textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0556.txt

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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #556
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888                       "Drive"
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8
    888     888 888      888 888    "              by Another Mike
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               4/6/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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        The sun was coming up in the mirror.  It was good.  At least now he
 knew which direction he was headed.

        Even numbered highways go east-west, he mumbled to himself.  It had
 been two hours since he remembered seeing a sign.  He could've been in the
 same spot for all he knew.  The scenery hadn't changed that much in the
 pre-dawn gloom.  It was the color of a headache.

        The tape clunked inside the dash and flipped to the other side.  He
 had to laugh.  In the middle of the plain he was hearing Sea and Sand.
 Like every other time he smiled, it drained off his face as quickly as it
 had formed, as if scolding itself.  "The girl I love is a perfect
 dresser..." He started to sing along but couldn't find his voice.  Disused
 or misused, he wondered.  He cranked it; the louder you turn it, the more
 you sound like them.  He started up gruffly, "How come the other tickets
 look better...without a penny to spend...they're dressed to the letter...
 how come the girls come off oh so cool...but when you meet them, every
 one's a fool?"

        Ain't that the truth, he thought.  But if not for foolishness, would
 he be getting chased down by the sun, loping along at 55?  I should give
 the truck a rest, he thought.

        He could see low orange on the horizon, the stinking sodium lights
 he hated so much from home.  They always meant a town.  He arrived at the
 main drag and had to scratch his head.  You ever get to where you were
 going, but forget the in-between part?  He recalled seeing lights, and
 certainly recalled waking here, but driving into town was lost.  He
 shrugged  it off as merely being tired.  He swung the truck into the White
 Hen.

        The fluorescents in the bathroom were like accusations, the bluish
 light making every line pock, freckle, stubble on his face stand out,
 making a freak of him.  It was easy to rationalize it to the lights, he
 thought, but that voice sneered at him from within.  Yeah, freak.
 Whatsamatta you?  Nothin' at all, he said out loud.   He tucked in his
 shirt.

        Coffee or pop?  The question was harder than it sounded.  Fuck it,
 he whispered, and grabbed the biggest chocolate milk they had.  A bellyache
 ought to keep me awake.

        He paid the woman behind the bulletproof window.  "What's the name
 of this place, anyway?"

        She pretended not hear.  He put his mouth close to the tin
 vent-hole.  "What's the name of this town," he repeated.

        "Back away from the glass, kid, before I open you up wide." He saw
 her reaching beneath the formica top, realized her intentions.  He jumped
 back, knocking over a bucket of silk roses.  Shit.  He was going to get
 shot.  He shook all over, like a palsied hand had grabbed him.  His
 presence of mind took hold, and he knelt, blushing furiously, picking up
 the tangle of cheap roses.  He straightened them, hearing the voice.
 Pussy.  She'd be doing you a favor anyway.

        He turned and managed a weak grin.

        "Milburn's Junction, Nebraska," the woman said from behind her
 cigarette.  Some Southern belle.

        "Thank-ye kindly," he said, ducking out the door.  He'd always
 tried to talk like the people he met.  Shit man, you sound like Jimmy
 Stewart.

        He got in the cab of his little truck and popped the lid to the
 milk.   Drank down a third of it and wiped his mouth with his wrist.
 Better drink it before it gets warm.  He dug the map out of the glove box.
 Since he had left, he'd gone what they used to call a "far piece." This
 wasn't your everyday, I'm bored-drive 30 miles-turn back deal.  Every
 time he had tried to tell himself to stop, he ignored it.  That much he
 remembered.  Usually how far he'd go was gauged by how tired he was, how
 willing he was to go before he thought he'd get, well, homesick.  But this
 had gone way outside that.  He knew he had to get home.  But the thought
 was there, as it had been the night before.  What if I drove, and just
 didn't stop?  What if I said to hell with this, and just went?
 Nonetheless, he knew he was in for some serious ass-chewing if he wasn't
 home sooner or later.  There were always things to be done.

