Lance and Arica on the Move

It didn’t help things that Meredith and I were up ‘till past three on Friday playing Monopoly. We arrive a little late, but still on time ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo. After a few hours of packing the McCords treat us to the final lunch in Mebane. Everyone else (Including Meredith who was such a sport helping some family whom she barely knows pack) departs and Donnie, Lance, Arica, Rich (Donnie’s boyfriend) and I drive to Atlanta. On the tip Arica and I stop at an honest-to-goodness truck stop in order to let the rest of posse catch up. Like showers and hair cutter style full-service truck stop. And glimmering in the corner of the complex, a one-roomed, 24-hour “TRUCKERS CHURCH” with a glowing, neon “OPEN” hanging in the window. I stopped in to find a woman of about 80 rising from a small organ on braced legs. “Help yourself to the pamphlets and CDs.” I do.

We roll into Atlanta at around midnight and the sweltering, breathy heat has solidly loitered into the night. In about an hour we (the boys) manage to unpack the van while Arica (the pregnant girl) goes on what sounds to be the worst quest for an all-hours Wal-Mart ever. Unpacking the van, Donnie manages to step on a rusty nail which punctures the sole of his sandal and, consequently, the bottom of his foot. Rich is insistent on seeing the wound, but Donnie is stubbornly reluctant. “Quit being so gay Donnie and let your boyfriend look at your foot,” I want to say.

It was past three when we retired, so waking up for a breakfast-burrito at 11 was painful. We were denied by The Flying Biscuit (assholes!). After a little morning-sickness we’re ready for Ikea. Actually, I wasn’t ready. For the glory. Donnie and Rich joined us a few hours later for some quality awkwardness spurned by some private lovers-tiff. They were set to leave Monday, but it must have been the Hotlanta heat which got to them as they left for home from Ikea. I was thankful for the plane ticket I had as driving home with them would have been six hours of suffocating silence.

Pizza dinner is followed by some nice time on the porch with Lance. A lot is going on in his life however we end up talking about my new cube job. We leave for the airport and are almost thwarted by a roadblock and lack of gas. The trip home was beautiful. Night. The cities looked like glowing circuitry and galaxies. In the distance the atmosphere released it’s static surplus in glowing, orange bolts. This did not calm the Pakistani with the dead eye sitting next to me. The Flaming Lips’ 30,000 ft. of Despair was as beautiful as it has ever been.

Dome project fever has been reignited in me. I feel I need to create something so beautiful that humanity appreciates its own existence. Not to overstate it, of course.