Somewhere along Interstate Highway-10.

We find our boy sitting on the side of the road. 

His arms wrapped around his knees as he holds them close to his chest. 

 

His back is pressed up against the seat of his overturned motorcycle. 

 

He braces himself against the asphalt as him and his bike are violently shoved further and further into the middle of the road. 

 

‘Let’s Be Still’ by the Head and the Heart plays calmly through his headphones while the Winds and Rains whip violently around his helmet. 

A stark contrast to the hellscape he has found himself in. 

But more on that later…

*Start ‘El Paso’ by Marty Robbins*

The Land out West from San Antonio is breathtaking. 

Now, I’m a good Texas boy myself. 

Born in Beaumont, Texas

back in 1997, 

like I said. 

Ask me again, I’ll tell you the same thing.

My father is from Texas, 

as was his father before him. 

Hell, I don’t know how many great great great whoever’s in my family hain’t been from Texas. 

That lil area over by Corpus Christy. 

They called his town Mathis, 

but town is a generous name for it. 

If you didn’t slow down, 

(although there wern’t no reason why you would. 

No damn speed signs. 

Barely any damn road. 

If you wern’t from there, 

you’d got no real reason to be going 

or coming from 

damn near anywhere in Mathis.) 

well, you’d just about miss it. 

His father was from Mathis, 

and his Grandfather was from Mathis. 

Rumor has it, 

his family was there before it was Mathis. 

Hell, before it was Texas. 

Generation after generation, 

born and raised on the smallest patch of dirt you could legally call a ‘town.’ 

Maybe they were “Mexican” at some point. 

Before that, 

they called each other by names long forgotten. 

Where did they come from? 

and what was it about that dirt that made them want to stay? 

So what are they? 

Asked one of them and you’ll get a variety of answers. 

“I’m Texan, what the fuck are you?” 

Might top the list for me. 

But to say they’re Chicano, 

or American, 

or Native, 

or Mexican, 

or Hispanic 

would not be incorrect. 

Whole societies of natural born and raised, 

Red Blooded Americans are born every day. 

They look like their names are Carlos, 

and Miguel, 

and Chancho, 

and Jesus, 

because that probably is their name. 

They are sustained on tacos, 

and Menudo, 

and the best Mexican beer and tequila money can buy. 

They wear Cowboy Boots, 

Hats to match, 

and attend Rodeos, 

and Festivals, 

and the biggest Renaissance Fair in the world. 

They worship a Beaver that runs a monopoly on the Gasoline Industry. 

Shop at H.E.B. 

And for some reason, all of them look and sound like my Aunts. 

They might not ever smile at you, 

but they’ll make damn sure you’re fed, 

and boy do they eat good. 

Ever since birth, 

we have been making trips over to the Motherland every year. 

Sometimes twice a year! 

But, all of our friends and family reside on the Eastern Side of Texas. 

After 18 years of visits to the state, 

I had never been further West than San Antonio. 

I was in New Territory. 

And it was Beautiful.

They don’t call it ‘Hill County’ for nothing. 

Go see it for yourself if you get the chance. 

Just the drive through is worth it, 

I’ll tell ya. 

Massive rolling hills, 

as far as the eye can see. 

The highways dip and rise

around and along the natural curves of the landscape, 

like a Great Big Roller Coaster. 

On a bike, it feels like flying. 

Seriously, 

I’m not joking. 

Plan a trip around it. 

Head out West. 

Check out the beautiful city of San Antonio. 

Walk down the board walk. 

Eat your fill. 

Drink to your delight. 

Once you have put away desire for food and drink, 

you can make your way out West down the great Interstate Highway that is I-10. 

Drive through the magnificent hills. 

Bring the whole family, 

the kids’ll love it. 

Honest. 

I wouldn’t play around with something like this. 

I’m talking about the Great State of Texas here, pal. 

My Birth place. 

The land of my Father and his Father before him. 

For generations, buddy. 

Here I am in Texas, 

where the hell are you, chief? 

Bring the kids. 

See, 

once you get out of the hills, 

that’s when you’ll see it. 

Oh you’ll see it. 

The Wife, 

the kiddos. 

They’ll hold their little fragile breaths when they see it. 

Better hope you have a clear head for when you see it too, precious. 

For you are the one driving the car. 

Wouldn’t want to veer off too far to one side 

and take the jolly bunch 

on an unexpected route 

that would make Red Bull’s head of marketing wet, 

now would we? 

You’ll know what I mean when you see it. 

I’m not joking. 

Bring the kids. 

It’ll be great family time. 

Lots of pictures. 

Great memories. 

I’m serious! 

Where the vegetation begins to end, 

for whatever reason.

Where the Great American Desert truly begins. 

