by Francois Riviere

It was 6:00 and my stomach was ready to turn upside down as my driving companion cut through two lanes in order to make an exit, completely oblivious to the four car pile up he just caused. We were halfway to Iowa City, and I was finding myself drowning in regret about taking this trip.

I got a call the night before from my American liaison, if you can call him that, Leon King, To see if I wanted to go to Iowa City to visit Tucker, the unemployed, freeloading slacker, who runs the website that publishes my articles here in the States.

I was a bit drunk when I agreed.

I only tolerate Leon as a favor to his Great Uncle, Felix. Felix was one of my frequent sources back in Paris so I figured I owed it to him to look his nephew up when I got to America. It�s decision I�ve deeply regretted since. While I allow him to publish my column on his pathetic excuse for a web site, his general recklessness and stupidity is far beyond anything I would ever have expected. Even from an American. That he has the blood of the French flowing through his veins saddens me to no end. He is the type of person capable of causing a great deal of misery, without even being aware of the fact. I�m sure this four-car pile up is only the tip of the iceberg. To be honest, I have never been more afraid for my own life than when I stepped into his car, a black Honda Civic. At least it wasn�t an American made car.

We sped down 88 West narrowly avoiding accidents on the way. Leon was more concerned with everything but the task ahead of him. His concentration was focused on lighting his cigarettes, and sticking his head outside the window each time he disposed of one, to make sure it didn�t fly back into his car.

"Are you always this neurotic?" I asked as we neared I-80.

"What do you mean?" he turned and focused his attention on me. I realized then that having a conversation with him would probably not be too good for my longevity.

"Nothing," I said. I turned up the radio and let the sounds of Serge Gainsbourg fill my head into a trance. I have to at least give Leon credit for appreciating the soothing sounds of Gainsbourg. Perhaps he is not beyond saving. We listened to du Jazz dans le Ravin and I found myself with time to take in my current surroundings. Something I wasn�t capable of doing for the first half of this life-threatening trip.

After 5 minutes of taking in the surroundings, absolute nothingness coupled with an underlying smell of shit, I dozed off, hoping to wake up in my Paris flat and find I was dreaming. I can�t even begin to write in detail about the sheer vibe of boredom those surroundings gave off. I�m in enough pain just recounting this whole trip.

"Yo, Francois, wake up dude. I think I took a wrong turn."

The idiot American who, as it happens, made a right turn instead of a left at our Iowa City exit, woke me up. It wouldn�t take a genius to realize that all he would need to do was make a U-turn. Unfortunately, it took him 20 minutes to realize this. Perhaps I should have told him this right away, but you can only imagine how dumbfounded I was by his stupidity.

After even more twists and turns which make my head hurt just thinking about them, we finally pulled up in front of Tucker�s apartment complex. It was eight o�clock and the streets were unsettlingly quiet. Cars passed by at a slow pace, causing me to think there would be a drive by shooting at any time. I wouldn�t have been surprised considering we were in a college town, and those American youth have been somewhat trigger-happy lately. Who could blame them? Brought up in a society propelled by greed. Brought up, neglected by parents that live under the excuse that they work hard to give their children a better life, when it is only to give themselves, trinkets. Material possessions that they spoil themselves and their children with. Living under the illusion that they are giving their children everything, when in fact, they have never given their children the one thing that matters. Love. Not love through material possessions, but love through emotions. Through caring. These children are lost. Drowning in their parent�s own sea of wealth, and delusion of it. How sad and pathetic.

Of course, one could also assume that the streets are so quiet because everyone is inside doing homework and studying. Hah! Highly unlikely (that�s a bit of French humor for you crazy Americans). No, rather they were no doubt preparing themselves for their daily binge drinking. Idiots! I never understood this American fascination with drinking to the point of throwing up. Perhaps if they could actually hold their alcohol like a European, but no, after all that is why the British created Americans. To laugh at them, of course. Oh, what these poor American women must put up with.

"Hey, Francois, get your shit. Come on," Leon rushed me out of the car and left my bag sitting on the street. Selfish prick. Would it have been so hard for him to take my bag with his? "So what do you think, man? Iowa City! Honestly, I think this place is one of those cult towns, you know. They�ve got like a million churches here. It�s freaky."

"Really," I answered, if only to humor his existence. He crossed the street completely unaware to a car that slammed its brakes barely avoiding a collision with him.

I followed him cautiously across the street to Tucker�s apartment complex and made a mental note to never follow him blindly. Not that I ever would, mind you.

The building was almost completely run down. Paint peeled off the sides and the windows were barely transparent. It was the same for all of the buildings I had seen on the way. Where, I wondered, where the gold-lined pavements of America? I kid you, of course. Those streets are reserved for the select few.

"Hey, you know what Iowa stands for?" Leon asked as we entered the building and made our way to apartment #6.

"No, please enlighten me."

"Idiots Out Wandering Aimlessly," Leon began laughing hysterically. He knocked on the door and Tucker opened it almost immediately. A thick cloud of smoke blew into our faces.

Heavy incense covered its true smell.

Leon walked inside and I followed closely behind. I�m not even sure Tucker had noticed me by that point. The apartment itself was a mess. It looked like it hadn�t been cleaned since the day it was moved into. Various cassettes and videotapes littered the floor, and his kitchen, from where I was standing looked like it should have been condemned.

"Dude!" Tucker grabbed Leon�s hand and shook it fervently. He was wearing a Beastie Boys T-shirt, and his Chinese eyes were filled with profound excitement.

"Dude," Leon replied. It was like watching two mentally retarded children introduce themselves to each other. Leon turned to me. "Check it out, man!"

Tucker gazed at me for a moment and seemingly went into convulsions.

"Dude! Oh my God!" he extended his hand to me. "Francois! What�s up dude? Holy shit!"

I hesitated for a moment. I felt like I was in a looney bin, or some horrible Jerry Lewis film.

" �allo," I cautiously extended my hand to his, but by that time he was already wailing his arms, beating the air around him.

I couldn�t think of anything worse than to be stuck with these two spoiled, oblivious, socially maladjusted rejects for an entire weekend. There was no way I could have survived with my dignity intact had I stayed.

"Yo, check this out!" Leon yelled. Tucker and I turned our attention to Leon, who had but on a pair of stray thick rimmed, eyeglasses. "I�ve got astigmatism."

Tucker dropped to the floor rolled around in laughter. Leon was practically hyperventilating at his own pathetic attempt at humor.

"What did you get yourself into Francois?" I thought. Two chemically imbalanced American brats and one well balanced Frenchman. Not at all a sensible combination. I had to get out there.

(To be continued)