Travis just sits and stares as the dream lingers his head—painted horses on a circular journey. He’s not ready to go, but he’s not ready not to go either. The indecision is a lack of melody. It is a song inside his singer head that demands recognition, but guilt keeps it from coming out. Still, decision seems a necessary inconvenience, and judging from some completely arbitrary internal clock (or just guessing really) Travis figures it to be three-thirty in the morning. At this point he is running on pure, unadulterated stupidity, and he stares blankly at John who has begun to ponder his gut, sitting on the couch. “I think I gained weight while I was sleeping,” remarks John.

“Only you could manage that.”

John pretends not to hear Travis as he sticks his stomach out, stretching it into a sphere, stroking it lovingly. Looking at Travis after a moment, he smiles brightly. “It’s so beautiful,” he says, sounding truly awed.

Travis just stares in a three-thirty-in-the-morning way.

“Touch it.” John rubs his hands across his middle seductively.

“No.”

Menacingly, “Come over here and touch it.”

“Burn in hell. Let’s go,” Travis says, though not impatiently. He doesn’t care enough about anything at that moment to be at all impatient.

“Not until you touch it.” John grins like a panting cat.

Travis stands up, steps to the front door, opens it, steps out and shuts it with a thump. The early morning air is wet and cool, but still evidence, even at night, that it is June. There is no escaping the feeling of a Georgia summer night. The air was dropping in temperature from a ridiculously high degree, lingering absentmindedly around seventy-eight or so because it had nothing better to do—the boredom of humidity. It isn’t sticky like it is during the day, just soft and wet—a damp blanket, protection from the fire. Travis stands watching all the silent parked cars in front of the apartments and thinks about all the people sleeping—trying to imagine his neighbors’ faces as they lay comfortably in their beds. They will be getting up to begin their days as he goes to bed at last, too exhausted to dream anymore. The front door opens behind him and John steps out, turning to lock the bolt.

“Maybe I should leave it open for Nick.”

Travis looks confused for a moment, turning to face John. “He lives here. He’s got a key.”

“But what if he lost it?”

Still confused, Travis gives no reply.

“It’ll be easier for him to get in anyway.”

“It’ll be easier for a burglar to get in, too.”

John shrugs, “So?” implying that they had nothing for anyone to steal—which wasn’t entirely true. They had their equipment, guitars, amplifiers, effects pedals and such. They just feigned being Brahm’s poor musicians for the sake of talent that might come through proximity to legend as though they might jinx their musical progress by admitting or having comfort. But then, Travis knew John was arguing for the sake of arguing—just kidding around—and John locks the door as Travis meanders off toward the Thunderchicken.

Read the whole thread: Carousel Cowboy