Universal Ruler's blog: "Rambling Randomness"

 I set out in my old white Cadillac convertible, traveling the highways and byways to find the American dream, but I woke up screaming and crying from the nightmare.

In Arizona, I met a man that couldn't have been more then nineteen, thin stubble trying hard to look like a beard hanging from his face. He told me the interstate system was the death of America. It killed the small towns. The place he grew up in had fallen into disarray, his graduating class had only eight people. When the school burned down the previous winter, no one had even bothered to rebuild it. The kids had to find their own way to get their education. He told me the desert was littered with towns like that. He stayed on the small highways and backroads, always looking for the mythical town that had survived.

In Louisiana I met a hooker with no name. She told me names don't matter on the road. All that mattered was the soul of the traveler, and the fact that the sun would always rise in the east and set in the west. She offered to blow me for the ride, but it would cost me fifteen if I wanted her to swallow. I politely declined.

In upstate New York I helped an old man rob a bank. I didn't even know we were doing it. I just sat in the car and drove. The bank was rolling in syrup money. The man wanted to rob it because the money no longer went to the local citizens; the bigger corporations had long since bought out the small local producers. He gave me half of what he took, and gave the other half to his church.

In Seattle, I drank vodka and danced with a young girl, much too young for me. Thanks to the drink, we continued dancing long after the music stopped. She told me this was all we had left, the one thing they could never take away from us no matter how hard they tried.

In Charleston, South Carolina, I met a twenty-one year old immigrant nicknamed Fly. Fly needed a ride across town to meet up with his brother who was bringing in a shipment of high-grade heroin. He told me the heroin was so pure it would kill any junkie that wasn't careful with it. He planned to sell it next the basketball courts down the street from his house, hoping to make enough money to get his seven year old daughter into private school.

In California, I met Sara. She told me she was making a documentary about the corruption and corporate greed of the film industry. She felt very passionate about it, ever since she got turned down for a job as a production assistant with Disney. She stayed with me for two days and paid for all the gas and food with her father's American Express.

In Georgia, I met a young guy who stole gas from the gas station he worked at. He defended it by telling me the station paid much less then they charged, but continually raised their prices every time the station down the street did. The two stations were in a price war to see who could go the highest.

In Minnesota, I met a man who told me the revolution was coming. When asked what it would be fought over, he told me bottled water. Water was the key, he said. Here we stood in the land of a thousand lakes, and the people spent a dollar on a twenty ounce bottle of something that used to be free to everyone. That's where it would start, he said. Being charged for what should be free to everyone.

In Indiana, I met a middle-aged man that had once been a lead engineer for one of the car companies. When the foreign cars took over the market, he lost his job. He offered to tune-up my engine for a warm meal.

In Denver, I picked up a guy who had just gotten a ticket from the cops. He'd been picked up for pissing on a Wal-Mart. He told me he used to own a general store, one of those mom and pop deals. It had been in his family for three generations. When Wal-Mart came to town, he just couldn't compete. He wandered around the country pissing on every Wal-Mart he saw.

In Kansas, I met a Cherokee that was living on the last bit of land that still belonged to his family. He had no house, only a beat up dome tent. I gave him my share of the stolen money to use as kindling for a fire. In the morning, he made herbal tea and I asked if I could stay with him. He seemed self-sufficient. He told me I needed to move on. This land was no place for a white man. He scattered the ashes of last night's fire and walked away. He stopped only to say over his shoulder that we all reaped what we sowed.

Then he went back to his America, and me to mine.