What the planet means when someone mentions the West. 

That barren frontier that our forefathers braved 

in order to find the golden lands 

at the Ends of America. 

Out past the Wastelands. 

Across blistering deserts. 

Through Valleys of Death. 

Up over the ragged peaks of the 

True Mountain Range of the 

Sierra Nevadas. 

To eventually reach the Golden Coast of the West. 

From The Great San Francisco Bay 

down the coast to the 

Legendary beaches of 

Santa Monica. 

Venice Beach Baby! 

Where Legends are Born!!! 

The training grounds of Swartzneggar, 

Stallone, 

Lee, 

Pacino! 

YOU NAME IT BABY! 

Electric, I tell ya. 

Classic Americana. 

80’s Hollywood vibes to the max. 

I’m talking beach body every day, no question. 

Muscle beach pump so the ladies know what’s up, 

ow ow! 

I’m talking 64 hour cocaine benders every other week, 

mandatory. 

Seriously, 

I wouldn’t joke about this kinda shit. 

They got unions and everything. 

Weekly inspections, 

can you believe that? 

The 64 hour coke bender is a bi-weekly thing 

and these fuckin’ union dogs got us on a weekly inspections schedule. 

Now that just don’t make no fucking sense. 

Yeah, maybe some people moved into town at different times, so although each citizen is required to check in during the aforementioned bender every other week. 

At any given point, odds are, someone is coming in to check in on any given day.

64 hours. 

The entire population of Los Angeles and surrounding areas… 

there’s a lot of overlap I guess. 

Anyway, 

this guy comes in once a week just to make sure we’re up to code. 

That’s not what bothers me. 

He’s actually a pretty nice guy 

and after all these years 

I’ve come to really look forward to his weekly stop-ins. 

Every so often he’ll pick up lunch, 

and you know, 

of course I pick up lunch too. 

That would just be wrong if I didn’t. 

But it’s not like it’s an every time thing.

 

And I ain’t over here thinking about him all longingly throughout the week neither. 

Ain’t no poems flowing through my heart that talk about the joy he brings me with his peaceful routine visits, 

cause it ain’t like that. 

I ain’t no fairy. 

All I’m saying, is if it’s mandatory, 

there could be worst guys to spend a few hours with every week. 

That’s all. 

But I get ahead of myself. 

Before we get to the ocean, 

we must first clear the mountains, 

and the desert before that, 

and our boy has yet to even leave the hill country, 

so hush hush about some grand Manifest Destiny for just a moment, my friend.

For this next part is not so glamorous. 

Not so nice and fun. 

Not so, mandatory. 

And by that I mean, 

it could have easily been avoided.

 

And so we find fault in our hero. 

Like the winning video on the Hit Television Program 

‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’ 

where we see a foolish man, 

oblivious to the dangers that are clear and present to all that watch, 

in sick thirsty horror. 

Step by step he climbs further down into whatever hole 

or object that will inevitable become his demise. 

We hear the voice of his wife, 

maybe she holds the camera. 

The frame shakes as she warns him to be careful, 

although in her heart 

and in her hands, 

it is clear that she has already seen her husbands fate. 

There is no one to blame but the man himself. 

And yet, 

as if he himself craves the punishment that he so desperately calls for, 

he plunges onward. 

A cheeky grin on his face as he attempts to keep his concentration. 

He was a star athlete, you know. 

It’s like he’s always telling his wife. 

He took his team, 

his boys, 

his men. 

He took those rowdy bunch, 

and he whipped them into shape. 

Oh yeah, 

they were something to see. 

The cream of the crop. 

Sure, 

he could have been the Team Captain, 

everyone knew it. 

Everyone had the spot all dusted off and ready for him, 

but his number two wanted the position really really badly. 

And his boy was good. 

Really good. 

Not as good as him. 

But still good. 

Good enough to be Captain, 

and it really ment a lot to him. 

So, even though he was the star player and the spot was his if he wanted it,

everyone knew, 

he gave a big wink to all the other guys, 

and pushed his boy up to Captain, 

because he knew how much it would mean to him and everything. 

And I’ll tell ya, 

if that isn’t a more clear sign of leadership, 

then I don’t know what is. 

Damn near brings a tear to my eye. 

Pushing his boy up on his shoulders. 

He knew what he had done too, 

everyone knew. 

It’s not like he put on a big rouse and production to play a white lie on his friend, nah it wasn’t like that. 

Just some unspoken stuff. 

Everyone knew, 

and that’s why they all did it. 

It brought them closer, you know. 

Our mans kept doing what he did, 

helping the team become better every day, 

and the leadership that his number two now had really looked good on him. 

He started standing up straighter, 

talking with more confidence. 

