookstore owner told me she worked the 10PM-5AM shift at a local pizza joint and bar for extra cash. She said she could give us a good deal if we went there that night. She also told me that her house was unlocked 24/7. Why it was this way, I had no idea. She had two roommates, but they were both out of town, so we’d have the house all to ourselves until she got home around 5 in the morning. This was good news. No pressure.

When I got outside, the others were talking. I began to tell them about this good deal at the pizza restaurant, but I never finished. Heather told us all that we were going to the a place called Mother Bear’s, ignoring my suggestion. Michelle sensed my frustration and asked for more details about the pizza. I gave in to Heather, like a dad letting his know-it-all daughter have her way because it’s not worth all the effort to argue and prove points. Dennis also reminded us that we needed to head out to the Thanksgiving party immediately after dinner.

We arrived at Mother Bear’s. Heather told us more stories about being naked a lot the night before and making out with a strange girl in another house. She asked me questions she thought would make me uncomfortable. “So I was kissing a girl last night and let her put her fingers in me,” she said in her best 18-year-old little girl voice. “Do you think that’s hot?” she asked. I no longer feel uncomfortable with such questions because my sarcasm, drunkenness, and humor can defeat the uncomfortable feelings that are subtly bubbling underneath.

“Yeah, I like girls,” I said, pulling a strand of her brown hair back around her ear, “I think girls are hot.”  I was hoping she would take the hair positioning and the way I said my comments as a come-on, even though they weren’t.  If she thought I was old, surely she would leave me alone.  I could just hear her back on her cell phone: “One of those old guys is flirting with me!”

I got up to go to the bathroom and Heather followed. Elizabeth called me on my cell phone right as Heather bent over and told me to look at her ass. “Not bad,” I said. I don’t think the fake come-on worked, I thought, in fact it may have backfired.  I just let the phone ring. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to talk to my wife right after giving some girl my honest opinion of her ass.

Once the others got there we moved to a bigger table. Michelle and I sat together this time. Heather continued to throw herself at various guys and girls in the group. Dennis and I began drinking. We started with a pitcher of Bud Light. That pitcher became two pitchers fairly quickly. We ate and I was feeling pretty drunk. I was having a good time and making people laugh – trying my best to make Michelle laugh and genuinely succeeding.

Rumors that fights were going on outside prompted me to get up and see what was happening. I walked outside and asked, “Who is fighting?” People were just hanging out. They looked up at me and said everything was okay. I raised my glass of beer and said, “Cool, man, I have to ask – I’m the bouncer.”  I was wearing black jeans and a button-down dress shirt and I didn’t look like any bouncer.

I went back out a second time to find another group of people, who actually looked like they were fighting. I asked the same question, but this time, in raising my glass, it slipped out of my hand and flew across the parking lot. I’m sure those people thought I threw it at them in a violent attempt to break up a nonexistent fight. They took off running. I asked Heather if she could please not tell anyone inside about my unfortunate and embarrassing accident. She promised not to and we moved back inside.

“Hey you guys, he just threw a beer at some people outside!”

“That’s not exactly what I meant by keeping it our little secret, Heather.”

We stayed there a little bit longer and as the designated driver, I supposedly sobered up. The check came and the bill was around $170. For some reason, I decided to put it all on my credit card and then people started throwing 20s and 10s and 5s at me. I guess they expected change, but they never got any. I ended up making about $30 by paying with my card that night.

Dennis directed me back to the dorms where we picked up another 18-year-old girl. This one was afraid to be driving with someone who appeared to be drunk. Everyone tried to put her mind at ease by saying things like, “He’s always like this.”  We spent about thirty minutes trying to find a liquor store, which I’m sure made our new 18-year-old passenger feel even better.

We needed booze for the Thanksgiving party. The liquor store we were looking for was called The Big Red. Dennis drunkenly called it The Big Store. Jordan and I picked up some vanilla rum and Jagermeister. Michelle got some beer.

I sat in the parking lot and waited for Jordan to get back from the nearby grocery store. He had to pick up some Coke (the liquor store didn’t have any). Meanwhile, Michelle came up to my car and we talked for a minute. Elizabeth tried calling back, but again, I just let it ring, as I was right in the middle of a conversation with Michelle. I asked Michelle if she was mad at me for any reason. I told her it just seemed like she was. I feared that she was maybe disappointed in me for driving drunk. She said she wasn’t and asked me if I was mad at her. I said no and we laughed a little, playfully nudging each other’s arms. It was here, I think, that I started to see our relationship in somewhat of a different way.

