Answers

The morning after my back-to-back Big Orange nights, I had to rush to catch my bus to Boston. I did. I saw old friends and made new ones. It was great and super and fun and interesting, and I was exhausted and confused and sad and angry. What am I missing?

My surroundings were not changing me - Miami, Richmond, New York, Boston, Washington D.C., New Orleans, and Venice Beach - so where are my stinking answers?

This is a voice in my head during a hungover morning at Six Flags in Boston.

Now hold on here - you're telling me that you get to eat cheese fries and ride roller coasters for breakfast, and that makes you sad? Listen now and listen well. Accept your demise and live. Hold nothing back. Experiment, make mistakes, embarrass yourself, but do not cheat yourself out of this life.

And so I tried to feel demisable and unholdable, but I needed more words.

This is from a book that I bought at a bookstore/bar in D.C. by zig-zagging through the alphabetical but certainly non-linear streets:

A victim of God may,

Through learning adaption,

Become a partner of God.

A victim of God may,

Through forethought and planning,

Become a shaper of God.

Or a victim of God may,

Through shortsightedness and fear,

Remain God's victim,

God's plaything,

God's prey.

This is from a bar conversation in New Orleans:

You can take the drink, or the drink can take you *

(*replace drink with a noun of your choosing for applicability)

This is from a fortune cookie in Los Angeles:

Seek out the significance to your problem at this time. Try to understand.

So what are my plans? I still haven't found what I'm looking for. I know that I'm operating under the assumption that traveling this world will automatically change me. I don't have answers because I haven't formulated any questions. But there are times of the day when I know I'm close to my answer to this unspoken question.

Maybe I'll never find it. Maybe God's greatest gift really is that unanswered prayer. All I know is that giving up on this journey would be the worst. I've been traveling for three months now, and I can't see any reason to stop.

Urban Legends part 2 (finally!)

For this next round of stories, realize that the Big Orange has this special momentum. Yes, by buying a drink, you can become part of this Big Orange living organism; it's this wonderful, writhing mass that can't be halted, a beautiful, beneficial, self-aware cancer – I couldn't wait to be consumed.

The primary staging site was a dimly lit bar called Ding Dong's. This was my third visit, and it was a Monday, although I had thought it was a Tuesday until that morning.

I had made plans based on this wrong-day assumption for seeing a friend's band play in Brooklyn and then catching an early-morning bus to Boston. When I called the Brooklyn friend and realized that it was Monday, I was initially shocked but then overjoyed. None of my plans had been affected, but I had been awarded an extra day in New York by the gods of forgetfulness.

I spent the morning and early afternoon exploring Central Park before my internal alarm clock went off – 5 o'clock, extra day with no responsibilities, time to get shitfaced. I've been good about drinking respectable amounts at respectable hours of the day, but there are some nights where I decide that it's time to drink. This post is about two such back-to-back nights.

First night, Ding Dong's, the bartender there is the same lady who wrote me directions last Friday so that I could find my way to the Brazilian girl (I tend to go to a bar about two hours before a date and grab two drinks; I'm not sure if that's healthy, but it's worked so far for me). I start off with the can and a shot any time special and thank the bartender for her spectacular directions, which I actually only ended up looking at long enough to admire her pretty handwriting.

I tell her the ping-pong-ball-fire-escape story. She says something to the effect of "well, that's New York for ya" and tells me her name is Missy. I wonder if that's her real name or just her bartender alter ego. She works in real estate during the day and tends bar at night. Missy has an athletic body and generous breasts; she has an open, flat, mischievous face that somehow makes me think that she was really into riding horses until late sophomore year of high school. She is constantly moving between the bar and the storage cellar on the sidewalk and asking me to watch the merchandise.

On one return visit, Missy comes back trailing a heavenly scent. I mention it after switching from can-and-shot specials to rum and coke. She starts complaining about how she has smoked herself dry, and a gentleman at the bar, who seems to be a regular, hands her a small baggie. Oh yeah, there are other people at the bar; I suppose that I'm somewhat focused on Missy.

Yes, it isn't just me and a bartender alone in New York City, as my egotistical inattention to setting may lead you to believe. Yes, there are interesting odds and ends scattered about the establishment, especially behind the bar. My three favorite items include a sketch of a big-breasted woman with a marvelous fro on an orange poster covered in signatures, a square enclave in the brick wall with green lighting that probably houses a leprechaun, and a picture of a three-breasted but very muscular and blue alien shouting and wearing a pharaoh’s cap. Do you feel more grounded now, or would you like me to elaborate on the ass crack of the old guy playing pool across the room?

Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, four people, including Missy and myself, are standing in the door of Ding Dong's and smoking a well-rolled joint. Missy goes back to tend bar before the joint is finished. A black kid, probably no older than fifteen, is being escorted by a beefy Hispanic man with a buzz cut. Perhaps the beefy man smells the remnants of the joint (which is now finished, crushed, and rolled into an unremarkable paper ball), or perhaps he just wants an audience. Either way, he sits the boy down on the curb just past us and begins talking.

“Man, oh man. When I found him there were four of five kids beating his ass. I mean hitting him with bikes and shit. I just walked in and broke that shit up,” he says.

His tone is so earnest that I feel like I need to produce a response. “Wow, why were they beating him with bikes?” I say.

“Shit, I don't know. Why were they beating you with bikes, son?” he asks the kid. The kid holds the side of his head and doesn't answer.

“I mean, if he wanted me to kick their asses, then I could do that. Just pay me two thousand dollars and it's settled. I used to be in the Marines. This is nothing,” Beef-Marine states. I can see that he believes himself. I wonder what he does for a living.

The kid is rocking a nice, grey pea coat. I think people call them pea coats. My ex and my Mom bought one for me at some point. I can see how they're fashionable and what not, but an insecure part of me thinks that they're a bit effeminate. Beef-Marine goes into Ding Dong's to use the bathroom, so I start telling the kid about my confusion over pea coats.

“They took my other five hundred dollar jacket,” the kid mutters.

“Whoa, why would they do that? Should we try to get it back?” I ask.

“No, it's OK. I'm not from the same neighborhood. They found out when I came up here to visit a girl,” he says. Beef-Marine returns and promises to escort the kid safely to a subway station. I wander back into the bar and wonder why everyone in New York City has been so nice to me so far, especially after hearing about someone getting beaten with bicycles. Perhaps I just came from the right place. No, it has to be the not wearing a pea coat, my drunken-high mind supplies.

Missy is about to finish her shift. She says that she'll close my tab and let me decide where to go from there. She also buys me another rum and coke. I take that as a sign and ask her where she's going from here. She smiles wanly and says that she's meeting someone – cue in the big Swede, whose name I will never remember for certain.

The big Swede sits next to me, and Missy puts in some good words for me. At first, I believe that the Swede's name is Hankshoo, that uncertain moment between a sneeze and a handkerchief. Han-something is pale, dark-haired and wearing glasses; she also has on some sort of sparkly, black shower cap.

You know how you can hear a word plenty of times, but it doesn't take on that extra dimension until it's staring you in the face? The word in this case was “bitties.” Han____ has a few artsy tattoos, and one that looks like a poke-and-stick on her left breast. I don't pretend not to stare at the last one. I also show her my peacock feather tattoo – I've come to like showing it, having to pull up my shirt and have some stranger stare at my back while I don't have to say a word. Han____ strokes my spine and murmurs something. When I put my shirt back down and turn around our knees are touching. I'm told about an open relationship, and we start kissing. At one point, I think I pull down the front of Han___'s shirt to see the rest of her tattoo. I can't remember what it was of , but I'd like to say that it was a stick figure playing a didgeridoo. We eventually decide to go to a different bar.

“Hey, hey – I'm so sorry, but your name is Hanoo, right?” I ask.

“No” she says. I'm too drunk to decipher her tone.

“OK, please don't tell me. It's one word, two syllables, describes you, I mean is your name.” At this point, I was playing a one-man game of charades. “Got it! It's Han-uhhhh. No, it's Hanlee, Hadley, Hannah, Helen?”

Han____ laughs a little and tells me her name again. I forget her answer and decide to buy us more drinks. I ask her name again before we are through with that round, but I feel bad for asking, so I immediately start guessing before she can speak. I shock myself into silence when one of my guesses comes out as 'Han-Solo.'

When I order the next round of drinks and look up, Han____ is no longer there. I continue drinking. I wake up on the futon in the apartment that I'm staying at.

My former roommate and his current ex-Israeli sniper roommate tell me that I came in talking about this “amazing redhead who had red hair and was amazing.” A bartender had walked me back, even coming up the elevator with me.

I use my online banking history to retrace my steps. There are charges for two bars whose names I don't recognize as well as for a Mexican restaurant. The last charge is for Ding Dong's, so I suppose that I ended up where I started. Also, I can't find my debit card in my wallet.

There is a crucial window of time in between being drunk and hungover. If you are lucky to wake up while that window is still open, then you have two main options that are not necessarily mutually exclusive: 1) Rehydrate 2) Keep drinking. I decide to take the first option and supplement it by taking a long, leisurely jog through Central Park. If you ever find yourself looking through that same window, then try a jog too. I swear that it helps.

