Anywhere, maybe nowhere

"Where to, bud?" the taxi driver asks cheerfully.

Imaginary dialogue that happens every few minutes. I have nowhere to go. My dog was run over by a FedEx van barreling down the hill yesterday, swerved to straddle him laying in the middle of the road on a sunny day. I called Tooie out of the road hundreds of times, made him sit and stay out of harm's way. Old shihtzus don't listen, have their own agenda. He's up at the house, broken foreleg and internal injuries, laying quietly on bathroom tile, stoned on doggie pain pills left over from oral surgery a couple years ago. Took all the pleasure out of life, as you may perhaps understand if you ever loved a dog. He was at my side day and night for nine years, slept at my feet in bed each night, rescued from a shelter at age three or four. Not knowing if he would survive, I dug a grave yesterday. Enough about that.

The prospect of losing Tooie was the last straw. Six weeks ago, I collapsed face down in the dirt in broad daylight, couldn't move, had to crawl. It left me enfeebled and now I use a hardwood cane, especially going uphill at a half stride, or is it a quarter? A slow shuffle, nothing like my emphatic stomp as a younger man, raising hell around the world before I turned 40, doing it again in my 50s, all six continents, and plugging along in my 60s to wage war with philistines, to buy property and build a house. Impossible to go further now. No money, no car, no stamina. I used myself up, every ounce of brain and muscle.

"Where to, bud?"

Well, it won't be writing another novel. I know what they cost. It won't be another movie, strictly a young man's game. It won't be a tech project. No imagination. My forte was analog and mechanical devices, neither of which are much in demand. Too old and ugly to smile, unqualified and inept as a salesman or preacher.

I said everything I hoped and wanted to say. Now it's the world's turn to do something about it, discover merit in my ideas and literary legacy. I won't hold my breath. The world has other things to do, like honor more negroes, kill fossil fuels, and impeach Donald Trump. My work was shunned and ignored. No book sales. No film rights sold.

"Where to, bud?"

I don't know. I have a few years left, perhaps, no desire to visit Wisconsin or California, and I couldn't buy a plane ticket or rent a car if I wanted to. Credit cards vaporized over a year ago, no cash in hand, $15 in my checking account, just enough to keep it open. It's a free checking account for senior citizens, no monthly fee. When I tore up the forest and built a house I ran tens of thousands through it, six figures through company accounts at Chase and Wells Fargo and Frost Bank and a bullion account at the Perth Mint. All balances zero, company defunct, probably in trouble with the IRS. The last time I filed a tax return was in 2015.

"Where to, bud?"

I don't know. Anywhere. Maybe nowhere, to die in my sleep from boredom and want. I've been postponing it as long as I could, pushed myself to write a masterpiece, kept going until I was convinced that it had been achieved in July, two months ago. I collapsed and fell down a couple weeks later, took a long time to get back on my feet. Then my dog got hit by a van. I don't think that my daughter needs me any more. All grown up, headed to college.

No strength to stand on my feet part time at a McDonalds, flipping burgers. No brain to run a complicated digital cash register. No mountain left to climb. For the first time in my life, I'm finished. Not beaten -- I carved my own way, forded raging rivers of opposition and an ocean of cowardice and despair. Certain achievements stand out in particular, like the preamble of The Freeman's Constitution, a new robust definition of justice. Whatever happens next is okay in that respect. I hammered a legacy on Earth.

Hmm. In Partners, I observed that people don't eat if there's no future. Wilda just brought me a little styrofoam box with two cold leftover onion rings and a few french fries. Wonderful. The idea of a cold Coke was overpoweringly real. Driver! Take me to a Coke machine!

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