Days Without End

By Jason McGathey

A sleep deprivation bet careens out of control when a group of friends get together over spring break. One seasoned reporter, caught by chance in this maelstrom, attempts making sense of the carnage, though entirely out of his realm. While beginning as a lighthearted lark, what he encounters eventually finds him ruminating on our current worldwide climate, and its parallels to this insane odyssey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason McGathey
• Release date: Dec 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005485139

Jason McGathey

Formerly much more inclined to meander along the eastern coast, Jason McGathey now forces himself to remain in one place and work on his next magnum opus.

Book preview

Days Without End

Copyright 2020 Jason McGathey

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

EXQUISITE NOISE PUBLISHING

https://jasonmcgathey.wordpress.com

https://lovelettertocolumbus.com

https://aknownhistory.com

Also by this author:

Night Driving (2001)

One Hundred Virgins (2006)

Accelerated Times (2013)

Survive The Strip (2015)

Riots Of Passage (2019)

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

day one

I first met Tom Bowman through a friend of a friend of a friend. Here in Dayton, Ohio, where I live and work, this city not a major player by any stretch, news often filters out to me this way: dated and distorted, maybe, but essentially intact. As a staff writer for this popular national sports magazine, I had no professional reasons for looking up the kid, but this didn't stop me. Nor can my job explain how I currently find myself in a staid sedan with him and two of his peers, cruising at leisure to the central portion of this fair state.

Tom is a coworker's cousin's son - or something to that effect - and I first caught wind of his proposed latest stunt at the tail end of a Friday afternoon. This would have been back in December. A handful of us hanging out around someone's cubicle, discussing weekend plans or meeting for drinks, about to call it a day. Bill Lafontaine, by whatever turn of conversational events led us in this direction, mentions a kid he knows out at Eastern Dayton U who's committed himself to reading every book in the school library.

Who knows why this notion took root and grew to such outsized proportions in my brain. Probably something to do with its simplicity, for nothing complex really ever gains a foothold in this manner. Our minds gloss over the details and forget them before we've even bothered to subconsciously explore the subject. It's like the difference between the New York Yankees logo and something more elaborate. But this idea had the perfect chemistry - something basic to appreciate and marvel at, returned to often. Thinking, yeah, I guess I never have ever heard of someone doing this, or even attempting it.

Nonetheless, a couple of months went by. The holidays and all of that bullshit, hassle aplenty even for this divorced, mid 50s fellow. And maybe the boredom of spending eleven years in the same role and the same desk played a part in all this, but throughout the winter, I couldn't let go of this watercooler tidbit. Once, agonizing over a deadline story at something like 8:30pm on a Wednesday, I decided on a mental break and scanned the web for any tangible evidence of Lafontaine's tale. And sure enough, I eventually stumbled onto just that, a six paragraph, single column article written months earlier for EDU's campus newspaper.

In the black and white picture above the piece, Bowman, standing with a calm, confident smirk and his hand resting on a bare stretch of library bookshelf, looks tall, goateed, more than a little bit cocky. And yeah, that's some real good shorthand for the surface trimmings. But I won't learn this for weeks further still, when I finally get around to asking Bill if his cousin might be willing to provide me with Tom's number. Of course he found the request odd, until I played it off as some nonexistent freelance work I allegedly always did on the side, a story he evidently bought.

Our initial meeting will prove a decent icebreaker, the bridge to everything else including today's great lark, but nothing more. For days I call him every free moment it occurs to me to do so, and on the seventh or eighth attempt, I finally reach a live human on the other end. I never left a voicemail during the previous attempts, because no amount of planning out my messages ever made them sound less goofy. Yet somehow figure the interaction of live conversation might change this, although results are mixed. It will later transpire that this isn’t even his cell number, rather a good old fashioned landline in someone else’s name.

Explaining that I'm a reporter who’d read the EDU piece and was hoping to turn in a small profile on him, et cetera, this finds him agreeing in ho-hum fashion to a meeting, provided I drive out to campus. And I guess that in many respects, or nearly all of them, even, my cover tale is true, that I was hoping to craft some sort of narrative from this the minute his name reached my ears. I just didn't have any proper assignment to speak of and no market, wasn't sure what I would ever do with the material.

We agree to meet at the diner counter of a franchise restaurant near university. This being the latest industry trend, apparently, following experiments with delivery and serving beer on premises: now these establishments were luring people back into the building with the promise of an archaic malt shop atmosphere. I already know what he looks like from the newsletter photo, and spot him sitting at the counter in a perfectly reasonable outfit consisting of navy blue toboggan, multicolored striped scarf that hung well below the chair on both sides of him, and a pine green sweater, no coat. Perfectly reasonable considering it’s the end of March and we’re only a few days removed from the season's last big snowstorm, which lingers in the form of giant dirty piles plowed into parking lot creases, or under light posts, a development which itself trailed an extended warm snap. But spring always arrived like this in the Midwest, fitfully, with blizzard conditions one day giving way to seventy degrees the next.

I wasn't sure what to expect from my subject, whether I would find him surly, condescending, smug, indifferent, ebullient - any attitude within this spectrum was equally likely, especially considering his age. In my decade plus on this job, not to mention others held before it elsewhere, I'd interviewed my share of delusional, self-smitten flakes who put themselves, whether they would openly admit this, on a pedestal next to God. I'd heard all the ridiculous analogies and tortured bits of insight I ever cared to absorb. And if I had to handicap the odds on enduring more of the same from Tom Bowman, this is where I surely would have placed my money. What I wasn't quite prepared to encounter was someone already bored by this scheme because he's mentally moved on to the next. Though cunning enough, I suppose, to not come right on out and admit as much.

So…let me get this straight. Your mission in life is to read every book in the university library?

Tom nods his head over a steaming cup of coffee and replies, yes. I wouldn't suppose that's why you drove over here to meet me, though, is it?

