told him I was going to take a drive in the car and he'd better get in with me, get in the car and direct me to his house or wherever he had his passport, or he'd better have cleared out of my place by the time I got back. He got in the car, sobbed the whole way, glared at me, but took me to his house in St. Paul.
A huge house. Summit Avenue.
I would love to know what percentage of the punk kids you see out on the street are actually wealthy. “I can go be as weird as I want to be because my mom won't let me starve if it really comes down to it.”
No. His name is not Cranberry. His name is Nick Kelly.
He came back to the car, still crying, passport in his hand. I asked to look at it, saw his head in the picture, pre-mohawk, pre-punk, a preppie-looking Cranberry. He tried to tell me that the picture wasn't him and it wasn't his passport, that this passport belonged to the brother of a girl he once “did it” with. God. I'd already purchased a ticket for somebody named Cranberry, who is obviously fictional, and it's a nontransferable ticket, so I have to pay for a new one for Nick Kelly, and . . . I wasn't nice. I called Cranberry names. And I regret that . . . Cranberry is a good kid. His parents divorced when he was little and . . . This trip was, you know, amazing . . . I mean . . . Cranberry just needed to be fearless.
He wasn't fearless, but he faced his fear. He went.
I have a great deal of faith in him now. Yes.
Section ll
Western Europe
Journal Entry,
September 15, 2004
----
You convinced yourself that love is gigantic, that love is everything, is to be pursued without regard for family or responsibility or anything, because it's so huge, so critical for humankind. Because, without it we are mere donkeys humping donkeys to produce another generation of jackasses. Love is huge, you decided. And it cannot be denied. Love is God. That's what you thought.
God loves David more and David loves no one.
And Chelsea. Shit. Love?
What were you thinking?
Day Six:
Transcript 1
----
People are
camping
at the crash site? That's very odd.
What do you think they'll see there?
Lights. You mean, what, streetlights?
They're pilgrims? Like buckle-hat Pilgrims? Are there Indians, too? Thankful feasts of turkey and squash?
I'm kidding. I am . . .
I am not laughing at them, Barry. No. Listen, I—I'm really not laughing. I have no grounds to . . . I just wonder if these people . . . if they were sitting here talking to me . . . would they think
me
capable of . . . I mean, I'm lucky in that I don't die very easily. But that's the only remarkable . . .
They're there for God, not for me. That's why you're here, too. For God.
Thanks. That's nice of you to say. I woke up worried you don't like me.
Because I told you I don't trust you.
How about let's get going? That would make me happy. Let's talk Europe.
Yes. I had the dreams every night at that point. Always. Unrelenting war.
During the days? I thought . . . well, I thought a lot about Dad . . . stuff we did when I was a kid. I also thought about the first time I went to Europe. Nineteen ninety. I was twenty-one.
I wasn't there for very long. Ten days only. Ten days completely upset my sense of self. Molly was the closest thing I had to home, sort of . . . most stable thing when I was a teenager.
I wrote her on the plane, yes.
Letter 19
September 16–17, 2004
Molly (née Fitzpatrick)
Presumably on Some Street
Likely in Chicago, Illinois
----
Dear Molly Fitzpatrick,
Where did you go? Why? Did you leave because you wanted something different than me in a larger sense, e.g., some young Irish guy, or did my actions that day prompt you to go? Good questions, don't you think? Perhaps I should have asked them fourteen years ago.
Well, I wouldn't be writing you, Molly Fitzpatrick (or whatever your married name is if you're married), except there were some signs I couldn't ignore—must've been the god of numbers (picture Charlton Heston) at work.
A huge house. Summit Avenue.
I would love to know what percentage of the punk kids you see out on the street are actually wealthy. “I can go be as weird as I want to be because my mom won't let me starve if it really comes down to it.”
No. His name is not Cranberry. His name is Nick Kelly.
He came back to the car, still crying, passport in his hand. I asked to look at it, saw his head in the picture, pre-mohawk, pre-punk, a preppie-looking Cranberry. He tried to tell me that the picture wasn't him and it wasn't his passport, that this passport belonged to the brother of a girl he once “did it” with. God. I'd already purchased a ticket for somebody named Cranberry, who is obviously fictional, and it's a nontransferable ticket, so I have to pay for a new one for Nick Kelly, and . . . I wasn't nice. I called Cranberry names. And I regret that . . . Cranberry is a good kid. His parents divorced when he was little and . . . This trip was, you know, amazing . . . I mean . . . Cranberry just needed to be fearless.
He wasn't fearless, but he faced his fear. He went.
I have a great deal of faith in him now. Yes.
Section ll
Western Europe
Journal Entry,
September 15, 2004
----
You convinced yourself that love is gigantic, that love is everything, is to be pursued without regard for family or responsibility or anything, because it's so huge, so critical for humankind. Because, without it we are mere donkeys humping donkeys to produce another generation of jackasses. Love is huge, you decided. And it cannot be denied. Love is God. That's what you thought.
God loves David more and David loves no one.
And Chelsea. Shit. Love?
What were you thinking?
Day Six:
Transcript 1
----
People are
camping
at the crash site? That's very odd.
What do you think they'll see there?
Lights. You mean, what, streetlights?
They're pilgrims? Like buckle-hat Pilgrims? Are there Indians, too? Thankful feasts of turkey and squash?
I'm kidding. I am . . .
I am not laughing at them, Barry. No. Listen, I—I'm really not laughing. I have no grounds to . . . I just wonder if these people . . . if they were sitting here talking to me . . . would they think
me
capable of . . . I mean, I'm lucky in that I don't die very easily. But that's the only remarkable . . .
They're there for God, not for me. That's why you're here, too. For God.
Thanks. That's nice of you to say. I woke up worried you don't like me.
Because I told you I don't trust you.
How about let's get going? That would make me happy. Let's talk Europe.
Yes. I had the dreams every night at that point. Always. Unrelenting war.
During the days? I thought . . . well, I thought a lot about Dad . . . stuff we did when I was a kid. I also thought about the first time I went to Europe. Nineteen ninety. I was twenty-one.
I wasn't there for very long. Ten days only. Ten days completely upset my sense of self. Molly was the closest thing I had to home, sort of . . . most stable thing when I was a teenager.
I wrote her on the plane, yes.
Letter 19
September 16–17, 2004
Molly (née Fitzpatrick)
Presumably on Some Street
Likely in Chicago, Illinois
----
Dear Molly Fitzpatrick,
Where did you go? Why? Did you leave because you wanted something different than me in a larger sense, e.g., some young Irish guy, or did my actions that day prompt you to go? Good questions, don't you think? Perhaps I should have asked them fourteen years ago.
Well, I wouldn't be writing you, Molly Fitzpatrick (or whatever your married name is if you're married), except there were some signs I couldn't ignore—must've been the god of numbers (picture Charlton Heston) at work.
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