All I ask is that you don’t trust me. Ready?
Cool. You now understand what this is, and whether or not you play along is entirely up to you, obviously. I won’t know either way, if that helps.
I’ve been here awhile now, so I’ll do my best to remember that you haven’t, and explain as much as possible.
So it’s the Summer of 1982 out here in the Virginia swamps. There’s a thunderstorm on its way, taking its time, lumberous steps of rain and shadow over the dark waters. There’s the obligatory smell of ozone, a drug with the briefest high. The first big bloop of cold water smacks the window. Then a hundred. I smile – I love the rain – and breath in the smell of the road oil it disturbs.
Spring of 1991 at university. The teacher asks us to write a poem about the future. Mine has me living in Seattle with a woman. “Surely she must be there,” I muse.
Summer of 1995 in Yellowstone. The Old Faithful Inn has a smell of trees and old fires. I wind my pocketwatch and tuck it into its respective vest pocket. An old couple smiles at me silently as they wander the gift shop together. A friend walks in and tells me that Jerry Garcia has died; by the next day, half the staff has quit and headed to California for the funeral.