A question which does throw me for a momentary loop, not due to the brisk directness or the attitude, but that it suddenly conjures a detail I had missed at the time: he never asked why I wanted to interview him. On the phone, I simply inquired whether he was Tom Bowman, and he said yes, and then agreed to this rendezvous. For that matter, he hadn't shown any interest in who I was, where I came from or where I worked, and that was just as true now.

Well, yes, actually, I laugh, caught off guard by this realization, that was the extent of it.

I'm sorry.

I wave him off and say, "don't be. I really want to hear your story. You couldn't possibly expect to finish a task like that, could you?"

Depends, Tom shrugs, with a square glance meeting my insistent gaze for the first time, I can plow through ten books a month, or thereabouts, and they say someone my age might live to a hundred and twenty.

Throughout, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else gnawing at him, another angle he wished to discuss, possibly another subject entirely. But that he couldn't decide whether I represented the proper audience, or this the right time and place.

And what about my own journalistic end of the bargain? Should I be grilling him over biographical details? Provoking what on the surface appears a possibly combative interviewee, with an angle toward juicy soundbites? What were his grades like here at Eastern Dayton? Was he sharp and ahead of the game, or a dimwitted crackpot? Sure, there was no denying he possessed some ferocious, incandescent baby blues, but I've always felt that the notion of looking into a person's eyes and gauging their intelligence - or lack thereof - is utter nonsense. The eyes are a closed circuit. They are windows into nothing.

Almost as a matter of tradition, then, or maybe a simple running out of other useable material, though certainly not because I expect any great revelations, I break out the boilerplate questions about his back story. And Tom, as if bracing himself for the task, confronts these at the outset by producing a cigarette and lighter, setting the former aflame as he tucks it into a corner of his mouth. So yes: originally not from Dayton at all, but rather one of those town-wide museums of shuttered factories a couple hours north of here; an older sister, parents separated but not divorced; had transferred to EDU a year and some change earlier, from this other, small, liberal arts college, in each instance following the breadcrumb trail of grant and scholarship money.

Well, at any rate, let's get back to why I drove over here in the first place, I state at last, feeling we've properly covered the basics, your mission to read every book in the library - how would you even keep up with new releases as they pour in, never mind everything that's already there?

You misunderstand me, Tom clarified, my mission is not to read every book in existence, or even to keep up with every book they have. I am simply starting at one end of the library and working my way to the other. Whatever falls in behind me is irrelevant. Ten fiction titles every time out, once a week. But if something happens to be checked out, I don't backtrack.

I'm not sure why he was bringing out my own combative streak. Though telling myself it was pure journalistic integrity to avoid the charms of his every utterance, that it's my duty to challenge some things, this is probably not entirely true. Despite his apparent scholastic pedigree, Tom is already displaying the smugness of the self-taught. And in a sense, I thought we were beyond this era. Hadn't everyone agreed by now that autodidacts were insufferable? Granted, each of us learned as we went, rewrote the script on the fly as circumstances forced our hands. Some went on to invent and disseminate marvelous creations. But this was only after we all spent x years sitting in cramped rooms, politely learning all the lessons we were told to before getting on with our lives.

Okay, then, I question, a trifle testily, attempt though I might to suppress this edge, "but what is the point of all this?" Aware, it's worth noting, how incredibly trite this sounds as soon as I've voiced these words.

Having extinguished his cigarette partially smoked, Tom only glances in my direction sidelong, before half bending to slurp from the coffee mug, half hoisting it to meet his lips. Not to sound like one of those Zen assholes, he offers at last, and his eyes at last lock on mine once more, accompanied by a smirk that suggests enjoying all manner of debate, but what is the point of, for instance, your driving here? Surely you've got more rewarding things to do with your time?

Yes, I do, I stress to him, but at least I'm getting paid for this assignment. Despite never displaying much skill in verbal storytelling, this rolls off the tongue. Even though that last bit - okay, maybe this entire comment - is a complete fabrication.

Cup now empty, Tom rubs his goateed chin as if deep in thought, or at least pretending to be. Ah yes, the paycheck…, he says and trails off. Then his expression does an about face into the subspecies of crooked smile where it almost looks like the person is winking. Well, at least one of us will leave a good story in his wake, Tom concludes, and stands in all but announcing this interview is over.

A good story? I question, exasperated at having long lost whatever meager leverage I had with this encounter, but for whom?

You, of course! Tom chuckles, then reaches for a napkin from the nearest countertop dispenser. Reaching into a front pants pocket as though only approximately 10% confident he will find something useful there, he then extracts an ink pen with the visible delight of someone who hit paydirt on a longshot. Scribbling down some coordinates on the napkin, he then slides the rectangular slip over to me.

What's this?

Come back later this spring. We're planning something huge, he declares, and makes his way for the exit.

Tilted to the right up till this moment, I now spin around in the opposite direction and look behind me just to chart his progress. Something huge? But when?

But Tom just shrugs and smiles. This spring, he says, and backs his way through the swinging glass door.

Which is how I find myself in a car this glorious mid-April morning, chewing up the pavement with three other guys. Do epic road trips often begin on a Sunday? I don't know, but the peculiarity of this is but one aspect that finds me admittedly revved up about today's great adventure. Headed for still some other college, ever so vaguely northeast of Ohio's flat, plain middle. This would be Greenlee, where in apparent notorious fashion Tom Bowman, now a sophomore at EDU, spent part of his freshman year.

You ever heard of Rupert Lazlo? he is shouting above the roar of all four windows rolled down, he went to Greenlee. A few other name brand poets, too, but mostly it’s all about Lazlo.

