Epilogue: Look Homeward, Crusty Angel
Really? Another goddamn picture of that fucking van? Can’t we let it go now, people, and put this tour behind us??
Readers have been writing in, demanding an ending to this twisted tale. Also, quite a few people have doubted this journey actually happened, and claim to have seen me and Kimm sitting at Alex’s Bar during Phil Shane’s set while we were supposedly in Germany.
Oh, it happened, alright.
We brought home this tour in the small, yet stubborn ways that can change a man forever. Just yesterday I tried to order a Donner Kebap at Nick’s Deli. Anthony no longer says things like chinga or tu madre, only muttering things like Vixer or Schiesser to himself. Kelli still has a cool Harry Potter-like dent on her forehead from sleeping on the edge of an anvil case.
Alf? Strangely enough, he watches professional tennis now!
The images of the past couple weeks have been burned into the sub conscious. This is what I see when I close my eyes at night, desperate for the comforting escape of sleep:
Gaaaa! Do you see? Now you shall have them too! Don’t blame me when you wake up, fists swinging, cussing in German and demanding that the hostel return your passport!
Kimm and Kelli decided to spend one last day in Camden town. I think they were hoping to casually run into Amy Winehouse, see if she had any tips for a smart cocktail in town.
Anthony and Alf actually had the first flight out of London, but that flight was cancelled. After spending the night at the swanky Sofitel at Heathrow Terminal 5, the next flight was cancelled. Eventually they got back to the United States–if you can call Philadelphia a part of the USA!
It is Saturday as I write this, and I have lost track of them as they bounce their way from hub airport to hub airport, addicted now to food vouchers and liquor served in wee bottles.
For all I know, they are circling over our heads now, men without countries, untethered to the brotherhood of humanity and living beyond the earthly bounds that hold us mortals to job and family!
And me? Nothing to tell, really. I distanced myself from this bunch and discreetly hopped the express to Heathrow Monday morning. Spent the last of my pounds and euros on conveyor belt sushi and Japanese beer, and braced myself for the final leg of this trip.
Onto Virgin Atlantic#VS023, non stop to Los Angeles, seat 36C on the aisle, mimosa in hand and noise cancelling headphones at the ready.
We took off on time and reached cruising altitude, a short ten hours til LAX and the promise of Carnitas and American League baseball.
And as the midget in seat 35C reclined fully back, audibly crushing my patella and the last of its tendon, I laughed–laughed! Hysterical, maniacal laughter that did not relent until the plane cleared Dover and held for a moment above the sparkling Atlantic, that much closer to home. M