CHAPTER TWO: I Don’t Know Which is Worse


The last reminisce of Sunday were ticking away. I was waiting in my Virginia home, pacing the floor for Nick’s arrival to commence our journey. My thoughts were on high school days past when a road trip meant piling into Jesse’s truck to play a show in North Carolina or D.C. But the task, which lay before us, was three thousand miles and a slim chance of survival. (Note to self: Laugh at that last line if I live.)

After five albums worth of music we were finally out of Virginia’s clutches and our adventure truly began. Through the wee hours of the morn and our glazed eyes we watches the sun hovering over the snow ridden hills and mediums of Kentucky, a good spot in the world for those who have had frontal lobotomies.

The scenery took a while to change, in fact it never did. The only way we could have relieved ourselves of the monotony was to remove our heads but where’s the fun in that?

Seventeen hours. It was no more a lie when I first said it then it is now. I’m telling you we pushed our selves to the breaking point. Our eyes sat dried up in their sockets like raisins (No they didn’t sing Marvin Gaye covers) and we decided to stop at the Eastwood Motel in the dead (and I mean that) centre of Missouri. A quaint establishment covered in 1970’s shag carpeting and six legged friends.

“Hello.” They greeted us with a casual salute.

“Hi ya, boys.” I retorted keeping the mood. It wasn’t bad our trip I mean, thus far. We were almost halfway across these United States and making new acquaintances, but still I pondered.

“I don’t know which is worse.” I thought out loud. “Virginia or this?”