No, it's safe to say I've never heard of Rupert Lazlo, but then again I'm not much into poetry. For that matter, I haven't touched any fiction in over two decades, either. None. Maybe it's a condition of reporting for years, and thus finding fabricated tales difficult to get into, but I think this element comprises a small percentage of my distaste. Mostly it has to do with character names - they often strike me as too outlandish to believe, a crutch intended as shorthand to demonstrate how unique and fantastic their protagonists are. At the behest of many friends, for example, when I was roughly the same age as the other trio in this car right now, I tried reading Vonnegut, but everyone had such absurd, unwieldy monikers, they marred the entire piece. I couldn't get through it. It’s one of the main reasons, I believe now, that I was drawn to sports, the protean reality of that arena. In real life, the heroes always have names like Barry Bonds; yet when these same storylines are grafted into fiction, for some reason the same character is christened Rowland Office.

That one actor, too, man, the figure seated beside me mumbles.

This is Benny Fordham, if my notes are correct, he of logic defying blonde hair slicked down on the sides, curling up at the collar. Wavy up top in a manner that seems chaotic and yet hemmed in by its own natural order, although I'm pretty sure this character - judging from his sharp casual attire - has done plenty by way of grooming it, too. Benny stands about a head shorter than Tom but is otherwise the obvious sidekick, with his chestnut gaze, slipshod matinee appearance, and general inscrutable aura.

What the fuck's his name, he was in…

Right, right, Federaldi. George Federaldi. I almost forgot. So yeah, there's been a few actors and whatnot through the years, but mostly just Lazlo.

Federaldi, that's it. He does, like, one movie every eight years, always this sad fuckin shit, Benny notes, then cackles wildly, "but the reviews are always, like, oh my god, that was a timeless fuckin masterpiece, man…"

"Yeah, some variation of, Federaldi demonstrates yet again why he is peerless in his field. Another splendid performance for the ages," Tom adds, his imitation delivered with appropriately doleful cadences and tone, "for, like you said, this miserable Shakespeare knockoff where everyone stands around making long faces for two and a half hours. Or not even Shakespeare. Sub-Shakespeare. Cut rate Willie. That's what they should have called the last one, actually: Standing Indoors With Long Faces. Not that I actually sat through the whole thing."

Benny both chuckles and half mutters all at once, "heh heh heh, The Brolio Intrigue. Yikes," a comment that has even the driver laughing, in a short, violent burst resembling a dog's bark. Itself a rare enough occurrence that I'm much more fascinated by this than anything the other two have said. A bespectacled, mild mannered fellow with neatly groomed, sandy brown hair, he's easily the most difficult to read of the three, and has spoken very little, though it's unclear whether this makes him aloof or timid.

But I don't yet know a ton about any of these souls. Even Tom - there was one other meeting between our initial diner powwow and today, the occasion where I met Benny and the other one, our driver, whose name I believe is Brad, and that's the extent of our interaction. A random Tuesday where, following a couple of weeks intermittently stewing the matter, I'd sat at happy hour through perhaps a cocktail or two more than good sense would suggest, at least in conjunction with taking the wheel. Having reached a point where everyone in my party more or less exited the scene at once, and the barmaids were either lackluster or no longer interested in my lame jokes, and I decided in an instant, what the hell, I'm going to cruise over to this address Bowman provided me and see what's happening.

It's the week before spring break, and after pawing out the crumpled napkin from my sports jacket pocket, I wind my way across town to the coordinates scribbled upon it. Am not exactly astounded to discover it's an apartment complex, and a fairly typical one for this age bracket - low budget enough to appeal to the college crowd, just barely respectable enough so as not to horrify the parents. It goes without saying that only a certain temperament of landlord is able to tolerate the day-trading aspects of this market, between the roommates and the partying. But any fears I held about this venture are instantly obliterated. The units in question form a neat circle around this small grassy plot with trees, and before I've even parked in one of the slots alongside it, the precise coordinates of Tom Bowman's residence are obvious without consulting my cheat sheet. A long line extends from some third floor apartment, trailing straight down the flimsy (could they possibly be plastic?) cream colored exterior steps, straight except for the pair of landings this giant, many legged beast lumbers across, that is. Those gathered - young, mostly, though not exclusively by any means – are an animated bunch, too, chatting to their neighbors in the queue, or shouting to someone much further removed.

I exit my vehicle and approach the activity. Slow of foot, as I'm not sure what my next move will be, I grin and cross the paved circle, staring at the spectacle skyward. And it's only upon drawing closer that I realize there's another line, closer to the building itself, streaming down the staircase at a much more industrious clip. These folks, all business, are toting plates full of some at present undefined food in one hand, and more often than not a red Solo cup in the other. Unaware of my surroundings, I stand gaping openmouthed in the lawn, bewildered as I gaze up at this spectacle. And thus have forgotten all about plotting where to go from here, when it's decided for me anyway.

Ha ha! Nice! I hear the voice call out from above, though its origin is not immediately obvious, you picked a good time to show!

The voice belongs to Tom Bowman, of course, and I finally spot him, just a head poking over the top rail, that and one hand clutching what looks like a cast iron frying pan. Appraising the current state of this enterprise himself, I gather, albeit from the superior vantage point of a third floor walkway, and with a personal stake in the matter. Or so I am guessing. He definitely seems at a glance in much sunnier spirits than our initial encounter, which lends credence to his possible involvement in whatever racket this is.

Shouting something about executive privilege, folks, executive privilege! Tom manages to encourage my assent in between the two lines, up the stairs, and signal those in both that they should afford me passage, without yet moving from that walkway himself. It's interesting to note he has technically not yet said anything all that amazing, or funny, or remarkable, or even notably intelligent, on either of the occasions I have met him. Still, you can somehow readily sense these traits below the surface - confidence, no doubt, charisma when he's in the mood, who knows what else. The line itself offers proof of a drawing power, true, whether or not it's entirely his doing, but it's obvious that, as I make my way up the steps, from the goofy, intrigued grins turning in my direction as I pass, the constituents of this queue are fascinated that I rate a VIP entrance…just as the longing, doe eyed gazes from females (and likely some of the males, truth be known) closer to Tom indicate that he must, indeed, represent some sort of legend around these parts.

