On top of his BK tray, one of the men with the black suits and sunglasses absentmindedly left a napkin with a drawing on it. It looked like this:

►→ ♦

Seeing the men walk away and recalling the Denny’s incident, Van pounced on the dirty napkin. Having given up on waiting for Mr. X, he’d been pissing away the afternoon playing video games at the mall’s arcade.

But now, he was confident that he’d discovered an important map. One that would lead him to Mr. X. Stoked, he handed out his remaining quarters to some fat kid and headed straight back to his apartment to study this hieroglyphic.

When I return to the van after my awkward discussion with Jim, I find Stan sleeping in the backseat. It looks like the guy has futilely attempted to put his laptop back together with duct tape and broken guitar strings. I also notice that he’s clutching something in his right hand. Curious, I take a peek. It’s a plane ticket back to Ohio.

Furious, I shake his ass awake (even though I’ve known the guy for-fucking-ever, I’ve never actually tried to wake him up from one of his narcoleptic naps). When he opens his eyes, he immediately punches me in the face.

Once he realizes what he’s done, Stan apologizes and tells me never to wake him up since he’s been having these awful nightmares about machines trying to kill him (which scare the everliving shit out of him) so he always comes up swinging. Surprised by this explanation, I feel like I hardly know my oldest friend anymore.

After giving him a moment to wipe the sand from his eyes and light a smoke, I ask Stan about the plane ticket. He tells me that he’s fucking sick of this whole tour thing. I remind him that we still have another gig to play. He says he just can’t take this shit anymore. I then wonder how he got the money for such an expensive ticket since we’ve all been totally broke since Utah. He claims that he managed to hack into the Southwest Airlines computer system and get it for free. He adds that he’s got an extra one if I want to use it. I patiently explain to him that even if I was miserable (which I’m not quite sure I am yet), I still wouldn’t want to go back home since there’s nothing there for me. I proceed to shout about him wussing out and letting down the band and shit.

I get so upset that I don’t even notice that he’s fallen back asleep. In my rage, I’m tempted to wake him up so I can finish chewing him out, but then I feel the bruise developing rapidly on my cheek.

Massaging my face, I pace in circles around the van until Jim shows up. The grinning idiot is holding a huge jug of cheap whiskey. The bottle’s already half empty and Jim’s drunk as a fucking redneck at one of our shows. Before I even tell him about Stan’s plane ticket, he starts screaming about how I am “such a fucking asshole.”

“Fuck you, man! I was just trying to help. But, whatever, fuck it man. You might as well leave with Stan. I mean, it’s not like either of you give a shit about me or the band or what we’re trying to do here or anything really.”

As I finish my diatribe, Jim lunges at my throat. I honestly fear for my life. Then, just as suddenly, he releases me and silently crawls into the van where he apparently rouses Stan from his slumber (I can hear someone getting punched, followed by a cry of: “What the fuck, man?”).

Holding his groin, Jim staggers off into the desert and hollers: “I got me a ticket and I’m going home, motherfucker!”

The next day, they both took off. Thus, the Depressed Idealists died on that dusty hill somewhere in fucking California. At the time, I was way too pissed to be sad. Plus, I did have the consolation prize of whole other trip to look forward to.

Nike had another dream on that fateful autumn evening. She was hovering up among the clouds and she could look down upon the whole wide world. As she floated, her mother appeared as an angel and told her a secret. When she awoke, Nike was no longer confused. She knew exactly what she had to do.

Van used his newfound map to navigate all over the greater Columbus area. Although it appeared to be merely a simple drawing of a triangle, he was able to manipulate it like it was a secret code or something. Remarkably, wherever the map pointed him, he found fields of weed. However, it never did lead him directly to Mr. X. Always the believer, Van remained convinced that Mr. X was still testing him.

Bob was heading towards the river with a brown bag cradled under his arm. He was about to fall off the wagon. He’d just worked a relentless thirteen-hour shift. Stressed our by the endless stream of demanding customers, he’d bought some hooch to take the edge off. He wanted to drink it by the river, though. At least he still had a home.

I was watching TV one day in the rec room. The news was on. Some asshole was playing ping pong with himself (like really fucking loud) so I told him to shut the fuck up when I saw a picture of Wingy on the screen.

