One summer, a friend of mine and I decided to drive from the Northeastern United States to Mexico. We had only a small amount of money—a couple of hundred dollars between us—and no bank checks or credit cards. My friend brought his car—actually his parents’ car—which was about twelve years old. We were going to take turns driving, and we planned to spend the nights in a pup tent.
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The mysterious immensity of the infinite was numinous. Elements were pure. No existence there. Everything was spiritual.
All his little friends lay on a large bed –worn out by their daily plays. Awake, Nigel lost himself in the labyrinth of silence as he thought of fate.
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Friday afternoon, Gabe drank; Friday evening, Gabe passed out.  Friday night, passed-out became asleep; Saturday morning, sleep gave way to his recurring dream.  He was in his car, Sarah was next to him.  He fumbled with his keys, he dropped them.  The alcohol blurred his movements, he retrieved the key and slid it into the ignition.  The car rumbled to life and they pulled forward out of the driveway into the path of the truck with its breaks out.  This time though, just when it was supposed to come careening into the passenger side and crush his wife and his car and ruin his life, a dog started barking and the whole scene was chased away and replaced by blackness.
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She was already forty-four and what meaning, if any, was there to her existence?  What good had she done for anyone, for even one person?   Well, there was that time in high school when she read stories to people in the nursing home.  Other than that, zilch.  Long divorced, she lived alone in an apartment and seemed to herself to amount to little.  No one needed her.
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The chief of police is shouting something at me in Turkish.  It’s two AM and behind him, a middle-aged prostitute in a pink tank top is trying to bully a deputy into giving her a ride somewhere.  She looks like a bar fly from one of the country music clubs back home.  Anatolian folk songs blast from the television.
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