Technovivre

“There is more – International feeeeeeeel
And there’s more – Interplanetary deeeeeal
But there’s more – Interstellar appeeeeeeeeeal
Still there’s more – Universal ideeeeeeeeal
Still there’s more; International feeeeeeeeel”

At least, I think that’s how the lyrics went. You’d be surprised how fucked up you can get on some cough medicine, because the car ride was strangely delightful. The things I was seeing were very faint, but that only made things scarier. What if the car stopped? I could have wandered off and gotten lost in the woods. I’d probably wake up in some pervert’s basement after being kidnapped and tied up – while I’m high on cough medicine. 

The vehicle in front of us was giving us a lot of shit. I kept on seeing Jean Reno’s face in the rear view mirror – that guy was great in Leon. The car would continually cut us off or disallow us from changing lanes, which would almost drive us off the road. At last, the driver, my good friend James, handed me a beer car. I knew immediately what to do. Hoisting myself above the windshield of the convertible, I shook it up while I looked around for cops. None at all. The beer can exploded all over the back window of the forward vehicle, and it came to a brutal halt, pulling over to the side of the road. We did the same. 

As James stepped out, so did the riders of the other vehicle. My friend took one more swig of the cigarette, then threw it to the ground as the other driver walked over to handle him, screaming and cursing. James’s judgment began. My calm friend in aviator sunglasses kicked the other driver in the chest, and then cocked him across the face so hard the man’s skull wobbled like gelatin. The other driver threw a fist, but James deflected it and punched him in the throat, finishing him off my throwing his forehead into his nose and sending him to the ground with a sickening thud.

James looked at the two punks for a moment, then walked back to the car just as the DJ changed the song from International Feel to Staying Alive. By that time, I was doing some obscure dance on the hood of the car. When my friend got back into the driver’s seat, I jumped into the passenger’s seat and apparently woke up the other cohort in the automobile, Adam. As we took off along the cliffs of Virginia, Adam said to me,
“I heard a fight.”
“James punched out a couple of punkers,” I informed. 
“Serves them right,” he commented.
“For what?”
“For taking punk music as a lifestyle,” he replied.

He turned to dust as he layed back down, and I felt a rush in my head. I decided to fall asleep right then and there, hoping James wouldn’t get us in a car crash. When I awoke, I found myself in the back seat of the convertible. It was night time, and I could see a sign for a 7/11 convenience store. I picked up my notebook, and the first thing I wrote was this:

Jackson Petersen Corolo
(1964 - )

Dear reader, 

If you are reading this, then you may be reading an obituary. It’s an absolute phobia of mine to pick up a newspaper and see my own obituary in it, like something out of the Twilight Zone. As I write this, I am locked in a moving cage with the top down, at night, parked in front of a 7/11, in the year 1987. My captors and best friends are inside, probably putting on a Broadway-level dance session for the clerk inside; they’re on narcotics. I was kidnapped seven years ago, in 1980 In a small Midwestern town, when these two men handed me a pill that they called a “Laughably Sacrilegious Drug,” otherwise and correctly known as LSD. It served as a sort of chain leash around me, because of the addiction it had built me. Earlier this night, I realized that all of this is going nowhere, and I might as well write all of this down. 

These bastards gave me drugs and forced me to do things like chill out at home, take pressure off of school and still get good grades, frolic in valleys and go have fun in public until the drug wore off, at which point we would get a lot of food and fall asleep. Right now, my friends and I are on our way to Virginia Beach to host a party, where my friend will DJ and hopefully make us enough cash to get down to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. After that, we will ride to Atlanta, then Orlando, and we’ll probably end up in Miami. I don’t know what we’ll do after that. It doesn’t matter, we’ll be in Orlando. 

I think I should give a little backstory on this all. I was born on February 21st, in 1964, in a prosperous hospital in the middle of Brooklyn. For fourteen years, I grew up in the dirty, grimy slimeways of New York City, in the prime of its most dangerous era. Taxi Driver beautifully illustrated how horrible the town can be. My head’s in somewhat of a blur, or a daze, so I’ll try to write as well as I can. 

Today, my friend beat up two punkers who were giving him shit on the road. I passed out on cough medicine, woke up and began writing this. I have a feeling of doom, that is, aftr I downed all those unperscribed drugs. Regardless, I will write as much as I possibly can. I don’t know how long we’ll be parked, but I’ll hopefully try to write at the next hotel we come to. 