Near the end of my jog, I stop off near Ding Dong's – they aren't serving, but their door is open at noon. A guy who looks like the owner is standing behind the bar, puttering around. He listens to my debit card predicament and tries to call the bartender from last night. No answer, and the dozen plus cards that have been left over fail to match mine. I thank him and jog back to the apartment. My former roommate's roommate buzzes me in and has to leave shortly afterward. I slump in sweaty privacy against the futon and write this quick post called “When I Get a Little Scared.” My Pandora radio station starts playing a song half an hour later with that title as part of its lyrics. I decide not to mull over whether or not this is too convenient and give myself over to this alcohol-induced, endorphin-fueled joy.

After showering, I find my debit card deep in one of my pant pockets. Wrapped around it is a receipt from Ding Dong's with the message “sleeping on the bar” in pen. New York City, the people have returned my drunken embrace – it's not a breeding ground for sly opportunists but rather a gathering point for decent, fascinating souls ready to aid you, provided that you can catch their attention.

After the run, the shower, and the rediscovered debit card, it is now Tuesday for real, so it's time to take the subway and meet my friend and his band in Brooklyn. I'll call this friend BLT, since he's pretty much named after a sandwich anyway. I pride myself that I don't get lost on the trains once – sure, I have to ask for directions, but I don't get lost or cut open my hand again. I make it to a Brooklyn station and wait inside, since BLT has informed that he'll be there in about 15 minutes.

A plump, Hispanic woman sits next to me and asks if I know Jesus. She also hands me a pamphlet with a very handsome Jesus on the front. I have nowhere to go, and unless someone seems to be preaching hate, I'll usually take the Elvis line of approach to religion (“I don't want to miss out on heaven due to a technicality”). She is a Jehovah's Witness, says Colin Powell is a Brother, and starts talking to me about the Universe and the brain.

“I love the science – it is beautiful. And the brain can learn so much about the Universe. Do you believe in the angels?” she asks. I think about my otherworldly snipers and their unloaded rifles.

“Yeah, I do, but who knows what form they will take. Think about stars – they could be angels, and when some of them explode, there is the possibility for new life, a sort of sacrifice,” I say. I'm borrowing heavily from "A Wrinkle in Time" for that one. The lady nods and starts flipping through my pamphlet for me. She is about to speak when I notice a familiar pompadour trailing past the station window. “I've got to go, I'll try reading it sometime,” I say – I still haven't.

BLT is stopped at a street intersection looking about. I call his name and we hug. He leads me back a few blocks to where the two other members of his band are waiting with their gear outside a small, black car. I'll say that it was a Toyota Camry, although I'm horrible with car brands. BLT is the drummer. The shortish, fast-talking guy with prematurely baldness but a cool bowler hat is the lead singer and guitarist. The slim, red haired man with the fanned-up hair and neatly trimmed goatee is the bassist.

I help them cart their gear up to BLT's apartment. The floor of the apartment is littered with useful items like dollar bills, partially smoked cigarettes, magazines, books, essays, and possibly musical compositions. My delayed hangover progresses to the weak-in-the-knees point, but luckily, BLT has two big bottles of Stone IPA, one of which is for me. As the band rehearses, I get out my netbook and try to finish an article on water conditioning contractors. What the fuck is a water conditioning contractor? Despite that handicap, I somehow get the article done as the band hits a song with an intimidating bass beat and demonic drumming that blows my mind – I think it's called “delusions of grandeur.” I start hollering and clapping because the band is separated from me by a room – BLT's apartment consists of a kitchen (where I am working), a bedroom (where most of the dollar bills and partial cigarettes can be found), and a backroom (where the band is rocking).

The band comes to the kitchen for a smoke break. I lean out the window to avoid the fumes and inspect the Brooklyn backyards. They look very similar to the Richmond backyards – irregular grass, promising gadgets in disrepair, small gardens – a clothesline would not look out of place and one yard is covered completely by a blue, plastic tarp. Some children somewhere are screaming about something new and exciting.

“Dude, let's got to the roof, grab a few brewskis, and then head to the show.” This is the lead singer referring to his apartment, which apparently has easy roof access.

“No, we'll grab some drinks and check out some girls before the show,” BLT insists.

“We'll find us some filthy pigs!” The red haired bassist joins in. I'm not sure what filthy pigs are, but his enthusiasm makes me laugh.

