Between Islands, Just Floating There

Farther and farther from the boat, feeling ourselves ease down the food chain, we drifted and drifted. And a great big school of fish—little silver ones—appeared suddenly and without warning. And they were everywhere. And you could hear them. Millions of tiny popping sounds all around, in every direction. We held hands.

Ypsilanti

 

When we arrived, a surly woman cleaning up behind the bar was there to greet us.

“Where you boys from?”

“Boston.”

“Boston where?”

“Massachusetts.”

Pleasantries were exchanged. The conversation continued.

There had been a riot at a club just around the corner the night before, she explained. Dozens of people had locked themselves in here for safety, she said. If we cared to look across the street, we could still see a policeman's blood on the curb.

As we had around three hours to kill before we went on, we courteously excused ourselves, got back into the van and made our way to the hotel.

For the next two hours, we sat—two to a bed—and watched a martial arts movie on tv. No one said a word.

When it was time to head back, we shuffled silently into the van. Someone put Metallica on the radio. For Whom The Bell Tolls.

It was very loud.

And very funny.