"I'm not asking you to sympathize; I'm asking you to listen." ... "Mom. It's something that kids do. Jesus. I can't take this anymore-all this screaming over what? Nonsense. I'm not gonna sit here and get yelled at for telling the truth. No. I'm hanging up the phone." Click. I pressed the END key as hard as I could to vent my frustration with her-that woman and her whole generation-their nonsensical proclamations-their power trips-the belief that we can't succeed without their guidance-the need to butt in when plans are settled and arrangements made-the very idea that we need their protection. Doug, sitting across from me on the blue leather couch, looked curious. Bewildered. He didn't understand how my parents could give me such a hassle over something so trivial. "Jesus. What's her problem?" "I don't know man. I don't know. Damn near everyone in the world makes sense to me except my parents. I mean, they're great. I know that. I'm blessed. But they're overbearing. It's a control thing; they want my life to fit their image-their ideal. And I can dig that. They don't want me going through hard times and they certainly don't want me to be a leech once college is through. But come on. This is ridiculous. It's just a road trip." In principle. But in truth it was something more than that. I wanted to coast to the end of America-to ship out to Frisco like Sal Paradise-to traverse the land not because I would enjoy it, but because it was something I had to do-something just too damn fitting-too damn iconic-for me to avoid. But I also needed to get away-I needed to escape this monotony-this prison of chronic burnout and pointless struggle-these behaviors which, strange at first glace, have become routine-this bleak pattern spotting my days and nights, to be painted over with gasoline. Or so I hoped. But I knew it would be nothing remarkable-that the coast-the edge of the water-meant nothing. That whatever sparks-whatever tiny part of me may change-would be absorbed into the stupor-absorbed into the bleakness of the routine-absorbed into the goddamn pointlessness of it all. Doug laid back and closed his eyes. "Not like you're goin' to Botswana or something. Just Cali." "And I'm gonna pay for it. I'm not asking them for money, except maybe a little bit for some food. I mean they'd pay for that anyway if I were at home. But the gas, the lodging, the medicinal-that shit's all on me. I've got plenty in my bank account and I'll get a job if I have to, but it doesn't matter to them. They think it's fucking pointless. But I'm a writer, man-I need experience-I need fucking research. Jesus. Why can't they get that?†“I dunno. The whole plan sounds pretty rad, man.†"It's the goddamn principle." “Puh-ritty rad.†I always liked Doug. He's one of those people who just listens and listens, never feeling the need to interject-"well this reminds me of blah, blah, blah-in-my-own-life"-"that's not as bad as yada, yada, yada-personal-baggage-of-my-own." No, he'll just sit there and hear you out for hours, no matter how much garbage you're spewing-how much melodramatic bullshit you're spurting-how much inane philosophical horsecrap you're sputtering when completely blazed and even the most idiotic shit makes sense in your mind. This dude gets it. Gets me. He's the perfect foil when shit is rough and when he talks-oh, when he talks-it's like the room lights up and the gears start churning-zip, zip-and everything just goes. Right then, I turned around, ready to pack another bowl. Doug, feeling the need to contribute, insisted that we use his shit-this fine herbal with purple specks and lots of little orange hairs-this dank he'd picked up yesterday from a dealer who's last name was-no joke-Weed. Doug tossed me the bag and laid down flat, staring at the Fight Club poster hanging from the back of my door. "You know what I noticed? There's no force to hanging up a phone anymore. When you had a receiver it was violent-just BOOM-but now, with these wireless shits and these cellphones, there's nothing man. Hanging up the phone's become a pansy act. Of course you could always throw your phone at the wall. That'd send a message." "Don't think insurance covers that." "True, true. Gotta pay for your violence nowadays. Slamming the phone used to be a gimme. You feel me, Sep?" Oh, I feel you. But I can't imagine less violence is a bad thing. As pissed off as my mom probably is right now, I think slamming a phone would take it to a new level. It's such a fragile relationship between my parents and I. One BOOM and they'll pull out the nuclear option: cutting off my tuition payments. Then's the countdown. Apologize-grovel-or it's Mutually Assured Destruction-impending, impending-3, 2, 1. "Yeah, I feel you." Doug sat up-anxious-and started tapping his sneakers on the ground-tapping his Nike Skeets-bought half because they looked cool and half because of the name. Hey, I found it funny. We may be college students, but we're still just kids. "Sep, we better hurry man." "Why? It's not like they're gonna close the lake if we're not there by midnight." “Come on…†Oh God. A stoner with puppy dog eyes. Pathetic, but endearing. He'd been wanting to do this for a while. But why rush? I wanted to be good and high before screaming my lungs out by the lake. "After this bowl, alright? You mind if I take greens?" "Naw." I grabbed my red Bic lighter and-SCHWIP-the flame shoots up-mouth to the bowl and pull, pull-the fire bending around the rim of the glass, heating the plant matter--burning, burning--the goodies entering the chamber, and I lift my finger-raise it, then lower it-over and over-into the chamber, into my lungs-rinse and repeat. Doug's eyes widened. "Hold it! Hold it!" Release. Puff of smoke-a gaseous cloud-swirling, swirling around the room. No, too much. HACK, WHEEZE, COUGH. Where's the goddamn water!? Oh, the table-drink up, drink