I sat in the kitchen at my Moms house digging olives out of the jar with a spoon. I ate them quietly and listened to the public radio station. It was really just half listening. I was focused on the olives in the jar and dad picking me up. By this time tomorrow I'd be in the British Virgin Islands scribbling like I am now but in my notebook. I sighed as I thought about virgin pure blue water below my feet again. And a wedding. Someone is getting married on the trip. We'll be gone for awhile. I was glad. I walked off to my room and listend to more of "On The Road" audio tape. I laughed at Kerouac's adventures and mischief. When I am that age would I cause chaos in a '49 Hudson and yell "YES!" to everything? Or would I be like Carlo and read sad poetry and call to cool Denver dawns of "wither thou goest now? Sweet Dhrama dolls...." I probably will end up like Carlo.... I'm not meant to be a Dean, or a Sal, or a Mary Lou. Turned on Lou Reed again. I was put on this earth to be a Carlo. For awhile anyway.
- The Typist
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