1. INTRODUCTION

August 26: From the Front Line (Sales Desk) at my job for one of the world's largest providers of Personal Communications Services (PCS Phones).

One hot and muggy Thursday afternoon in late August, I am dealing with one seriously agitated human being at my station. He looks to be about 50-years-old. He's probably 5'6", a hefty 200 pounds in a tight, sweat-saturated tee-shirt and grimy khaki shorts. He looks like a flounder that just came from a wet T-shirt contest that he didn't win. His sweaty stench is overwhelming. His bald scalp looks like an onionskin, exposing tiny blue veins and vesicles, aching to pop.

Flounder pounds his fist occasionally on the marble countertop to ensure that my mind isn't wandering. His voice is booming through the store. He has captivated the rest of the customers, and they're looking like they are ready for an all-out riot. I am unable to get a word in. I can't explain a thing. He is angry and he wants to be heard. At one point I hear the words "you fucker" and "this service SUCKS!" Another day in the trenches.

I've endured hundreds, if not thousands of these pathetic bastards. He tosses his PCS phone on the counter and eyes me with hatred and resentment. This is it. I can feel the muscles in my neck and face twitching involuntarily. The hellion in me is waking up.

I envision telling him: "Let me show you a little feature I bet you didn't know that your phone had," as I slip the phone's carrying-strap on my wrist and secure it. Then, swinging the phone down around my knee back and forth, as I gain momentum. And then, I bring it around in a wide arc, shattering its plastic casing into thousand of shards right on the bastard's cranium. The son-of-a-bitch falling to the floor with a loud wail, fumbling for the top of his now crimson colored head. Then, I hop over the counter and beat his skull to the consistency of whipped potatoes.

Since this type of behavior is frowned upon in today's society, I decided to resign. My last day was the day before my 30th birthday. I decided to take off on a solo road trip around the United States. I had nothing planned, just a general idea of some places I would like to visit.

With that in mind, let's run down the package:

(1) 1993 Jeep Wrangler with 57,000 miles and $12,000 owed on it. It's incredibly noisy, horribly uncomfortable at times, and a thief and vandal magnet. It is also the quintessential vehicle for "freedom traveling" because you can go just about anywhere.

(152) Compact discs, ranging from AC/DC to Warren Zevon. I am only able to bring part of my CD collection to to space limitations, not to mention the fact that some of the CD's I own just plain suck.

(3500) Dollars, aching to be spent, in my checking account. My ATM card works at over 25,000 locations in the U.S. I also have a Visa card for emergencies (what constitutes and emergency is not really defined, as I've been known to walk a MILE through a nasty part of New Orleans to find an ATM to extract some cash from an Emergency Use Only Visa card to pay for another round of Hurricanes, which I definitely did not need).

(1) REI Travel Pack, loaded with all of the necessities like clothing and soap.

(1) Laptop computer. A loaner from a friend. I have just one worry: will I have enough hard-drive space for my writing with all of these porno pictures I've downloaded from the Internet on here?

(5) Floppy disks, just in case.

(1) Coleman Six-Pack Cooler. Any amount of logic applied here will tell you that this cooler is too small. Too bad, as I have space limitations.

Lastly:

(1) Burnt Out Thirty-Year-Old Writer Name Greg, on the brink of a mathematically impossible killing spree, searching for truth, happiness, self-fulfillment and meaning. Oh - and good beer.

My driving trip (in black) and my subsequent trip to the Bahamas (in green)

2. NORTHERN ARIZONA

September 22
Flagstaff, Arizona
The land of Lumberjacks and Earth Muffins.

I'm sitting in room #8 at a seedy, somber motel that is about 250 feet from the railroad tracks. When the trains roll through here, you EXPERIENCE them. This marks the end of my first day of freedom. A rather intriguing day, as I'm not quite sure how I plan on making the rest of this trip if I spend money the way I did today. I'm around 1000% over my budget for the day, thanks to my inability to say no to psychics and my overwhelming desire to listen to some Johnny Cash and Jimmy Buffett. (I had to make a couple of CD purchases, as there's no way in hell one can expect to make a cross-country road trip without hearing "Folsom Prison Blues" or "Margaritaville" at least twice.)

The budget explains why I'm sitting in a hotel room, alone, instead of going out and exploring the Flagstaff nightlife. I went to college here in Flagstaff for three years. I spent roughly half of my student loans in the Flagstaff drinking establishments. Until I pay that off, I'm not drinking around here anymore.

September 23
Navajo Bridge Visitor Center, Arizona
The land of the short, fat, goat-cheese-eating children.