up. SCHWIP, SCHWIP-Doug's turn and he's in a rush-he's torching it all-the goddamn idiot, there he goes. "Jesus!" We finished the bowl and he sprung up off the couch-CLACK-his feet hit the ground and he was moving, moving-right to the door-right to the exit-and the only thing holding him back from the wide world outside was me. Just me. Sitting in my chair-half-stoned-reclining and stuck-indented in the cushion and spent-exhausted-beat up by my long day and thinking: shit, I was just starting to get comfortable. Yes me, this spoiled, pent-up idiot whose idea of a good time was a night in-alone with my video games-alone with the internet-alone to write sprawling fictions that only my friends really "got"-alone, alone, alone. Doug saw I wasn't moving and hopped up and down, as if his kinetic energy would transfer over to my lifeless body-as if by jumping up himself I would magically follow suit. "Sep, man. Let's go, go, go!" "Dude, what's your rush?" "This is fucking urgent." "No, it's not. Screaming out by the lake is not fucking urgent." Doug pulled on his coat and sat down on the armrest of my chair. He stared up at the light for a moment and then shifted his gaze to me-right into my left eye as if THAT'S what he wanted to talk to. Not me-not my body, heart, or brain; just that one eye. He put his hand on my back and began. "Sep, I'm worried about you." "Don't be." "Believe me, I wish I wasn't. I mean, you've got such a good life. You've got talent, a good family, good friends-the works-and I'm not worried about that.†"So what's the fucking problem?" "You don't act right. I mean when everything's so good why do you always seem so out of it? You're smiling, sure, but you're always, always, always tired. You've got no urgency. 'What's the rush?'-well, I'll fuckin' tell you. Is this the way you'd act if your life were coming to a close? I mean, if you went to a doctor and he did his needling and his probing and said you had just eight days to live, is this how you'd spend it?" "This is fucking moronic. I'm not dying in eight days. I've got years. Decades." "September Jones, you need some perspective. In this universe-this grandiose, beautiful universe-your life is an insignificant speck. A hundred years? Pshh. That's nothing. It's an instant. But it's what little you have. In the grand scheme of the universe your whole life is like eight days and it's coming to a close every second-every fucking second-and you need to move, move, move before that hourglass runs empty." "Uhuh. Just live in the moment? Live life uncaring?" "No." Oh. "Well… umm… what?" "Look I'm not saying you should forget your problems. They exist and they're not gonna go away in the blink of an eye. But you can't wallow in them all the time. You can't spend life trapped in that head. Sometimes you need to just move-you need to be fucking urgent-you need to just go, go, go for the sake of going-fuck the consequences-you need to just hop on up and get out the door because there's doing that needs doing and you're just the fucker to do it. Just for now, imagine there's 20 minutes left in the universe. 20 minutes and then it all ends. That's it. Poof." “Alright.†“Alright?†“Alright.†20 minutes 'til the universe ends. What are we waiting for? "Let's go, go, go!" I hopped out of the chair and dashed to the front closet. Which coat, which coat? Aw, who fucking cares? I grabbed one and thrust it on as we zipped out the front door-moving, moving-why so slow? Doug started to skip and skip and I joined him (why the hell not?). 19 minutes and we're down the block. Doug peered at the street sign. "We gotta make a right here." Right it is; right we go. Just keep moving and don't worry, don't worry-not about the pain in my feet, the chill breeze, or the wind-gusting, gusting at our backs-pushing us along as we skipped forward-zig-zag, zig-zag, let's have some fun. 18 minutes and we're at the corner. A familiar face. "Yo, yo, yo, September Jones." "P-funk. You gotta join us." "Where to?" Doug couldn't conceal his excitement. "We're going to the lake. We wanna scream at the top of our lungs." "Nice man, nice. I'm down. That sounds rad." Rad, rad, rad indeed. And just like that, Paragon Flax joined us. We stopped skipping (he wouldn't understand) and instead started walking at a brisk pace. 17 minutes, 16. Time flies when there's so little left and I'm not worrying-I'm not caring-because this feels so damn good. Life is not complex. It's shouting off the side of a lake-high, so high; the drugs just started to really kick in. 15, 14, Doug and Paragon were locked in conversation and I was happy-so happy-that two of my friends had met. Night skies above-the stars, look at them! I want to name one after me-that one, there-let's call it Septemba'. Doug laughed, but agreed. "Septemba' it is." Jesus, was I talking aloud the whole time? 13, 12, and we're there. Right there. 12 minutes to spare and I'm giddy-I'm ready to do this. To the ledge we go-3, 2, 1 AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Full force. The sound waves reverberating in our chests. One moment-forever-flowing, flowing-carried outward by the wind and we're finished. We're done. 11 minutes left and we had nothing to do. So we sat there, quietly, staring up at Septemba', wondering aloud whether man will ever reach those distant stars. Paragon, truthful: "Probably not." 10 minutes, 9. It's boring so we screamed again and again. Because there was nothing better for us to do. Because when there's only 9 minutes left in the universe there's not much you can do except scream, scream-out to the heavens-across the waters-up above to the distant stars. And like a bad rock song, we didn't know how to finish; so instead we yelled and yelled until our voices cracked and the melody faded, faded out-back into the empty skies-back into the dying wind-back into the everlasting silence once more.