Scranton

    Once we get over the bridge, it's all Interstate 80 and smooth, Eisenhower driving. Sean, of course, is in the back of the van practicing his newest hobby - co-ed naked fantasizying. And if I dare to be honest, I'd have to admit we're all giving it a try - though, perhaps not with the same degree of intensity that Sean brings to the sport. Then we get awakened from our reveries by a clanking sound underneath the motor. Nothing falls off the van, but we imediately begin smelling the stench of exhaust fumes all through the van. We try opening up all the windows but it's no use. The engine is pouring carbon monoxide directly into the passenger area. And there's no way we can keep going unless it gets fixed. So we head north to the nearest city and pull off the highway in a town called Scranton. And yeah, there really is a town in America called Scranton. And trust me, you didn't need to know about it. In fact, we end up driving around a while with the fumes just to see if the place is worth stopping in. Because Scranton is like broken down America. The skies are all gray and dank and old women shuffle around town in their night gowns. There are no young people around and I can't figure out why. We drive past an old man with a walkman on. He's singing to himself in baby talk. The whole place is churches and soup kitchens and scruffy skinny whinos with Harley Davidson bandanas and big eyes. Lookin' hungry. Lookin' scared. The main business district is all boarded up and closed. I can't even buy a newspaper. I walk in to the Post Office to buy stamps and ask the woman at the counter why everything is so depressing.

    "Well, the whole town's been closed since the mall opened," she says. 

    What?

    It takes us over two hours to find a mechanic who is open for business on a Monday afternoon in August. And this guy wants two hundred dollars just to look at the van.

    "Man, it just needs an exhaust clamp," Dave says. "I'd do it myself if I had a lift."

    But no, the guy wants two hundred bucks. So we give him everything we have and wait all afternoon for him to get to us. And I need to find a bathroom.

    "Can't use ours," says the mechanic. Fuck. So I go off into town to find a restroom. And, of course, nothing is open. Even the Post Office has closed for the day. Finally, I find a St. Francis of Assisi Soup Kitchen and walk in. Inside by the restroom door there is a long line of old men huffing and grunting and pulling on their wastes and crotches and licking their lips. I wait my turn and go inside the stall. But right away a guy starts banging on the door and yelling, "Come on, man. I gotta go somethin' bad. Can you hurry it up or what?"

    "In a minute," I yell. And the guy starts kicking the door and shouting, "Open the goddamned door! I gotta go!" And then I hear silence. When I get out of the stall, the men on line point and say, "The big angry guy went into the Ladie's Room." Great. So I bolt out of there before he gets out of the Ladie's Room to kick my ass.