Rode back from Constant Spring on Billy’s bus today. Of the two times I have legitimately feared for my life here, both instances occurred on Billy’s taxi. It’s strangely comforting to know that if I die, it’s most likely going to be gazing through the side window as we take a skidding turn into an oncoming sand truck or gloriously careen off the side of Allman Pass. I only hope they can separate enough of our remains, so at least the majority of my genetic material is buried in my casket, and not along with whats left of Billy in his.

Billy drives a nondescript mid-90’s Chevy van, which would be ideally suited for service in the Al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. Just pack it with ammonium nitrate and a few jugs of diesel and take her for a spin into the local UN compound. Or, if you’re Billy, pack it with 20 helpless souls and take off at top speed through the hills

The interior has been stripped down so the maximum value of flesh can be uncomfortably wedged into its threadbare seats. I rode with my ear set against one of the massive speakers hung at the corners. For some reason, I’ve never heard them actually play music. Instead, they emit a high-pitched electric whine, the frequency of which correlates with the van’s acceleration.

Everyone rides in grim silence. A few mutter soft epithets torn away by the screaming wind. I think I’ve heard a prayer or two, not just the ubiquitous “Oh Jesus”. Closing your eyes and treating Billy’s taxi like a sensory deprivation chamber is one of the more spiritual highs I’ve reached lately. Just shift your trust to whatever deity or enlightened principle you prefer and let the screeching tires and rocking chassis transport you home. Whether it’s your earthly home or your home in an etherial sense is largely up to the weather, road conditions, and Billy’s sobriety.

After thumbing my nose at fate, I loitered for a while in the square and had a beer at the pub. Or bar. They call it both. British and American words are interchanged often, depending on what country the speaker has emigrated to or from recently. Most of the country is on a long-term stopover between the two. I’ve met folks who’ve seen more of my country than I have. It’s not uncommon for a fellow to have lived in my state, and know my city or suburb intimately.

Walking back along the main road to my house, I regurgitate smiles for anyone who cares to notice me anymore. I’ve long-since passed the phase of being a local spectacle. A quick stop to the shop for toilet paper and gossip and I’m back on my front porch before sundown. That affords me a few precious moments to break open a frozen box juice and snipe hellos and good evenings at unsuspecting passersby. Athena is happy to see me, because she’s equated me with food and attention. Good cat.

The sun sets on another day. Regardless of what I did or did not accomplish, I can’t help but smile at the colors the atmosphere still manages to summon for the grand finale, another composition to file in a lost gallery of countless masterpieces.