I was standing on a bluff in high grass overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Children slid down the steep dunes on burlap sacks marked with logos for old beer. The ride ended at a beach where more children fueled a bonfire with record albums. A group of four approached the bonfire carrying a stretcher on their shoulders. Two girls in the front, two boys in the back. Dad was laying on the stretcher with his hands crossed over his chest. The sun should’ve been setting, but it was high overhead, noon hot. The sky filled with ospreys, thousands of them, so many clumped together, crowing, blotting out the sun. The world went dark. I didn’t see Dad get tossed into the fire.

            The sea hawks flew west to sea. The sun returned. The beach had cleared. The bonfire still crackled.

A boy in overalls and a trucker hat remained. He noticed I was crying and touched my hand and said, “It’s going to be okay.”

            The dream stuck with me after waking up and packing fresh laundry into my suitcase. It lingered through a peanut butter bagel and coffee at a gas stop before that day’s miles began. It finally faded as I crossed into California, only to be replaced by memories of watching Trading Places and The Great Outdoors on the bus, and of Larry laughing so hard at John Candy that he fell off the bottom bunk. And how Laramie and I watched the movies back-to-back because I told her about the time we watched them on the bus, and she said then that’s what we’re going to do. And I said we didn’t have to do that, but she insisted, citing it was a good memory that I should hold onto and relive from time to time. 

            And how my heart warmed then like that bonfire on the beach at the thought of how I hadn’t made up the connection with her, it just wasn’t the right time, like Meredith said in her letter. And how that understanding was enough for now. 

            Focus on the now, eh?

            “You didn’t bolt?”

            I know when you need you, just as much as you know when you need you. 

            Signs for Edgewood, Weed, and Black Butte flew by. I ate hunks of teriyaki jerky out of boredom. I started the “I Spy” alphabet game, starting with an Army sticker on the back of a Ford Bronco. I could’ve cheated and said Bronco, but I wasn’t in a rush. Next came bark on the trees on a hill before an exit with a Sunoco, Wendy’s, and car wash.

            I wondered who would want a car wash before getting on the highway where more bugs would splatter your grill and windshield. It was the equivalent of washing your car in the Georgia spring before yellow pollen covered it again. Then I realized not everyone was on a journey today, or tomorrow, or the next day, and when they finished theirs, they may want to clean the gunk from their car. 

            Where was my car wash located? When would I get there?

            I switched to tunes. 

            Music: Rod Stewart, “The Motown Song.” 

            C was for the cables that hung between wooden poles running alongside the highway. D was for Dunsmuir, 18 miles down the road. According to a quick search, its population was 1,774, up from 1,689 in the 2020 census. The Sacramento River ran through it. 

            E was for Earth, a word I pictured as capitalized while I traversed it. I saw it on a billboard for Keep California Clean. A green and blue globe punctuated the statement. E was also for Earnest Ernest, the end point on this stretch of the trip. I didn’t know what he looked like, or if he’d be the person to guide me to my next stop. I pictured him singing about going down to the land of the delta blues in the middle of the pouring rain. Which would’ve given him long hair and a beard like Marc Cohn, although it could’ve been Cher’s excellent cover. I rambled internally with references that maybe only me, my dad, and Paul understood. 

            A blue sign with a simple question could have been F, “Do you know Big Frank?” But I didn’t know Big Frank, so I didn’t use it. I used fisherman instead, spotted on a different billboard promoting fly fishing. California, like many states, was proud of itself and the many things it offered to citizens and visitors alike. I patted myself on my left shoulder for the use of a double F. And when I passed the sign for Fisher, CA, I openly exclaimed, “Ha!” and thought, “You’re such a dork.” 

            When no comment came from my other shoulder, I said, “Nothing from the peanut gallery?” 

            G was for gas station, where I didn’t need gas, but I did need the bathroom after drinking three bottles of water. It was also for the Georgia Peach license plate I saw on a Tesla exiting towards Shasta Lake. 

            H hit home, a nudge hard in my chest, but burst with light. Belinda Carlisle sang about being mad about you, or me, or whomever she was crooning over while I recognized what the nudge for home meant, and rather than bury it, I set it aside to reflect on later, when the time was right. In the meantime, H was used for the only adjective in this round, a happy St. Bernard with its head stuck out the passenger window of a pick-up truck, its eyes closed and long tongue flapping in the breeze. That was another hug that would’ve made me emotional, because I knew that hoss of a dog gave great hugs. 

            Redding, Cottonwood, Red Bluff, Los Molinos, Corning. All full of people dealing with their own stuff. Perspective, James once told me, or maybe it was Meredith or Dad, or one of those “The More You Know” commercials, is everything. 

