Miraculously, I'm still alive when I emerge from the chemical cloud. I steer my car to the side of the road, throw open the door, and bail out onto the pavement, dizzy and disoriented. I crawl to the curb choking and spitting, wiping the tears from my inflamed eyes. In a moment of clarity, before my vision once again goes blurry, I see a city park, a manicured grassy hill gently rising into a line of lush, green trees.

I stumble toward a drinking fountain hoping to extinguish the chemical that burns my eyes, nose, and throat. Dipping my face into the running water, I rub away as much of the residue as possible. I raise my head when I hear a dog barking. A teenage boy sails a Frisbee. His dog leaps into the air and clamps the Frisbee in its jaws.

A smile raises my wet cheeks. Still light-headed, I plop down on a park bench and extend my arms across the wooden, slatted back. I close my eyes and slowly inhale, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face, glad to fill my lungs with fresh, uncontaminated air. When I feel a warm stream of liquid dripping from my nostril I wipe my nose. It's blood. I shut my eyes and pinch my nose closed.

I open my eyes when I feel the bench jostled. A cherubic little girl who's probably a little younger than Jilly-bean kneels in the grass at the end of the bench. She uses the bench as a surface for her coloring book. Her bright eyes look up at me.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi."

She returns to her coloring. Her mom calls, "Shannon!"

"What?"

"Come over here!"

"Why?'

"Just get over here."

I glance down at her coloring book and am suddenly transported back to first grade at St. Quadragesimus Catholic school. I remember being reprimanded by Sister Caterina for an innocent coloring error that, in her opinion, was a result of me not paying attention.

For the sake of comparison, she held my Jesus coloring book beside the coloring book of my classmate, Patty and growled, "Do you see? Jesus' robe is red and the Blessed Virgin Mary's robe is blue. Do you see? That's not what you colored."

I remember explaining that blue is a boy's color and pink is a girl's color, which really set her off.

"Jesus' robe is not pink. It's red!"

She confiscated my coloring book, ordered me to say ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Mary's, and to beg God's forgiveness. As she left me sitting red-faced in my seat I heard her mutter, "What's the matter with kids like you?"

#######

Maybe my life would be a whole lot easier if I stopped swimming upstream and floated along with all the other humanoids. So what if Utah is being evacuated for no good reason? Who cares? And maybe Disney World is the happiest place on earth and maybe McDonald's actually makes the most delicious burgers in the universe and maybe it's best if people don't talk to one another. So with that in mind, I do what every normal American does when they need to make a purchase. I shop at Walmart.

7:19. I carry my Walmart bag to my car and get in. Examining myself in the mirror, I discover that my eyes are red and glassy but the good news is that my nose has stopped bleeding. I pull a bottle of Advil from my bag, toss back a few pills and wash them down with a gulp of Coke. Ah, refreshing.

Next, I unwrap a car air freshener shaped like a pine tree and hang it from my battered mirror. I open another and then another.

A man passing by observes my peculiar behavior.

I smile. "Hey, how you doing?"

He looks away. My first reaction is to judge him as a rude person. But then it occurs to me that most people would have the same reaction if a red-eyed, bloody-nosed guy in a wrinkled suit sitting in a car with a busted out window said "hi" to them.

My mission is a simple 3-step process. I need to buy a six-pack of beer, retreat back to my hotel room before dark, and get some sleep. Step one, buy some beer. I put the remaining air fresheners in my briefcase, then I'm off.

#######

It's almost 8 o'clock when I enter a bar. It takes me a moment to adjust my bleary eyes to the cave-like interior. A disco ball hangs from the ceiling, throwing colors across the floor and the walls. Loud dance music plays. A thirty-something guy and girl are the only ones on the dance floor. Erotically, they grind against one another, moving too slowly for the up-tempo music that roars from the speakers.

Two underage giggly girls exit the ladies' room and skirt past me. They obviously don't believe there's such a thing as wearing too much makeup. They clench their phones, which indicates that they've probably just finished a selfie photoshoot. Won't someone please inform the Instagram generation that the least sexy environment in which to shoot hot selfies is in a public bathroom?

I make my way to the bar where a line of customers sits. The bartender places a draught beer before one of his customers then turns to me.

"Tsup?"