I felt things before. When I stared, I was feeling things. I always thought she was attractive, ever since the first time I met her, but whenever I would think about it, I would remind myself that she was with someone and I was with someone and that would be that. Now we were making sure we weren’t mad at each other for various reasons. That seemed strange to me. We were being playful. That seemed really strange.

***

We were on our way to the party, which turned out to be at this nice apartment complex. There was a situation with the parking: only residents could park there and the visitor spots were all filled. We walked inside to find a bunch of people sitting on the living room floor; others were drinking in the kitchen. I asked if there was anything we could do about my car to prevent it from being towed away. Another guy from Kentucky had the same problem. They said there was “a secret visitor’s spot” or something and that one of us could have that; the other poor sap would have to park across the street at the Ramada, which never towed. I knew right then that I was going to be the poor sap and that the other Kentuckian would be the lucky bastard who didn’t have to worry about getting towed away. I complained to Jordan about this as we drove across the street to the hotel.

Once we were back at the party, we quickly delved into the rum and Coke. When Michelle got low, I poured her some more – some more rum, no more Coke. She happily drank it. I spilled some of it on her shirt and by the end of the night she couldn’t stand the smell of it. While I was in the bathroom, Jordan apparently removed his shirt and there was some kind of trade between him and Michelle.

I got drunk – but not like the other 500 times in my life by this point – in Bloomington that night, I got very, very drunk. At some point in the evening, we all made extremely lewd comments and had a good time with them. Jordan’s thumb started bleeding for some reason and he asked for a band-aid. “I don’t wanna get the AIDS,” he said.

“You’ll be fine,” Michelle said, “just don’t stick your thumb up George’s butt.”  I laughed but later wondered why.

There were more parties going on at other apartments in the complex, such is life as an I.U. student apparently. I ran from one party to the other, vanilla rum in one hand, raspberry vodka in the other. It was muddy in the yard as I ran from house to house. My shoes and pants were getting muddier and muddier as the rain continued to pour down upon me. I could barely feel the cold November air because of the amount of alcohol I had forced into my system. I was on fire that night and numb, out of control.

After a little while, I started sleeping in bathrooms because I was feeling sick. After throwing up or just sleeping in one bathroom in one apartment, I ran to another one. Michelle and Jordan were outside waiting on me at each one. None of us knew what was going on.

As I lay in the bathroom, I thought anything could happen. Absolutely anything tonight. I wasn’t scared or nervous or excited. I just remember acknowledging that. I had no idea just what was coming.  It’s funny how much this tour was like a rock star’s tour.  It’s also funny how writers are expected to stray from behaviors like these, whereas musicians are almost expected to indulge.  I hate double standards.

At the next party, someone told me a drunken naked girl was making out with a guy upstairs and was throwing up in the bathroom. “Say no more,” I said, as I rushed upstairs to check it out.

I ran upstairs to see the drunken girl throwing up in the toilet. She was completely naked. A younger guy was sitting on the floor beside her, rubbing her leg as she puked. The girl wiped her mouth and looked up, revealing herself to be Heather, asking me, “Like what you see?”

Drunk out of my mind, the only thing I could think to do was to salute her – so that’s what I did – I saluted Heather, and closed the door, but decided to crack it and continue watching. The other Kentuckian caught me in the act, but I was way too drunk to be embarrassed. She eventually dressed and came out. The boy remained inside, cleaning up after her, or perhaps making his own mess.  She unzipped her pants and showed me her thong, giggling like a little girl, not even remembering that I just saw her entire naked body not five minutes ago. Once we were alone in a bedroom, she threw me down on the bed and jumped on top of me. Anything could happen tonight, right? Well, it didn’t.

“Heather, I can’t –”

“Come on, no one has to know!”

“Yeah, well –”

A strange woman walked in on us during this exchange and told us that we needed to leave. “I’m just checking my e-mail,” I blurted out.  I noticed Jordan behind her. He saw us in bed together in a truly “this isn’t what it looks like” situation. Michelle, downstairs, quickly heard that “your friend with the button-down shirt is making out with the drunken naked girl.”

