*

*

Alex leans back on the stained sofa.  The young woman opposite him leans forward.  She is definitely interested.

            “Yeah, I’m into a Kerouac life-style.” Alex nods, giving her his most sexy smile. “You know, keeping a journal, moving around.”

            “You’re a writer?  Gathering material?”  she puts in, somewhat breathless.

 He takes a sip of his coffee, thinks, ‘oh, have I got her.’  He asks, “You live around here?”

            “Not really.  I’m at NYU.  I’m just visiting my parents during the winter break.”

            Alex knows he has to be careful because she might ask to see his work.  He did have a small pocket size notebook, but he lost it somewhere, maybe in the OWS tents.  Like his hat, that fine fedora he was wearing.  He can’t find the hat either.  But this girl, what’s her name?  Deborah.  If he plays it right, he could have a warm place to stay tonight.

            “The thing is, you know, it’s about getting out there and living, not sitting for hours in front of a screen,” Alex says.

            Deborah loses her smile and sits back.

            ‘Uh-oh,’ Alex thinks. ‘She must be a techie.’

            “I’m a comp sci major,” Deborah says, all prickly.

            Alex pulls his iPhone out of his pocket.  “Cool.  Check out this new app.”

            Deborah has to move next to him to see.

            Alex awakens on a couch in a strange room.  He is enmeshed in a dream in which a man who might have been Jack Kerouac took a huge knife and plunged it into Alex’s skull.  The Kerouac type was telling Alex to forget his dreams.  Alex touches the spot on his head above his left ear and the Kerouac dream is erased from his memory.

            The room is a spare storage room in the house that belongs to Deborah’s parents.  Alex didn’t hit the jackpot, but he did win a bed for the night.  Plus the parents are kind of old hippie types who went to college here and never left.  The house is outside of town, with no cell phone reception.  Alex thinks he’ll maybe write a road book. 

            Deborah drops Alex back in town.  He’s feeling good after coffee and a shower.  He is out of smokes again, so he calls Gram on his iPhone.

            “Hi, Gram.  I’m fine, but I’m a little hungry.”  That’s all he has to say.  She meets him at the diner.

            Gram is really his father’s stepmother, but she’s as good as a real one.  Alex sees her sitting in a booth by a window.  He slides onto the bench.  She looks him over.

            “You’re looking a lot cleaner than the last time I saw you,” she says.

            “Yep.  I got a shower this morning.”

            “Where did you sleep last night?” Gram asks. “You weren’t at the park.”

            “I slept at my friend’s house.”         

            “What friend is this?”

            “Uh—I can’t tell you the name,” Alex says.

            He orders a big breakfast: two eggs, sausage, and hash browns with toast.

            “Alex, you’ve been here for three weeks.  As far as I can tell, you’ve just been hanging out and couch-surfing.  Did you make any job applications?”

            “Yeah, well, I talked to my friend Marty, and he said he could hook me up with some guys at the computer depot.”

            “And?”

            “I’m going to call him today.  He’s been out of town.”

            Gram has those lines between her eyebrows.  “Alex, this is not part of our agreement.  You said you were going to fill out applications at some places in town.”

            “God, Gram, I’m going to, OK?”

            “But not wearing that outfit,” Gram says.  Her mouth is sewed up tight.  “And by the way, when was the last time you changed your clothes?”

            Alex throws down his fork.  “I can’t have this conversation right now.”  He picks up his coat.  “Can I have a few bucks?”

            “I told you last time that I’ll buy you things you need, but I’m not handing you cash,” Gram says.

            Alex shoves his arms into his coat.  “You and Dad, you stole four years of my life,” he says.  He picks up the four halves of toast and wraps them in a napkin.

            “Alex, you wouldn’t have been admitted if you had been healthy,” she says, but the words land on Alex’s back.

            He strides down the street in angry boots, looking for someone who will bum him a cigarette.  He really needs a smoke.

            There’s Jack Kerouac coming out of the music store.  He stops to light a cigarette.

            “Hey, Jack!”  Alex says.  “Can I bum a smoke?”

            The man looks at Alex, eyebrows up.  “Sorry, bud.  My name’s not Jack.  But you can have this one.”  He hands the lit cigarette to Alex.            

“Thanks, man.”  Alex takes a long drag off the Marlboro.