The Navajo Bridge is an expansive, metallic, bridge that crosses the muddy Colorado River in northern Arizona. Two bridges exist, actually: one for automobiles and one for pedestrians. Nice touch. The bridge is suspended almost 400 feet above the Colorado and spans about 50 yards. Even with my fear of heights, I have to go out and take a look. It's quite impressive.
Nauseating, too, if you don't like heights.

Two fat little Navajo boys are playing a game called: "Let's Annoy Everyone With Our Ear-Piercing Screams." The kids are holding 'Navajo Tacos' in their grubby little fists. I spy the taco shanty nearby and the proprietor tells me I can have two of these delicious creations for only $5.00.

"Made with real beef and goat cheese," she exclaims.

It's early and I'm not in the mood for any of this, so I roar out of the parking lot and head for the Grand Canyon.

September 23
North Rim of Grand Canyon, Arizona

While walking through the parking lot to find a place to mail my thoughtful ramblings [postcards], I spy a gentleman in his late fifties driving slowly through the area in a Ford Taurus with license plates hailing him from Maine. Riding shotgun in the Taurus is a life-size doll that is completely strapped in with the seatbelt, including the shoulder strap. This doll looks to be the size of an eight-year-old child. I chalk it up to weird perversion.

On my way out of the park, at the entrance station again, I spot him sitting in his car in the parking area. I park the Jeep fairly close to his car and make my way inside to pick up some pamphlets. As I am walking by the Taurus, I see him hugging the doll;embracing it as if he is sending this thing off to college. I chalk this up to a simple mental breakdown.

I do my business in the ranger station and then proceed cautiously back outside to my vehicle. As I walk towards the man's car again, I hear him sobbing loud enough for me to hear. In fact, just about anyone within fifty feet of this guy can hear him. As I pass his car, I peer in, where I see him holding the doll right next to his face, talking to it between his heaving sobs. I chalk this
up to the unexplainable and get the hell out of there.

Then it hits me on the way out of the park. The license plates on his car are from Maine. He drove all the way out to Arizona with the doll that his daughter used to carry with her wherever she went. That was until she passed away to leukemia last month. He made the trek that his daughter had undoubtedly pestered him about time and time again. She wanted to see the
Grand Canyon, is all. Taking this doll (we'll call her Mandy), taking Mandy to the Grand Canyon is his way of saying goodbye to his daughter.

I chalk this up to a damn good reason not to have children; you'll end up crying on some stuffed fabric like Mandy for the rest of your life. Of course this whole idea about Mandy is a theory of mine. Her name might really be Annie or Helen or Christina.

3. COLORADO

September 24: Point of Interest, 20 miles south of Durango.

According to the little bronze plaque erected here, a "Dominguez-Escalante expedition passed through here in 1844 on the way to the then capitol of California, Monterey, to link the missions in New Mexico." Yeah, that's pretty interesting. I vow to never stop at one of these things again.

September 24: KOA Kampground, 10 miles north of Durango.
Young maidens with intentions of inebriation.

I decide to play some "sticks." Anyone who has been to a Grateful Dead concert has seen this. Sticks is a dexterous game which puts one, weighted "balance" stick in action, as it is twirled around with two "guide" sticks. The sticks are made out of half-inch thick wood dowels, wrapped tightly in plumber's tape for grip. The balance stick has frayed leather protruding a couple of inches on each end to offer wind resistance.

Not too exciting, but it can attract people, as it appears that an actual defiance of gravity is occurring as the balance stick is twirled around.

Attract people I did, as two nubile, young ladies (staying in a nearby RV) approached me. One looked to be about 17, with short blond hair, big blue eyes and a seductive smile. The other looked to be about fifteen. The fifteen-year-old had a Florida Marlins baseball hat on, so I'm not sure what color her hair was. They pretended that they were taking a tour of the grounds, then they came right over and sat on a picnic bench adjacent to my campsite.

The usual questions arose: "How do you do that?" and "What's that called?" The general inquisitiveness was quickly lost when the blond asked, "Do you have any more beer?" She had spied my two empty bottles of stout lying on the ground next to my tent. I answered her with, "Negative." I suddenly realized a mischievous aura surrounding them that suggested they might
have spent a portion of their youth in a juvenile correctional facility.

Then the older one asked if I wanted to go get some more beer as she produced some wrinkled green bills out of her jacket pocket.

Without stopping my activity, I asked them how old they were. The blond immediately answered with "Eighteen." The hat-girl hesitated for a moment and then said confidently, "Fifteen."

I quickly did the math in my head. Subtract TWO from she who pauses; subtract nothing from she who says "eighteen."

