Sundance Kids- The Wasteland (544 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.83 on 7 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by TheSunGod (View user info) at 2005-10-30 10:30:13 EST
He's driving a little faster than he usually does, 85 in a 70, but everyone else is driving fast and so no one notices. This interstate is the main artery, the big one, with all of his haunts just off its exits. An hour and a half ahead are the boys and the racetrack and the evening's activities, an hour and a half behind is the girl and next weekend's activities, and not exactly in between is the sundance girl. There are no more activities with her. None that matter, anyway.
Two cars ahead is the cop who smiled and nodded as he passed, who won't notice the joint that's now being lit. There's a backup for later- no plans for it yet, but old habits die never and the old Boy Scout motto of "Be Prepared" still resounds in his head. It even applies itself to his drug use. And that's why there's an extra can of dip and a stale cigar stashed in the glove box next to the backup joint. Just in case.
Exhale a long one, and the old familiar feeling begins its pressure at the temples, followed by release, and full-body relaxation. It's why he smokes this shit- just for that first 45 seconds of buildup and release. Fuck the next two hours of high and comedown. All thoughts slow and an easy grin lays itself down and that's it. He's kicked off. Total gongshow, kids.
He's listening to a new song called "Wasteland" and he likes it because he is the wasteland, he is the badlands, he is the burning plain of salt in the midst of verdant jungle. That one dies and Alice in Chains comes on, something else about wasted life and poison in the veins, and he likes that one, too. Even though it is old.
The blue soccer mom van ahead of him slows for exit and he drops to fourth, gasses the engine, and kicks into the next lane. He passes the pig who had passed him, waves an ironic wave with joint in hand. The cop smiles again, and waves, and the wasteland smiles at the inside joke. He drives on through nothing toward something he doesn't know and may not like. But it kills time, kids, and killing is the name of the game tonight. The plan. The mode of operation.
He finds himself narrating the drive in his head, as if it were a story. The one long, neverending story that can finish itself when he dies. It's his compulsion. Life is much easier to handle when it sounds like it's happening to someone else. And if he can get just the right amount of high and road hypnosis and inner monologue, it WILL be someone else. And there will be no boys ahead or girl behind or any sundance girl at all. When it's someone else, the secondary characters don't matter.
"We kick her back up into fifth, the engine loving the slower revolutions, and set her back on 'cruise'. We are a wasteland, just like the song says..."
Fuck. He's using the first person plural again, the majesterial "We", and it worries him. Why would he describe himself TO himself in the plural? As far as he knows there is only one of him. He's not schizophrenic, is he? Are we? It's something he started a few months ago. He's been doing the constant life-narration since he was a kid, but it was always "I/me" or "He/him". This is new, maybe something to get checked out. Like a throbbing new mole that gets a little bigger each day. It worries him. It worries us.
Where is he going again? When he doesn't care he doesn't read the exit signs, and he may have passed his turn. He shrugs. Maybe he'll just keep driving to Naples and see what that last hurricane did. But he doesn't really care about that, either. So instead of caring he tries to spark the second joint, and it takes four wooden matches before one of them finally strikes and he can add more catalyst to the meltdown reaction in his head. Right as the tip of the cigarette catches and flares a bird flies low over the three lanes, and makes a muffled thump under his truck.
He doesn't care about that, either.
The wasteland turns off at the right exit, so he must not have passed it earlier. Or maybe he did, and it hustled up ahead of him and gave him another shot at making his turn. That's not very likely, but we think it might just be possible.
Anything is possible for us. We are the wasteland. Tonight is for killing- time or ourselves. And even that doesn't matter, does it? Because when we kill ourselves, we kill our time.
Maybe it's better if we just keep driving.
But we're out of backup.
User Reviews
Submitted by missedthepoint (user info) at 2005-10-31 05:00:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"Life is much easier to handle when it sounds like it's happening to someone else."
If there was a + 3...
You'd have it.
This piece, my friend, is fucking brilliant.
<off to read the rest of you're stuff>
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2005-10-30 23:07:39 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-10-30 19:04:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
yes!
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-30 17:35:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I understood and liked it.
I also see one individual didn't, and I fear that # will grow.
Submitted by starshine (user info) at 2005-10-30 12:54:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
meh
Submitted by Chinaski (user info) at 2005-10-30 11:44:48 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
nigga you GOOD.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-10-30 11:07:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good writing. You're weird. . .