9:33 PM
We’ve arrived in Richmond, and now we’re holed up in a Holiday Inn. I can only hope the cops don’t discriminate against suspicious young people, because if they search us we’re all fucked. This could be quite literal, based on a movie I saw a while back about delivering things, and two hillbillies raped a couple of civilized gentlemen. 

Hotel life is very illogical. They tell us to enjoy ourselves, and all they give us are a couple beds and some cosmetic items in the bathroom. No music, disco balls or even a permanent marker to get a buzz off of. They need to get their terms straight. We entered the hotel and the front desk was full of pretty young girls, receptionists. I booked the room while James was hitting on this one girl, and I think Adam was licking the furniture in the lobby. James just now went down to get some ice, but I know he’s fucking that cute little thang in the janitor’s closet. I didn’t hit on anyone because my first course of action would be to get out of this weird daze that won’t go away. Adam is just high on something he probably took when I was asleep. I assume he took ecstasy, because he’s taped a bottle of water to his chest. This is smart, because trusting himself to hold it would probably mean he would drop it. 

James has just walked in with his pants undone and a bucket of ice. He flopped the ice on the dresser, looked at me for a moment, and said,
“Yeah, I fucked her.”
“We don’t need any ice,” I said. He didn’t say anything back, but rather, collapsed on the bed. Adam will probably take the other bed, so I’ll probably have to sleep in the bath tub or on the big chair by the window. I think the bath tub would be better because then they could wake me up by just turning the shower head on. I have to go to sleep right now.

8:15 AM – 5th April 1987 – Monday

We all woke up when a call came to our room around 7:15 AM. James went into a horribly belligerent rage, then chilled out quickly and calmly picked up the phone. He listened to it for about sixty seconds as Adam began to squirm his limbs off the bed to the point of him falling off. James gave an “uh-huh” and a “yeah” every ten seconds while listening to the phone, then hung up without a word, just staring down the drywall. 
“The fuck was that?” I asked.
“Jenny,” he replied. “The girl I fucked last night. God damn. She said she was sorry and that last night didn’t mean anything. She was crying. She said she has a boyfriend.”
“Are you pissed or something?” I asked.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he replied. “I need a coffee, let’s go to the Waffle House.”

Dear reader,

On Monday morning, 9 AM, I packed up and shipped out for the cold town of Easton Town Centre. It'll probably show up on Google. March is cold this year, but its gray skies give off a glow precedented only on rare occasions. With my I have five thousand dollars, $1500 of which I intend upon blowing on a new Macbook laptop. It'll serve me well in writing this paper for English. It's a multigenre project. Why go to Easton, you ask? A bedroom or a library is no place to be creative; it's far too dull and work-oriented. In order to be creative, you need to be surrounded by an enemy force and tons of characters. There is capitalism all around me in this crazy town, and lots of people are walking shop to shop in order to fill their silly desires piece by piece. It's a perfect place to write about what is wrong with this world.

     I will have to sleep in my car, because I don't want to waste money on a hotel. I am going to live absolutely luxuriously here every day, and I hope to befriend plenty of people in order to get places and learn new things. I will have to write one of everything, from poems to short stories. I don't have the wearwithal to write about them unless I do totally irrational and stupid things to keep my mind going. I expect to be questioned by the cops at some point, but I refuse to make eye contact with them. They're all pigs. I think it's important to tell you that no one knows I'm here. Not my parents, nor my best friend. I just slept in and took off, and my parents are always gone before  even wake up to go to school, let alone two hours after I should be there. I'll just have to make up for five days of missed school, which would usually be tough, but I drank heavily when I made the decision to do this. It's lasted with me until this moment.

     When I arrived here a few hours ago, I bought a Macbook and a bunch of hip young clothes from the local Pac Sun. Black leather jacket, white button shirt, new jeans, skate shoes and a big belt buckle. Typical of current young peoples' fashion. I also have plenty of bracelets, and headphones hanging around my neck. I need to look typical of a teenager in order to be passed off by the cops. Apart from that, I have nothing but good intentions for the future. I think I'll tag alongside some groups of teens after school, or I'll chill at the Apple store just so I feel connected and safe with my computer, in case I need any questions. I could also blow money on RTS games. I love Real Time Strategy games. I think there is a point where we all need to stop and remember where we are sometimes, and I think making a pilgrimage to Easton will confirm me for complete insanity.