Standing in front of a large crowd, she started to speak: “Brothers and sisters, I have a monumental announcement to make today. Two months ago, I published an edition of my magazine devoted to the history of alternative research into the JFK assassination. My aim was to assemble an extensive compilation on this important subject, which I thought I did to the best of my ability. However, a few days ago, I received an intriguing letter from a friend. . .”

At this point, the asshole resumed paddling so I couldn’t really hear what Wingy had to say. Again, I screamed at the prick until he finally stopped for good.

“I now know who did it conclusively. The names of the three shooters are. . . Oh my goodness, I almost forgot. Hi there, Bobby. My love goes out to. . .”

Shots rang out on the television and Wingy crumbled to the ground in a pool of her own blood. More shots rang out as people scrambled for cover. I couldn’t fucking believe it! I just watched a very dear friend (and one of the only people in this world that I actually admired) get murdered live on TV. In a state of shock, I think I may’ve started convulsing. An obese nurse trundled over and pumped me full of drugs.

Before the sedatives really kicked in, I had an epiphany. In a fucked up way, everything kinda made sense. Kinda.

I figured it out! In Latin and French, “Tu es X” means “You are X.” And in both languages, this phrase can be a statement as well as a question. So that’s that.

The hippie slips me the hit of acid. It’s blue with a smiling smurf on it. Giggling nervously, I slide it under my tongue, as do Bobby and Van (we’re the only ones left). Then we sit down on the grass and wait anxiously for the drug to do its magic.

It takes about twenty minutes, the whole time we’re all wondering whether the hippie was full of shit when he was raving about his “killer stuff.”

Slowly, the grass begins to look a shade lighter. When I hallucinate a snake hissing at my feet, I know the stuff’s for real. I can tell that similar shit’s happening to Van and Bobby since their eyes have that wide glassy look to them and occasionally one of them declares: “Fuckin-a!” Eventually, we start walking up a nearby knoll, looking for an adventure or something to get things rolling. Bizarre thoughts enter my head, stay for a while so that I can relate them to everything in the universe, and then get replaced by other strange ideas. I feel as if I can see into the past, present, and future. Like I can read other people’s minds. Seriously, I hand Bobby a cigarette right before he asks me for one. I start to think that maybe this trip is why I had to come to California, like it will be monumentally important in my life or something. Van is climbing an apple tree. I study his every movement and conclude that he appears to be completely at one with himself. He almost seems to be glowing. As he ascends higher and higher, I become more and more convinced that he’s found the one thing in life that he was always searching for. I’m also watching Bobby like an eagle since I’ve dropped with him before and know for a fact that he likes to do fucked-up shit for kicks while he’s tripping. However, he looks extremely sad right now. There’s a certain darkness covering his aura, as if he’s lost the one thing in life that gave him any meaning. Fighting back tears, I examine my self, only to discover that I’m fractured into like a million pieces: some dark, some opaque, some blue, some bleeding, some dying, some screaming, some crying, some cussing, some praying, some smiling, some loving, some laughing, some dancing, some hurting, some singing. There’s more than a million now. They keep splitting. I wonder why I can’t feel my tongue. I try to drink some water, but my mouth has gone numb. Dry-heaving, my body begins to perspire profusely. Van and Bobby are talking to me, yet I can’t understand a single word they’re saying. Shrugging, they leave. I feel an intense tingling sensation in my brain or mind or whatever the fuck’s up there. I’m getting higher than I ever thought I could and, frankly, it’s scaring the shit out of me. Oddly, it seems like I’m both a detached observer and an active participant in this madness. Attempting to calm myself down, I make my way back to the van. However, the smell inside (which I’ve never noticed before) assaults me, like physically. It’s as if my entire body is getting punched. Shivering, I turn on the radio, hoping that music will save me. But I can’t hear anything coming out of the speakers, I can only hear the sound of my own paranoid thoughts. My stomach hurts so bad, I’m worried that it might explode or implode or something. I crawl back outside and try to puke, again to no avail. I see midget demons floating across the moonless sky. They’re laughing at me. Everything looks like it’s dying. I really want to take a dump to get this shit out of my system. As I look for a decent spot to do my business, I figure that all of this trauma will make sense when the trip is over. Squatting, I feel like diarrhea will be blasting out of my anus at any moment. Explosions of pain linger in my belly. Still, the shit never comes. Instead, my body sweats like a waterfall. My hands are now tingling, as if my fingers are no longer part of me. I can’t stop twitching. I attempt to pull up my pants, but am completely frozen by my own fear. I can’t feel any part of my body. The ground upon which I stand seems totally unreal, as if I could just fall right through it. Like I no longer exist. The sky has never looked so menacingly dark. In fact, everything around me is covered in absolute darkness. I am terrified. I don’t even know what I am or what “am” means or what “I” means or what “what” means. Nothing exists. I have no idea how long this has been going on. I feel trapped. Everything is circular. I am nothing and there’s nothing around me. Somehow, my pants have returned to their normal position. So I stagger back to the van (which is rather tricky since there’s no longer any ground to walk on and I too am no longer). The van looks like a ferocious animal snarling at me, then it too disappears. Though, I still manage to find the door. I’m also able to shut the nonexistent door on my nonexistent leg. I try to scream, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I collapse onto the backseat, which may or may not exist (I’m beginning to think that I’m not such a good judge of these matters anymore). I pray to something. I don’t know what, just anything that could help me in my time of crisis. Jesus (or, perhaps, some random hippie) appears outside the window and either gives me the piece sign or the bird (or, maybe, both) and then disappears. I realize that I have not smoked for a long time so I grab a cigarette and light it. As I inhale, my mouth returns to a state of complete numbness. I can’t feel a fucking thing. I toss the flaming cigarette out the window, not caring at all if I accidentally blow up this whole fucking universe. I lay absolutely still on the cracked seat and try desperately to sleep. I don’t know if I’m dead and in hell (or heaven) or still alive in California or back in Ohio or what. I don’t even know if I am anymore. All I know is that I want this to stop.