Heh heh heh, nice, nice, he claps me on the back and reiterates, in a tone reminiscent of a grizzled sergeant of multiple desert campaigns - all that's missing is the cigar clamped between his teeth.

In this fashion he escorts me into the well-kept but surprisingly small apartment. The line continues to snake within, naturally, leading to a breakfast bar of sorts separating kitchen from living room, though currently in use as an ersatz restaurant counter. The fare, as if the spices wafting through the room weren't explication enough, I'm soon told is Americanized Mexican, for this is the latest iteration of a semi regular tradition: Taco Townhouse. Held, as always, on the most alliterative day of the week for them.

Do campus authorities turn a blind eye to these shenanigans? And what's the over/under on law enforcement eventually getting involved? Should the landlord rightfully request a piece of the action, or is he receiving such monetary recompense already? These are but a handful of the many questions swirling through my head, compounded by the sight of this shorter, wavy blonde character soon introduced to me as Benny Fordham, shaking hands, chatting nonstop, and collecting money in exchange for the plates kids are picking up from the counter, as well as the beer he is pumping from a keg.

Aren't you worried about the, eh, legal ramifications? I eventually blurt out. Tom and I are standing in a narrow free space between the back of one couch, the turnaround lane beside the counter, and the keg where Benny's pumping.

Well actually not at all, Tom beams, waving to a pair of couples holding up their plates as they smile and give a thumbs up before exiting the place, as he somehow also nods to these two other girls in line and shakes the hand of some guy moving in the opposite direction, or yes and no. I mean, yeah, I suppose if someone wanted to get really shitty about it, we'd be fucked. But basically you'll notice there's this big ass bowl of St. Patrick's Day beads by the door…

St. Patrick's Day beads?

"Yeah, you know, green plastic beads, with, like, a shamrock in the middle?...anyway so the deal is technically this is a fundraiser, and they're buying these beads, and just so happen to get a free plate of food for showing up. Plus we're throwing in beer because we're all friends here and everything. As long as we donate x percentage to the Family Harmony Association Of America, nobody cares. It's for a good cause."

I will eventually learn to stop asking questions. But not today and not before wondering, aloud, but aren't you worried about the cops shaking down, say, a couple hundred underage kids wandering around with beer?

Are you kidding me? This is a college campus. They block off the streets on football gamedays for that very scenario. I mean, yeah, they could get a burr up their ass or something, but like you said, that would be the equivalent of bringing a shotgun to a mosquito infestation. They know better than to even waste their time.

I'm too overwhelmed to entertain further argument, and am even eventually roped in to assisting in the kitchen, though I cannot say how. One minute I’m just behind the trenches pitching in, and that’s that. I do recall that in following him around such swarms and obstacles, onto this next locale, I have an opportunity to observe the casual ease with which he conducts himself. Moving with a briskness that is somehow slouching and swaggering at once, impatient to get on with the next big thing. And I think that others just naturally pick up on these qualities. It’s presumably from this cauldron of magic that Tom Bowman draws his powers, enables him to hold those around him in such a mesmerized state.

To his credit, though, he is not just some finger snapping figurehead, he pitches in as well, in something of a roving instructor role, bouncing from station to station. Occasionally he relieves Benny at the beer keg, and sometimes one or both are also helping on the cooking and/or plating end, but mostly it's me in there, along with three others. Two of them are slightly scary looking carnie types, in their late twenties or early thirties, I'm guessing, with pock marked skin, tattoos and scars battling for supremacy over most visible skin, you name it, the kind of haunted eyes which hint at drug problems past or present or both. But the third is a meek, totally normal looking kid in round, wire framed glasses, neatly shorn brown hair, and a collared, long sleeved blue and black plaid shirt which he covers with a white cloth apron while quietly running the show in this kitchen. Someone else eventually addresses him as Brad, though I don't quite catch the last name.

The kitchen is a cozy, cylindrical affair, ten by five maybe with just enough room for one person to slide in between the appliances, sink, and counters which line the two longer sides of its interior. Yet there’s one other strange detail I don't remember encountering or for that matter hearing about, in any kitchen, ever. Flanking both sides of the sink, two to a side, the four upper wooden cupboards extend outward to an incongruous length and depth, to the extent they reach the counter and cover all but maybe a three inch strip of it. And the reason for this, it soon becomes apparent, is that these cupboards all house multiple dishwasher racks full of clean dishes - when one wash cycle is finished, rather than bothering to unload it, they just slide the entire rack into a vacated cupboard. There's another rack inside the machine itself, of course, for loading dirties onto, and then a couple more spares leaning inside the cabinet underneath the sink.

Oh that, yeah, heh heh. That was my idea, Tom chuckles, when a break in the action permits me to ask. And then as if telepathic, scanning the next question formulating in my head - or, more likely, because he's been asked the same countless times - adds, "I mean yeah, sure, maybe we should have asked the landlord first. Maybe it's kind of unusual for renters to remodel a kitchen like this. But is this not an improvement? I mean, these extensions we've added make them brand new cabinets, practically. So is the guy really gonna care? Who would complain about that?"

Whether predating this taco experiment or made necessary by it, I'm not sure, but at any rate this does speed up our turnaround times. And the handiwork is fairly incongruous, doesn't even look all that bad unless you examine closely. You could even argue it makes a certain bit of wackily perfect sense. Although precisely the kind of invention only a lazy college kid would think was cool - or maybe that for which, as with so many other innovations, lazy college kids are the joyful early adapters. And only once it catches on with enough people elsewhere does this become the norm.