“But he’s married,” Michelle supposedly said. She knew I wouldn’t cheat on Elizabeth, didn’t she? Didn’t she believe in me more than that? I honestly didn’t know why I was asking myself these questions about Michelle, but I remember feeling really confused and really drunk.

I really tried to check my e-mail, several times that night on several different computers in several different bedrooms in several different houses. I pulled someone’s keyboard completely out of their computer at some point and sat in an invisible chair. I rolled around on the floor and continued to type for a few seconds before I realized what had happened.

It was onto another house and another party. Jordan was walking down the stairs with me and I tried to pull a floor lamp down those stairs. “Hey man, that lamp costs money,” some rich frat boy said.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You got a problem or something?”

“I don’t, do you?”

Jordan tried to get me out of a fight as he walked me downstairs. Even though I was mouthing off and would have fought the guy, I envisioned seven of his football-playing friends kicking the shit out of me at the end of the night. At the next house, I went upstairs to another bathroom and locked the door. No more throwing up, just a lot of rest. The toilet also started overflowing.  I emerged some time later and found Michelle and Jordan standing outside. I locked the door behind me so that no one would find the overflowing toilet and think I had something to do with it, which I might have.  I flopped down on the bed and Michelle lay beside me. I don’t remember what, if anything, we talked about. All I remember is that it felt good – and bad at the same time – and how I wouldn’t mind lying beside her some more.

We all went outside and I sat in a lawn chair. As soon as I did, my ass got soaked, but my facial expression didn’t let on that I had fucked up. Jordan told me the chairs were filled with water. “You think I don’t know that?” I asked with a lot of sarcasm. Michelle stood beside me for a minute. I looked up at her, with the big moon in the black background, and said something I don’t remember anymore. I got up, trying not to shiver with a wet ass.

I looked at Heather, sitting on the lap of a young frat boy. Apparently it was his first time getting drunk. She was kissing him. I leaned into them and asked them questions I can’t remember. I touched Heather’s shoulder and maybe tried to take a bra strap down. That may actually just have been daydreaming. I don’t know. The rumors were circulating about Heather and I already, so I can’t imagine what must have went around if I had in fact reached a hand up one of her sleeves. But it didn’t matter what anyone thought except Jordan and Michelle – and I knew they knew that I wouldn’t cheat on Elizabeth.

After a while I was back in a bathroom. This time Jordan or Michelle knocked on the door and told me to “move my ass because the cops were on the way.”  You’ve never seen a drunken motherfucker clean his act up so fast. We all went out to the parking lot. I heard that that other Kentuckian had disappeared with Heather and her 18-year-old friend. We would hear days later that he made out with them both that night at the same time. Michelle and Jordan remembered that my car was over at the Ramada and “no one feels comfortable to drive.”  I was later told that it wasn’t that at all. It was actually my refusal to hand over my keys. I felt another puke coming on so I walked over behind a car. Michelle followed me but I told her “not now.”  I think she knew what I meant. I didn’t throw up though. I just sat there with my head in my hands wondering what in the flying fuck just happened. Did I really just rub all over some 18-year-old girl’s shoulders or did I just want to? What’s happening between Michelle and me? Why haven’t I talked to my wife tonight? What the hell is going on with me?

I found myself in a Steak N' Shake bathroom trying to sober up five minutes later. Jordan knocked on the door and told me a cab was there for us. I walked out, gave them the bookstore owner’s address from my shirt pocket, and blacked out for a minute. I remember waking up to hear the cab driver ask us if we were “on our way to a party.”  I thought to myself, God I hope not. I just want to sleep. I just want to feel not sick. I may have thought that aloud.

***

We got to the bookstore owner’s house and headed straight to the bathroom, where I slept on the floor for a long time. When I came out, I saw that Jordan and Michelle apparently ordered a pizza. I also later found out that Jordan’s shirt came off again and he showed Michelle his tattoos.

Somehow, all three of us ended up in bed together. My pants were still soaked from the lawn chair incident. I refused to sleep in wet pants so I disrobed. I took everything off, warning Michelle and Jordan first. They did not object. I climbed into bed with Michelle, who somehow ended up in between Jordan and I.

