JOY part 40

My anger helped me overcome my tiredness and drive well into Utah. Strange state, that one is. I mean, Mormons aside, just the geography is odd. Some of it looks a bit like Colorado with mountains and stuff. Some of it reminds me almost of Arizona. And some of it looks like the barren desert of the moon.

The moon-like part seemed to suit me best in my current mood. Unfortunately, that meant that there were no motels, restaurants, or anything else of the kind, for miles and miles and miles…and miles. It wasn’t so much I was tired. I was beyond tired at this point. I was just bored. I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but that happens to me fairly often.

Boredom is such a waste of life. I mean, you only get so much time on this earth, very little in my case, and yet some of it is really dull. Dull, uninteresting, and painful to the point where you just wish it would pass. I know, I know, I’ve said all this before but I’m not going to live to be 70 and constantly be repeating the same stories to people. So, I figure I’ll do it now. Lucky you. Have I told you about my reunion with Rachel. She lived in this house in suburban Denver and…Just kidding. Even I couldn’t forget that. Bible Humping Wacko.

Eventually, I found a motel. It was almost five in the morning. I thought about just driving through to Las Vegas, but what did I need to hurry for? Besides, I wanted to try to call Nancy again. No, not at five in the morning. I have some common sense. The next day. When I woke up.

So, there I was in Utah, on the bed, thinking of the Mormons. Ha! You thought I was going to say something else, didn’t you? Oh Lord, you didn’t think that I was implying that I was thinking of the Mormons in THAT way, did you? Oh, that’s disgusting. How could you? Well, actually, the multiple young bride thing has some serious porn fantasy potential. “Oh, serve me, My Wives.” OK, maybe not. Anyway, no, I was thinking about this thing somebody told me about the Mormons and underwear. I don’t remember exactly what it was, though. They don’t wear any? They wear some special kind? Damn it, I know it’s something really strange and interesting. Sorry Folks, all that acting 70 stuff may be closer to the truth than I realized.

I don’t wake up until after noon. Which really isn’t that late, considering it was after six in the morning when I fell asleep. But, once again, I realize I have slept through check out time. Unlike the kind people of Iowa, these folks charge me a full days rate when I am a half an hour past check out. No call to see if there’s a reason or anything. Just a quick entry into the computer and the bill is doubled as I slumber away. I should make a big stink about it just because (no, not like that). Not that I really care. Fuck it. Not worth the aggro.

I call Nancy. This time, she picks up. I am so happy to hear her voice. She tells me she called the other number I had left but I was already gone. I ask her if everything is OK and she says it’s great. When pushed about the tense blow off when I called from Chicago, she just says that her and Josh got into a really stupid fight but it’s fine now. I push for more details and get nothing. Story of my life, getting nothing (cue that drum, Baby!). And then I tell her about all the stuff that’s happened. Well, not all. I omit mention of the imaginary conversations and acts of debauchery with her. But, other than that, I give her a pretty accurate run-down of things.

I tell her in agonizing detail about Ann and Milwaukee and Chicago. About how much I wanted her, but knew it would never happen…Ann, not Nancy. Pay attention. About Iowa and Omaha and the truck drivers and Rachel. I even told her the crude thing I said to Rachel about finding heaven in her mouth which Nancy could not stop laughing at. Actually, she was laughing AT me, not with me. She said something about Tourette’s syndrome, again. I didn’t care. It was good to hear her laugh. And to talk to her. And share with her all the things I wished she were here for. Well, again, not all. In fact, come to think of it. If she were here I probably wouldn’t even be doing some of the things I was doing. Or would I? I am so confused.

I’m sure the phone bill was huge. Two hours worth of long distance at really silly rates. And it was worth every penny. I just wish she would tell me more what’s going on with her and her life. It really just doesn’t feel right that I give her so much detailed information about mine (too much so, I am told). Yet only know the most general things going on with hers. I ask her again about things with Josh. “Fine.” “Wonderful.” Blah, blah, blah.

