Florida Everglades, not more than 20 feet from some alligators

In January of 2019 I made an erratic decision to drop everything and go on a solo road trip down the East Coast of the USA, starting in Montclair, New Jersey (the photo is what my car looked like when i finally returned home in the middle of a snow storm). I kept a journal of my adventures, and will now share them in typeface via wattpad and/or reddit. I've changed a few details here and there for the sake of story telling, which makes this a work of fiction, but be assured that it is based in fact, perhaps more then I am willing to admit. As Mark Twain said, "First get your facts straight, then distort them at your leisure."

Outer Banks North Carolina, Approx. 45 minutes before my car got stuck and almost got swallowed into the Atlantic Ocean

I am a writer, striving to make a career out of my words. In the past i have had a couple of short stories, poems, and essays published in both print and online magazines. I am currently seeking representation for a completed novel, but until then have decided to try my hand at telling stories through more open internet mediums.

The adventurers I'm writing about here were an absolutely thrilling experience for me, and I hope that I can convey at least a fraction of those experiences to you, the reader, through these written words.

​

Below is a link to my wattpad, where i'll be publishing these stories bit by bit. Beneath the link is the first piece of writing (which you can also find on the link, but figured i'd put it here as well to be simple). if you read it, i hope you enjoy it, and hope you come back to read more.

​

My car when, nearly a month later, I finally returned to my native state of New Jersey after braving a terrible storm for 24 hours in order to deal with a family emergency. There are many other photos to come.

https://www.wattpad.com/myworks/200115163-southbound

​

"Into the Night"

​

I'm not sure why I went. There wasn't a real reason behind any of it, but the best things have no explanations or means of understanding, so why the hell should this? It wasn't as hard as some people might think. Just pick up your shit, pack the car, and start driving. Granted, I was lucky. I had recently been granted the gift of being suddenly, surprisingly, and indefinitely unemployed from a restaurant who didn't care enough about its employees to tell us the whole joint would be shutting down effective Christmas Eve until exactly one week before that sacred and expensive holiday. So, what else was there to do for a broke bartender who spent all of his time drinking, smoking, typing, writing, and above all, and longing to do something (anything) exciting and worthwhile? I had no family that would notice I was gone. I had no pets since my kitten passed away, rather dramatically, in the beginning of the winter. I had no job, and wouldn't bother looking for one since I had an occupation set to begin in the middle of March. For me, the only way to fill my time in these winter months was to go South, and do things without care or reason. To hell with the snow and cold weather. To hell with the money (or lack thereof). To hell with the people (friends included). To hell with the entire damned Northeast. It was the brisk first week of January, my trusty Subaru Impreza hatchback was loaded up with everything I would need; camping equipment, a tent, clothes, some cooking material, food, blankets, books, and a mountain bike (which I had Frankensteined together from three bikes that had been left in the dumpster) attached to the roof rack. It was time to go. I flipped through a Harley Davidson Rider's Guidebook of the United States and highlighted or circled some parks, monuments, and towns to stop at along the scenic roads I'd be taking (all by recommendation of the good people at Harley Davidson).

If I think about it, maybe the reason for the trip is the same reason for my writing - because I have to. There's not much of a choice in the matter. Sometimes the soul makes a decision so stubbornly that your mind has no choice but to succumb to its desires. If the soul doesn't get what it wants, then it will force the mind into madness. And, most of the time, our bodies are simply along for the ride - a noble steed of the mind and soul, a mighty vessel of meat and bone by which to experience the world around us. That's the way it goes for me, at least. The soul leads (aggressively) and the mind follows, hastily creating a reality the soul can respect and appreciate, while the body just tries to keep everything functioning and happy.

Actually, fuck it. To hell with all of that poetic nonsense. I was a god damn mess. That was the real reason I was going. Because I. Was. A gadtdam. Mess. It wasn't some spiritual, beautiful, soul-searching endeavor in which I planned to find myself by losing myself or whatever bullshit people usually say when they travel. There was no intention of soul enrichment (not to say that didn't occur) or of some sort of third-eye waking enlightenment (if I wanted that I would just drop some acid). The fact was that my mind had been struggling with reality and on the brink of another delusional breakdown. If I didn't do something out of the ordinary, break the routine, get out of town and away from the life that was seeming more and more like a computer simulation, I would go crazy. Not binge drinking crazy. Not stressed out and lashing out at your coworkers crazy. Not walking in the rain in your socks and shorts in the middle of December crazy. That was my normal. My crazy was more like lock-me-up-in-a-sponge-room-and-come-back-in-10-to-20-days crazy. Last time I felt like this, I had grown antennae and become an insect (not in reality, of course; unless you consider the thoughts inside of one's head to be their reality, in which case, it was as real as you are). Somebody reading this might wonder which hallucinogens I was taking when I grew the antenna and morphed into a different creature. Unfortunately, at that time, I wasn't using any (well, hardly any) drugs. My therapist, my girlfriend, and my friends claim that they're bad for me. I didn't do anything except drink, smoke, and occasionally dabble in some recreational substances, but nothing serious. Some of the voices in my head argue that the delusional thoughts of my past were actually caused by the lack of drugs rather than the use of them, because ever since my life shift towards semi-sobriety, I had been miserable. The only thing that kept me in check and under control was my whiskey and my American spirit cigarettes. But even they were starting to lose their charm on me.

I realize that I am making this sound bad, as if the trip was a cry for help, a last-ditch effort to save myself, but that's not quite what it was. It was more like self-maintenance combined with fun. Much like someone hooked on adrenaline feels the need to go for a run or go BASE jumping or whatever, I had to do something out of routine... breaking routine was, in a way, a part of my routine. Anyway, it wasn't all about self-health and avoiding insanity. Don't get it twisted. I've wanted to do a cross country road trip since I was a kid driving go-karts. Something about sleeping at rest stops, taking advice from strangers, and digging through a duffle bag for my last clean shirt and nearly passing out from the scent of my unbathed armpit seemed exciting.

From the moment I pulled out onto the street this morning, still a bit drunk from an outrageous farewell party some friends had thrown for me in Montclair, I felt different. Not just drunk, or hungover, but different. I wasn't driving to a real destination. We are always driving somewhere. To work. To home. To the store. To the rendezvous point with friends or family. We never just drive. But for me, that's what it was. It was a Sunday joy ride that never had to end. There was goal, no finish line, no time constraint. I was just driving for the hell of it, and that made all of the difference. The colors were brighter, the road was smoother, I was connected with my car as I shifted seamlessly between the five gears, the seat more comfortable then it had ever been. I was smiling to myself. I was... happy? Well, probably not happy, just a bit manic. But then again, I'm not sure that I know the difference between the two, so what does it matter which one it is.

While writing this (or at least what was the first draft of what you, the reader, are looking at) I'm sitting in rest stop, letting ink flow to page in my sloppy, loopy, cursive, trying to keep track of all these racing, meandering thoughts in a tiny pocket journal that my girlfriend gave me. I'm hungover (yes, even all these hours later) possibly still a bit drunk (what can I say, I drank a lot last night... I would have written about it but I don't remember most of it) and I'm itching for adventure. I pull out of the lot and head towards my friends' apartment in Westchester PA. On the highway I punch the gas and let the car rage freely like an escaped beast, roaring at over 100mph down the highway to the West, where a low, angry, red sun sits on the horizon waiting for me. It's blindingly bright. As bright as my future. I laugh at myself and my foolish childish optimism, and I let my Subaru fly faster. Faster to the west. Faster to the unknown. To the long, dark, night.