Well, we’re home.

Our trip from Mejico to Maine was a trip, indeed. The intertunnel generation abuses and misuses all sorts of words, never mind plain misspellings. Maybe the worst example I can think of is the word “journey.”

Whenever some douchebro runs his fourteen-line javascript empire into the ground after burning through half a billion in seed money, he writes a poorly composed blogpost about what part of his “journey” this particular bonfire of bills represents. Then it’s time for his vacation journey, and his restaurant journey, and his journey through the court system with his “partner,” who doesn’t seem to care for him as passionately now that his mattress isn’t stuffed with other people’s money.

At any rate, we had a gol-durn, jenn-you-whine, real McCoy of a journey back home, and we were at a low ebb. Awake, more or less, for 36 hours, maybe more. I had occasionally drifted off to sleep, bolt-upright in an airline seat designed to accommodate masochist midgets, not a king-sized man on a real-life journey. These momentary interludes were always immediately interrupted by airline personnel informing me that if I was about to die, I could take several steps to save myself. You know, like hyperventilating into one-half of a Barrel of Monkeys toy container, or strapping myself to my seat cushion and pitching myself headlong into the ocean to die face up instead of face down. Maybe use the playground slide near the front door I couldn’t reach while helpful airport personnel tried to extinguish my charred flesh. But other than that, have a wonderful “journey!” WAKE UP! Do you want a complimentary Sprite?

So we were primed. We were the seven additional dwarves that Grimm didn’t have the ink for: Bleary, Weary, Angry, Hungry, Confused, Cashstrapped, and of course, Buttsore. My wife and I circled our apartment three or four times, like a dog thinking about lying down, and tried to stay awake long enough to get back on some sort of schedule. We made it to later in the day, but finally surrendered to sunset like farmers used to. We slept like Exhibit A and B in an Egyptian wing at the museum. Then he appeared.

A psychotic Savonarola. The current portion of our housing journey is urban, if only just barely. Augusta, Maine couldn’t fill the bleacher seats at Fenway, but it’s the state’s capital, and it has buildings that rub shoulders and sidewalks to spit your gum out on, and other wonders of city life. And of course, one of the charms of any city is a maniac yelling under your window at eleventy-o-clock in the wee hours.

But this guy. He was no run-of-the-mill shouter, a George Thorogood of bums. He was the real deal. This Howlin’ Wolf of hobos let loose an endless string of expletives, concatenated masterfully into a skein of paranoia and generalized disaffection that somehow achieved a kind of sublimity. He was, as the kids say, amazeballs. And tripping balls, no doubt.

See, now don’t misunderstand. He didn’t scream. Screamers can’t last. Their journeys are short. This guy had made volume his special study. He was Garrick, Huey Long, and Pavarotti rolled into one, reaching even the cheap seats in his imaginary balconies, and effortlessly at that. His disturbed, pharmaceutically-enhanced, slipping-synapse, stentorian genius settled over us like a blanket, right though our granite walls, double glazed windows, and insulated curtains.

When you’re in the presence of greatness, you sit up and take notice. We didn’t sit up in bed, exactly, being paralytic with sleep, but my wife did reach over and pat me. She told me later that she wasn’t frightened or angry or anything. She just wanted to make sure she found the usual lump in the bed. She figured I was the only person on Earth who could emit such a long, loud, Homeric, discombobulated, Icelandic Saga of insanity, anger, and expletives. If my side of the coverlet was flat on the mattress, she might have to go outside and collect me.

You know, to continue our journey.

[Update: Many thanks to Bob D for his very generous hit on our Ko-Fi tip jar, and to Gerry for his ongoing generous contributions, and kind words about my scribblings. It’s greatly appreciated]