Somewhere along the way I guess I finally did fall asleep. I don’t remember ever actually doing so, but I woke up the next morning and I was still there. Lying in a van next to a grassy hill somewhere in fucking California.

Bobby and Van eagerly told me all about their fascinating trip. Although I’d basically returned to my normal functioning, things were still rather hazy. As if I were damaged. So I didn’t say too much to them about my ordeal.

Inspired by their experience, they decided to head back to Ohio at once. In fact, the two of them drove like motherfuckers for the next however many hours it took us to reach Columbus. I was petrified that I’d freak out and kill us all so I didn’t drive. I just sat in the backseat and chain-smoked. I hardly moved an inch since I was convinced that there was more acid somewhere in the bus and that it was going to accidentally get inside of me causing me to have to relive that whole awful fucking experience. When we made it back to Ohio, I got my own place and tried not to think about shit too much.

Staring at the mighty Buckeye, Bobby came to the ultimate conclusion that, without his beloved granny, there was simply no reason for him to exist. He never knew what pain could really feel like until that moment. Knowing that his fucked-up parents would try to put him into an institution or something, he decided to off himself and get it over with already. He briefly toyed with the notion of going out it in some crazy-ass fashion as his last little “fuck you” to the world, but he was way too overcome by sorrow to think about that for too long. He just found the nearest bridge and prepared to jump.

Excited to feel alive again, Nike dashed down the stairs to use the phone (her father only has one telephone {if asked why, he’ll likely respond with either “we’ve got one refrigerator, which is God, and one phone which, depending on the day of the week, may or may not be Jesus H. Christ, in my house dammit!” or “What are you, some sort of faggot?”}).

Nike didn’t even want to know what was going on behind closed doors in the kitchen where she could hear her father and another familiar sounding voice moaning. Shaking her head, she quickly dialed Charles’ number and got his voice mail, which was rather peculiar since he always had his cell on him, just in case she called.

“Hey there, it’s me. Um, yeah, so I’m sorry to do this over the phone and all. However, I really think that things between us are over now. Like forever this time. Don’t get me wrong, I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I just gotta move on. Smell ya later, cutie.”

She then dialed another familiar number and asked hesitantly: “Jim?”