“I knew you guys before you were big!” I snap a picture of them. The picture has since been accidentally erased, but the gesture still stands. I have also since forgotten the name of the band and the two band members (I'll call the singer/guitarist Mark and the bassist Alex). Regardless, we hopped in the car, with Alex and me in the back balancing two guitar cases across our knees. After we've passed some empty stretches of street with elaborate graffiti and barbed wire fences, Alex points out some women on the street (New York women have had the classiest, beautiful elegance so far), and I come to learn what the term “filthy pigs” means. I know it should be horribly sexist, but there's something oddly admiring, charming, endearing to it. He also talks about “chowing on box”, and it takes me a while to figure that one out.

We arrive at a cash bar with a sizable skater crowd, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials. I buy a round for the band, and we drink, watching the filthy pigs waddle past. The band has to watch their drinking before the show, but I have no such qualms. By the time we make it to the place of their performance, I've become the slightly drunk roadie/groupie/hype-man. The next place is also a cash bar, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials too. I call a number and activate my emergency blue debit card, which will inadvertently save me from following through on a bad decision in New Orleans a month later.

The band crushes their show, and I go wild during “delusions of grandeur,” forgetting to film the song on my camera. More songs, more drinks, more bands, and we go to lead singer Mark's apartment with the easy roof access. BLT has caught up to me in terms of drinking after the set, and we go on the roof. The night is evolving into a series of blurs punctuated by moments of clarity. I don't remember how high the building to which this bannister-less roof belonged was, but I do recall running to its center and doing shoulder rolls – left, right, backwards – and then coming up dizzy with my camera to try capture that moment. The picture is a series of smudged, orange lights, tracers that could've been from anywhere.

BLT and I eventually take the train back to his Brooklyn apartment. I remember somehow getting locked out of his apartment while he passed out and knocking on all his upstairs neighbors' doors before speaking to an incredulous tenant named Guillermo for several minutes. I don't remember stopping at a Taqueria with BLT, but the guacamole smeared on my shirt after I wake up on my air mattress is irrefutable evidence. But the clearest moment of that night occurred right after my third pair of sandals broke.

This third pair of sandals, old leather birkenstocks, was from my Miami friend. The first pair had also belonged to him, but they broke after only ten minutes of walking. I bought my second pair from a dollar store and the right sandal strap pulled out during a night of bar hopping. Someone was nice enough to give me one of their flip-flops, but they came back with the wrong foot. I wore two left-footed sandals, one several sizes too big, before my friend came through with the latest, more durable sandals. To make a pointless story even longer, I had taken to wearing those sandals regularly during my trip due to a sock shortage.

Anyway, the cross strap of one of the sandals snaps off while we're walking to the train. Somehow, I take that as a sign to cross the tracks. The subway is empty except for a woman across the tracks. BLT thinks I'm joking about crossing until I jump down.

BLT: Third rail – watch out for the third rail!

Me: Oh, right the voltage. It's the silvery one, right?

BLT: Yeah I think so – just don't step on any of the rails.

Me: And there's another third rail on the tracks going in the opposite direction. But now it's sort of like a fourth rail or a first rail, depending on where you start.

BLT: You made it!

Me: I didn't think about having to come back

Woman across the tracks: There's a train coming soon. Get off the tracks, you dumb ass.

And that's where I'd like to leave myself in the Big Orange, walking barefoot through rodenticide and skipping over that third rail, incredibly stupid but unconcerned over incoming trains or approaching disasters.

Rapture

Folks were saying that the world was going to end tomorrow. I decided that this short-sighted philosophy could excuse a last, wild night.

When you think about it, the Rapture is satisfyingly violent – death, sorrow, and supernatural suffering all wrapped up into one, neat, Apocalyptic scenario. Certain people will be subject to murder, torture, and starvation while others will have privilege, power, and peace. I can't imagine such a world, a place where entire countries wallow in disease and poverty while other countries rise above it all... well, at least we had tonight before that would come to pass.

Tonight had me gliding towards the French Quarter. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I knew that I needed to get out. I could feel myself reverting back to my reclusive ways, where I'd lock myself away in the apartment, growing more and more restless, contemplating whether I should go out and get food but feeling this weight, this panicky inertia. The last time I'd felt like this had been when I was living in Chicago, and that feeling would often translate into my darting outside for some booze and food before rushing back inside and drink-gorging myself over a video game. I don't know where it comes from or if it necessarily needs a source. I hadn't felt that way since the start of my travels, so it surprised me when it came back. I think it's a paradoxical, lonely-but-wishing-to-be-left-alone mindset that sneaks up on me.

But I was in New Orleans. Tomorrow was the Rapture. I couldn't stand for that.

