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Where are you calling from? she asked. Tell me. Are you OK? Where are you?

Somewhere. Everywhere, Ben laughed. I don’t even know anymore. One day, I’m in Iowa, the next Illinois. That was a week ago. Just been driving.

Yeah. You like to drive, Jamie said. You running low?

Not sure. 

On cash.

I could always use cash, he responded. 

When you coming home?

Don’t know. I kind of like this vagabond life. Running around like this. Nothing in concrete. No commitments.

You do have a commitment. We made a commitment at the church on our wedding day. Remember?

No. I don’t remember anything these days. I don’t know why I called. Maybe just wanted to talk to somebody.

Somebody?

Yeah. Somebody.

Tell me where you’re at.

Why? What difference does it make? I’m here today and gone tomorrow. I just keep going back and forth on 80. Sleeping in my car. Eating out of vending machines.

And you like this?

I do. I guess.

Yeah. I guess so.

They hung up without saying goodbye. Ben got back in his car and turned on the radio as he pulled out of the rest area. National Public Radio was coming in from Chicago just a few miles away. Louie Armstrong was singing Do You Know What It Means To Miss New Orleans.

Never been there, Ben thought out loud. Never. Nelson Algren wrote about it. A Walk On The Wildside. A hell of a book, he smiled. Wrote about Chi-town as well. Came from Detroit. Few have read him. Few. 

The radio station was coming in clearer. Charley Parker was blowing his plastic saxophone. Ben hummed along. The sign for Chicago said 24 miles.

Muffled sounds. Silent loudness. Cop cars go by. Busses make stops. People walk against red lights; talking on phones, making deals, honey, I’ll be  home late.

Homeless men and women in cardboard boxes. Feces smeared on sidewalks. The smells of dirty dogs dipped in water. A greasy slice of pizza for a buck. Kids scrounging in pockets.

Lights flash as the sun goes down. Neon glows. College students drinking $8 bottles of  Budweiser or whatever is cheap and chic; PBR. The sweet smell of Indian food stinks up Lexington Avenue. A small concrete park where pigeons peck on breadcrumbs left behind. A loaf of bread is found. A loaf of bread devoured. Stale, hard, gums sink into the crust. She’s found dinner.

Meg watches from a swingset in Kips Bay. She goes up into the air like an airplane taking off, pretending that she’ll land someplace else. Heaven, perhaps. God take me away, she prays. Just take me.

She’s seen God before. On the end of a pipe. Laced joints. Huffed cans of paint. Tabs of acid. A shot of H between her toes. He was beautiful for a moment, then faded away like white smoke, only to leave her crying to see him again. But she never will.

The constant pursuit of God. Junkies, Evangelicals, Jews, Catholics, Muslims, drunks, sinners, gays, straight men in uniforms, the list goes on and on. Looking for God. One way or another.

Meg’s search began at a young age. Mom was so proud when she answered the call to be baptized; going under the water a sinner and brought back up a child of God.

Ten years old. Answering the call when she was just ten. Knowing that Jesus was born in Bethlehem and died at Calvary. Crucified. Nailed to a cross. She smiled when the preacher asked, Are you ready to be saved? Nodding and giggling, she said, yes. Yes, sir, I am.

The swing takes her nowhere, only to land back in reality. Dirty face. Ripped skirt. A tube top of red and yellow colors she stole from a thrift store. And in her purse, a tiny copy of The New Testament.

Where’s she heading to? asks Frank. Flew out of here like a rattled alley cat.

Stay out of her way. She’s upset.

She’s always upset.

Mad at us, says Ben.

What now? She wanted rock, and I brought her rock.

You gave it to me to give to her. Bad mistake.

I had business to attend to.

Who are you? Some Wall Street guy? Some hedge fund operator? Ben laughs. 

You smoked her shit.

Most of it.

Damn you, Ben.

Your fault. You trusted me. Don’t ever trust a crackhead. Don’t ever trust a pimp. I gave her some. She owed it to me anyway. Ben lit a cigarette.  She’ll be back tonight. All strung out. Looking like a ghost.