Really started seeing himself as someone worth something. 

Went on to marry a great girl. 

It was beautiful. 

National Champions. 

You can still hear the roar of the crowd when he threw the winning touchdown to his bro in the end zone. 

It was electric. 

I wouldn’t lie to you. 

But that was a long time ago, 

life happened. 

He went on to meet a good woman himself. 

He lived a good life, honest. 

Nothing bad ever happened to him. 

No illness on his family, 

no loss of jobs. 

None that mattered anyhow. 

They had settled down. 

Been settled for a while. 

But he still thinks about his football days. 

Him and his buddy’s still keep up, 

oh yeah, this isn’t a sad story at all. 

They still live in the same town! 

Imagine that. 

They all left and some saw the world. 

Some guys never left, 

but they’re alright too. 

Everyone did what they wanted to do, 

and decided on their own accord, 

that they liked their little home town. 

So they all came back! 

Not to defeat some ancient evil 

or to once and for all close the inter-dimensional tear that existed under the high school. 

Nah, 

nothing like that. 

And, it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies all the time, 

and they didn’t all survive, 

there was a death here and there, 

but just naturally. 

Not because some supernatural force drove them insane or anything like that.

One of them died cause he was a heavy smoker, 

and just didn’t really take care for himself, 

and he just got sick and refused to change anything about his life, 

and like a Captain going down with his ship, 

he lit a cigarette, 

took a swig of whiskey, 

and said goodnight to one, 

and to all a goodnight. 

Kinda beautiful. 

That was one one bad-ass mother-fucker. 

No one was surprised when it happened. 

We saw it coming from a mile away. 

But knowing that he was gone, 

in some other place, 

was still hard on everyone. 

But it brought us all back to the town for his funeral, 

and I think it was around that time that we started looking around and realized that we all had it pretty freaking good. 

Anyways, this guy. 

This man.

Late 60’s by this point, I’d say. 

Healthy man, 

not the best diet, 

but hey, 

the beauty contest ain’t been in town for a few years anyhow. 

With a memory of an athletic prowess from a time long gone, 

he yearns to feel that thrill one more time. 

He knows that what he does is foolish. 

Stupid some would say. 

Dumb, 

dumb, 

little man. 

You should know better, 

you foolish old cobbler! 

Have you acquired naught but a pincole of knowledge in that balding and bubbling head? 

You idiot! 

And yet, he knows this. 

He feels this. 

Still he takes another step. 

And another. 

In truth, 

one step at a time is not so difficult. 

We know this man, 

we love this man, 

we care for his wellbeing. 

And yet we watch. 

Slack-jawed, starin’ 

as he takes that last fateful step. 

We see his foot grace the platform of whatever structure our sweet imbecile has decided to conquer. 

Down he falls. 

With arm outstretched, 

his body quickly shifts from a vertical into a horizontal position, 

and further still he goes. 

His remaining free foot gets lodged,

stuck into the base where he stood. 

He falls. 

A complete 180 degrees from his original standing point, 

he now hangs from one leg, 

the other contorted and flopping freely off to the side. 

Is it broken? 

Unconfirmed. 

His hat, 

sunglasses, 

phone, 

*Holster and all, 

plummet to the ground some 13 feet below. 

The remaining contents of his pockets follow suit.

 

His shirt flips up over his head, 

covering his face and muffling his 

distorted groans of disorientation. 

His large, 

bulbous belly, 

veiny and swollen from years of a good hard American diet, 

exposed to the camera, 

and now to the whole world. 

He begins to pee.

 

The disorientation is too much. 

He begins to vomit. 

Like some great big disembodied penis, 

wriggling about in some sort of violent death throws. 

Gurgling sounds of agony and confusion heard through the filter of a thick sweater soaked in fresh vomit and piss. 

Chunky bits of bodily fluids drip from the folds of our sad, silly sausage, as he accepts his fate and stops his kicking.

His shoe, 

the main thing keeping him up, 

slips off of his feet, 

leaving him in a free fall. 

He lands on his head in a crumpled heap. 

The crowed erupts in laughter and applause. 

There you have it Folks! 

We clearly have a winner! 

Thank you, Bob! 

Our ‘Hanged Man’ 

of the evening will be sent home 

with a whooping 

$10,000!!!!! 

Not too shabby for a few seconds of work, 

am I right?? 

Haha, oh Bob… 

My point is, 

in this scenario, 

there is no one to blame, 

but the man himself. 

He was intelligent enough to know the risks. 

He clearly had strong intentions to test the boundaries of those risks. 

He fucked around and clearly found out. 

Now the world has a quick laugh at his expense, 

and he get sent home with $10,000, 

and he gets to meet Bob Saget. 

Not a bad deal.