The second time Travis wakes up, the light of the day has faded, along with much of his physical misery. Ian is standing over him smiling, the dervish nature returned from rest.

“Here,” he says, handing Travis a shot, as Travis sits up and re-ignites the pounding in his head, although it has been lessened substantially by four more hours of unconsciousness. Looking at the shot for a moment, Travis sniffs it, detecting a hint of something like peppermint schnapps or Jägermeister or both. Thinking about it for a moment, Travis rationalizes that the minty flavor will be something like brushing his teeth; and God knew whatever it tasted like, it was better than the current putrid occupant. He swings his head back and lets the thick sugary fluid wash down his throat, taking with it most of the dryness as the glands in his mouth attempt to put out the fire wrought by the shot.

Ian hands Travis a glass of water and two Aspirin. “Thanks, man,” Travis says before drinking the water.

“Whatever the hell was in that Jungle Juice was beating me up when I got up, too.”

“What the hell happened?” Travis asks.

“You passed out.” Ian laughs as he moves around the room picking up trash. “We all hooked up with Jackson and went out to the back house. You guys smoked a bowl and then you were gone.”

“I remember that,” Travis says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We were all standing outside for while—you hadn’t said anything—you and Nick. And then you mumbled somethin’ like, ‘I got ‘g fo’ m’self pl’s’ and wandered off.” Ian imitates Travis, stumbling around the room with his arms limp at his side, bumping into furniture.

“And never the twain shall mix,” Travis responds. “I’m tellin’ ya’, if I’m drunk, I cannot smoke weed. It just fucks me up. I get sucked into Travisworld, and there’s no gettin’ out.”

“I know, dude,” Ian says, still chuckling. “I’m the same way. It’s one or the other—never both.”

“It’s stupid anyway. It’s not like I can enjoy the experience once I’m at that point.”

“I guess you got here all right. You were passed out on the couch when I came back. I even tried to get you to go up in one of the beds, but I couldn’t wake you up.”

Travis laughs and nods. “What’s your deal? You got a bed.”

Ian just shrugs. “I usually just put on a movie and end up falling asleep.”

“What happened to Nick and John?”

“Nick was as gone as you were, but he wanted to go home, so John took him.”

Travis stretches his forehead up, raising his eyebrows as far as they would go, to relax.

“You all right?”

“Oh yeah,” Travis replies. “I’m fine now.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “That shot actually helped, I think.”

“It’s liquid cocaine.”

“What?” Travis asks.

“I learned how to make it out in Spain. It’s got schnapps, Jäger, 141. It just gets you going—lot of sugar—and I guess the liquor helps with the hangover too.”

“Hair o’ the dog.”

“You wanna’ get some food?” Ian asks.

“That sounds good right about now. Let’s call Nick and John.”

Ian tosses Travis the portable. “I’ll be right back,” he says and leaves the room with a bag of garbage.

Dialing the number, Travis sits on the couch, observing the wreckage. “Geez,” he mumbles to himself with a sigh as the phone rings a second time.

“Hello,” comes a very gruff voice over the line.

“Hey, it’s Travis.”

The voice on the other end of the line moans loudly and the party hangs up. Travis laughs and hits redial.

The other party answers again. “Go away.” It’s Nick.

“C’mon, get your shit together and let’s go get breakfast.”

Nick just moans again.

“C’mon,” Travis says. “Bluebird.” Travis drags Nick’s favorite entree’s name out seductively,

“Germaaan aaapple paaancaaakes.”

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. “Mm. That does sound good.”

“We’ll have a big ol’ breakfast, and a nice little quesadilla,” Travis says, laughing. Quesadilla had been a running joke between them since Mardi Gras the year before.

“It’s siesta, you moron.”

“So, you’re coming?” Travis asks, picking up a bottle of Wite-out from off the coffee table.

“Yeah, yeah—keep your pants on. How ’bout if you give me thirty minutes or so to get showered. I feel like ass.”

