Malden, MO to Little Rock, AK – “This Means WAR.” – October 1, 2000

It’s 4:00 am and I’m awake, staring at the cottage-cheese textured ceiling. I can’t sleep ‘cause I’m not used to having my own bedroom and because the hotel is inconveniently located next to a landing strip across the street from some train tracks. My eyes are blurry on the way to the bathroom mirror, blurry on the way to the magenta curtains which I pull aside to assess the proximity of dawn. In the dim light of the parking lot I can make out a chain linked fence, a field of flat dry grass and the silloet of suburbia just beyond the horizon of my sight. Missouri. Misery. Missouri. They sound the same in my mouth and I tease the two states into a lyric as I sit down on my bed with a guitar. What are my options? Watch TV? Read a book? Write a song? Do some yoga? and then I’m up ‘til 5:30, inverted and converted into pretzel-like shapes and tired (but not tired enough to sleep).

At ten, we headed to a BBQ held in our honor by last night’s promoters, Patsy and Mitch. Their house was adjacent to a cotton field so while short ribs sizzled and a strawberry rhubarb pie cooled on the sill, Mitch took us to pick some cotton. It’s something none of us had done and it’s harder than you’d think. Each white cluster is filled with jellybean-sized seeds which, without a cotton gin, you have to abstract by hand. I still have the little cotton ball I de-seeded, in my jeans shorts and give it a little squeeze each time my hand visits my pocket.

After our BBQ, the family took us to a driving range where the boys proved naturals at the sport. I however sucked!!! I’d approach the T and hit a ground ball 20 feet to my left and that was on a good try. Most of the time I was yelling “heads up” before hitting the shiny white globe into someone’s butt. But the outing was fun and I laughed a ton, mostly at myself but every once and a while, at the person I was hitting.

I was giddy by the time we left Mitch and Patsy for Little Rock and when I get giddy, it often spells trouble for Soucy. For some reason, he’s my target when I get playful—his seriousness makes him fun to tease. We were at a gas station, browsing balloons and light-up toys when I discovered a “tester” blueberry air freshener. With a mischievous grin, I liberally sprayed Soucy with a happy trigger finger, before dashing out of the store laughing like a hyena.

Soucy smelled the whole van up like a cheap New York taxi. He had a puddle-sized blue stain on the back of his shirt but never once lost his temper with me. He remained cool as a cucumber until we stopped for dinner at Cracker Barrel and it wasn’t the spitball fight I waged on him or even the relentless tickling while he was tryng to eat soup that made him lose his patience.

I’d ordered a hot tea which came in a little silver pot next to an emaciated slice of lemon. I was just shaking on a truce with the exasperated Soucy when a jumbo glass of ice water was set just beyond my metal teapot. I reached for it, my naked underarm touched the top of the steaming teapot and I spastically retracted my hand with a yelp inadvertantly knocking the glass of ice water violently into his lap. Everyone held their breath as the water dripped icily down The Doc’s forehead and shorts. His lap sparkled with transparent cubes along with the red striped straw I’d used as a spitball weapon against him in the moments prior.

“DO SOMETHING! SAL!!! DO SOMETHING!!!” He shouted frantically. But all I could do was laugh. Hunch over, laugh, and apologize – “I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry, Soucy.” And I was. Soucy, though older than me, is the closest thing I have to a little brother on the road and I play with him as I would play with Ben but suddenly I could see I’d taken things 11 steps too far. “I’ll be good. I promise,” I told him, tail between my legs. But retiring back into Moby’s dark belly, I could hear Soucy’s thoughts screaming across his quiet lips: “This Means WAR.”