Somewhere That Ain’t Here

I’m not sure how long I drove for. Was it three hours? Five? More?


Look, I don’t know how this happened. It’s still surreal, like a dream that keeps looping like a broken CD that doesn’t know when to stop skipping.

It wasn’t supposed to end up like this. Not with me driving a beat up ’97 F-150 across five states with nothing but some country CDs, a half-empty bottle of watered-down whiskey, some potato chips, and my best friend in the trunk.

This truck is now my sole living companion. Unlike people, trucks can be resuscitated—filled up with energy and running like new. Which is I’ve stopped at a gas station at 3 in the morning in Whothefuckcaresville, Tennessee.


Seeing as there’s fuck all to talk to except you, I should probably explain how my best friend got in my trunk.

We were two people who knew each other from the moment our mamas put us in the same Pre-K class. Or maybe earlier.

Anyhow, the point I’m trying to make is that we go way back. Or rather, went.

But I digress.


We shared everything growing up—football, classes, colleges, even down to the philosophical bullshit we muttered to the stars in a field full of tipped cows.

So I’m guessing it was only natural to him that he thought he could share my wife.

Now, when someone is a faithful wife that’s kind and smart and funny, that’s something to behold. But when someone unlocks the key to your soul and sees what lies underneath and still chooses to love you all the same—that’s beyond incredible. Beyond stupendous. She’s practically a gift from God.

So you can imagine my surprise when I find the woman who saved me from myself being plowed spread-eagle in my bedroom last night.

Now, crimes of passion are common in this country—no surprise considering what a country this is. But when a man that you trust comes into your home and violates the most sacred person in your life, that’s beyond reprehensible.

You see red. Nothing but shades of furious red. You see red even when you fight him and she screams for us to stop and you take his pistol and cock it and pull the trigger.


This gas station is fucking pathetic. Nothing here but a closed-down restaurant from a local fast food chain, a shuttered souvenir store, and some crappers. Unimpressed, I answer nature’s call and head back to my car.

One more anecdote before I call it a night on the side of a country road just off the freeway:

I saw a sign in one of the stalls while I did my business. It said, “Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here”.

Tempting. But not just yet. When the morning comes and everyone else resumes their lives and commutes, I’ll silently slip into their masses.

And as for me?

I’ll drive until I can call somewhere home again.


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