I jumped on a streetcar and rode it to the end of the line at Canal street. I sat near the front and recalled my first streetcar ride a week earlier and how I had met a stranger, a journalist moving to Massachusetts, who had lent me borrow a book called A Confederacy of Dunces. He had also recommended a 24 laundromat/punk bar near the French Quarter called Checkpoint Charlie's. I decided that would be my pre-Rapture destination as the streetcar conductor halted his route to pick up some cigarettes from a gas station. No one left on board complained about the conductor's temporary, smoking absence, since a random stop suited the leisurely inefficiency of that hulking, rusty red, metal car filled with wooden seats and sliding windows.

After disembarking at Canal, I headed along Royal toward Esplanade. That lonely-leave-me-alone feeling started to evaporate, and I walked with a little swagger. Part of this newfound confidence came from having found my unbreakable glasses of the Apocalypse, which I thought News Orleans had devoured. Recovering my beautiful glasses from underneath the futon in my little brother's apatment earlier that night meant the I could drink more and see farther.

Along a particularly empty part of the sidewalk, a woman walked towards me with a little bit of a stumble. She was a few inches shorter than me with smooth, ebony skin; a narrow, regal nose; long, straightened hair; perky, natural breasts; wide, shapely hips; and a heart-shaped butt that I could've ridden down the Mississippi.

“Hey – how are you doing tonight?” she asked in a friendly, soothing voice. She didn't quite stop her passage but spun halfway around, swaying her hips ever so slightly. I didn't quite stop either and leaned awkwardly while rocking back-and-forth on my heels. We had entered into the opening movements of a negotiable mating dance.

“Hi, I'm doing alright. How about yourself?” I replied.

“Good – I still have the rest of the night too – just finished hanging out with my sister at the bar where she works. But I was going to head up to this place for drinks that I know,” she said. I had been worried that she was super-drunk, which would have explained her friendliness. The steady way she spoke and held herself convinced me that she was sober. I could keep talking with this exceptionally friendly girl and not feel like a creeper.

“Sounds nice – I was heading to this 24 hour laundromat/punk bar that someone told me about,” I said.

“Oh, so is that what you got planned tonight? I'm Chanel by the way.” By this time, she had resumed walking. I turned around and walked along on her left side.

“I'm Robert, and it was just an idea, not like I really have anything planned.” We shook hands with the introduction, and she let her hand hang limp in mine while her fingers brushed my wrist. Her dainty mouth puckered and she exhaled; her chest heaved with her next inhale. I watched and throbbed. “How about I join you for some drinks?” I asked.

“OK, I've only been to this place a few times before, but I think I know where I want to go,” she said. I walked beside her, our elbows brushing occasionally. She told me how this was her last night in New Orleans. She lived in Memphis and was here to help her little sister move. She was 26, had two drinks earlier, and wanted to stay out for a couple more hours and a couple more drinks.

The first place we considered was Jimani's, but Chanel decided that it was too crowded when she had thought it would be laid-back. We walked into another place called Dixie's Divas – the name of the place was advertised with a vertical neon sign that had a girl's side profile with the helpful tag “Girls” underneath. We walked inside the dimly-lit dump and sat down at a wide wooden bar while a Hispanic stripper with a wonderful body but worn out face crawled past on her hands and knees. There were two other, semi-attractive strippers walking the floor, and it was the clientele that made me wish I hadn't found my glasses just quite yet.

The bar patrons were mostly men in their early 30s to late 60s, but age didn't stand out as much as their collective, slumped, meek, sadly hopeful demeanor. I wouldn't have stayed in that place for five seconds if it hadn't been for Chanel – she looked even better sitting down, her posture arching her butt and pressing her breasts tight against the fabric of her shirt. I ordered some Grey Goose with a splash of Sprite for her while I got Maker on the rocks

We talked about her family – she was indignant when a teacher failed to help her nephew, so she tutored him on her own. She had a goddaughter that looked just like her and knew how to behave. She showed me a picture of her and her sister hugging on a beach. I started talking about my younger brother. We stopped talking about family when the Hispanic stripper stopped her crawl along the bar in front of us – she began pumping her pelvis against an invisible crotch.

“You should give her something,” Chanel said. I thought that was generous of her, so I handed Chanel a dollar and took out one for myself. I'd been to strip clubs before with my ex-girlfriend, and I liked to watch her proffer the dollar first so that I could follow the angle of approach and pick the same region. Otherwise, I would fumble in giving the stripper her dollar; imagine a drunk trying to smooth out a worn bill to use on a undulating vending machine with too many options.

