My eyes moved between the windshield and the rear-view mirror, anticipating a swarm of flashing lights as the needle of time stitched itself slowly forward through the weak flesh of my mind, embroidering my thoughts with Kafkaesque plot twists. I really need to smoke that cigarette, I said to myself as I glanced down at the cupholder and then leaned over to rifle through the glove compartment for a Hail Mary in the form of a matchbook. There were three packets of Taco Bell hot sauce, some napkins, a map of Canada and a map of America, but no Hail Mary matchbook, so I grabbed the map of America and opened it up, hoping to distract myself from my anxiety and its plethora of acquired addictions.

While dragging my finger across the Midwestern states, I remembered the stories my mom had told me of her childhood spent on a farm in Omaha, where every morning she’d hurry through her chores so she could swing on the tire that hung from the willow, and run through the fields with her hound dog, and ride the old draft horse when it wasn’t sleeping, and play with the runny eyed barn cats; a daily stream of activities that only ever surrendered to the night, or to the absolute meanest weather, and if it turned out to be the weather, then she was surely the last one down the stairs into the storm cellar. She loved the farm, but as she grew older she grew more fascinated by what lay beyond its cedar rail fences, and by the time she turned eighteen, exactly three days after receiving a letter that told her she had won a scholarship to attend a prestigious university in Grey Grove, Canada, well, she was ready to explore.

I could see that it wasn’t far from south Kansas to eastern Nebraska, so I considered going out of my way on the return trip in order to experience first hand the land my mom grew up on, but I decided against it after remembering the compound interest accruing on the two thousand dollars I owed; a sobering thought that put the cigarette back at the forefront of my mind: I really need that cigarette, I said to myself again as I glanced out the window and saw my old lighter lying there in the roadside grass looking the paragon of disposableness while underscoring (with its eternal license to do so) the disposableness of it ALL, from ancient Greece to modern Los Angeles, and from the nematode to me.


2 thoughts on “Kafkaesque

  1. These characters are in our blood. It will be that way until it all ends somewhere, sometime, undetermined, but sure and there is nothing to be done but what we are doing. Thanks. Duke

    Liked by 1 person

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