It was a small bed. I honestly wasn’t thinking about sex, much. Jordan told Michelle to scoot over because he didn’t have any room. I’m sure Michelle and I were both thinking that if she scooted over any more, she would be on top of me. We woke up at various times throughout the night and laughed and joked. The novelty of my nudity never wore off. I got up in the middle of the night, still naked. I stood in front of Michelle and Jordan, in the moonlight, daring them to wake up and look at me. They didn’t, not that I could tell anyway.

I wandered out to the living room, on my way to the bathroom, feeling comfortable, as I knew we were alone in the house. As I passed the couch, the bookstore owner looked up at me from it. She was lying down and looked startled to see my naked body.  She quickly closed her eyes again as though she were asleep. I realized it was now the next morning and she had gotten home from work. I guess I just lost track of time. She was sleeping on the couch because we were in her bed, not a roommate’s.

I wasn’t worried about burning bridges with this woman. The weekend was so memorable that her being angry with me was worth it. I went back to bed, passing the bookstore owner, this time with a towel wrapped around my lower torso. She kept her eyes closed this time. I climbed back into bed and stayed awake for a while, still feeling really dizzy. I looked at Michelle, mouth open a little, arm stretched over her head, still wearing Jordan’s white undershirt – just sleeping, looking pretty. I still hadn’t spoken to Elizabeth.

Michelle tossed and turned a lot. The first time I rolled over, she said, “Watch that knee there, buddy.”  I asked her if she was still wearing her socks. She said she was. She rolled over, I rolled over, our asses pressed against each other – yet still not too many sexual feelings that I can remember, but I was feeling something else. I just didn’t know what.

We woke up hours later to the sound of a strange phone. It rang for a long time. I didn’t recognize the ringer. I knew it wasn’t my phone – I didn’t even know where my phone was. I didn’t know where my wallet was, my keys, or even my clothes. Michelle jumped up and started talking to someone. It was Dennis. I had forgotten about him, assuming he stayed with some of his Bloomington friends. I was right. Michelle asked if he could pick us up and take us to my car at the Ramada. I got up and looked at her. I remember thinking how beautiful she was in the morning, as she stretched her body in the sunlight beaming through the windows.

After the phone call, everyone was awake. It was my phone, after all. Someone had changed the ringer at some point. My pants were still wet, Michelle told me. We recounted things from last night in bed and laughed a lot. I said my ass was cold because it was pressed up against the window. Michelle said she covered it up for me. She also told me she misplaced her bra. I joked that I was lying on it. She doubted it at first, but had me check. It later showed up on the kitchen table. I can only imagine what the bookstore owner thought as she saw us in bed together and found a stranger’s bra on her kitchen table. We would never know. She stayed on the couch with the covers pulled over her head.

Michelle and Jordan told me that some guy walked in last night and said he heard yelling and asked if we needed anything. Michelle was too drunk to respond, but Jordan said no, right after I yelled “Son of a bitch” from the bathroom. I guess I slipped and fell or something. I also just then remembered hearing someone walk upstairs. I then walked into the living room and asked, “Is there anyone up there?” in my loudest voice, in my drunkest state, several times.

The next morning, I faced the music and put my wet pants back on. Dennis was on his way to pick us up. I walked outside and stood on the porch. Nice house. Big stairs leading up to the porch in a nice little neighborhood. I went back in and Michelle and I shared some Diet Coke out of a two-liter. We passed a guy sitting at the table and said hello. He said hello back but started to say something else. He didn’t though and we walked outside to wait on Dennis. We all left the bookstore owner individual thank-you notes on the top of the pizza box ordered a few hours earlier. Looking back, I guess it was a little rude that we didn’t throw the pizza box away. “Thanks for letting us crash here,” I wrote, “sorry if we were too loud.”  I didn’t think to apologize for my nudity. Michelle and Jordan wrote similar messages. We left a weird note from Shawn, as well, who didn’t even go on the trip.

Standing outside, that strange guy from inside came out and said, “Just so you know, you all were the most disrespectful houseguests I’ve ever seen.”  I guess he had to work up his courage or something. I laughed at first, thinking he was joking.

Once I realized the pretentious little prick had probably never joked about anything in his life, I said, “Oh, sorry about that.”

