| Vacationland Chapter 1, Page 4 Sitting on the couch, I heard the clock ticking from the kitchen. It was still early, perhaps 7:30, and I was bored. Tomorrow night, I�d go out for a beer with friends, but on Thursday night nobody was around. I looked over at the computer, remembering my goals; but I couldn�t just sit down and write. I needed inspiration. I needed motivation. I needed to hear from the muses�I needed them to sing to me! I looked at the dark computer monitor and it stared back at me, but I heard no sound � no hymn, no aria�not even a ditty. I flipped channels. Watched bits and pieces: a music video, something on PBS about bacteria, a rerun of Seinfeld. Eventually I did sit at the desk and I did stare boldly back at the monitor, but it was only to get online and check my email. There was something from Jason. A response to the bit of song lyric that I sent him earlier, knowing that he must have felt as empty and directionless as I did. His reply was short. �Thanks. I needed that. Seriously.� I leaned back in my chair. Summer was here; now where were those goddamn muses? The usual phone call came that night, about eleven; the voice on the other end was brusque, sharp, questioning. �What are you doing?!� �Man,� I said slowly, �do you have to always start your conversations like that?� �Like what?� �What are you doing?!� I said forcefully back to him. �It�s so�angry and�accusatory. What are you doing?!� �Alright, alright. So�what�s up?� It was my cousin Marco. He was a phone freak. I enjoyed our usual evening conversations, but when it came to other things � say going out to eat � he followed this monotonous and crazy ritual. We�d be talking and we�d agree to grab some food later. I�d say, �Let�s go at 6:30,� but he�d say, �I�ll call you when I get in later.� So he�d call later and I�d say let�s go in half an hour,� and he�d say, �I have to jump in the shower, I�ll call you when I get out.� Then he�d call me in twenty minutes and I�d say, �I�ll be there in ten minutes,� and he�d say, �Just call me before you leave.� And when I talked to him, there�d be constant call-waiting beeps. In the middle of my thought he�d say, �Hold on half a second,� and then disappear for a full minute. Then he�d come back and I�d try to regain the momentum of my thoughts and there�d be another beep. After another of his �half a seconds� he�d return and say, �You gonna be home? I�ll call you in two minutes.� It was always �half a second� or �two minutes.� And he�d call an hour later. It was as though he was running an international drug cartel out of his apartment two blocks from me. I told Marco about jamming with the kids and about the funk I felt myself in with my first school year behind me. �What is the meaning of life,� Marco asked me. �Have you figured that out yet?� We usually reached that point about fifteen minutes into our conversation, when we had each relayed to the other the convoluted and cryptic happenings of our lives which transpired over the previous 24 hours. Most nights I would take a stab at the question, answering somewhat seriously with �happiness,� or �love; and some nights I would go with �sex,� or �chicks,� or �trying to make it through the day��whatever came into my head. Once in a while I�d just sigh and say, �Marco, I haven�t got a clue.� And on this night, sitting before my senselessly chattering television amid the brown empire that is my living room, I said, �You got me kid. I�m clueless.� * * * |