This soon-to-be-fantasy-come-true was shattered immediately by two words shouted through the dusky campground.

"Sarah! Jeanie!" It had to be dad.

"We'll be back," the blond quipped.

I hopped in the Jeep to go get more beer.

September 25: KOA Kampground
"Ice Station Zebra"

I went to bed just outside Durango, I woke up at "Ice Station Zebra." Jesus, this is COLD. The guy at the office tells me it's only 40 degrees. I shoot him a squinting look of complete disbelief, to let him know that I know he's a liar. Time to hit the lovely KOA kommunity showers. At least it isn't like high school gym class - you don't have to shower next to the fat kid who keeps peeking at your penis.

6:33:22 PM
Boulder, Colorado

The drive to Boulder from the four-corners part of Colorado is a long, jagged one that reminds me of nothing. It is pure beauty; whipping through 11,000-foot mountain passes in the open air of the Jeep. Purple mountain majesty indeed. The views are downright amazing.

Arriving in Boulder, I cruise past the University of Colorado at Boulder. That's the primary purpose of this town -- the students and the college. I'm meeting an old friend of mine here. We were college roommates. There was a day when our drunken debauchery included wanton destruction of other people's personal property and anarchy against the dorm regency. Now he
has a girlfriend and I'm scheduled to meet him at her house.

I park right outside the little white clapboard house with the steep roof (for snow runoff) and make my way in, where the usual pandemonium of a collegiate household greets me. People eating spaghetti (it's cheap), drinking crafted beer (it's a way-of-life, not so cheap), and watching television. Generation X at its best. My buddy Josh shows up shortly after I arrive.

Josh and I and Krista stay up until 1:30 in the morning. We sit on the lanai of Krista's student apartment complex, rambling on about nothing, drinking beer and solving the world's problems. This is what life is all about. That rambunctious look has faded from Josh's eyes. I think he has found someone that gives his life meaning. This makes me happy, too.

September 26
Ft. Collins, Colorado - New Belgium Brewery Company

The creators of "Fat Tire" have finally
been met. This place churns out some of the tastiest, most robust ales I've ever come across. The tour of the brewery was self-guided, so we whipped through that and made our way to the taster- bar.Here we are served six of the current beers, fresh from the tap, in four-ounce glasses. Krista and I are fairly tipsy, thanks to the margaritas at lunch, coupled with this little excursion. The brewery is ready to close for the day, so the workers are trying to shuffle us out.

That's when the buying-spree started. Hats, shirts, sweatshirts and beers-to-go were all on the taster-bar. It was looking like a rather expensive acquisition, when Josh withdrew his credit card, flipped it on the bar and exclaimed, "It's all on me."

September 28
Coors Field - Denver, Colorado

Josh and I are less than a hundred yards from Coors Field, where a man on a street corner is playing some ragtime tunes on his shiny saxophone. Above his head is a cardboard sign taped to a lamppost, which reads: "Thanks to all of you, I have managed to save over $25,000 in the past two years. God Bless you all!"

As we walk past, Josh says, "So why should I give you any more money?" Indeed.

We are here today for the last game of the Rockies fifth season in Denver. This game was nothing but a dinger-fest. A Home Run Derby, by my accounts. There were 22 total runs scored during the game, 13 of which were home runs. The pitchers were just tossing meatballs down the pipe so guys could get some hits. I think this is due to the fact that both Denver and Los Angeles (Dodgers) were eliminated from the playoffs a few games ago.

We are sitting in left field, in an attempt to catch a ball. It appears that 9,000 other people have the same idea. We are standing right behind a fragile old woman in a wheelchair. Basking in the warmth of the sun that showers down through the cloudless sky, we're drinking a couple of NBBC products in large plastic cups that drip with perspiration. As we survey the stands, a distinct knock of a wooden bat is heard down at home plate.

Here she comes. Right at us. We watch for a second, gears churning in our minds. We look at each other, at our beers and back to the stands, to study the obstacles that we are going to have to conquer to get this prized ball. It's going to land ten feet in front of us. We hesitate. It comes down like a meteor and smacks into the stairs. A lanky guy who looks to be about 28 grabs it and smiles wide, while he shows everyone around him his prize.

A bit disappointed, we slowly walk away. There's a calm silence between us. A hint of disbelief is evident in the air. One minute later, I say: "You know, we would've had to knock over the lady in the wheelchair." Without missing a beat, Josh simply replies, "I know."

I think if we had consumed one more beer, just one more, we would've done it. Hell, that was the whole reason we went to left field, to get something besides a ticket stub to remember the game by.

NEXT (Page Two)