“No problem—we’ll meet you guys there,” Travis says, tossing and catching the Wite-out absentmindedly.

“Right—oh wait.” There is some movement and no sound for a second, and then, “Some guy called for you this morning—said you would really want to call him back at 5-4-3-6-7-7-9. He woke me up.”

“Terribly sorry. People calling for me at two in the afternoon should know better than to do that,” Travis responds sarcastically as he scrounges over the coffee table for something to write on. Setting the Wite-out down, he picks up a pen and an index card. The Spanish word “mano” was written on one side, “hand” written on the other.

“Yeah! He should! And you tell him I’ll kick his ass if he does it again.”

“Tell me that number again,” Travis says.

“Uh… 5-4-3-6-7-7-9. David Spindler was the guy’s name.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“And you te’ him I’m comin’,” Nick warns through foam, brushing his teeth.

“Bla bla bla. Just get dressed and meet us at Bluebird.”

Nick mumbles something like, “Moky,” and hangs up.

Travis hangs up the phone and picks up the index card. Thinking about the name for a second, he dials the number as Ian walks back into the room. Ian gives a perplexed look. Holding his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment, Travis says, “They’re gonna’ meet us there in thirty minutes—give or take.”

Nodding, Ian starts picking up more trash.

“Uh, Yes,” Travis says into the phone, “I got a call from this number. I’m looking for David Spindler.” Ian sits down on the opposite couch and gets out his cigarettes. Travis waves and put two fingers to his mouth. Ian tosses him one. “Yes, that’s right.” Ian lights his own cigarette, then leans out over the coffee table with the lighter and Travis leans to get a light. “Really? No, that’s not too short a notice,” as Ian mouths the words, Now you’re my bitch. They both take drags off the cigarettes, making a cloud that filters the sunlight pouring into the room. “All right, I’ll come by then.” Travis looks at Ian, who is waiting to hear what the deal is, and raises his eyebrows. “Thanks a lot. Bye.”

“So?” Ian asks, getting up to turn the stereo on.

“So, somebody left a spot open next Friday night at Washington Street Tavern—the guy got my name from his bartender—said he saw my last show at DT’s.”

“Very cool.”

“Somethin’ to do,” Travis agrees.

“Think they’ll pay you much?”

“I don’t know. That’s why he wanted me to come down. I imagine he’ll say somethin’ like, because I’m not a normal Friday act, they can’t pay me the same.”

Ian nods.

“It’ll probably be fifty bucks plus percent of cover.”

“That’s not bad.”

“No, it’s not—drinkin’ money.” Travis agrees.

“We’ll just have to get everyone we know to go to the show.”

“That’ll be six bucks right there!”

Ian laughs. “I think we can do better than that.”

“I got a better idea: how ’bout if I don’t play and you and everybody just give me the money.”

“What would we be paying you for?”

“The privilege of being my friend.”

Ian sniffs. “I wouldn’t pay to be your friend.”

“I’d pay you,” Travis says defensively.

“Yeah, right.”

“Well,” Travis concedes, sitting back, “not a lot.”

Ian laughs.

“Here ya’ go, sonny,” Travis says, making his voice shake like an old man’s. “Here’s a nice shiny quarter.”

Ian just laughs again.

“Why, in my day,” Travis continues, keeping up the act, “A quarter would buy you a whole bunch friends. ‘Course, after the war, you could only get dead ones.”

“I don’t know about paying to get friends,” Ian says, stretching out on the couch, but I’d pay a shitload to make some people go away.”

“Who?” Travis asks, surprised and wondering at Ian’s unusual animosity.

“No one around here, I guess.”

“Me neither. Actually, I don’t suppose there’s anybody at all.” Travis thinks about it. “Hell, if I had enough money to do that, I’d probably rather spend it on my friends.”

“That’d be great. Walk into a bar, slam a fifty down and buy everybody drinks.”

“Yeah, like, if I won the lottery, I don’t think I’d tell anyone. I’d just surprise people with shit and not explain it—I’d be real clandestine about it.”

