Odyssey to Nowhere

Everyone said I was crazy.
“You’ll get arrested.”
“You’ll end up stranded in the middle of nowhere.
“You’ll starve.”
“This is how people turn into hobos.”
But I couldn’t listen to them.
I wouldn’t.
This had to be done.
My great grandmother had passed down to me an
old suitcase.
A Samsonite from the late fifties.
Not too big, not too small.
It held everything I would need.
Two pairs of slacks.
One white belt.
Two collared shirts.
One necktie.
Three cans of pomade & two combs.
In my bright pink coat
a .38 Special.
A gift from my mother.
She upgraded to a 9mm pistol,
didn’t need the little snub nose.
I paid to have it customized
with a TCB and a lightning bolt
pearl handle.
Even though I could only play one song,
“That’s Alright Mama,”
I slung an acoustic guitar over my back.
Scenarios and fantasies ran through my head.
All the colorful characters I’d meet,
all the wild adventures I’d have.
This would be my Great American Odyssey.
The spiritual quest to the American Mecca.
On the road
to the Rock'n'Roll Holy Land.
I was going home
to a place I’d never been before.
Standing in the kitchen of my father’s house,
writing on a piece of cardboard: MEMPHIS.
Sitting on the suitcase, at the edge of town,
between the confining city
and the vast, open, lonely desert.
Combed my hair, got it high
like The King.
Dug my finger into the crevice of my ducktail
and stood up, anticipating the approaching car.
When it passed me
the gust of wind felt like the heat from a blow dryer,
opening the oven door with your face too close.
The cars kept passing me
night and day.
No one would pick me up.
I waited all day in that Arizona sun
and all through the night.
When dawn came
and I realized no one was gonna pick me up

I walked back home
and continued the job search.