David's Inferno by David Blistein

immediate upheaval convulsing my system. Naturally I looked forward to this period, for sometimes I felt close to being reasonably sane …
    Earlier today, past Lexington, Kentucky, I repeated, “I feel great” for ten minutes or so and had my first few calm moments of the day. I tried that same mantra an hour or so later. But this time my mind vehemently disagreed. It became like some kind of discordant bluegrass call-and-response.
    March 17, 2006: Morton’s Gap, Kentucky to El Reno, Oklahoma. 768 Miles
. There’s no legitimate reason to drive 768 miles by yourself in a VW Camper. Especially one with a reputation for blown gaskets, leaking fluids, failing fuel pumps, and countless other things that bump, grind, shriek or—worst of all—make no sound at all before stranding you in the middle of nowhere. A place that, perversely, can be very claustrophobic. Still, I keep going.
    Between satellite radio coverage of a murder trial in Vermont of all places (I paid particular attention to how the wife allegedly drugged her husband with Ambien before killing him. Huh, maybe I should give it another try), a very good Michael Chabon resurrection of Sherlock Holmes, and occasional rock and roll—primarily an homage to St. Patrick’s Day from U2, Van Morrison, and Sinead O’Connor—I keep going. Sometimes wondering what I’m doing. Other times wondering why I’m doing it.
    I figure I’ll spend the night close to Oklahoma City; see if I can pick up any illuminating vibes from one of America’s many Ground Zeros of fear.
    Under the circumstances, I’ve been paying a lot of attention to March Madness. Rooted for West Virginia last night, since I’d stayed at home court the night before. I feel like an honorary Mountaineer.
    Turns out there’s also an NCAA
wrestling
tournament going on … and it’s going on in Oklahoma City. Who knew? On my fourth or fifth call looking for a room, the motel guy says unsympathetically, “Hey buddy, there aren’t
any
rooms in Oklahoma City tonight.”
    â€œThe NCAA?” I ask, now in the know.
    â€œThat and the big Farm Show.”
    (I didn’t know about the big Farm Show.)
    You’d think a guy who spent all that time and money buying a used VW camper would, upon learning this, cop to the fact that he’s gotta stay in the back parking lot of some Walmart, open up the pop-top, and huddle in his sleeping bag as the temperature drops into the thirties, stumbling out at 3 A.M . to pee and see stars. Instead I keep driving. And calling motel after motel. Finally, thirty miles past Oklahoma City, this voice says, “You got a bed.” It feels like I’m starring in a Motel 6 ad. After handing over the credit card, signing the form, and returning her cheery smile with a wan one of my own, I go to the room, turn on the TV and start writing. I keep thinking I have to be in some modicum of balance to write. But actually I don’t. I can keep writing just like I keep driving.
    March 18, 2006: El Reno, Oklahoma to Roswell, New Mexico. 468 Miles
. Fifty three years, nine months, and three days after appearing on planet earth, I finally get to meet my people … in a place where humans make parodies of themselves in the process of trying to make parodies of “aliens.”
    I have many deep insights while walking around Roswell:
    Humans make a lot of money off said aliens without paying any royalties—something which could have some pretty interesting unintended consequences.
    It’s perfectly clear who the real aliens are.
    If they are here to possess our brains, they’re in for quite an unpleasant surprise when they get a hold of mine.
    On my way here, I drive past White Sands National Monument where they tested the first atomic bomb. And we’re afraid of
them?
    While driving I continue to listen to Michael Chabon’s
The Final Solution
in which he points out how