I’m in a Motel 6, somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, on my way to the West Coast where I intend to finally break free and live. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I was almost asleep, but then a woman on the other side of the wall started moaning and groaning while a man began grunting and muttering, the two of them laboring on and on. So now I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in my underwear watching TV. The room still smells like the turkey sub I ate three hours ago.
Jason, brave and clean and handsome, is battling the seven-headed Hydra, his dark-eyed girlfriend, Medea, looking on, concerned. Jason manages to stab the creature in the heart, causing all the heads to go wheeling around on their long necks rather comically, and I laugh, hear myself laughing alone in a motel room in the middle of the night in the middle of Nebraska, and stop laughing.
The Hydra finally falls on all its faces. Jason grabs the Golden Fleece and with Medea goes running towards the sea where the Argo is anchored. But wait—skeleton warriors come sprouting out of the ground, equipped with swords and shields, Jason clearly wondering: How the hell do you kill skeletons?
Answer: lop off their heads.
Back on the Argo, he kisses Medea passionately. Then they look at one another—gaze at one another—and kiss again, music up.
The End.
I turn it off and go walking around the room, smoking, telling myself this is the right thing for me to be doing, this was a good decision, wise and brave. Colorful adventures lie ahead. Just keep heading westward. Jason himself said it best: There’s no turning back on this voyage.
I jab out my cigarette, get back into bed, close my eyes— and there they go again, her with the groaning, him with the grunting, the bedsprings wheezing away. I want to pound on the wall. I want to get up on my knees, pound on the wall and holler, For God sakes, put something into it!