It’s strange how every ending is the same beginning. The same start as you had last time. Not knowing what the future holds. Grasping at anything tangible. Wanting for hope.

He had been in this situation before; several times. Backpack and bus ticket in hand. Without a clue as to where he would land. The ticket said Denver, but, it could have been Albuquerque. Might have been Tucson, or, Indigo, California. A name is just a name. A town is just a town. He knew this to be true. His history proved it.

The fat man gave up on being stationary. He had to move. And when he got there, he’d have to move again. Maybe up in the wine country where he could pick grapes with the Mexicans. Perhaps down South. Standing at the crossroads. Waiting to sell his soul. And for what? Another meal? Some bedbug sleeping room in Memphis? He was far from Graceland. He was far from grace.

His fortune never came. Got close a couple of times by marriage. Money? What is money? They went on vacations. Country drives on weekends. A house built in 1867. They were young and successful. At least she was. He went along for the ride. Then one day it was over. The fat man left in the middle of the night. Kissed her on the cheek and walked out of a marriage, a partnership. She went on dreaming.

And now he was back where he was before; on a bus heading west. Leaving troubles behind. Taking on new ones. Every ending is the same beginning. There is no change.