Back to the West


 When C. Willy dropped me off at the Boston Airport, I was so sad, “But it’s only two months,” he reminded me. It felt like the universe was imploding, and I sobbed my eyes red with my arms draped over his shoulders, down his back, fists full of shirt, clenching like I was holding on for dear life. 

I have never loved someone this much, and so when I finally turned to walk through the revolving glass doors, my senses dulled, everything seemed irrelevant, I bought two pints of beer and missed my first flight. 

The farmhand job I had ended, Willy’s didn’t, and I couldn’t stay there, so I went back to the wild side of America that feeds my soul. I flew into Portland, Oregon at midnight, and my good buddy John Z was supposed to get me and we were going to sleep in Lint’s van, but he drifted off to sleep, so instead, I took a taxi to a dive motel and fell asleep too. 

The next day John showed up in a small Honda Fit, weilding a sewing machine, a Kitchenaid mixer, three teeny tiny Palante packs, a small cardboard box full of camera stuff, and five Hawaiian shirts. He was still bearded and tall like I had remembered. 

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