Chanel tucked the bill into the left side strap of the topless stripper's G-string. I tried to do the same but forgot to fold my bill, so it slid back out onto the bar. I crumpled it hastily and wadded it back into the strap – the stripper's skin was surprisingly chilly but smooth. The stripper took her hands off the bar and rose to her knees before leaning backwards until her butt touched the bar. She did a reverse crawl until she was past Chanel and me; she stopped when a tall old bespectacled man wearing a red-white checkered shirt came up and started putting her left bare breast through a variety of different stress tests. I noticed that my dollar had fallen back out again. I looked at Chanel, and we began to speak about education.

“I used to be in nursing, but I'm doing biotechnology now,” Chanel said. I was impressed. I started talking about how the maneuverability of the common household fly far transcends that of a helicopter and how ants may have been the first farmers with leaf fragments and fungus. I sensed her losing interest and also noticed how she rarely made eye contact.

“So you used to be in nursing? I had a few surgeries in the past few months, got to interact with some nurses,” I said.

“Oh, surgeries for what?” Chanel asked.

“Cancer,” I said shamelessly – if I'm losing the interest of a beautiful woman the night before the Rapture, then yes, yes I will play that card.

“Wow, what type of cancer?” she replied. We made brief eye contact before she resumed looking a little past my right cheek.

“Uh, the Lance Armstrong type,” I said. This prompted a quizzical eyebrow raise from Chanel. “I had a tumor on my right ball, but they caught it... and everything still works fine,” I blurted. I decided that post-Rapture I would not tell any of my potential hook-ups about my redesigned unit. I'm so sick of adding that cheesy disclaimer. From now on, I'll just wait until we're both naked. If there are questions, then I'll answer them from there.

“Wow, well you're fine now, right?” Chanel asked.

“Yeah – what do you think about scars?” I replied, determined to milk at least some capital from having to drop the disclaimer.

“Ugh, no, no scars,” she said. This time, it was my turn to give her a quizzical look. “I mean, it was fine when I was a nurse, but now I can't deal with blood or any of that. I don't know why. Maybe later would be fine,” she added.

“Hmmm yeah, I have a good-sized one, but it doesn't look too bad,” I said. There was an awkward silence, during which I got us another round of drinks. Each round was about $15 plus tip, so I was beginning to get low on cash. I asked the saggy, artificially blonde bartender if they took cards and was told that it was $50 minimum tab. She pointed to an ATM in a dark corner, furthest from the door. Chanel was looking in that direction too, although I wasn't sure when she had turned her head.

As we went through our drinks, we talked about my education. I felt pretty snazzy telling her that I had a B.S. in mathematical biology and was getting a master's in creative writing. I also did my little trick where she told me her phone number once while I memorized it. She clapped her hands lightly and touched my knee when I put the number in my phone and hers rang. Momentum was lost when she asked me about my plans for the future; I started to make something up before shrugging. I toyed with the possibility of making a Rapture joke about not needing plans, but I wasn't feeling smug enough.

We started talking about our bodies. Chanel was worried that her mid-section was too plump; I told that it was just right for wrapping your arm around and showed her. I kissed her cheek; she giggled but didn't turn to meet my lips. We'd only had two drinks, so I headed towards the distant ATM while Chanel followed. I needed her there because it was too dark to even see the number pad to put in my PIN. She held her phone to light my way as I typed in the digits. Then began the longest ATM processing time that I've ever seen and ever hope to witness. Chanel and I had been shifting and talking there for two minutes when the Hispanic stripper came over to join us. She was no longer bare-breasted but wore a top that must have been designed for prepubescent girls. I noticed her only after she wriggled into the crook of my right arm, her left forearm brushing against my crotch while she pulled Chanel in closer with her right hand.

Chanel didn't seem to mind, so we began a linked arm ATM dance that revolved slowly, three sets of eyes keeping track of the processing status. Another two minutes later, the screen shifted to my checking and saving account options. I withdrew $40 when Chanel beseeched me to give our stripper friend $10. We resumed our huddle and made our way to the far end of the bar. Chanel gave me the stripper's name, which I promptly forgot.

I thought for an instant that it was odd that Chanel knew the stripper's name, but that thought vanished when she (Chanel) grabbed my crotch. I slipped a hand from the back between the stripper's legs and traced her wetness with my index finger. She giggled and started kissing my neck while inserting herself between Chanel and me. Chanel slipped off part of the stripper's top and kissed her nipple before drawing back and stroking my hair while I did the same. The stripped writhed between us as my mouth lost contact and started grinding against the seat of my pants. I took a step back for balance and bumped into one of the seated bar patrons, who I realized had been watching us this whole time. Before I could apologize, he slunk off a few seats down the bar. By this time the stripper had pulled down the front of Chanel's shirt and was kissing her dark, silver-dollar sized nipples. I wrapped my arms around her hips with the stripper sandwiched in between and added my own kisses. I may have nudged the stripper a bit to my left side as I started kissing Chanel on the lips. Her thin, shapely lips massaged mine as we resumed our clockwise rotation. My left hand was now the one between the stripper's legs, and I jammed my right hand down the front of Chanel's dark jeans, arching forward to feel the first, fine lines of peach fuzz. Chanel and the stripper were now making out.

