Colby Buzzell - Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey

Lost in America

A Dead-End Journey

Colby Buzzell

For my mother

If you are going through hell, keep going.

WINSTON CHURCHILL

Contents

Rendezvous with Destiny

Take as Needed for Pain

The Path to Hell

A Veteran in a Foreign War

Changing Atmospheric Conditions

Down and Out in Cheyenne

Life After Last Call

The North Will Rise Again

Never Look Back

Committed to Excellence

Detroit

The End

Mission from God

Unsuccessful Men with Talent

Ignoring All Legal Disclaimers

Sunday Stripper

Friendly Fire

A Portrait of the Writer as a Young Artist

Failing Journalism 101: A How-to Guide

Love Thy Neighbor

Nothing Further

I feel there is a universal sense amongst our generation that everything has been said and done. True. But who cares. It could still be fun to pretend.

KURT COBAIN

P utting my own personal feelings aside on Kerouac and the Beats, I enthusiastically agreed to this assignment to Retrace Kerouacs footsteps and paint a contemporary portrait of America. A love letter to Kerouac. Now I could start this off by crafting a predictable segue into a nauseating tribute to Kerouac, offering some soulful reason for writing this book, or rambling about how Im on a mission of self-discovery.

Like hell I am.

Times are hard, and right before I left their upper-floor midtown Manhattan office, after Id shaken their hands and told them all thank you, that theyd all made a great decision and how I couldnt wait to start, one of them asked me if there was anything at all that would prevent me from doing this assignment for them. I paused, thought about that for a second, and then I lied. Shaking my head, I told him no, that there wasnt.

With a smile he said, Good.

I smiled back.

Life takes its turns, and after purchasing an American classic off some stranger, I filled the tank, lit a cigarette, thought about Kerouac for a second, then thought about something else, put the car in gear, and headed off toward the opposite coast. Destination? East.

I dont write love letters.

Fuck that, and fuck Kerouac.

O n my flight back home to San Francisco I began to worry at length about how in the world I was going to pull this one off while at the same time I was suffering from a huge migraine. I asked myself over and over again what in the world Id just gotten myself into when, out of nowhere, I started thinking about the time growing up where I would hold my mothers hand as she walked me to school each morning. Recalling this time in my childhood, more specifically this one particular memory, seemed to calm me and make the road ahead less daunting.

The elementary school I attended was located only a couple blocks away from our house. I was either in the first or second grade at the time and my lunch box like always would be packed with a meal she had carefully prepared for me. She believed the Rambo lunch box I had wanted was too violent, so I had a G.I. Joe one instead. For some reason I have no memory of socializing with any of my classmates, none. Most of what I remember is sitting at my desk with my Beatles haircut (which my mother literally used a bowl to cut) wondering what in the hell was going on, and other assorted thoughts that seem much more important as a kid. What if the school was a spaceship and it launched and we all got to go into outer space? An elephant in the backyard would be cool. Cheerios with soda instead of milk: yum or gross? I want to be a professional bike racer and pedal really fast. What if I had every single toy that was ever made, do you think thats possible? Would they all fit in my room?

Always feeling off in my own world at recess, Id keep myself company just walking around with my thoughts, head down, every now and then picking up a rock to see what kind of bugs were underneath or studying some flower growing in the grassy field bordering the schoolyard.

One day the bell rang, indicating the end of recess. While all the other kids frantically ran back to class, I didnt. I saw no reason to. I just stood there out on that grassy field dumbly, watching. One by one doors began closing and silence filled the playground.

After a couple long minutes just standing there, waiting, I realized no one had noticed my absence back in the classroom. So I left.

I casually walked off campus, making my way down a couple of the suburban residential side streets, looking at the lawns and houses I passed. When I reached the nearby grocery center, I stood there and watched people pull up in their cars, park, enter the grocery store, leave. None of the adults seemed to notice me, or the fact that I wasnt at school. I slowly walked over to a nearby park, where there was a playground. I didnt play in it for whatever reason, though I remember just staring at it. Leaving, I headed down a busy street with cars thundering by. An enormous black van pulled up. After studying me for a bit, the lady driving told me to get in. I saw no reason not to.

A mob of parents crowded around once we arrived back at the school, one of the adults in this crowd a particularly frantic Korean lady. It was my mother. When she saw me exit the ladys van, her panic turned to a smile of relief and a warm hug. The crowd dispersed and my mother, after thanking them, grasped my hand tightly and walked me home.

Surprisingly she didnt yell at me at all, and I wasnt punished. Instead all she did was tell me never to do that again, that it scared the heck out of her, the other parents, and the teachers, that they had all feared the worst: that Id been kidnapped or that something bad happened to me. All of this confused me. I nodded back, promising that I would never wander away again.

But I love grime, alleys, and alcohol. Im an alley cat, I like to wander. Its not really any more complicated than that.

Rendezvous with Destiny

I think its a mistake to ever look for hope outside of ones self.

ARTHUR MILLER

T hats it? Thats the fucking speech that I flew all the way across the country to see? I could have YouTubed that from home, Id be a lot fucking warmer if I had. Witness history, my ass. The only thing Im witnessing here in D.C. is me freezing my ass off.

Not only did I desperately need to work more positive thinking into my life, but while trapped there, I also realized that had I YouTubed the speech from the comfort of my own room instead of making the effort to be one of many in attendance, I would have missed out on witnessing the behavior of the sea of people all around me. While just minutes before I had, dare I say, been somewhat moved by the thousands of miniature red, white, and blue flags proudly being waved around me, I was now watching as one by one they made their way onto the ground, carelessly tossed like cigarette butts, scattered all around. There they lay, discolored with dirty footprints, torn apart by the trampling masses. Nearby, trash cans overflowed with discarded flags. I noticed a young girl, maybe kindergarten age, collecting up these flags that had been thrown down into what was now mud.

Though I never made the rank of Boy Scout, I belonged at one time to the Webelos (Well Be Loyal Scouts), later joining the Cub Scouts. I remember being taught that our nations flag should never touch the ground. If that was to happen, it should be burned.

That thought was interrupted only by something far more shocking, the loud shout of a T-shirt hawker: SALE! Fifty percent off!

This guy looked like a big fan of all-you-can-eat buffets, waddling around with two arms full of those Hope T-shirts so en vogue just minutes before, now downgraded to the discount bin. I followed him for a bit, seeing that no one was buying. Nobody cared. Everybody had theirs already. Though I was tempted to purchase a My President Is Black! T-shirt, I couldnt see myself rocking a shirt with a politician on it, so I passed on the deal. Even at 50 percent off.