1.

The young man was on the aircraft, halfway home, before he realized what had happened.

Three college students, using the cover of heavy fog, had earlier slashed his tires in retaliation. The same heavy fog delayed the flight to the Twin Cities by two hours, meaning he arrived five minutes before boarding call—five minutes before his flight back home. He sped through the terminal, running as fast as his legs could carry him. A young family with two children stepped aside just in time to avoid being knocked to the ground. The father of the family apologized profusely for getting in the way. 

They’re just children, he said, matter-of-factly and unoffended, desperate to reach the gate in time. A single airline employee, all too aware of how close he was cutting it to missing his flight altogether, cheered him on from the sidelines as he raced by them. She even briefly ran alongside him on his journey, jogging alongside the moving walkway. As he arrived at the gate, the flight back home had only just started boarding. A few minutes earlier, he’d been given the opportunity to upgrade to first class for a nominal fee. Being that he had never been a first-class passenger before and being that this counted as a genuine clusterfuck emergency, he paid the extra $40 at a self-serve terminal with a credit card.

The young man understood the appeal of priority boarding almost immediately upon taking his seat. Within two minutes, an accommodating flight attendant asked him what he’d like to drink. His response was something alcoholic.

Vodka never completely agreed with him, but it served its purpose well. Very quickly he felt a comforting buzz, though he did not drink to total intoxication. Instead, he was seeking to knock his brain down a gear. He needed to piece together what had just happened. It had been a frantic twenty-four hours.

2.

James needed saving. The young man had arrived at that decision around 7 pm in the evening, lying awake in the dark of his dorm room. The room looked like a cave without illumination because the white-painted cinderblock walls couldn’t be seen in a room without overhead light fixtures, nor windows. James needed rescuing. It was an endless refrain in the young man’s head. It didn’t especially matter to him that James lived over a thousand miles away and at least seventeen hours’ drive non-stop. They’d met in the hospital the summer before and had been inseparable since then, exchanging phone numbers, then running up long-distance phone bills neither of them could afford. Bills both sets of parents paid begrudgingly. James liked his black curly hair, and the young man liked James’ taste in music.

The young man had taken off on the spur of the moment. He owned a large traveler’s atlas of the entire country, region by region, state by state. If he’d known the trip to the upper Midwest would take as long as it did, he might have thought better about it. But in those days, he was known to make many impulsive decisions, fueled by mania and marijuana. Upon his return, he’d view the journey as courageous, until, years later, he realized how easily he could have been killed. 

His dealer was a rotund black woman with one front tooth who sold rotgut marijuana to supplement her income. She was a small-potatoes seller, never a hard worker. Didn’t intend to break a sweat if she could help it. He was her only reliable customer. She was perfectly content with his routine business because with every sale, it meant she’d always have pot for herself. The hydro or dank she pocketed for herself was a thank you for the business. There were many advantages to being the middleman in the exchange. 

He never felt especially safe in the hood because he was white and almost no one else in the vicinity was. But he could never trust white pushers, who covered territory in more affluent parts of town, municipalities where the cops had the time and inclination to go after those who dealt. Hence his journeys into rougher parts of the city. But he never felt totally secure. After driving to the rough side of town to visit his dealer, he foolishly drove the back way through narrow alleys in the hopes of avoiding the cops. That was mistake number one. The alleyways were littered with glass shards and nails, one of which eventually punctured a tire.

The young man had purchased several grams of middling quality weed, enough to last for a long time. Not great shit, but good enough. Enough for James to enjoy, too. They’d talked together, numerous times, about their mutual love of pot. He kept the weed in the front glove compartment box, in the cellophane wrapper where it had been sold to him, buried underneath the car’s brown leather owner’s manual. Unfortunately, the young man kept dipping into the stash along the way, leaving less for anyone else. 

3.

The young man was now waiting impatiently at a small regional airport, before embarking on the first leg of the trip home, praying for the fog to clear. He’d assumed before leaving on the trip that he’d be gone for quite a long time, hence the reason to bring along most of his prized possessions. Some weren’t needed at all, unnecessary for any rational purpose. But such is the nature of the disorder. These possessions included the glossy magazines of naked men in various stages of undress that he’d purchased on the sly from the local adult bookstore, four to a package. For some reason he’d felt the need to take every single copy along. There were at least seventy-five, though he had never counted.