“We should go upstairs – they aren't going to keep letting us be like this at the bar,” Chanel said. I turned halfway around to see who 'they' were, and my hand became awkwardly wedged in her pants

“Yeah, $240 for both of us for the hour – you get to do whatever the fuck you want,” the stripper chimed in. I had never been in a threesome before; I wouldn't have gone with the stripper on her own; I was infatuated with Chanel and didn't mind getting to be with her as part of a package deal.

Parts of my mind had been coming to this conclusion several times earlier in the evening, but by now, at 2AM with three drinks and my hands in between two strangers' legs, it was undeniable that both of them were prostitutes. Chanel didn't have a sister, wasn't from Memphis, and didn't give two shits about nursing or biotechnology. And yet and yet and yet – so what? The Rapture was coming, and I didn't have any flight plans.

I freed my hands and clawed my blue debit card out from my wallet. The previous female bartender had been replaced by a saggy man with genuine white hair that covered his scalp and face in a style that seems to have been popular since the middle ages. He reminded me of a past undergraduate humanities professor, except he looked as if he'd be able to use a sawed-off shotgun with minimal regret. I handed him my debit card and ID before resuming my rotating dance with the prostitutes. I wasn't sure how much money was left on the card, since I mostly used it to store additional funds before transferring them to my primary bank account.

“It was declined,” the saggy bartender said. He spoke as if I had taken a crap on the bar before asking for a free drink.

“Try it again,” Chanel demanded. The bartender grumbled but obliged. We kept our dance, but I began to lose my rigidity as it sunk in that I was trying to pay money for something that was supposed to be passionate and spontaneous – rapturous.

“It's declined. It's no good.” The bartender slammed a small clipboard on the bar, and I slipped my ID and blue debit card back into my pocket without putting them in my wallet.

“You know what – if you have $200, then just wait an hour. We've got you,” Chanel said.

“I guess I can check my balance,” I told the prostitutes halfheartedly. We went back to the ATM, and I began to understand why it took so damn long to process.

“You're going get so hard with two girls wanting your dick,” Chanel said while the stripper hovered nearby, not quite joining the dance. I wasn't hard any longer despite her groping. There was this hunger, this greed that seemed pointless with the end of days coming. The ATM finally relented and showed my balance as $75.39. The immediate disinterest from both women was palpable.

“How about you go see if your sister is off work?” I asked Chanel.

“Yeah, go see if your sister is off of work,” the stripper said. She winked stupidly at Chanel. I was led back to the bar and told that the stripper would take care of me. Chanel left – I ignored the stripper and waited at the bar for several minutes because I noticed two guys outside, decidedly not looking at me – one of them had also been at the door of Dixie's Divas when I had come in.

I finally left and went in what I thought was the opposite direction that Chanel had headed. The two guys continued to not look at me and didn't follow. I decided to keep to my original plan of going to Checkpoint Charlie's, the 24-hour laundromat/punk bar, although it was about eight blocks away. I sniffed the fingers of both of my hands along the way. The left didn't smell of anything, so I concentrated on the right, which had a promising, musky, cinnamon odor.

When I made it to Checkpoint Charlie's, there were half a dozen people there, despite it being 3AM. I started speaking to the bartender about what had happened to me earlier, and he laughed as he got me a beer. I made sure that my fingers did not touch the cup's rim as I drank. A heavy percentage of the people there were the level of drunk that usually warrants a bartender refusing to give service. After someone tried to shake one of my hands, I remembered that I should probably wash them.

The bathroom was of the gas station variety, one urinal, one toilet, and a small sink. The sink was clogged, filled to the brim with stagnant water. I turned the faucet on and slid my hands a few inches above the overflowing basin – there was no soap in the bathroom.

I went back to the bar and ordered a glass of Wild Turkey on the rocks. The bartender was one of the generous types that seems more common in New Orleans; he filled the small, plastic cup to the brim. I went back to the sink and spit some of the Wild Turkey carefully on my fingertips – problem solved. I decide to take a tour of Checkpoint's – past the bathrooms was the laundromat, not a gimmick but a dozen washers and dryers that seemed fully functioning. Coming back out, I passed by the bar area once more, which had a kitchen behind and several tables spread out over the extra floor. On the side opposite the laundromat was a raised section that housed a pool table and several windows looking out into the street beyond. Coming back down the stairs, I noticed a jukebox. Yeah, I could get my pre-Rapture drinking done here.

