Would you sell your soul for a sandwich? I asked. A bed? How about a coat just to keep you warm as you lie on a park bench?

What I wouldn’t give for a car. Just an old four-door with an engine that wouldn’t quit. Ford. Chevy. Some old Dodge. Maybe a station wagon so I could stretch out at night. Let the back seat down and just lie there; resting. My own space. My own place.

I’d drive it up and down I-95 a few times. Stopping in New York, Philly, D.C., make my way down to Florida for the winter. Sleep at rest areas under blue lights. The tranquil sounds of diesels humming. My own Valhalla.

Maybe get on 80 and head west. Go through Iowa and The Plains. Nebraska, Wyoming. Park it in San Francisco and start my way back east to Teaneck, New Jersey. I don’t know. No particular place to call home. Just stretched out land.  This whole country is mine for the taking.

I dreamt the other night that a woman would be my co-pilot. Travel with me. Then I woke up. It was just a dream.