“The Movement of Horses” by Adam Cushman
--page 8

         “You have got to be kidd...What is that smell? Do you smell that?”
         “Go back to sleep.”
         “You need to pay for a hotel. We will get towed parked on the highway like this.” He lights up. “Tell me the truth: Did you piss yourself?”
         “No!”
         “Because this morning smelled like piss, the same thing.”
         “Well I didn’t piss. So there you go.”
         “I think you did and are not telling me. Plus I saw you playing with GI Joes earlier. You thought I was sleeping. What’s up with that?”
         “What you’re smelling is the humidity. And we haven’t taken baths. So of course it smells like piss. Anybody could tell you that.”
         “You know what else I think? I don’t think you’ve read any of those books you pile around you when you sleep. I think you piss on them. What do you think?”
         “That you’re retarded. One day you and everyone else will realize this.”

~

         Sometimes my best friend Dane’s overenthusiasticness about starting the greatest band of all time is more than a guy like me can take. Seriously. For one, upon waking up, my thing is to have some down time to consider my dreams, which are pretty damn amazing since they always feature me. B) A shower at one of those truck stops would be nice, especially after Dane accusing me last night of something only gigantic jackoffs do. It’s more like a shower after the rape kind of thing than a shower shower and Dane making me change clothes and throw my old ones on the side of the Turnpike is total proof of this. Then (then!) there’s the dream thing again. I was having a really kick-ass vision of that chick Vera, who, while not a total complete nectar, has had me thinking about her a lot for some reason(18). Also, and this is really a private thing between me and her, when Vera was looking at me all wide-eyed yesterday, right before my little run, not saying anything, she really was saying something and that something was: “Someday I’ll find you and we’ll run away together somewhere awesome and just hold each other all the time and stuff.” Girls saying that may happen to me all the time, sure, but maybe this time it’s a little different in a way you can’t understand.
         So me waking up and climbing in front and saying good morning is apparently not a big deal because Dane doesn’t even look or say anything when this happens. After lighting up a Marlboro and cracking the window is when something weird goes down. The Turnpike sign, it says we’re going south.
         “Dude,” is my reaction, “Why did you turn around?”
         “Why would you say this to me,” he says to me, like he knew it was coming. He says, “I am very serious about this. If you are not so serious, maybe we should turn around.”
         “The sign said 'Turnpike South.'”
         “You do not trust me. Me who has defended you when everyone says you are potential Columbine. I am not so sure we should be best friends anymore because...”
         “Hold up a sec...”
         “... because maybe you cannot commit to this band. Because maybe you are still in diapers in many many ways. Because what kind of musician sells his guitar like it is nothing to him. You should see my guitar. It is a piece of shit. But it is mine. My father, he has just filed Chapter 11. Did you know this?”
         “What kind of stuff does he write?”
         “See. You make a joke of it. When girls talk to you, you fart first and run in all directions like a broken rocket.” He takes a quick drag, then goes, “What you said to that girl, it was amazing. I wished I had said it. Why did you run? What scared you so much you would steal a car and do that to your chest?”
         “I don’t know, chicks I guess.”
         “You mean Amy Nogus. Why don’t you tell her she causes you to feel physical pain?”
         “My mother has made sure that can never happen.”
         “You are using me is what I think. Your mother, she buys you three-thousand-dollar guitars you care nothing about and still you blame her for being scared of the girl you love. Look. You are about to cry.” He says, “Yes, now you stare out the window like always. You all day stare out that window like you are in deep thought. But this is not true. I think you do not know how to think. And that you want to go home.”
         “Nah uhhh!”
         “Then you are serious about our band?”
         “Uhh, yeah.
         “Then maybe we will drive straight to California and never look back. Of course, you will not be able to contact your family ever again, but you must know this.”
         “So?”
         “Because if the cops ever found us, they would whip us. That is what they do to people who steal cars and try to call their families. They whip them for weeks. Sometimes they even whip their families too. This is why you must never try to communicate with them. Especially your mother. She is in the most danger. She might be already dead.” Dane says, “Say something to this.”
         After a minute or so, “Stop at the next plaza. I need to make a booty call,” is that something.

~

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18 The dream was we were at a Richard Marx concert, listening to that song, “Hold On To The Night.”