“I’d buy myself some shit.”

“Sure, sure. I’d do that too.”

“We could do some real criminal damage with a nice scanner, a twenty-inch monitor, software out the ass…”

“You know, that’s my favorite part of Christmas: giving presents. I don’t really care if I get anything—I really don’t.” Travis takes a drag off his cigarette, puts it out and pictures a scene in his head. “I love to see the expression on someone else’s face when they open a present and you got them something they really wanted—or even better, something they didn’t know they wanted.”

“You want another?” Ian says, sitting up, offering Travis a cigarette.

“You see?” Travis asks. “That’s why you’re my friend. I didn’t even realize I wanted a cigarette until you asked me.” Travis starts getting weepy after taking the cigarette and picks up a pack of matches off the coffee table. “You’re my best friend,” he blubbers. Somewhere behind the joke, Travis does feel a sense of despair, but just doesn’t understand its source.

Ian takes a drag off his cigarette and looks around the room. “I like that,” he agrees. “It is pretty cool when you get somebody something they really wanted.”

“That’s what I miss about Meryl.”

“What’s that?”

“The little shit we’d do for each other. Like, she’d leave me these notes everywhere—everywhere. I’d come back to Mary Jane after class, and there’d be a little note jammed in the seat cushions—Meryl tellin’ me she was happy or it was a beautiful day or that she loved me or somethin’. And I’d write her poems. Hell, she’s one of the only girls I ever went out with that took my poems seriously.”

“Really? That seems odd.”

“Why?”

“I thought women totally dug that shit,” Ian says, quietly observing his room. It occurs to him that he doesn’t have any pictures of Lisa anywhere.

“You know, I don’t get it either. They all act like that’s what they want, but the minute you try to get romantic, they laugh at you or get weird.”

“Eh. You’ll find somebody else like that.”

“I imagine I will.”

“I should get you to write poetry for Lisa in the meantime.”

“a la Cyrano de Bergerac?”

“Yeah. I can’t write poetry—not seriously anyway.”

“I prefer to write songs. That really embarrasses ’em.”

“You ever serenaded anyone?”

“Yeah,” Travis says shortly.

“Didn’t go over well?”

“No.”

Ian leans forward. Travis was rarely short on words, and when he was, you could bet there was something worth digging for. “What happened?” Ian prods.

“I don’t know, dude,” Travis shakes his head. “She just wouldn’t stop laughing. It was annoying as fuck.”

“She was probably just nervous.”

“Yeah, but why would you be nervous? I understand that you might laugh a little, from the surprise—but I mean… we’re talking hysterics.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. It was freakish.”

“She was laughing at you?”

“She was cackling, dude. I couldn’t even finish the fucking song.”

“Okay,” Ian agrees, leaning back in his seat, “That, actually, would be a bit much to take.” He leans forward again, “Did you dump her?”

Travis scratches his head. Part of his peachfuzz was flattened the wrong way and it hurt to scratch it; except that the hurt was a good kind, that Travis liked—like poking your tongue around a sore in your mouth—he really couldn’t help but do it. “Not right away.” Travis keeps scratching his head, as Ian thinks about the photograph issue. “You know what, though?”

“What?”

“The older I get, the less of those romantic people I find. They’re either young and romantic but annoyingly naive, or old and cynical. It doesn’t seem like there’s anyone that’s old and romantic.”

“Are you?”

“I used to be. I don’t know. After Meryl and I broke up…”

“Ah,” Ian dismisses Travis’s pessimism. “Hang in there.”

“Nah.”

“No?”

“I’m through lookin’… for a while.” Leaning over, Travis picks up Ian’s roomate’s guitar and begin fiddling with it. “It’s just gonna’ be me, a gee-tar and Mary Jane.”

“Vaquero,” Ian says approvingly.

“Yee-doggy.”

“Well,” Ian offers, “You always got us.”

