I don’t do much of anything. It’s difficult to type right now. It’s difficult to fight. I’m so sluggish. I just can’t find the point. I don’t have much coming out of me, even though I have lived through some scenarios worth writing about recently. Musette having done so much for me. Because I’ve got talent. That’s what I said. I’ve got an award winningly worthy talent within a world not wanting. A maxed out skill being complimentarilly diffused.

Home state hero surrounded by family and familiar locations. Yet to find a friend. No place to live. No job. The wife locked in. Paperwork on file with 1 dependant. Yours truly. Just trying to talk. Just trying to think correctly. Trying to find a conductive chair. There’s an art registrar with my name on it and my best interests at heart. A little off center within the growing city. I’ll find a place to work, I tell him. It will help so much having a home. Don’t you understand? You have to. Hope for us yet, now here in the homeland. We’ll take your prayers.

He takes our papers. We’re parked in an unregistered lot. In a spot that could be ours coming soon, this next month, hopefully. If all cards come out in our favor. If this is what is truly meant to be.

We’re home, I say, walking past the Coffee Break to the Roasting Co. The girl being there being so cute and nice and friendly and soft. So courteous. Telling me that the dark roast beans are the ones to get. They’re my favorite, she says. The beans coming out like chocolate milk, warm and frothy. Spot on her blonde cheek. Bigger than the one on my forehead. Both of us marked. Each, the other, one of our own. Children of the mountain. Celestial beings.

It’s a shorter meeting than I had been expecting, up on the second floor, having taken my drink black as better to savor the bean. My phone ringing while I’m still updating MiiMoto. Alright, I say, I’ll meet you where I meet you. Towards the Coffee Break and Beyond. Closer to the library. The Coliseum of Knowledge. Homeless hangout. A piss show.

Back on the road to the DMV. We’re going to finish this registration. We’re going to make this car our own. We will claim ownership over it now. Seal the deal with stickers. Affix the sigil with screws. I’m going to need to find that flathead. My dad’s garage. Somewhere that my sister found it rather than me, the boy, showing you just how disconnected I have become from my family.

It’s easy as pie, meeting up with the woman at the DMV. Around and into the point of the mountain, before Coffee Break by just a little. Having her taste my coffee, which is now her coffee, or better shall I say, our coffee because she got out so much sooner than I was expecting. Warm and frothy chocolate milk. Creamed and sugared once she alerted me to her incoming departure. Making sure to mention it on the phone in front of the spotted cheek blondy. Saying to her that I would have taken it black had it not been for my wife whom I’ll be sharing it with.

She was so nice to me. Complimenting me on my gray Jagermeister shirt. Saying that she’d never seen it in gray before. Only green. Keeping her eyes on me longer than you generally find in Brooklyn.

But we’re not in Brooklyn anymore. We’re back in Salt Lake. The valley of kings. Familiar faces encircling. The whole ward on alert. Neighborhood watch. Assault rifle in the black fridge.

Money in the bank.

I’ve got to find a job. I’ve got to get out of this place. I’m working on the purge, but these walls are saturated. I’ve been trying to get my parents to get a Scrub Daddy. We swear by it. It’s just about a thousand times better than a regular sponge. It doesn’t stink. It doesn’t retain water and get moldy. The water runs through its pores. Food passes right through. It’s a German material that can only be produced within a special tube. The company almost ran out because they had filled up all the space in the one and only container in the world capable of making it.

We should have gotten one while we were at Walmart, I say, remembering as we’re stepping out of the car onto the driveway. I was right there at the point of the mountain, near the DMV. Such a quick thing. Take your number and approach the counter.

Here’s our inspection and emissions.

And here are your plates.

A Moab Archway raised from the front. Xion National Park. Goblin Valley. Nutty Putty Caves. Rocking it down round near The Heavy Metal Shop. Probably still soup at the community college. You’re probably going to need a bike there. A couple blocks from the Registrar’s. At a station just one stop outside the free zone.

We might need to buy a pass even though we have a car. And we’re going to want to dip into that special savings account.

You’re going to have to call the accountant, says Mom.

Okay, alright. But don’t give me the number right now. It’s just not a good time for me.

We’ve got to get it done, says Musette.

We will, when the time is right.

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