Novel

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafes are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.
-- Arthur Rimbaud

Well, I had my bag packed. Clothes? Where I was going I wouldn't need clothes. No, just some basic personal belongings. A few pictures that I have left of my family. Some old letters that I have from various x-girlfriends, my favorite being the one where I dumped this girl in grade 12, and she responded with a 2 page letter constantly referring to my cock as, "down there." I packed my prized 78 Playboy, some extra copies of my ID stored in a Harley Davidson biker wallet that I keep in my closet as a backup. I lose my wallet constantly. It's always returned. I packed some special books, and some toiletries to keep me fresh on my travels, pressed it all neatly into my vintage leather suitcase with the broken zipper and the remnants of a peeled off AC/DC sticker. Then I set the half empty bag on the floor by the phone, poured myself a glass of wine, and waited for Leroy to call.

I had everything I needed. I didn't need anything. Not anymore. Because I was so fucking certain that when Leroy called he would be telling me that one of the three lottery tickets I had bought earlier in the day with Leroy and Remington, was a winner, and that I was rich. Which would prompt me to leisurely finish my wine, walk out the door, book myself into a hotel, wait for my cash to come in, and fly out of this place for a little extended R+R.

Leroy called at 10:12pm. By 10:30pm, I had finished the whole bottle of wine, had my bag unpacked and put back into the closet. Then I lay face down in bed for an hour, until I could bring myself to write this, to tell you, that I am going nowhere.