She’s a kid, Ben.

Used to be a kid. She ain’t no kid no more. She’s a crack whore.

No shit. But she’s still a kid.

She knows two things. Open her legs or open her mouth. That’s all a crack whore knows. Right?

We don’t need to talk about that.

Ben laughs. He sits down on the milk  crate. His bony knees come up to his chest. Frank digs through the coffee can for butts.

I’ll give you a cigarette, Ben says. But, it’ll cost you.

Everything always does.

Go keep an eye on Meg.

No telling where she’s at.

She don’t go far from the Point. Never does.  All her whoring takes place around here. Go on. Keep an eye out.  Make sure she comes back.

Men stare at her. They used to stare at her good looks. Now they just look at her like a dead fish washed up on the shore. Too much makeup, sometimes none at all. Filthy clothes. A dress she had bought years ago no longer fits right. Her curvy figure has turned to bones.

She sits on the train and hopes to go far, far away. Anywhere but the Bronx. Manhattan,  Brooklyn,  Queens. She could go to Staten Island and hook there. But girls have already staked their territory; piss marks on sidewalks. 

Meg gets off at 32nd Street and walks among the crowd. She makes her way to The Port Authority. Fresh meat getting off busses, young girls hoping dreams come true, boys running away from home, all of them have a story to tell. Meg forgot hers a long time ago.

I-80 runs from San Francisco to Teaneck, New Jersey.  It crosses the Midwest.  States like Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio. Thousands of cars and trucks take this piece of road every day, passing exits, billboards, toll road booths, and rest areas where people park and sleep or use the bathrooms, maybe get something to eat. It’s a true piece of Americana. All types, going east or west. Over the road drivers making deliveries and popping pills to stay awake, families going on vacation with kids screaming in the backseat, outlaws on the run, the lost, adventurers, those who can’t take it anymore, all of them singing along to the soundtrack that is the United States of America.

Ben and Meg drove this road of white lines and concrete heading east. He picked her up just outside of a small town in Illinois, where she lived with her mom. Dad left when she was six. Never liked being a husband or a father. No one knows where he went to, but Meg swore one day she’d find him and set him straight.

The radio was tuned to a classic rock and roll station. Bad Finger was playing Baby Blue. Ben sang along.

You know this song? Ben asked.

No. Sounds funny. Sounds old. Are you old?

Ben laughed and lit up a joint. The nighttime air came through the windows and vents. It felt cool. Like something new was coming their way.

I suspect you’re pretty young. She  nodded her head as he handed her the experience. That’s what he called getting high; the experience. 

I’m old enough to get you in trouble, she told him. Why don’t you guess.

Alright. I’d say sixteen.

How’d you know?

Used to guess people’s ages and weights for a carnival.

Oh. That’s interesting.

Yeah. I’ve lived a really interesting life.

They pulled over at a rest area in Pennsylvania. Tall trees covered the Dodge. They both leaned back in their pleather seats, shut their eyes, and dreamed.

A coffee can filled with cigarette butts sitting in the corner. An alarm clock radio tuned to WKCR is turned down low. The time 3:15 keeps flashing in red. Charles Mingus playing Ah Hum as Ben nods his head to the music.

He takes out a small piece of tin foil and forms a makeshift pipe with it; placing small white rocks into one end as an orange flame heats up his friend, his  nemisis.

Ben inhales the thin smoke deeply into his mouth, swallows, and coughs a little. He goes into a trance.

Give me some, Meg demands. Come on, share now. He hands her the shiny pipe and lighter. His face is blank, gray. The smell of burnt long hair stinks up the room; feeling like he was hit by an aluminum baseball bat, he motions to the girl.

Good shit, Ben says.

Yeah. Uh huh. What’s with the music?

This is Mingus. Charles Mingus. Don’t fuck up my experience.

Meg laughs and inhales the sweet cooked rocks. Charles Mingus? Never heard of him. She starts turning the dial on the radio, whizzing past classic rock stations, smooth jazz, and heavy metal.

What are you doing?

Just seeing what else is on.

