“No, dude. The party’s only two doors down.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. What’s-her-name at Mean Mike’s said it was next door to the radio station.” WUOG is next door to the Teke house. Travis and Ian both had occasion to yell requests out Ian’s window to the D.J. Most of the disc jockeys were cool about the noise. One had even run a mike to the window to interview Ian and Travis because he thought it was so funny.

“I got two guys here that wanna’ make a request real bad, but they’re not bright enough to use the phone,” the D.J. had said out across the airwaves. And Ian and Travis proceeded to yell something in unison—completely incomprehensible to anyone listening to the radio.

That same D.J. had found Travis playing at D.T.’s, and had asked him to do an interview on a local’s only show. Travis had agreed to do it—so long as he could do it from Ian’s window at the Teke house. The D.J. agreed, and several nights later hundreds of people tuned in to Travis yelling answers to serious questions ten yards away from the microphone, using a cardboard megaphone.

“So, tell me Travis, why did you decide to pick up the guitar?”

And then a muffled answer would be hollered out. Walking along Milledge, in front of the radio station, Travis thinks to himself that he should talk that D.J. into doing another show—this time in the same room. It would be good publicity, he thinks. But then, Travis laughs at the word ‘publicity’.

“What?” Ian asks as they stroll across the parking lots.

“It’s just funny—the idea of advertising myself. I can’t ever get over it.”

“I think it’s cool, dude. I wish you’d let me do something bigger than a flyer—a big glossy, poster or t-shirt or something. Flyers are cool and all, man…”

As the two walk up to the house on the other side of the radio station, they can hear the noise of the party in a low lovely rumble that trickles down an ironwork staircase on the outside of the house. “All right,” Travis agrees. “You got it. We’ll do something cool in the fall when the crowds get a little bigger.”

“I wanna’ photograph you on Mary Jane anyway—even if it’s just for posterity.”

From the streets below them, Ian and Travis can be seen as shadowy figures lingering at the top of one of the downtown parking garages. They can see the whole stretch of College Avenue and most of Clayton Street. Standing there with Ian, Travis is fascinated with the migratory patterns of the evening’s thrill seekers. Where are they all coming from? Where are they going? Travis can see himself standing on the sidewalk with everyone, any of them, and laughing at some stupid joke. He watches as the crowds plan who will ride with whom, who knows where they are going, where they can crash afterwards.

“I need to get some pictures from up here,” Ian declares. “I think town used to seem bigger to me because it was also the first time in my life when I had to find everything for myself, you know? No parents with tour maps and binoculars.”

“Well, it’s one thing in my life I’m pretty proud of. I mean, not only do I know every joint in this town, but I know half the people that work in those places. I definitely managed to find my way around.”

“Yeah. You know a lot of people.”

Travis shrugs. “I know who a lot of people are. I don’t know them, though.”

“There’s still a lot of new stuff.”

“Oh yeah. There’s always new stuff. I love it.” Travis turns to face Ian. The top level of the deck is mostly empty, lit by the ambient light of the city. “It’s funny. You and I know that. Doesn’t seem like anybody else does.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m just always thrilled to see shit. I love the way things look in the fall, spring, whatever. Fences, people, trees.” Travis broadly gestures to the city. “All of it.”

“No, I know, dude. Lisa’s always complaining when I stop to shoot stuff—which is funny to me, because she loves the pictures. But she doesn’t understand why I do any of it.”

“It’s life.”

“I know.” Ian watches two young girls walk five stories beneath them, giggling. He can hear the laughter rebounding up the sides of the brick and concrete buildings. “Don’t sweat it, dude. Just be glad you get to see it.”

“It’s not really fun without anybody to share it with.”

“I’d rather be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied.”

Travis turns and leans on the wall.

Reaching into his pocket, Ian takes out his cigarettes and offers one to Travis. Ian takes one for himself, lights it with a bit of flare that makes Travis chuckle. Then, Ian reaches over and lights Travis’s. “Now you’re my bitch,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Travis replies nonchalantly.

“I think I’m a little tipsy.”

“Amen to that,” Travis says, taking a drag. After a moment more, he continues, “I just can’t figure one thing out.”

“What’s that?”

“If I’m so damn content with my life, then how come I’m not content?”

“You’re content. You’re just not happy.”

“See,” Travis replies, “what’s that?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I am so completely content, that I don’t care about anything.”

Ian squints and looks to the clock on the City Hall tower. They are just about even with the clock, and he thinks that the view would make an exceptional photograph—the way the tower is lit. “I can get that way too,” he agrees.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I just wanna’ listen to music or lie around in bed… sometimes… not do anything.” Ian shrugs while Travis leans over the wall and thinks about the fall—not seriously, just curiously. He can feel the air rushing past him. He can feel the impact on his body as it is crushed against the concrete, maybe he’d bounce. It isn’t a feeling he can imagine—his body bouncing like a rubber ball. “When I was a little kid, I used to be really afraid of death—the whole idea of it.” He smiles up at Ian who is looking at him curiously. “Really. It used to scare the shit out of me. I’d lie awake in bed, and just try to think about nothing—what being nothing would be like.”

“You thought about that when you were a kid?”

Travis shrugs and takes a drag off his cigarette, looking out over College Avenue again, the flocks of night monkeys passing by. “I think it might have had something to do with being raised Catholic. There is so much focus on death and the afterlife—like the whole of life is just one big damn fancy parade into the abyss.”

“Everybody thinks about death, dude.”

“Oh I know… I’ve just reached this point where I can see that focusing on death like I have all this time isn’t right. It’s not about death. Death is just there to define what it is to be alive. This is what matters, not what happens after your dead.”

“You know I agree with you there.”

“Death is irrelevant, right?”

“Well…”

Travis widens his eyes a little, almost hopelessly, trying to get Ian to see what he means. “So what now?”

Ian thinks on it for a few minutes, smoking his cigarette casually. “I can’t remember who said it, but somebody said once that the only thing that made being alive bearable is having each other.”

Travis nods thoughtfully and leans back down on the wall again. “Yeah… Maybe that’s what eats at me. This little town, this little group, these parties—this can’t last forever.”

“That’d be boring.”

“I guess.”

“And you’ve got your music wherever you go, dude. Don’t forget that.” Travis shakes his head. “Music’s just opium. The only time it’s worth anything is when I’m playing for everybody else.”

“Well, you can play anywhere. You’ll have friends everywhere you go.”

Travis smiles.

Peering over the wall at a couple more passersby, Ian says, “Just spit on somebody. That’ll make you feel better.”

Travis laughs. “That wouldn’t make me feel any better. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

“No, no, no. It’s: do it to others before they do it to you.”

“If it kept somebody from jumping off a ledge though, I’d let them spit on me.”

“I wouldn’t. Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em jump.”

“Damn right. Who needs ‘em.”

“I mean it, dude. If you went and killed yourself, I’d be pissed off. Don’t expect any weepy tears from me. I’d piss on your grave.” Ian couldn’t quite finish the sentence without laughing.

Looking very touched, Travis nods and replies, “I really appreciate that, man. That’s touching. But nobody asks to be here. Some of us are lucky. Some of us get the shitty end of the stick.” Travis finishes his cigarette. “You ready to go to this party?”

“Let’s do it.”