Hours later the carnies are dispatched and the apartment is mostly empty, aside from a trio of girls I'm never formally introduced to, who laugh and talk loudly over an already blaring television in the living room - fruity, crushed ice drinks are involved, for the blender never stops churning - while I find myself seated at a small round table, in the dining area just barely large enough to hold it, while Tom, Benny and Brad finalize their take for the day.

Seventeen. A little over seventeen, Brad eventually announces, having been entrusted with the actual tallying of the piles and assembling figures on a scrap of paper.

"Seventeen?" Tom questions, pausing mid swing - he had been pacing around with a random golf club for hours, taking practice hacks every now and again, and now sits smacking it into the open palm of his free hand.

Yeah. A little over, Brad confirms.

What's your ROI on this enterprise? I ask with a chuckle, how much do you have invested?

Tom begins to smirk, I’m almost positive, before grimacing instead and glancing over at Benny. Our expense, he half declares and half asks, pretty minimal, wouldn't you say, there, Benny boy?

Benny, who is leaned back in his chair with an actual lit cigar, blinking as he stares inward at some imaginary point above the table, joins the real world long enough to concur. He flashes a dark, cryptic smile and flicks his gaze in my direction momentarily, says, yeah, man, pretty fuckin minimal. Chipping in with a mighty involved assist, he and Tom both, but mostly Benny, had been separating the bills into piles for Brad to sweep through and tally, and Benny is perhaps still preoccupied with this count, double checking each standing mountain in his head. The cigar smoke, while ordinarily off-putting, is welcome here in that it's blasting away the cheap Mexican restaurant smell.

Oh, but wait, wasn't there some charity angle? How does that work?

"Weeeeeelll yyyyes there is a charity angle, a charitable cause we like to support, and currently that is like I said the uh, Family Harmony Association Of America, Tom replies, and strokes his goatee while explaining these finer points to me, so yeah, with a rake of just over seventeen you figure, after expenses and services rendered and whatnot, paying various folks for their time even as we are truly blessed to have some fine volunteer hands pitching in…eh, we'll probably end up cutting them a check for two and some change."

And the rest?

The rest we split three ways. Brad here usually puts up a fight, Tom taunts, and we both flash our eyes over in that direction, where the figure in question, with his metal frame glasses and collared shirt, his mousy brown hair a staticky looking bowl cut, does appear mighty conservative in general and whiter than a clean home team jersey, but in the end we can always talk him into it. Simon and Edgar have already been taken care of, so, we'll probably call it an even fifteen and divvy that up between us. Nice even number. Then everyone can do whatever needs to be done with their share.

They apparently consider my services charity work as well, and that's fine. I didn't lend a hand expecting compensation, and don't mention it. Instead offer only a short, final question, asking if by this he means paying expenses.

Yeah, Benny instead responds, lighting up with a broad smile from the depths of his low seated position, that's it. Expenses.

In the name of brevity, it's probably best to omit the conversational loops taken for the next hour, how we arrive upon this road trip. All I know is that it's 11:30pm and I'm dreading the forty some miles home, the alarm that will sound in about six hours. Talk has remained mildly compelling throughout, as Tom paces the apartment expounding on various topics, opening windows, fiddling with his Zippo lighter, putting it to use on cigarettes - both his and Benny's - and joking with the girls. The other two remain foils of sorts, Benny saying little aside from his mumbled wisecracks, Brad picking his lip and barely offering anything at all. The ladies - a Kristen, a Tiffany, and a Hillary, if I'm not mistaken - do occasionally pause en route to the blender, and they're all variations of short, skinny, bubbly types of varying hair color, pale as you would expect an Ohioan in April, friendly and chatty but not terribly interested in our little dining room powwow. And things become a lot quieter in their neck of the hardwood floor, anyway, when I catch glimpses of a water bong being passed around the couches. Tom it goes without saying isn't immune to their charms, though even in partaking during the course of his travels, the pot doesn't seem to diminish his energy the least, an energy that is apparently somewhat legendary in these circles.

Fuck it, man, we should just drive to Florida, Benny offers.

"Eh, I mean, yeah that could be cool and all, but that's such a clichéd thing to do at this point, Tom demurs, I would almost be inclined to checking out Alabama or something, which does have surprisingly good beaches."

How would we get there, anyway? Brad questions.

"Well, I mean, you do have a car, Bradley, heh heh, Tom says, and as he happens to be standing right there anyway, squeezes one of his friend's shoulders, adds, in fact you are the only one among us who does have a car at the moment."

Yeah, but that's my parents' car, and I'm pretty sure they're not gonna just let…plus I've got that paper to write. I probably shouldn't go anywhere.

Of course you're going somewhere! It's spring break! What kind of lunatic assigns a paper due the first day back anyway! Besides, you can write it during our travels or something. I'll drive.

You'll drive? Brad offers, which seems just as likely a stall tactic, to divert further discussion of his going anywhere, than genuine surprise.

Sure. Screw it. What the hell. Straight shot down 75, we can be somewhere in fifteen hours. I've done it before, driven the entire thing nonstop. Both ways, even. We only stopped for gas and drive through restaurants, kept right on cruising.

Bullshit, Benny challenges, I mean, granted, I've only known you since Greenlee, but come on.

He doesn't sleep, though! Brad says, eyes plainly coming alive to recount this legend, even back home. Everybody kinda knew it.

"Be that as it may, I'm gonna play the my fuckin ass challenge card."

You want Miami? South Beach? It's a little bit further, but we can do Miami. I'll bet you everything you just made today that I can do that, even, in one shot. Stopping only for gas and drive thru.

Benny ponders this proposal at length, staring down at the table, the piles of cash assembled still. Mmm, I don't know, man, he mumbles, "that might just be barely possible. If we're gonna bet, let's bet on somethin juicier. What's the longest you've ever stayed awake?"