You’re fucking up my experience that’s what you’re doing.

Your experience? Why don’t you just call it your buzz or your high like every other crackhead does? He stares at her. Don’t look at me that way, she tells him. Stop it. Gives me the creeps. Where’s Frank?

Came and left.

He was supposed to bring me some.

He did. We’re smoking it.

Sonofabitch. She swings wildly, and he grabs her by the long hair she has. That’s my shit.

Did you earn it?

What do you mean?

Did you blow him? Give him a hand job?

This ain’t right. This is not right. You said from day one you’d look after me.

And?

This ain’t looking after me.

You gotta place to sleep. A place to rest. He motions for her to hand the crack pipe back. Come on now.

Get away from me.

We gotta good thing going here, kid. Don’t fuck it up.

Am I free to go?

Yeah. As soon as you hand me back that pipe. She throws the silver and blackish piece of foil at Ben. You’ll never see me again, she says. Never. She runs out of the house through the space that once was a door.

Come back here. Come on now, he yells. Don’t leave me. Just don’t leave me. Please.

Frank walks in.

This world is filthy, he said. Kids like you don’t know the half of it. Sacrifices made for what? Very little in return, the old man said. And so, at times, we take time for a little pleasure. A brief recess from the pressures of life, he told him through the cut-out hole in the booth. Bills pile up. Your wife wants to leave you. Kids no longer call. Our indulgences become more than we can bare, he coughed and ran his greasy hands through his grey hair. It’s not my fault that you’re in this position. Down on your knees. Now is it?

The porno movie on the small screen showing a man and a transexual fucking each other had stopped. A red light came on outside the booth. 

Here, the old man took a token out of his pocket and handed it to the boy through the hole. His wrinkled fat fingers held the coin tightly. The boy grabbed it from him and placed the gold piece in the slot. The film continued as  Eastern Indian music played in the background. The old geezer undid his fly and waved his speckled cock at the kid through the hole. The boy grabbed it and began stroking it while the man in the suit continued talking.

Listen to me, the man said as he fished through his wallet for a ten spot. Here. Take this. Now blow me good. The teen placed the small penis up to his lips. Go on. The whole thing, he said. Is it too big for you? Take it. Now, he ordered. The boy did as he was told.

Life’s too much. Like I said. The pressure is overwhelming, the customer moaned. We do the best we can now, don’t we? But, there’s only so much we can do. Right baby? I said, right baby?

Right, Frank responded. Right.

This is a filthy world. It’s a filthy world.

Young Frank stood up and opened the door on the booth. He never saw the old man’s face.

We deteriorate, he said. We get older, and we get fatter. No longer thin. Our good looks leave us. Fleeting moments. Years go by. We’re not what we used to be. Ben lit a cigarette that he rolled. You think you’re the same as when I met you?

I don’t know, she said. When I met you, I was a kid.

You’re still a kid.

Where the hell is Frank?

He’s gone. You know Frank. He won’t be back for days.

He said he’d be back….

Says one thing. Does another.

I need my shit.

You got money. Go get some.

Right. I should.

What do you want Meg?

Don’t know anymore. I’ll do anything just not to feel. To be numb. I just want to be numb.

When we met, you had higher aspirations. You wanted to be a Rockette, he laughed. You’re five foot nothing.

Five foot one asshole.

Watch your mouth. I know how to keep you in line. Respect . Huh? You respect me? I took you out of that town to here. You owe me.

I know, Ben. I know.

You don’t know when you got a good thing. You’re like that Greek. What’s his name? The one who flew to close to the sun.

Do you know what you’re talking about?

Ben gets up from sitting on his milk crate. He confronts Meg and grabs her by the throat.

What did I just tell you?

She can’t talk. Her face turns red. Ben laughs. He lets go and pushes her into a wall. She falls to the floor.

Icarus. The boys name was Icarus. I knew I knew it. Don’t fly to close to the sun, Meg. It’ll burn you every time.

