A Van!

A Van drove right by me- almost ran me over.

I haven't seen a moving vehickle in so long, I just stood in the middle of the road shocked as it came barreling towards me.

It was full of teens, and as they swirved to miss me- I saw their shocked faces matched mine.

Teens. In a Van. A Van?! Only The Communities still have working Vans. Where did they come from? Where were they headed? Why did they seem so surprised to see me? I'm not the one driving a Van!

They stopped the van a ways down the road, and piled out yelling at the driver and began to search for me.

I of course played it safe, I haven't lived this long on the road by not. Right after the initial shock wore off, I dove into a bush and hid. It was a graceful leap and roll, as I rolled that is what I thought.

Until I actually landed on the thorns.

Now it's been two hours and the group in the van is calling off the search- why did they bother to search? Maybe they're nice. Maybe they're not.

Maybe they're deciding to camp out here. Yep. Darn!

So I'm sitting in a bush waiting for dark so that I can slink away-

But there's a Van- a working Van, full of teens, who are fighting with each other and is one of them chained up? And now- Music?

They dance around, all happy- Happy. It's a somewhat sad kind of happy- but that's the same as overjoyed nowadays.

And I'm beginng to think, maybe I should climb out of the bush and say Hi.

But the clinking of the chains on one of the girls keeps me crouching.

Besides, I'll probably need the rest of the night to figure out how to say Hi without scaring them.

"Hey there, I'm the guy you almost hit with the Van"?

"Hello- don't mind me- I'm just crouching in a bush for my back"?

"Howdy neighbors"?

"Top of the Morning, mind if ask where you found a working Van?"?

Thorns in the backside are terrible for concentration.

I saw a street of old houses today. This isn’t really noteworthy I suppose, all the houses on all the streets are quickly becoming old.

Either broken into, burned up, or simply weathered- It's pretty surprising how little time needs to pass before houses turn.

It was a string of weathered houses this time.

And I don’t know if it was the street, the style of houses, or just something about me, but I couldn’t stop myself from crying.

This one house- I think it was weathered white with peeling red shudders. The colors were almost completely muted from the dust, but here and there you could see what it probably used to be.

It looked nothing like my old home, but somehow it reminded me so much of it.

Of painting the moltings with my father. Of patching the roof, cutting the grass.

Upkeep, he called it.

It was part of what turned my old house into my home.

This was just a house that I was looking at. Maybe not even that. With no tenants maybe it could only be called a building.

Looking at the dust-covered, paint-pealed shudders; I couldn’t imagine it or any of the other buildings ever being called home again.

And so I cried to myself, for myself, for us all.

For we may find places to stay, but will we ever call any of those places home?

I can't get a piece of song out of my head.

An old, half forgotton tune from long before.

A couple of words looping through my head over and over, never getting to the next part.

Did I even ever know the next part?

I don't know. I don't even know who sang it.

If I spot an Idol on the road, maybe I can ask- usually they can pick out a tune from half remembered lines. That talent always amazes me. Tone deaf phrases are belted at them and like the old Mthree players they'll call up the song from memory and sing and dance it for you.

But that's how they eat, how they find shelter

Sometimes how they avoid trouble from others.

I guess if I was an Idol I'd remember lyrics better too.

I wouldn't even mind it if one of them couldn't remember the lyrics, just hearing something else would be so nice.

Something else to be in my head.

As it stands, all I hear is "Woah! there will be snacks, there will, there will be snacks!"

And to distract me from this?

The wind blows and a rusted metal sign taps against its post.

I could use a snack…

Not that I’m complaining, I prefer going it alone.

If I didn’t, I could have joined up with one of The Communities.

Well, not so much The Communities themselves- If you weren’t part of The Fed or The Biz when they began or you weren’t born into them, there’s no way you’re getting in.

But there’re always the barnacle towns right outside the gates.

They get the skim from The Communities; they even have power a couple hours a week.

But I just can’t stand to live next to the walls- always wondering what’s it like inside, knowing I’ll never find out.

I’d rather walk in hopes of finding something better.

My dad would be proud; the american dream is alive and well.

Unless the Second Comers get me...

Plastic.

It really is amazing stuff.

I’ve been using the same water jugs for years now and they’ve yet to let me down.

The grass is dry but the ground beneath me is lush and green- astraturth- plastic shavings.

A windmill spins for no reason. The blades are brittle to the touch but still turning- Plastic.

A cracked dragon tattooed with tags of previous visitors stands guard over the 18^th hole.

Its plastic eyes shine in the sun.

If what they always said was true about plastic then some day when we’re all gone; someone will come along and discover our mini gulf courses, and try to decipher meanings from small Eiffel towers and spitting fish.

I tag the dragon as well and leave this webdress in case someone else stops by.

A three foot hot pink sphinx for the pharaohs of the road.

Does anyone remember the Good Old Days?

The days when anything was possible.

When it was safe to walk down most streets in the daylight- some even at night.

When acid rain, global warming, rising ocean levels and superstorms were called theories. Possibilities. Pressing but avoidable future threats.

When gas powered so much and cost only $6 a gallon.

When it could be purchased with money.

Do you remember money?

Do you remember the cities lit up at night, blazing away like beacons of life to welcome travelers from far away?

Burning away, rows upon rows of towering glass and light. Beautiful but devouring.

Does anyone remember these days?

Or am I alone with memories of a happier time?

Memories of a time that brought us to now.

I spotted another pack of wild dogs today. Thankfully they didn’t catch whiff of me.

One of the problems with traveling solo is an inability to fend off packs.

Of anything.

It amazes me that we used to keep them as pets- but they were gentler then- and there were smaller kinds.

But they’re gone.

You’d never see a pack of wild chiwalla’s.

The gentle just don’t survive.