I agree to my end of this excursion while still admittedly murky on what this means. When the car issue threatens to derail all discussion - at a point where it's not clear they're considering me for this spring break jaunt, anyway - I might let it slip that a company funded rental wouldn't be a problem, so long as I used it for work related reasons. This revelation amps interest up another level, as they're now, or least Tom is, visibly working over the ramifications a published article, covering these antics, might have. That's my take on the situation, anyway. And maybe I need this more than anyone, maybe I'm just willing it to happen, imprinting excitement for the adventure onto everyone. Unless you count happy hours with the coworkers and a couple of brief flings, nothing interesting has happened for me in years. Even assignments in remote locations have typically resulted in few scrapbook worthy moments beyond the work itself and maybe some pretty scenery. But scenery never photographs well without people in the frame. And so while I can't yet fathom any reasonable way to concoct a sports related piece from this madness, I'm pushing for it, with a faith in eventually figuring things out.

After tremendous discussion and various permutations, it's eventually decided that we will hit the road at nine o'clock Sunday morning. Talking my editor into this expedition somehow, with vague euphemisms about finding the beating heart of small town American sports, if nothing else, I figure at least one night will await where I’m closing down a bar and ruminating alone in front of some sports highlight program. Which wouldn't exactly be the first occasion this scenario transpired. A story would materialize by some miracle, as it always did.

So it is that this morning I arrive at the complex about fifteen before nine, and spot Tom a handful of seconds prior to that - despite the early hour, and it being the only regular non-mailing day of the week, I'm rounding the turn from the main road to the side street, leading back to their apartments, and almost pass this figure by, spotted only peripherally at the last instant. Tom Bowman, jamming one envelope after another into the chute of a giant blue U.S. Postal box on the corner. With a squealing brake slam that startles us both, I reel and he flinches, before I roll down the window and ask him what's up. He grins, says these wouldn't all fit in his own personal box, nods toward the homestead and urges me in that direction, saying he'll catch up shortly.

Only at the apartment am I informed that we're not south bound at all, but rather toward north central Ohio. As Benny leans on the wooden rail of their balcony with a brown beer bottle in his hand already, I'm joining him in the sun if not the drink, as I troll on my phone for any tidbits I can unearth about this Greenlee College he's mentioned. No famous athletes hail from there, neither current nor former, which has me feeling suddenly about as cheerful as this Brad character twiddling his thumbs in silence on the living room couch. If anything Greenlee is more known for its women’s categories in both tennis and golf, which is something, anyway, and definitely an under-represented niche in our magazine’s portfolio. Such is the state of the American public's dim and narrow range of interests, however, no less the editorial team at Sports Unbound, that I know this will be a tough sell, even if I do manage to find some viable hook on which to hang a story.

Tom materializes not five minutes later, and has at least our departure mapped out to the letter, down to insisting Brad drives (trust me, he's about as rock solid as it gets) so that I might be free to scribble at leisure. To that end, while, true, stashing a tiny notebook upon my person, I've armed myself with a digital recorder boasting plenty of memory and a plan for using it mightily. And yet two hours into this ride, my first, most insistently burning question remains unanswered - possibly because there is no answer, in that maybe even they don't have one, apart from, you might say, a simple failure to ever put anything else together - and that would be why Greenlee, why Ohio, when the last I'd heard we were discussing spring break someplace much warmer.

Florida's played out at this point. Besides, do we really want to waste at least two of the seven days driving? Probably not, Tom breezily declares, which I determine is a rare instance of a comment being both true and some seriously made up, on the spot bullshit.

The most compelling angle in all of this, at least thus far, concerns the series of bets this trio of participants cobbled together in the waning hours of my visit on Tuesday. Granted, after a series of beers and general exhaustion, I was about half out of it myself, but if memory serves it sure seems like Benny and Brad both wagered a healthy portion of their taco enterprise earnings, on one admittedly farfetched boast of Tom’s. I'm actually not even sure I hadn't daydreamt the entire episode, until somewhere north of Newark, barreling across a Kansas-worthy stretch of flat, straight land populated only by barns, tractors, and dairy cows, with the occasional chalky arroyo and, only just now, an actual cluster of trees, some kind of ice cream manufacturing farm next to a placid pond, when Benny revisits the discussion. Or should I say leans forward with a grin and taunts Tom, concerning the arcana of last night's discussion.

Don't forget, motherfucker.

Oh, I haven't forgotten.

Sure about that heh heh? Benny mumbles, you already don't look so hot. You look like you might not even make it to Greenlee.

In a series of masterful negotiating that late evening at the table, conducted in a manner which would leave me wondering who was conniving whom, they had do-si-doed their way, however awkwardly, to this ledge of insanity. I consider it a small miracle that they omitted my involvement. But somewhere along the line Tom's boast of driving nonstop to South Beach, Miami coupled with Brad's observation that his buddy was never much for sleep led to a series of inevitable questions concerning his personal record. I'm still not sure what any of this has to do with the decision to remain in Ohio - I for one could certainly think of less sleep inducing states - and yet the end result was that Benny had bet the majority of his freshly earned bankroll, Brad considerably less so, that Tom Bowman couldn't stay awake for a solid consecutive week.

Counterproposals were eventually laid in place, tinier side bets, hedges for those feeling particularly optimistic, that Benny (three days) and Brad (a reluctant one) could or couldn't complete streaks of their own. All of which has led to our current state of affairs, and ground rule legislation for the finer points of this game.

A boy holding a bag, 500 yards, Tom declares just now, a cryptic comment in that we are bordered by fields again on both sides, green but devoid of trees or any other noteworthy vegetation, and clearly not a vehicle nor a person in sight. But when the other two refrain from replying, I figure it must be something beyond my understanding, and follow their silent lead. About a half mile ahead, however, over a tiny bump in the road, we do pass a handful of construction workers in neon yellow vests, our lane ever so slightly obstructed by some orange cones. One of the workers is in the middle, to negotiate traffic should it snag, but we are the only vehicle present and he waves us on through.