“You should take that into consideration the next time you stay at somebody’s house.”  I told him we’d do that. We stood around on the porch talking about what a bitch that guy was and how we weren’t that rude, considering we were told we would be alone in the house. I expected an e-mail from the bookstore owner about that whole thing later, but one never came. I sent her an apology almost a year later and she accepted it. Better late than never.

Dennis picked us up eventually, after it seemed like hours – probably just because the cool air made my ass even colder with the wet pants on. He had one of his friends with him and we all went to get my car – I figured it would have been towed, but it was there, in all its 2002 Corolla glory.

After I changed clothes, we went to the Waffle House for breakfast, where we told more stories about the night before. I realized there that my ultimate goal, regardless of anything else in life, is to make people laugh. I also found out that when Michelle was in the group, making her laugh was my top priority.

***

We got back on the road and Dennis agreed to drive, as he was the least hung over.  I remembered his driving record, but decided to chance it.  He immediately took us the wrong way. We were supposed to be on an Interstate 37, but instead were on Business 37. “You don’t want to be on the business end of a 37,” Michelle joked. I told Dennis if we were driving around in circles I was going to kill him. Finally, we managed to get to where we needed to be.

But then, the unthinkable happened: Michelle got a headache. I was worried about her and wanted her to get better. I actually felt bad because she felt bad. That was the first time I knew for sure I was feeling something dangerous, that something dangerous could happen.

I feel bad for my friends when they’re feeling bad, but this was different and I couldn’t describe it and that was somewhat terrifying. We listened to a mix tape called “JAM” she got me at a party once. Bad George Thorogood and Rod Stewart songs. Lyrics like “Fryers, Broilers, Detroit Barbeque Ribs.”  A bluegrass cover of "Honky Tonk Women" by The Rolling Stones. We laughed at those songs, but I was concerned about Michelle. She eventually felt better after she took some Aspirin at a convenience store.

The drive went by quickly and I realized the tour was almost over. Michelle commented that “we had Bloomington by the balls and we weren’t letting go.”  She was right.

“Bloomington was the first night we slept together,” I joked. We would come to learn that it was actually no laughing matter.

Chapter 5:  Under My Skin

Once we got back to my place, we sat around and reflected some more. Elizabeth was at work, so we all had the new house to ourselves and our reflections. Michelle stretched out on the couch, her stomach showing, looking cute. I realized I was looking again like I looked at her in bed the night before. I knew I would continue to think about her. After everyone left, I was right. I thought and then I thought some more. I thought in bed that night with my wife, who actually seemed okay with the fact that I slept next to a woman while naked just the night before. Even though I presented it as a big joke, or something that happens when you’re on the road as if I’m in a rock band, it still made my ears perk up.  For the first time, that made me start to question the condition of our marriage. Michelle left the bed part out of her summary of events when reporting to Paul. I told my wife because I can’t keep any secrets from her. “Honesty is the best policy” is not just a cliché. However, I would later be caught not following my own advice.

A part of me, I’m convinced, stayed in Bloomington. I don’t know if I lost it in the raspberry vodka, in Heather’s thong, in one of those bathrooms, or under the sheets with Michelle that night. But I lost it. And I’ve never found it.

One of my friends was talking about love once and how he couldn’t wait to be married. He said when you’re married you don’t have to worry about love because you’ve found it. Nothing is complicated. People aren’t confused about what they want in their relationship. I agreed with him back then. I know now that my friend was completely wrong about everything he said that night and I was wrong in agreeing with him. Things are complicated. Nothing is guaranteed. There are no absolutes.

Upon returning home from Bloomington, I discovered that I wasn’t too happy at home anymore. I seemed to only be happy around Michelle. We laughed, we talked, and she made me feel special. I hoped I made her feel special, too.  I needed some help, and besides turning to the bottle, I eventually turned to my friends.

A week after Bloomington, I was keeping a big secret from everyone – I wanted to be with Michelle. I didn’t know how that was possible or what was going to happen, but what made it all more complicated, was that I was almost positive Michelle felt the same way about me. I planned to let Michelle know how I felt as soon as I worked up enough courage – or stupidity, depending on how you look at it.

The first week after getting back from Bloomington, Michelle and I had been e-mailing one another a lot and meeting for lunch. Michelle would talk to me about her son a lot, but I rarely saw him. He was always in school while we were out at lunch. She would tell me about the things he had done and I could tell she was really proud of him. It was becoming less easy for me to forget that she had a son. In fact, it was impossible for me to forget. Because of what I was feeling, that was a little scary.