I stuck with Wild Turkey and sent Chanel three text messages:

1. Thanks for the experience – told you I was a writer and sorry that I already knew the card would be declined. Sorry I couldnt resist :)

2. Also – tell your friend not to wink – sort of gave it away. Have fun.

3. One last thing – youre beautiful and smart – you can do better.

By the third message, I was on my third glass of Wild Turkey, and my pickings at Checkpoint were looking slim. There was one kind of cute brunette with small boobs whose nipples showed through her thin, white shirt, but the bartender knew her and wouldn't stop chatting her up. There was also a withered blonde with a decent body, but she looked more worn out than the stripper from earlier.

I realized by then that my blue debit card and remaining cash had been stolen, probably by Chanel. I ordered another Wild Turkey and started bumming cigarettes. Elevated cancer risks would not matter post-Rapture. The only thing that mattered was getting laid, and finally she came.

She was a redhead, thin but curvy with a complexion and demeanor that reminded of a girl I've had a crush on for years now. She wasn't beautiful, but she certainly topped anyone else in the bar. I don't know what we said, but we started kissing. The redhead led me back to the laundromat, and I started fingering her on top of a dryer. I paused momentarily when I noticed that the sun was up outside. She laughed at my confusion and helped me close out my tab at the bar.

“How many condoms do you have?” she asked.

“I only have one,” I said.

“That's not going to be enough,” she replied. When we got back to her place, we soon found out that she was right. We had collapsed on the couch near her door and gone missionary for a bit. She never asked me about my scars, and I never volunteered any information, which was just fine.

“So what if I were to fuck you as is?” I asked, tapping my cock lightly against her inner thigh.

“Then, I'd have to tell you that I have Herpes,” she replied. Something in my expression must've annoyed her because she sat up. “I haven't had an outbreak in, like a year, and it's almost nonexistent. People make a big deal about it, but it really is overrated. You probably won't get it if you do. I just told you so you can decide,” she said.

“So there's not much of a risk, but it's a possibility?” I asked.

“Yes.” I had already had a Herpes scare earlier in my travels, although I'd been safe. Was this an opportunity to overcome yet another pre-Rapture fear?

“Fuck it.” I slid deep inside, thrusting and bit my lip when her hips began answering back. We took it upstairs to her bed, which had a wonderfully creaky metal frame. One or both of us fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up rock-hard, and the real fun began. We didn't screw around with any positions other than missionary, doggy style, and her flat on her stomach while I grabbed the bed frame for leverage. Every time she came, she'd squeeze so hard that it'd literally push me out. I kept at it for as long as possible, trying to make the best out of a bad decision.

As we were recuperating and considering another round, I remembered that I needed to pick my little brother up from the airport. The redhead agreed to drive me back to his apartment, and she was nice enough to drive back to her place when we were halfway there. I had forgotten my unbreakable glasses, which I had only found the night before. We found them lodged under the couch next to the condom wrapper. We exchanged numbers outside my destination, although I knew I wouldn't seek her out again.

I hopped in the shower and began singing while washing my genitals repeatedly. I don't know the lyrics to very many songs, but a few stick out to me, such as “Because I got the Virgin Mary, assuring me that I'm not going to Hell and “Well if I go to Hell, then I hope I burn well.” I beatboxed and tested out each tone, poised somewhere between acceptance and defiance. Why is it that, when we sense something horrible in our future, we have to self-destruct to feel invincible?

Before leaving the shower, I felt for that slight discontinuity at the end of my SuperBall's top vein insertion point. My growing end-of-the-world lump hadn't been Raptured up, and it shifted underneath my thumb. And my heart no longer skipped a beat. And my throat didn't close up. And my breathing remained steady.

After picking up my brother an hour late from the airport, I collapsed on the futon near his door. I slept for fourteen hours but woke intermittently. The shadows outside the door failed to resolve themselves into a pair of horns, and the Rapture passed while the consequences of the previous night began to sink in.

Negative versus positive, benign versus malignant, unspeakable Heaven versus unfathomable Hell - perhaps it all starts right here on Earth, a progression of unknown speed, this fine but blurry line with no discernible discontinuity. There's a capacity to lean in one direction or the other, but there's trouble brewing in that dull, disorienting, in-between state, a false rapture and its concrete aftermath.