I fade out for a second and think what she’ll say when she finally reads this wonderful tome. “Way too much talk about masturbating, farting and trying to get women in bed.” Well, then again, being that some of the jerking-off kind of involves her…Was that an “ick” I just heard? Forget it. You people are obviously just way too immature for a discussion like this. I’ll go back to describing the scenery. You happy, now? Instead of hearing about sex, or this thing I had with Nancy, I’m going to describe the mountains of Utah to you. They’re really pretty.

I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Want some more? Las Vegas is in a desert. And it’s hot. Ungodly hot in the summer. Which it’s not. So, it’s not an issue. Speaking of which. I know I have issues but you people really are kind of harsh and judgmental sometimes. Yes, that’s right, me, one of the most judgmental, nastiest, jumps-to-stereotype-categorizations-at-the-drop-of-a-hat people in the world just called YOU judgmental. I expose myself to you and pour my guts out and what do I get? “Ick” or sheer indifference. See how much you’ve hurt me? I haven’t even pointed out that I just said “expose myself.” See? SEE? I must be hurting.

And hurting I was, actually. Not that you care. But, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m kind of obsessed with Nancy a little bit (Duh.) I know that. And I know that you know that. And that you know I know you know that. But…The question remains what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Being that I was getting ever nearer to the end of my journey, in all senses. I really, really needed to figure it out. During our phone call, Nancy had asked me more specifically when I was going to come up to see her (and Josh. There was always the “and Josh”).

You know, something that just occurred to me is that Nancy didn’t seem suspicious anymore. She didn’t interrogate me about what I was doing or why I was doing it the way she had before. I wonder what that means. Either, she decided that I was fine or…Or what? It wouldn’t be like her not to say something if it was on her mind. Unless…Unless, she was waiting to see me and do it in person. Oh, fuck. Seeing her was going to be really complicated. What do I say? What don’t I say? How am I going to do this?

Luckily, I had given myself a little time to work it out. I told her I was going to hang out in Las Vegas for a little bit and then go to L.A. before driving up the PCH to see her. For you sad folks who don’t know what the PCH is, it’s that road that goes right along the ocean from L.A. to San Francisco. You know, the one you see in all the car commercials. I thought I told you all this. But I guess you weren’t paying attention. Anyway, I could stretch out Las Vegas a little bit and stretch my time in L.A. a lot until I figured out what to do. Wait, I screwed up, didn’t I? I was supposed to end this trip…permanently, in Los Angeles. God damn it! I hate when I get confused like this. Alright, I guess I would go to L.A.. Then up to see Nancy. Then BACK DOWN to L.A. to have my little car accident…Or not. I mean, “or not” about the backtracking. Not the other thing. Yeah, that other thing…

I spent the next two days lying in my bed. I didn’t even bother to get a suite. I didn’t care. I was in a standard room at The Bellagio in all its tacky glory. I really do wonder if the Bellagio is intentionally being tacky or it thinks it’s being really classy. I mean this is “The nice” Las Vegas hotel. Nasty. Although, I do have to say, the bed was really comfortable and the room service surprisingly good. The way I felt, I really didn’t care one way or the other, anyway. Then again, it was kind of a bummer the Four Seasons was sold out. Amazing how I can have real problems, like my impending death, and still have time to bemoan my hotel selection. My Impending Death. Man, that sounds dramatic. Probably what some asshole movie exec will insist the movie be called. And there WILL be a movie. There just has to be.

Another two days pass by of room service, scattered sleeping, and pay-per-view movies before I feel the slightest urge to leave the room. And just in case I’m being to subtle for you. No, I am not physically sick. I am depressed. Seriously. Seriously. Depressed. Wouldn’t you be if you were me? Even the porn movies bore me. That ain’t a good sign.

So, here I am in bed, naked, alone, and just really not giving a shit about anything or anyone. Well, I guess I care about me. Which is why I’m depressed. Anyway, my point is that I do the whole “Leaving Las Vegas” thing (sans alcohol and hooker which, I guess, means it’s really nothing like that at all). And then, I stop.

ALWAYS MORE AT WWW.FIRST100BOOKS.COM

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