        He thought back as the milk gurgled its way through his stomach,
 punching awake the rest of him with sugar.  He had written on the message
 board Gone For A Drive.  Nothing new.  His parents always seemed glad to
 see him out of the house.  Couldn't blame them, really.  There wasn't a
 whole lot he did outside of work.

        God, he thought, the town looked really pretty with the sun just
 cresting over the flat horizon.  Empty save the few pickups driving here
 or there - the kind that you can tell used to have white stick-on letters
 on the side, but had long-since burned off in the sun - probably taking old
 hands to breakfast.

        She was on his mind.  Which "she" was unclear.  There was the one
 who always said they should do something, but every time he came looking
 for her, it was Sorry, she went on a date.  Then there were the other two,
 who were real nice to him, and then one day it was, Gee I'd love to, but
 I met this really amazing guy -didn't I tell you?  Then there was her.  He
 had long stopped going after her.  God knows how many miles away she was,
 even more now.  By the time he gotten the gumption, nerve, whatever to
 even talk, talk like they used to, she was leaving.  He regretted never
 kissing her.  Not even that crazy half-a-minute after Graduation ceremonies
 where the world was balanced on a needle's point, and he had chosen to
 take the point of the barb instead of the world.  Teary, angry letters
 about What are you, crazy?  Leave my life for you?  And he threw it down,
 disgraced,  saying sorry, sorry, you'll never hear from me again.  And of
 all the ones that had come and gone, the one that he wanted to see the
 least was her.  She was that one he saw a little bit of in a girl there, or
 a girl here.  A smile, the way she'd toss her hair.  He'd dream about her.
 Dream about reaching, but never grasping.  He'd drive the streets of his
 town, and swear he'd see her, even though he knew she was in another
 state.  Putting all the fucked-up mental things he'd gone through already
 aside, he really had started to believe she was driving him crazy.  For
 real.  Hallucinating, shaking, rubber-room nuts.

        There were things.  There were always little things and big things,
 doubts, regrets, bouts of self-loathing followed by bouts of self-denial,
 where he'd cut himself off from every pleasure he could, thinking about
 how vile and worthless he was.  And the rest of the time, he was just angry
 in a disinterested way.  For all the Poor-Me talking he had done, he never
 believed it.  He knew about taking responsiblity.  He had swallowed as many
 handfuls of the stuff as he thought he could handle, and then a little
 more.  But the chances of something coming up, the way it ALWAYS did, well
 that just seemed a little one-sided.  Not unfair, oh lord don't ever use
 that word.  Just... uneven.

        The sun was up faster than he expected.  I didn't know it could get
 by you that fast, he thought.  The highway droned for a while as the
 townies went to their jobs in other cities.  Christ, it looks like they all
 leave at once.  The stream of trucks and cars slowed, then dried up.  An
 old schoolbus clattered and smoked up the road.  Looks like a deathtrap,
 he thought.

        He turned to look out the other side, hoping to shake loose the
 crick he had in his neck.  His eyes settled on the police cruiser parked
 in front of the hardware across the street.  The cop made no bones about
 it; he stared, glared actually, dead at him.  Out-of-state plates, early
 morning, just spooked a store clerk in a small town.  He was a fool, but
 he could smell trouble like any other animal.  The cop's stare sealed the
 feeling, that "You don't belong here"-feel he knew too well.  The cop
 spit a streamer of tobacco onto the street and gave him his best Git out
 mah town face.  It worked.

        Slowly and deliberately, he popped in a tape, started the truck,
 and backed out.  He drove further into town, checking his gas gauge.
 Sure, he thought, I could go another 60 miles before I have to gas up.
 His paranoia was making his stomach hurt.  He swung into the Amoco two
 blocks up.

        The thought almost made him smile.  You say that now, the voice
 said, but just you wait.  You don't even need a handful of dust.  I know
 you.  He balled his fists to keep from trembling.  Fuck fear, he whispered.

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!   #556 - WRITTEN BY: ANOTHER MIKE - 4/6/99 ]