The Moon is Beautiful Tonight

I woke up this morning in a strange hotel suite, wondering where my pants had gone (oh no! Not again!). Later, slowly crawling my way into full wakefulness, I'd eaten some really good bacon and thanked the groom's parents for letting me sleep on their fold-out couch after the reception. Soon I found myself driving through beautiful Lino Lakes (when is the last time you thought about Lino Lakes, that northeast suburb?) heading away from St. Paul instead of driving towards it. I had the sunroof down, my Marshall Tucker mix tape cranked as loud as possible. I had no agenda for the rest of the day, and I started considering just driving and driving and driving. I could drive to Duluth, visit my peeps there, and then keep on going. I'd drive into Canada, I'd drive to Quebec. Eventually I'd abandon my car to work on a fishing trawler. Like Ismael, I'd take to the seas. Ramble on, ramble on. Years would pass. I'd grow lean and tan, with eyes like steely flecks of steel. When necessary, I'd contact my agent in New York via satellite phone, sending along the occasional manuscript by carrier dolphin. Eventually I'd disembark on some continent or another, the land strange beneath my sea legs. I'd walk for a while and see what I could see. Holidays would pass without my noticing them, my father's eventual death would be conveyed to me by a simple, one sentence telegram. While the friends of my youth got hitched and raised children, I'd get used to not missing anyone. I'd be free. One day maybe I'd return to St. Paul, just in time to attend the wedding of my friend's youngest daughter, Samantha Sanchez. He'd barely recognize me and others would stare in disbelief, this ghost re-emerged. The Rhyme of the Ancient Oppegaard.

Of course, instead of all this I simply turned back as soon as 35 W merged with 35E and an hour later was napping, air conditioner humming comfortably in my ear.