Of course, we would mostly talk about Bloomington and do what we did best – laugh. I had wanted to tell her that I was feeling differently about her, but I was nervous about it, and with good reason. I’m a married man. She’s been in a committed relationship for years. I don’t even know if she feels the same way about me. But I think she does because of how well we’ve been getting along.

I would often come back around to the fact that it didn’t really matter how well we were getting along – I would think rationally – we were with other people. I also looked ahead to the future and saw disaster at certain times. I remember walking around my big office in my new house, right before meeting Michelle for lunch, and looking ahead a month or so into the future. What if I make the wrong decision? What if I screw everything up at home? What if I lose Elizabeth forever? Then I would see Michelle’s smile. I would hear her laugh. I would smell her perfume. I would think about her lips. And I wouldn’t cancel our lunch.

After spending so much time with another woman during that week after Bloomington, I was obviously unresponsive at home. Elizabeth worked and I wrote constantly.  When we were at home, we didn’t have much to say to each other. The new issues going on with me – and the things I thought were wrong in our relationship – created an even larger gap in our marriage. We were officially on the rocks, as far as I was concerned.

Dennis, Jordan, Michelle, and I went out for a night on the town one night. Dennis and Jordan became spectators, watching Michelle and I flirt heavily. We even danced together to Frank Sinatra’s “Under My Skin” at The Back Door. Holding each other that close just confirmed the obvious – that I was falling in love again. She hugged me at the end of one dance and I’ll never forget how special I felt at that moment, even though I’d later learn that Michelle didn’t even remember doing it because she was so drunk.

Jordan joked to a drunken Dennis, “I think George has an Elizabeth/Michelle fantasy.”  Drunk, I agreed with him. Michelle and I began making some pretty dirty little jokes in front of Dennis and Jordan. “Wear your best dress when we go out next time,” I said, “you’re gonna be coming out of it.”  As we danced, we got the feeling that we were neglecting Dennis and Jordan, who began asking each other questions like, “So what classes are you taking at the university this semester?”

Michelle and I talked every single day after Bloomington. We sent a record 32 e-mails to each other in one day. The e-mails were full of sexual innuendo, general flirting, and inside jokes. We talked about how excited we were about me tutoring her in English. Studying almost seemed like more of an excuse to see each other, but at the same time, I cared about her and felt like I could actually help her. In return, she agreed to buy me dinner. Then we were off for drinks, where I would reveal the big secret, where I would tell her what had been bothering me ever since we got back from Bloomington.

We wanted to know juicy things about each other, but we were too afraid or too shy to just come out and ask. Instead we took a 100-question quiz that asked about threesomes, marijuana, infidelity, and all the other dirty little things we wanted to know. We have both had a threesome (although she suspected I was copping out by using the Bloomington experience as my threesome, which doesn’t count). I have put the moves on a friend’s significant other. I love to shop.

As it turned out, we decided to meet up earlier. We went to Denny’s for an early dinner the night before. A spur of the moment thing entirely. We sat in Denny’s and I twisted my wedding ring a little bit. More flirting, more funny discussions about the things that went on in Bloomington. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but I couldn’t. She knew I had something on my mind, but I told her I wasn’t ready to talk about it until the next night. Then I told her I was hanging out with Jordan at The Back Door in just a few hours and that she should come along.

She did. Paul and Elizabeth had all but disappeared from the picture. They were always busy and we were too – with each other – it seemed like. Michelle showed up while I was getting a drink at the bar. Michelle looked amazing that night. She had a skirt on and for the first time I noticed how I might die if I ever got to touch her legs.

I walked over and sat next to her. Jordan was now across from us. We talked – I was already somewhat drunk and flirting more with her at this point than ever. She was eating it up, too – she had a look in her eyes that told me she wanted more, she wanted me to get dirtier and dirtier, yet more and more romantic at the same time. Her nose bunched up a little, making her freckles connect, whenever I said something really funny.

We all talked for a while and drank more. Jordan had to work the next morning, so he cut out early. We told him goodbye and I stayed where I was at, sitting closer and closer to Michelle. Her beige top kept slipping down one shoulder and I finally asked her if she could fix it, as I was easily distracted.