“Shit. You know how miserable life would be without you guys?” Travis says, strumming a few chords to a new song. Playing a pale imitation of Los Lobos, “I am pathetic / my friends are pedantic / what a merry band we make.”

Ian laughs and waves his hand.

“Just think about having no one to hang out with except Lisa.”

“No!” Ian says. He puts his hands to his face and looks like a horror movie victim, “The estrogen…. the estrogen… can’t… take… it.”

Travis starts shaking like he is going into shock. “The sensitivity… overwhelming. Must think… crass… thoughts.”

“You know I love her to death, but sometimes, I just wish the girl would relax.”

“I know.”

They both sit for a moment, Ian just nodding to himself.

“You know,” Travis offers. “We can go ahead and go. They won’t care if we go ahead and get some coffee and a table.”

“Ye-ah,” Ian says, mid-yawn. “Yeah. Let’s go ahead and go.”

They both get up. Travis sets Bubble Boy’s guitar down back next to the couch in its rack. Ian stops and looks at it for a second, then picks it up and moves it to the other side of the room without saying anything.

“What’d’ya do that for?” Travis asks.

Shrugging Ian just replies, “He hates it when I move his shit around.”

Travis laughs, turns the stereo off, and they walk out the door, Ian closing it behind them.

“That’s really cool about you getting a gig for Friday,” Ian says as they head down the creaky front stairs.

“I’m a little worried about it, to be honest.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, for starters, I haven’t practiced jack-shit in a week.”

“You sounded fine just then, dude.”

“You see, that’s the thing. It’s not like anyone else can tell the difference. I can tell the difference though. And it bugs me.”

“You know,” Ian offers, “it’s the same thing with the camera. I just know when it feels right and when it doesn’t. Course, I can Photoshop my shit—it’s not live.”

The two walk out of the Teke house into the parking lot over toward Ian’s car, a small, read Volkswagon Jetta with a bike rack and sun roof. Ian gets in first and moves a backpack, some papers and CD cases out of the passenger seat into the back. “I gotta’ clean this thing,” he mumbles as he moves his stuff around.

“God,” Travis says with false exasperation. “You’re such a slob.”

They drive downtown in a lumbering silence, Travis watching all the people who had been awake since the morning and wonders what it was like to live a “normal” life—a life where you ate your cereal, kissed your wife goodbye, and listened to the morning radio shows while stuck in rush hour traffic—when a day in summer was just another day. There were a lot of joggers on Milledge—mostly girls from the sororities, patiently maintaining the images they were brought up to be. Travis rolls down the windows to let a wind into the car. It had been sitting in the sun most of the day; and all of the interior was painfully hot to the touch. In the silence of the ride, with Sheryl Crow on the radio, Travis chews on his bottom lip and mounts a simple brown horse in his head. Are you coming back? one of the sorority joggers asks him, dressed in the heavy clothes of a farmer’s daughter. She looks up at him kindly, with a gentle love in her eyes, shaded by her bonnet. He’d known that love before, but looking off into the distance, somewhere in his heart he knows it is a love that will not keep him. Adjusting himself in the saddle, Travis just quietly says, I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do, darlin’. She weeps, a single tear that runs down her pale white cheek and on… past the bicycle shop. “Where are you going?” Travis asks suddenly, sitting up in his seat. Looking around, Ian looks disoriented for a moment and then sighs. He’d driven all the way down Hancock, completely missing the turn to Bluebird Café. “Sorry, dude. I’m just out. Of. It.”

“I hear ya’,” Travis says.

“God!” Ian declares, “I just feel stupid.”

“Stoopid,” Travis adds.

Ian opens his eyes wide and shakes his head, making a right onto Dougherty to correct the navigational error. Slapping his cheek with his right hand, Ian chides himself, “Wake up, damn it.”

Travis just shrugs. “We’ll get there all the same, Pirata.”

Read the whole thread: Unthreaded

Characters and Places: Athens, Ian Fleming, TKE House, Travis Fleeting