And just remember, man, Benny says instead, extending the current thread, "you're not allowed to, uh, assist the cause with any pharmaceutical enhancements."

We never actually agreed to that.

"Yeah but come on, man. If that's all it takes then what's to stop me or Brad here from, like, tracking down the nearest boondock meth trailer, too. I'm sure three days would be a breeze, one day…"

I've got a paper to write, Brad reminds us, not that he needs to, with a robotic lack of humor, I mean I can drive for a little bit. But at some point I need to break away. Get some stuff done.

Okay so the crazy meth dealer in the woods is out, Tom concedes, it's not like that was in the playbook anyway. I'm not sweating it.

Scenery always trips me up. I've never had much need in my profession for describing trees or architecture. What I do know is that we next enter a fairly large sized town, ugly in the way these often are, strictly speaking about the incongruity of their composure. They wear their years and fads like a tree’s growth rings, from the half completed housing subdivisions which were carpet bombed into newly plowed fields, on the outskirts of town, into the gross middle (and middle aged) sections rampant with low budget national franchises, parking lots which look like they must, however improbably, sit along a fault line to rival San Andreas, and the slapped together hodgepodge of check cashing places, furniture rental establishments and thrift stores, only finally arriving at an ancient and quite charming downtown, once given a makeover in putrid attempts to modernize it, before the current trend of peeling back the years and allowing the roots to show. This last point reminds me how cookie cutter baseball stadiums of the ‘60s and ‘70s were short lived fads, finally put to pasture in favor of retro cathedrals with a little bit of personality.

So patches of red brick show through here and there on the road. There's a 100 year old hardware store, and pawn shops with completely different business names carved into the stone above them. Diners next to train tracks, a courthouse bordering a traffic circle, and a two screen movie theater. And then much of this cycle repeats in reverse, as we exit this city through the northeast side.

As this town also soon recedes behind us, we are two hours and some change from the apartment complex which began our day. Winding along some state highway, lush with vegetation, which drifts in and out of contact with those railroad tracks. Then, near a steep, Z shaped embankment branching out to the left, Brad is forced to abruptly slam on the brakes at the behest of his copilot. Tom apologizes, having forgotten that the driver has only been here once or twice and doesn't know his way. It looks like some sort of secret driveway, as we turn and ascend within inches of the guardrail nearly kissing our passenger side doors - a climb that must prove nearly impassible during the snowy winter months - but no, this is actually the entrance to Greenlee College, though it isn't marked from the highway and you can see nothing of the place, nor its auxiliary, surrounding bubble of a tiny village, until you've just about rounded the last curve.

Greenlee State is a small yet cost prohibitive liberal arts college. As you climb through the rural hills, lazily, to the north and east of our state’s central capital, the landscape eventually flattens save for this one small bulb, still higher. Six and a half miles east of what passes as the only nearby city, Greenlee looms above and yet is hidden from the already obscure terrain. A shuffle step off the only state route cutting through these sparsely populated acres, Greenlee is nowhere you’d stumble upon or pass through by accident; indeed, it seems difficult enough to find even when one actively scouts it.

As the others have indicated, my rough research trolling online says this college is primarily known for having nurtured to life three prominent poets, in quick succession, during the first few decades of the 20th century. And Greenlee State has coasted on this highbrow pedigree ever since. Assuredly, it is the reason they can charge such exorbitant admission, lure such renowned scholars, and occasionally even spur some, with enough spare capital, to plant permanent roots here.

At first gaze this looks identical to any other fine arts leaning, bucolically planted palace of higher learning. Under a heavy canopy of ancient trees, the college slopes away from us to the right, gradually tumbling down a small decline into even denser vegetation in that direction, a series of buildings connected by the familiar webbing of bone white walkways. To our left, meanwhile, abutting another key avenue running parallel to this one, a long, towering chain of high-rise student housing hovers above the action. But though I can glimpse a couple of folksy diners in the distance, some other restaurant with a bar and one giant bookstore, there's nary a fast food franchise or shopping megaplex in sight, a jarring omission anywhere these days, even in a pastoral, dignified milieu where those elements clearly wouldn't belong - at least not visually, aesthetically, philosophically. Even the stop signs in this district are wooden, squat brown octagons with white paint, and markers listing other points of interest are posted on slight variations – six sided as opposed to eight, the top and bottoms significantly elongated.

Though numerous side streets whip around this secluded mound, there are just two means of entrance and exit, one at each end of this main road. I’m guessing this does tend to box in its occupants further still and enhance certain trends. For example this gravel foot path meanders between the two roads, and sparsely populated though it is at this hour, those either hoofing it or pedaling far outnumber motorized vehicles on the streets. All in keeping with the overall spirit of what I'm seeing by the light of my initial impression, of this college whose name I just heard a few hours ago. So I'm not the least bit surprised that every hundred feet or so, there's a brick lined crosswalk, the variety of which require that automobile drivers grind to a halt and wait for those traversing the road on running shoes or bicycle tires.

Pedestrians' rights, Tom scoffs, during one such idle pause, whatever happened to the good ol' days? Remember back when you could just mow people over?

Yeah maaaaaan, Benny cracks in understated fashion from beside me, I think that was outlawed the same year as teachers paddling students.

And I laugh at this, as does Benny, sharing a glance of mutual amusement with me, but Tom is having none of it. You guys think I'm being, like, tongue-in-cheek crotchety, or ironic or whatever, but I'm serious. Where we're at now as a society is that the slowest moving travelers are setting the pace, which doesn't make any sense.

Yeah, but I mean, what else can you do? Brad pipes up at last, just when I'd begun to forget there was an actual human behind the steering wheel, drive around like a maniac all the time? Besides, it's kind of rude to make them stand there forever.

