“You ever swing over to Darlington for their burgers? Two smashed patties, melted American cheese, toasted bun, onions diced so fine you’d think it was a sauce. Grease runs down your fingers while you admire it.”

Take one guess who’s telling me that. Not Jimbo. Or Lars from Mars. Mad Max would’ve said something similar if he wasn’t taking a load of recycled carpet to Dalton, Georgia, the Carpet Capital of the World. According to Mad Max, they had special machines to deconstruct the carpet into its base form: plastic. You ever want to get out of the rat race, hop in the truck with me. You’ll learn all sorts of cool shit. Keep the juices flowing until the next thing comes along.

“Dude, there are bricks, and there are walls. Which one do you want to be?”

None of the above. It was Michael Carmichael aka Carmichael because what else would you call him? He was a decade and a second senior year older than me. Worked in his old man’s refurbish shop. Stained beer tee shirt and jeans. Face perpetually tan. A scar the length of a toothbrush on his left cheek. 

“I want to be not here,” I said, still unsure what or where that meant. Only that I had to get out. 

We hunched in front of the wooden bench at the Elm Street bus stop. It was near dusk in late spring. The air smelled of rainstorm soil. The sky hadn’t decided to pull the covers yet, leaving a sheet of hazed navy for our viewing pleasure. They tossed in a few early stars for shits and giggles. God, all I wanted was a shit and a giggle in another city. 

“There are other buses for that, ya know,” Carmichael said, more matter of factly than normal. Was that also a sense of defeat in his voice? Or was it sadness?

“Gotta know the what first,” I said, with no idea what I was saying. “Before I go running blindly into the rest of the world.” 

Carmichael tapped some song on the pavement with a long branch he’d found on our walk over from the marina, where we’d been on his dad’s boat nipping a bottle of Captain for old time’s sake. I wrapped my arms to my elbows to warm a shiver. A hush fell over our bubble. 

“We could always swing over to Donovan’s for some pinball. They have that new Empire one with Darth looming over the whole damn machine. Come on, kid. What’s the matter with you?”

I took the branch from him to poke at a Snickers wrapper clinging to the metal feet of the bench. 

“I’m disenfranchised,” I said, incorrectly. 

“Disen-what? You mean illusioned?”

“Franchised.”

“Like McDonald’s?” He sat down then stood up fast like a pogo stick. “Hell, I’ll run down to Louisville corporate and buy you all the damn Kentucky Fried Chickens you want if that means you’ll stop your bitching and moaning and head over to Donovan’s with me. First game’s on me.” 

We abandoned the bench, knowing damn well the bus was late and most likely never coming. Drunk Randy at the wheel guaran-damn-teed that. Carmichael slung his wiry arm around my shoulder, whistling to what might’ve been “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” if he wasn’t such an awful whistler. A broken tune is still a tune.

“Say, man, we’ve got a few blocks here. You ever make a pros and cons list?”