The road doesn’t change at all. But all the shit on either side gets less and less until it's just spread-out land.

I see a shack or two every couple miles or whatever, and wonder what it might be like to live out here in the boonies. I’d probably get up to some pretty sick shit out here. I imagine rocking up to one of those shacks right now, opening the door, and seeing a room full of splattered carnage and sexual refuse. Part of me, at least, might feel right at home.

Jolene tells me all about The Great and Wonderful Tyler. He sounds like a total fucking dick. I sit and just listen, though, because that’s what I do. That’s why my boss keeps my worthless ass around at work. That’s my role at every piss-poor family function (the family being piss-poor, as well as the functions). With any friends I might have, my whole contribution is space . . . room for them to talk, and figure things out, while I just kind of nod along.

It’s not a hundred percent like that with Jolene, though. 

It’s time for me to do my part where I repeat back the thing I just heard to show I’m listening. I summarize: “So, he brought you out here to LA for a job?”

“Both,” she says. “We were gonna work together, and be together.”

“But he promised you work?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah, that was definitely our deal. We even talked about specifics . . . how much I’d do, and what I’d get paid. He had me come out the week I did because he said there was this big shoot lined up for me.” Her face scrunches into what must be anger, or disgust. I’ve never seen her make a face like that before.

“So, we’re going to Blythe to…”

“...to confront him, right.”

Well, fuck. Now I’m roped into a day’s worth of driving, as well as what sounds like a legal dispute, and even a fucken kids’ lovers’ spat, all in one. I don’t want any part in this shit.

“Can I ask you something?” I say, wishing I didn’t.

“Sure!” God she’s enthusiastic.

“Why me? Why did you want me to take you?”

“I knew you’d ask that,” she replies real quick. “Two things: One, you’re the only grownup I know who’d be cool about this whole thing, and not make it a big deal with my mom or anything. And, two, you’re, like, the biggest, strongest, and fucking smartest guy I know, Uncle X!”

Something’s sure not adding up, but I feel the foreign sensation of a grin overtaking the sides of my mouth, if for nothing else than the fact that she used her old name for me, Uncle X, from back when she and shit-face-Dee used to sleep over at our place when they were kids.

“Uncle X,” I repeat.

We pass another shack, but I don’t envision this one a sex dungeon.

“What do you want me to do when we get to his place?” I ask, sorta wishing I could unload this whole scenario onto someone else . . . someone actually bigger, stronger, smarter…

“I’ll talk to him,” she says. “I just need you there as, like, security, y’know? I mean, I think he’ll be scared to see you just standing behind me. You won’t have to do or say anything. You’re there for, I guess, intimidation.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the wheels turning behind her face as she pieces together this mission as if we’re soldiers or something.

But hey, I’m part of something. Someone wants me for something. Yeah, it’s stupid. Fuck it, oh well. Let’s see what happens.

I reach way down deep into the Burger King bag, now mostly filled with balled paper, and pull out the cardboard triangle that is the last of my Oreo pies. But as I pinch and tear off the top to get to the chilled sweetness inside, my mind does something funny…

See, when you’re middle-age, single occasions or experiences can stop mattering to you so much. They just get woven into whatever steady stream of shit your life generally consists of, at least in my experience. So, when you’re twenty, a night of drinking can be a magical event, transcendent or some bullshit. But once you’re . . . as old as I am . . . a night of drinking is just a blip between days of hangover-laden nonsense. And all you’re thinking about during that night is how shitty it’s gonna be for you the next morning.

Jolene’s being so fucking cool to me. Yeah, she’s using me. But she’s treating me like an actual person alive in the world along with her. That’s rare. I mean, that’s unheard of for me. Yet just like when we laughed together at the start of our drive, and I was already preparing myself for that chuckle to be our full allotment of fun for the trip, even now my old mind is eeyoreing its way ahead to when Jolene’s plans for Blythe today will be done, and we’ll be back in LA, and she’ll go back to being this niece (in-law) I don’t see, and I’ll just be counting down days until I have enough balls to finally put myself out of my misery.

I’m pretty fucking grim, right?

I let myself look over at Jolene again, and wonder if I ever had the sheer present-ness she’s showing . . . how nothing exists for her right now but this mission to bring justice to dill-hole Tyler, to right a wrong.

I glance down at her thin arms and legs, though I’m not even thinking of her sexually. It’s more like I’m wondering if people, when young, are just generally more green, like fruit that’s not yet ripe. Her mind, her limbs, her face . . . everything . . . it’s all purely open and ready for whatever’s coming.

I’m jealous, but the last thing I’d ever want is to take that from her. 

I had my chance at life. I was young, and I fucked it up. I don’t know, maybe in a weird way I’m ok with that.

Still, it’s just . . . it’s just interesting being around someone so damn alive.