            I was for Igloo, as in Igloo cooler, secured in the back of a truck, probably packed full of ice and refreshments. The 4th of July was in three days. Three dudes in the truck head banged to music loud enough to hear through the wind. I flashed them a rock and roll sign and they returned it and wagged their tongues like the St. Bernard. Bonus H for Happy. 

            San Francisco was three hours out and calling like London. 

            J signaled a moment I was in the right place at the right time, for as I turned to J, the radio turned to Van Halen’s “Jump.” I said to anyone who was listening, “I might as well,” and turned it up loud. 

            K took a bit, which was okay by me. I rode the wave, from Van Halen to Mötley Crüe to Bon Jovi, wondering how backstage at arenas with 80s hair bands compared to 90s arenas with Spin Cycle. No one – Dad, Deacon, Paul, Larry – had written a memoir. Deacon stayed behind the scenes. Paul’s podcast focused more on origin stories from other musicians, with his own anecdotes sprinkled in. And, Larry, well Larry opened a restaurant instead. 

Neil Strauss, on the other hand, collected stories from Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars, and Nikki Sixx, and published The Dirt: Confessions of the World’s Most Dangerous Rock Band. 

            No one in Spin Cycle had written anything down, but I’d witnessed the hijinks, and buried the memories. Call them Van Halen-light and I’d give it a thumbs up. Weed, pills, and powder, chased with booze in every variety. Never needles, which was a Deacon creed I had to ask Heather about, of all people. Mini-me after a show in Pittsburgh, everyone hugging and celebrating their first big arena pop. My ears muffled and ringing from three hours of screaming fans. I heard words like underwater echoes. Deacon gave a speech after every show. 

            Even he looked sweaty after Pittsburgh. His shirt was half untucked, his tie loosened,  not by Paul but from dancing. He would tell you a different version of the story, but if he told you he wasn’t grooving on the side of the stage, he’s lying. I’d say go ask him in Denver, but that’s the last thing he wants. You’ll have to take my word for it, and sorry, Deacon, buddy, but you were feeling it that night. 

            So much so that his speech was toasted with a beer, something he rarely partook in. Normally he’d toast with seltzer water or juice. That night he raised his Budweiser. He made eye contact with each member of the band, and me. “It’s been a journey. Like any journey, you reach summits, where the hard work pays off with views of the glorious world around us. Where you’re above the clouds. Tonight is one of those nights. You all rocked out there.”

            There were backslaps and high fives I’m sure, but all I remember is Paul pointing at Dad, and Dad returning the point with the most convincing head nod since Jake says, “Yeah, you” to Samantha at the end of Sixteen Candles. Meredith was there, and Heather, who contained her excitement by clenching and unclenching her fists until her body stopped shaking, which it never fully did, ever. I haven’t seen her since those early tours, but if she’s snapping photos for a living, I imagine life has slowed down for her. 

            “Best show I’ve watched in fifteen years, not since Dylan in Fort Collins in ‘76, or maybe the Boss in Jersey in ‘78. It doesn’t matter. It’s you now. It’s Spin Cycle. It’s Paul, it’s Larry, it’s Brett. You’re it. You rocked it and deserve to enjoy the views. Baltimore tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate.” 

            Larry barked an uncharacteristic howl that made everyone jump. Deacon held his laugh by raising a finger. “Green, white, pills, booze. No needles. Have fun.” 

            My ears were echoing but I’d heard the rest of the speech. Drinks were poured and cracked as the music continued to blare. I tugged on Heather’s skirt. “What’s up, Fendy?” 

            “Why did he say no needles?”

            It’s funny, thinking about that night while driving down Highway 5, and writing it down now, I forgot that Dad watched me ask Heather. He had dropped onto a couch and let out a sigh before slamming a beer, crunching the can, and hook-shotting it into a trash can. I asked Heather in my screechy little voice, full of innocence and ignorance and the power to carry across loud rooms. Dad heard me ask about needles, and I knew because Heather’s lips tightened, her eyes panicked, and she found Dad on the couch. I tracked her vision to Dad, who looked so damn disappointed in himself. But he didn’t get up to handle the situation for her. He sat there, wallowing. Heather turned me towards the other end of the room, where the Nintendo was set up. 

            “None of it is great, but needles are absolutely bad. They’re okay for medicine, but what Deacon’s talking about is bad medicine.” She didn’t know what else to say so she turned the Nintendo on and handed me a controller. “Don’t do drugs, okay?” 

            “Okay.” 

            K was for kindness, in the form of Heather and others like her who try to do their best in uncomfortable positions. I did do drugs in college, and after, and occasionally still, but it’s controlled and casual. Older me with his deeper voice has a grasp on limitations. 

            K was also for kite, a red one, flying over a rest area I didn’t need to stop at but did anyway just in case. 