Wow, Bradley, you somehow managed to raise a couple of excellent points in just a few sentences, there, Tom says, mocking, pedantic, and yet inviting a hearty debate all at once with his tone, "first off, no, I mean, when the light turns red, you stop. I mean, clearly. And then the pedestrians get to cross - you see how that works? Then the pedestrians get to cross. That seems like a perfectly reasonable sequence of events to me. But instead everyone's kind of talked themselves into this wild existential terror like you're alluding to, there, this mindset that it's rude to make pedestrians stand there. Because those of us driving cars are, like, these crazed automatons or something and so therefore we should be the ones to wait. Slamming on our brakes in the middle of a busy thoroughfare to allow this to happen. I mean, yeah, if someone’s standing there trying to grapple with a clutch of packages taller than their head, or something, I guess I kinda get it. But mostly it’s just idiotic."

"But you don't even drive. You're mostly walking everywhere," Benny observes, with his by now expected smirk, one that amuses itself most of all, and another glance over at me.

So see that proves I know what I'm talking about! I can be objective, I'm not just spouting off about what would be best for me personally…

Still, bonus points for clever philosophical angles aside, I can't escape feeling that, regardless of the speed we are moving, Tom has no more a clear cut answer as to where this car is headed than anyone else does. In fact, upon reaching the town’s only stop light, I can already see the other end of fair Greenlee, because we are at its apex, as this road descends through about three more intersections before winding on out into pastureland again.

Umm…, Brad says.

Eh, fuck it, Tom replies, sort of, as he cranes his neck around, to the right, peering intently at the tinted plate glass of this Tudor style restaurant building, brick with dark brown wooden trim - a probing glare, too, as if expecting to spot a familiar face. Let's see if there are any ladies about. Hey Benny, he turns now in his seat to face the object of this inquiry, did Marianne stick around for spring break?

To which Benny cackles again, caught this time on his heels. How the hell should I know, man?

Right, Tom nods, flings an index finger in a vague northeasterly direction, Bradley, kind sir, hook a left up there at…uh…the second intersection.

Tornado season, Marianne says, and nods toward the sky, the patch where my eyes are facing. And true, this is partially what I'm thinking - well, not the part about tornadoes, but I am viewing the sudden gloom above us with suspicion and sadness. While wondering how it is we're not yet past noon on a Sunday and standing in some random front yard in a teensy town I've never heard of, as Benny has cracked open a can of beer and somehow talked me into doing the same.

Marianne Landis, as she's introduced to me, is rocking away on a wooden porch swing hanging from thick chains, and Brad sits looking apprehensive on the top concrete step. Tom cuts a fidgety swath of his own with nothing but restlessness to explain his improvised route, up and down the sidewalk, loops through the lawn, occasionally nearing us, conversing with the lady of the house and rubbing his goatee throughout, as he peers outward at the minimal expanse of Greenlee in hopes of divining its action. Following her comment, cigarette blazing away in the triangle formed between thumb and first two fingers of her right hand, Marianne lifts a drink glass of some sort with what space remains in this same palm and returns her gaze to me, awaiting a reaction. I chuckle and mumble an agreement about this being so.

Is there a library here? Brad asks no one in particular, and removes his glasses yet again to give them another good rubdown with the tail of his shirt. I need to get started on this paper.

You need…what? A computer? Or you're doing, like, research? Oh, hey, by the way, Tom, Marianne says, shifting her focus back to the meandering figure stomping through her flowerbed at the moment, Alicia's back. I’m not sure if anyone told you.

And as our hero's mouth forms in a counterintuitive symbol our collective society has mysteriously evolved across millennia - a downturned mouth, yet favorable, the expression one would ordinarily interpret as something like hmm, not bad - he nods just once, though it's unclear what this response might indicate. My journalistic rabbit ears sense a narrative forming, either way, and I whisper to Benny while the others are distracted.

Who's Alicia?

The question catches him midstride, however, which I only notice in half turning his direction. He's in the process of lifting beer can to mouth, though manages to mutter still, Tom and Alicia… and then makes the index finger of his drinking hand dance, pointing outward from his friend to some unforeseen figure in the distance, back and forth, as he takes a swig. So…yeah, he concludes, upon swallowing this, followed by the sort of lip smacking noise one would normally interpret as something like ah, tasty beverage.

Well, I mean, um…I was hoping to break away - no offense - and was thinking the college might have a library. Unless…do you have computer? Sorry, I don’t mean to…it’s just I don't have a laptop or anything like that.

"You've got a car but don't own a laptop? Benny cackles in genuine bewildered, amused amazement. Bemusemazement. Wow. That's messed up."

Bradley! Tom barks with jagged, unexpected force, causing his target, who is peering upward at the swinging female on the porch, to flinch and stare out at him with a slack jawed, hangdog expression, "come on! Yes, of course, go inside and I'm sure she's got a laptop or something you can use. But we need you to stick around. Now I'm certain our writer friend here wouldn't mind driving some of the time, and at this, he flashes a sly smile in my direction, one I return by reflex, and probably will. Considering he rented the car and everything. For the most part he's gonna be preoccupied, however."

Writer friend? Says Marianne, perking up to the degree that she seems to sit taller in the swing, what do you do?

People want to tell their stories. There's nothing particularly new about this phenomenon. And once you really dig in, if told well, virtually everyone has a fascinating tale to expound upon, the vagaries and dead ends, successes and disappointments, the sum total of their days - though it is precisely this fact sitting like a lead weight of dread in my chest. And by lately, I guess I really mean right now. When every living person has a convoluted epic to offer, in some strange fashion this means none of them really stand out. Professionally, it also strains the need to develop constant twists on the profile article. And I have to admit there's a further layer contributing to the gloom, too, feeling that I am one of those few souls on the planet who doesn't have a fascinating legacy trailing in his wake.

Only now does this impasse dawn on me, however, this crossroads which should have been obvious for weeks. Why else would I not only agree to this excursion, but actively seek