Semis lined up. Smells of diesel and gasoline. The hum of big rigs. Motors going past midnight. Women in tight sweaters and short skirts travel from truck to truck. Some looking for a buck or two while others ask for a ride heading east or west. Some have visions of New York, and then there are those with hearts set on Hollywood. They want to be movie stars. But not Meg. She had dreams of being a Rockette. Her mother took her to see the high kicking ladies when she was a sixth grader; that’s when her dream started.

The young girl practiced kicks in front of a mirror every night in her room. She’d extend both arms as if around another dancer’s shoulders and kick until she could kick no more. Truth is, she could barely raise her legs in the air. But that did not stop the five foot one inch girl from wanting to pursue her dream. A dream that was her mother’s as well.

I wanted to be a Rockette,her mom told her when drinking in the afternoon.  But I met your father, and the next thing you know, you were born, mom said in anger. I take the blame for it. No one’s fault but mine, she cried, pouring another glass of cheap red. No one’s fault but mine.

Meg sat in the diner of the truck stop. Remembered the words her momma said. Go fetch your dream, mom told her before she left. Go fetch your dream.

Alone. Broke. Waiting for a miracle at the edge of town. Waiting for a ride to take her away. And that’s when he sat down beside her at the counter. A tall, skinny man much older. Old enough to have spawned her. 

My name’s Ben. You want a cup of coffee?

Where’s Frank?

You told him to leave.

Right. I don’t remember.  Ain’t that funny? I don’t even remember my name.

Meg. Your name is Meg.

I know that. Just kidding. But one of these days I won’t. Someday, I’ll forget everything.  My name. Where I come from. Why I’m here. I mean, how I got here. In this place.

Yeah. I suppose.

Where’s Frank?

Probably ran into the city. Probably sleeping in some other crack house. Maybe behind a dumpster. Could be still awake. Running around town on the subway. Going back and forth on the 6. Who knows. It’s Frank. He might show up. He might not.

I remember now. I told him to bring me back something.

What?

Anything. I’m starting to feel sick. Need something to calm me down. Make me feel better. 

You never feel better. Not really. Junk gets in you. You don’t feel anything, period. At least I don’t. I haven’t felt anything in years.

Yeah. Me neither.

You’re still young.

How old am I?

You’re young.

OK. I’m twenty-something. I think. Never had a birthday party.

Ben rubs his thumb and pointer finger together. You know what that is? he asked. Meg looks at him, puzzled. That’s the world’s smallest violin. Playing just for you. What do you want? A medal? He looks at her. Listen. All of us are broken. We’re the land of misfit toys. We’ve been broke for quite some time. Since we were kids, Ben said. You got nothing. I got nothing. Frank never has anything. And yet, we’re still alive.

I don’t understand a word you just said. Tiny violins. Land of misfit toys. Broken since childhood.

Think about it. We all left home early. Ran away from something to something. Wound up here. And this is where we’ll stay.

I guess.

Go make some money for us. Go on now. Bring something home. Don’t be a Frank.

At first, she was scared. Frightened by the man next to her. I won’t bite, he said. Roll over on your side. She turned her blonde hair away from him. Now scoot next to me, he told her. At first, she resisted. Frank placed his arms around Meg, and both laid there straight as a board. Loosen up. Come on now. Make me feel like you care.

Meg stared at the wall. She could feel him unbutton her jeans. She continued staring.

I’m not going to hurt you, Frank said. Not in a million years. All you gotta do is just lie there next to me. I just want to feel your skin, he said, pulling on her sweater. There you go. There you go.

Got anything for me? she asked.

Like what?

Smoke. Crack. Some brown shit. Maybe some wine.

Let me lie here with you, and when we wake up, I’ll get you something.

So, no. You don’t have anything.

I got some food. Unless Ben ate it all.

Get out of here, she started kicking like a mule. Go on. Get.

I’m not going anywhere. Let’s get some sleep.

You know the rules.

Yeah. I know the rules. I’m short this month.

What? You gotta mortgage to pay? Get out and don’t come back until you get something.

Frank got off the mattress. He looked at her back. Her neck, in particular.

Whatcha looking at?

Nothing. Just nothing.