"Cold six-pack to go."

"What's your flavor? Bud? Stella? Corona?"

"Whatever you got in cans."

"That's twelve and a quarter."

I pay the man. The next musical selection begins. It's an Earth, Wind and Fire tune with a catchy, throbbing bassline. The infectious beat has me tapping my toe. I look out at the dance floor at the couple who continues to grind away. No other dancers on the floor.

I bob my head to the beat and, before long, I'm swaying back and forth. Soon the music has taken a hold of me. I step out onto the dance floor and let loose, unsuccessfully trying to channel Justin Timberlake. I know that I look every bit the pathetic middle-aged white guy trying to get his groove on, but screw it. I surrender to the music. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the manager approach the bartender.

He points at me and says, "You serve that guy?"

The bartender replies, "Came in for a six-pack."

"Can't sell it to him."

"He's sober as a judge."

"Looks like a bum."

Bum? Ouch!

A few customers at the bar shake their heads at my solo performance. The grinding couple doesn't even acknowledge me.

The manager says, "Get him outta here."

"I admit that's an ugly thing to look at, but he ain't done nothing wrong."

"Get him out."

"It's a dance floor. The man's dancing. Sort of."

"You gonna throw him out, or—"

"Or what?"

The next thing I know, me and the bartender are sitting out on the sidewalk that separates the bar from the parking lot.

"I am so fed up with that "you're either with me or against me crap," he says. "That's just bullshit. Straight up."

I reach into my bag and pull out a beer, crack the top and offer it to him.

"Thanks."

I open a beer for myself. "Sorry if I got you--"

"You ain't got nothin' to be sorry for. Man's got a right to be himself."

He lifts his beer and we toast with a long swig.

He looks me up and down. "You don't look familiar. Passing through on your way to Dancing With the Stars?"

"Just taking a break. Trying to do just like you said. You know, just trying to be myself... if I can remember that guy."

We both watch the trail of lights streaking by on the highway.

I sigh. "There's just so much pressure... Maybe pressure's not the right word."

I take a drink of beer.

"Seems like they want you to get in line with everybody else. Follow the guy in front of you and don't bother questioning where you're all going. Know what I mean?"

He nods. "I feel ya."

"But what I just don't get is why nobody else seems to mind. Like if you're not happy going along with the crowd, then you're some kind of a troublemaker, a radical, a lunatic."

"Well, I mind. Hell, yeah, I mind." He takes a slow drink before he continues. "I lived with my uncle growin' up. Uncle Donk. Don't ask me where that name came from, but it fit him. When me and my sister, Deena, were out of school in the summertime, we constantly pestered Uncle Donk to take us up to the lake. But Uncle Donk always had somethin' important to do. Gotta get these hedges cut. Put a coat of paint on that fence. Wash them awnings. We had one of the nicest places in the neighborhood. The house wasn't much of anything, but that man made it a showplace. We couldn't even play in our own yard. Mess up the grass and bust up them flowers, he'd say."

He shakes his head.

"Always way too busy. Then, back in 02, don't ol' Uncle Donk go and get himself a bad dose of cancer?

He drains his beer and rises.

"He never said it to me and Deena, but we could see it in his eyes. He wished he'da stopped pullin' weeds just one Saturday and taken us up to that lake. But..."

He looks out at the traffic passing by.

"So that's why I'm livin' my life. I take care of the things that need tending to, but they don't own me. I see a chance to enjoy myself, to live a little. Well, those weeds in the yard are safe for another day."

He smiles at me. "Guess I better bounce."

"It's good to meet you. I'm Phil."

"Kellen." We shake hands.

"Really good to meet you, Kellen."

"You too. Gotta catch a bus."

"I'll give you a ride. I got nothing else to do. C'mon. It's a little cold out here."

I start through the parking lot, my bag of beers tucked under my arm. Kellen follows. We cross to the back of the lot where my wreck is parked.

Kellen puts on the brakes. "Seriously?"

"It's a little windy, but it's not that bad." I unlock the door and put the bag of beer inside beside my briefcase.

"You got no windshield but you lock it up. Ain't nobody gonna steal this car."

"Habit, I guess."

"Think I'm good with the bus."

"You sure?"

Kellen nods. He waves then fades into the darkness.