While attempting to board the plane for the first flight of two, he found he was subject to a random search of his person and all his carry-on luggage. This included the magazines. Fortunately, the male security worker who had to peer into his belongings registered nothing in the five minutes it took to scour the man’s possessions. If the worker was homophobic, he gratefully kept the matter to himself. His face displayed nothing. 

I’m a TSA worker. I don’t have feelings.

Ten minutes later, the fog cleared, and it was finally time to board the first plane of two.

4.

The tire burst five minutes after turning on to the interstate. A bad omen. Fortunately, the young man had a regular sized spare in the trunk, but, after changing it, he neglected to connect the back brakes to the left rear tire. Cars mystified him, and in this situation, he’d pay dearly for his ignorance. And continue to pay. 

The first few hours of night driving passed without problem. He stopped for gas at the border of Tennessee and Kentucky briefly, only long enough to fuel up. Fearful he wouldn’t have enough money to spend once he reached Minnesota, he found a massive service station with several dozen pumps, spanning a large area. It was early in the morning and dark. His was the only car around, so, concealing the vehicle as best he could, he quickly fueled up and drove away from the station without paying. He made sure not to draw attention to himself as he nonchalantly pointed the car towards the interstate onramp. Then he turned due north, towards Chicago. 

The hours flew by. It was now morning. Stopping to use the facilities at a rest stop in southern Indiana, he falsified a story about a sick grandparent he was rushing to meet before she expired. Mania often meant that he embellished stories or fabricated them outright, depending on the severity of the episode. This time around, his lies were particularly convincing. He could have been auditioning for a part in a major motion picture. The two women stationed behind a centrally located desk, dispensing state road maps and directions to uninteresting tourist attractions printed up on glossy brochures, flashed him sympathetic looks of concern. He hopped back in the car and kept driving. 

5.

Now more than slightly buzzed, his mind recalled the trip to visit James. Somehow, he made it there. It was late afternoon by then and he’d been driving all night and into the daylight hours, though he curiously wasn’t tired in the least. The sun wouldn’t be out much longer. It had started setting as he started out on the trip. Soon the sun would set once more. The young man picked a motel at random and made sure to select a smoking rather than non-smoking room. A nicotine fiend, he was addicted to cigarettes and to menthol, both a result of an unhealthy relationship that pre-dated James by several years. Another in a series of bad influences. 

The young women who worked at the front desk of the motel were college students. They were quite helpful in directing him to James’ exact dorm, even going so far as to Xerox a campus map and painstakingly highlight the exact route he’d need to take to get there. Even someone as directionally challenged as him arrived on the scene within ten minutes. The man hadn’t told James he was coming. He wanted to keep it a surprise. 

A friendly RA ushered him into the dorm. The young man requested the exact room number where James was staying, and it was provided in a second. Maybe not a second. Maybe a minute or so. He arrived. He knocked. James had a poster up of one of those faceless boy bands. He was resting on the bed, doing nothing, staring into space. The young man’s target was small of stature and short. The young man scooped him up in his arms, placed him on his shoulders, and hustled James away and out the door.

6.

Chicago was where it all fell apart, literally. The man had been driving at a fast clip past flat land and farms and barns, and then instantly ended up in the downtown of a huge city. When attempting to sharply apply the brakes, he realized he didn’t have any. The front end accordioned against the bumper of the car ahead, but sparing the headlights. No damage to the other vehicle, but, for all intents and purposes, his car was valuable only for scrap. 

The man’s acting abilities were put to a test again. He begged the other driver not to report the accident. Reusing his old alibi of a fictional sick grandmother, he found that it worked again. But not before he was grilled by the man whose car he had hit. Usually, he crumbled when given the third degree, but the young man’s confidence held this time. Before parting ways, the other driver presented a business car to a local body shop. The young man got off lucky. If the police had been called to the scene and searched the glove compartment, they’d have more than enough evidence to arrest him for simple possession. 

7.

It got worse. When driving back from the dorm with James, daylight hours expired, and the man put on his headlights. A group of five deer decided to cross the road. One of them, a doe, got blinded in his car’s headlights. Once again, he sought to apply the brakes and found he had none. He hit the broad side of the deer, which bounced off the remnants of the bumper, emitting a horrifyingly high-pitched shriek, splattering the front windshield with blood and guts, before the animal ran off into the woods to die. The spectacle shook up the two of them.