We were both drunk and I felt the need to go ahead and spill the beans. I’m not usually much into the hypothetical “let’s say you have a guy and a girl” situation. This time I had no choice. Even as drunk as I was, I couldn’t just come out and directly say it.

***

Shawn had given me some advice about the situation – “Don’t say anything until you’re totally sure she feels the same way.”  I now knew she did. She had given me too many signs. The fact that she was sitting there with me in a bar – alone – confirmed it. The way she was looking at me was unbelievably penetrating. She was telling me that she wanted me.

I finally did it – I told her – in my own special, drunken way.

Let’s say you have this guy and he’s married. But he meets someone who makes him really happy. They laugh together – they laugh a lot – and they make each other feel good. They take a trip and somewhere on the trip something happens. This guy wants to be with this girl. I want to be with you.

Halfway through it she was looking at me as if she wanted me completely. I had never felt so nervous yet so comforted in my life. I don’t know what part of this entire situation was the alcohol talking, but not all of it was – I was sure of that. The bar’s lights came on, but I reached up and twisted the light bulb above our booth until it went back off. I needed more privacy with Michelle until we could figure things out. I looked deep into Michelle’s eyes and knew at that moment that something was about to happen.

I nervously waited for her response, sitting closer and closer to her, rubbing her shoulder, playing with her ear. I wanted to know how she felt and she told me simply “we’re in the same boat.”

I felt relieved. Not only did she want me as much as I wanted her, but I didn’t have to go through it alone. We were going to be there for each other, no matter how it turned out. That’s the way it seemed, anyway. Had I not been so drunk, I would have also been very concerned about the things I had just said and the things she had just said. And the things that were about to happen.

We spent a lot of time talking about how we didn’t really know each other that well and how she was with someone and I was with someone and how it was wrong and it could never work out. But in the end we still didn’t know what to do because of our true feelings.

The bouncer came around and twisted in our loose bulb – it was already last call. 3:45 AM. We decided to call it a night. I remember telling Michelle that we’d just wait and see what happened. “How can it be so wrong if it feels so right?” I jokingly asked her on the way out to my car, where two minutes later we would be making love.

Imagine your hottest fantasy. Enough said. Near the end of the fantasy, Michelle gently told me, “The cops are here,” and I just laughed, thinking she was referencing the infamous Bloomington experience where the cops chased us out of the Thanksgiving party. She said it again and I saw the reflection of the red and blue lights on the nearby fence. I interrupted our sexual escapades and jumped up – we had traded positions somehow – she was the driver and I was the passenger. The car was running, we were insanely drunk, and I was exposing myself to the officer. Should we go to jail that night, the situation might become a bit more complicated in scope. But the cop let us go, telling us he just wanted to make sure the car wasn’t stolen. Whatever that means.

Michelle drove us home, somehow, and we decided each red light called for more lovemaking. The fantasy continued. It was more than a fantasy, though. I cared about Michelle a great deal. I wanted to be with her. It already felt like a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship because I was talking to her so much – every single day. I wanted it to be that kind of relationship. I was talking to her more than my own wife.

Believe it or not, I thought about Elizabeth a lot that night. I even thought about her as I was cheating on her in the car with Michelle. I can remember blocking Elizabeth out of my mind. How I did that I have no idea. Michelle whispered in my ear a few times that, “George, this is wrong.”  I knew she was right. Yet we continued. I didn’t know where I wanted my marriage to go, if anywhere at that point. Did I care about Michelle enough to end my marriage? Did I care about Elizabeth enough to end my affair? I wouldn’t be able to answer those questions that night.

We arrived at Michelle’s place at 4:40 AM, 40 minutes after the bars closed. We kissed in front of her house, even though Paul was watching TV in the living room, waiting up for her obviously. I concluded we were brave. Michelle later concluded we were stupid. Elizabeth would not be waiting up for me – she hadn’t done that in a long time. How Michelle would explain getting home so late was beyond either of us. We would see each other the next day – to study English. We didn’t know where our relationship stood. All we knew was what had just happened in the car, two minutes ago, at the last red light. I drove home that night a man who cheated on his wife.

Mike Smith teaches general education in Louisville, Kentucky. Tremendous Power of Concentration is his second novel.

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Part Three of Four will be posted in November.

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