            L was for limit, as in speed limit 70. Cruise control set at 79. My foot tapped the floorboards to Bowie’s “Modern Love.”

            M was for map, which showed my progress on the display monitor in my car. Three hours and eighteen minutes out from San Francisco. I enjoyed the small victories on road trips, like when the clock ticked under another hour to go. In nineteen minutes I’d say, “Under three hours!” No one would hear but me and James, and I’d dig it far more than I should be admitting. 

            N was for Nevada, on the license plate of a black limousine with tinted windows. Who was in the limo? What shenanigans were they getting up to? Or was it empty, the driver on the way to scoop up a wedding party and shuttle them around from one scenic setting to another, the photographer riding in a separate vehicle so her camera equipment didn’t get broken or soaked in alcohol? I had a thought that it was current day Axl Rose in the limo by himself, feet up on the seats, drinking from a bottle of tequila, bandana conveniently wrapped around his forehead so that when he got too drunk, he could slip it over his eyes and take a nap. 

            O was for odometer, showing 3,810 miles traversed, with how many more to go? 

            P was for the California State Patrol who had a black Maserati pulled over east of Sacramento. I thought of Joe Walsh, and of The Eagles, and how when I was six years old Dad encouraged me to listen to his records. He taught me how to slip them out of the cardboard, how to place them on the turntable, turn it on, and lower the needle. He was touring then, but only for half the year. The rest of his shows were around Detroit. He was doing construction and pouring concrete when he wasn’t playing. Which meant there was time for him to teach me about music. 

Sitting around the one-bedroom apartment, the one with the broken front window sealed over with billowing plastic and duct tape, listening to The Kinks and The Allman Bros. and Iggy Pop and The Band, I learned just as much about Dylan with The Band at The Big Pink in The Basement as I did which free agents the Tigers were targeting that offseason. He trusted me with his records, which was more than I could say about Mom. When he wasn’t around, I listened. One summer day hotter than noon on the 4th of July, I put on “Hotel California” and got so scared I had to stop the record from spinning. I didn’t understand why, only that it haunted me, and I never wanted to be trapped there. When I told Dad later, he laughed, but he also said, “Me neither, Buck. Me neither.”

            Q was hell to find. I drove until Vacaville (“Under an hour to go, Fender!”), ready to give up and pull out my laptop for my chapter that started “Pop Quiz, Hotshot.” Time was running out. I looked at my thigh, my quadriceps, pasty white and twitching from too much sitting. That was too cheap. There were no billboards for Mexican food and quesadillas. Where was the too cute woman with my Quesarito? A necessary encounter on my path to healing. A fun what-if. An exit sign approached, listing restaurants and gas stations. McDonald’s. Burger King. Quiznos. I hollered, “Woo hoo!” because the situation called for it.

            Onto R, and rain, which sprinkled the windshield. A gray sheet of clouds passed overhead, a blip on the radar in an otherwise clear drive. I flicked them away and moved to S. 

            S was stars, a galaxy of them painted on the side of a purple van advertising Jamie’s Cleaning Service. 

            T was time to destination: 38 minutes, coming up on Vallejo and the glorious San Pablo Bay to my right, a sight that showed as a blob of static blue on the monitor but was actually an aqua marvel that made me want to strip naked and dive in. 

            U was for university: San Francisco University. I flashed back to college and how I said I’d never work in a cubicle, how I’d do something creative with my life, and how creativity seeped away when I needed to make money. U was for unemployment, if my company didn’t hear from me soon. That I’m just mentioning the ten missed calls from my boss, and two from my boss’s boss, might be telling.

            V was for vacation, because fuck it, that’s what I was taking, and enjoying, and needed, more than anything. It was for victory, because that’s how I felt, victorious. And for visor, which I needed, flipping it down so I could see through the sun shining over the San Francisco Bay. 

            W was for crystalline waters as I drove I-80W around the bend, to exit 8A, the last Oakland exit. Oakland was five miles south. The Bay Bridge beckoned. W was for warmth and wind. I rolled the windows down and air rushed through the car, flipping my long hair. Palm trees lined the median. 

            X would’ve been as tedious as Q, but I was prepared with a cheat code. I texted Meredith and asked her what the starfighters were called in Star Wars. “You mean, X-wings?” 

            I responded with “BINGO!” and hit send as I drove onto the bridge. 

            Y was for yellow, for the sun, blazing at an afternoon angle over the city of San Francisco beyond the bridge. And for a yellow VW slug bug. I had no one to punch, so I punched myself in the arm to remind myself I was alive. 

            Z was for the San Francisco Zoo, advertised on signs when I entered the city. It was also for zenith, defined as the strongest or most successful period of time.