“I saw the sky in the windshield of another city.” – Bruce Smith, “February Sky”
Yet another city. Buffalo, Duluth, Sioux Falls, Albuquerque, Oceanside, Corvallis. The truck’s windshield was plastered with dead insect life that rode from the Great Lakes all the way to the Pacific Ocean, and those bugs looked like I felt. Flat, squashed, devoid of life.
Still, I checked into the Super 8, got me a bag of ice from the ice machine, broke out the Johnny Walker – little death’s heads flickering in the ice cubes in the glass – and made me a little nest in the king-size bed. HBO was showing Deadwood, followed by Generation Kill. Just my night.