By then, a strange fog descended, making it difficult to make their way back to the motel.

The car started to overheat. Turning on the heater meant that the inside of the car smelled like cooked deer entrails, but nauseating though it was, the two of them had to put up with it. 

8.

Back in the car, driving. Not quite to Minnesota yet. The engine had started to overheat for the first time. The young man remembered driver’s ed classes in high school. One way to prevent an overheating engine was to the turn to turn on the heat in the car. After doing so, he became far too warm and decided to take his t-shirt off. The young man thought nothing of it, but a passing motorist, a middle-aged woman with a passenger, presumably her daughter, shot him a disapproving glance. Eventually he put the t-shirt back on, though he remained uncomfortably warm.

Two hours to go. A brief stop in Wisconsin for fast food. Chatting manically with everyone. Best friends with everybody. That’s how it usually goes. False extroversion. A magnetic personality. And supernatural energy. 

9.

On the plane home, he made one final request for alcohol to his flight attendant. Might as well make the most of this experience. By now he was drunk, but not unruly or boorish. He started to think about James again after blocking him out of his mind altogether for most of the past hour.

It hadn’t gone well. Sometimes fantasies come true. That had not been the case for him. He’d taken James to the privacy and comfort of his own motel room. But halfway through, James got cold feet. Couldn’t go any further. It would have been James’ first time with a man, and he was petrified he’d be a bad lover. The young man tried to put his concerns aside, but James pulled away, time and time again. He drove James back to the dorm feeling sexually frustrated and angry. James had ceased talking altogether and so the two of them drove in silence for five minutes. That’s when they ran into the deer.   

10.

The fog made it possible for three students with pocket knives to creep up upon the young man’s car. James told other students a fabrication. The young man had come onto him. James certainly wasn’t gay. The young man had made a flagrant, unwanted pass. Other dudes living in the same dorm bought his version of the story. They set out to the motel. His car was easy to locate because it had out-of-state plates.

They made quick work. Three of them plunged knives into all four tires. The car could be cranked, the motor could run, albeit barely, but it certainly wasn’t going anywhere now.

11.

A taxi driver took the man from the motel to the airport. Feeling generous, the man offered a twenty-dollar bill. The taxi driver turned the meter off. The eerie fog continued. The driver knew not to put his lights on. In heavy fog, headlights make visibility next to impossible.

12.

Shortly after arriving in his motel room, the young man decided to return to the front desk.

Would you like to party? A skinny woman with long red hair indicated neither yes, nor no.

Well, you know where to find me.

Twenty minutes later, the local police force arrived. Two cops. They wanted to make sure he wasn’t dealing. Satisfied that he was not, they confiscated the pot, which he had left in the cellophane by the right-hand side of the bed. Next, they took the glass pipe he used to partake and, with the heel of a boot, destroyed it completely. It was no longer usable. The police quickly filed out, but not before warning the young man not to walk around the room with no shoes on, as he now risked cutting his heel on bits of glass that were now ground into the carpet.

Turns out the cops had felt pity for the young man. On a bureau, he’d painstakingly lined up the numerous bottles of the eight separate prescription medications he took on a regular basis. He was a sick man with a boatload of medical problems. But in his manic state, he wasn’t aware of much beyond immediate needs. The young man could only focus on his next few steps. And what he knew now was that he needed money to make it home. Soon his credit card limit would be exceeded, and he would have no means of purchasing food for himself, paying for the motel room, and fixing the car, assuming it could be repaired at all.

Then the walls began to shake. Earthquake. Almost unheard of in that part of the country.

14.

Once satisfied that bits and pieces of the motel weren’t going to come tumbling down, its employees and paying guests dazedly walked out into the darkness, into the fog. A young woman, pushing a baby stroller with a tyke strapped in inquired kindly whether it was safer to be inside during an earthquake, or outside, as they all now were. This was a novel experience to everyone. They’d heard about aftershocks on the news, but having never experienced it for themselves, no one was quite sure what to expect next.

This was more than enough for the young man. The trip was a total disaster. James didn’t want to be saved. His car was totaled. All he could do now was return home, book a puddle jumper from the small regional airport to the Twin Cities, then fly three hours home. Praying he had enough in the bank, he pulled out $100. That would cover cab fare and maybe a meal or two.

Before leaving for the airport, he doused the empty shell of his car with gasoline and set it afire. Now it was someone else’s problem.