s o m e h o w [open]

[Wes Jackson]

Wes hadn't really slept in at least three days and how is it that when you're the most tired you've been in weeks, somehow you have so much trouble sleeping? That Murphy can be a real bastard with his fucking stupid law. Wes tossed and turned for one whole hour before getting up and getting himself a glass of milk, because grandmothers around the world like to say that that helps. But after a half an hour of going back to bed and yet not falling asleep, he was starting to believe that all it helped was their farts. A beer. A beer would do. Because when you have only one beer you start getting sleepy, it is after the second one that you don't want to stop drinking. So one would help him fall into Morpheus's arms. But Murphy the bastard again played one on him, because the caravan, which was always filled with booze of all kinds, was that night irremediably empty. Wes felt like punching something. All there was was empty bottles and cans lying everywhere. What was wrong with them? Well, after a few mumbled swearwords and a couple of growls, it seemed like Wes would have to go find the liquor himself. And out he was.

He walked up to the closest local bar with its dim lights and smell of wood and cigarette smoke and he took a seat by the bar. The place was rather empty which striked him as odd seeing as it was past midnight. But then again, it suited him just fine. All he was in search of was a one drink and then heading for his bed. But then again, the somehows had acted. Somehow, Wes had ended up getting shitfaced in that place, somewhere around the point when one drink turned into several shots of whiskey and somehow, he'd lost complete track of time. After an extended game of beer pong with the bartender, Wes finally decided that it was time to drag his ass back to the caravan, now sure that he'd be falling asleep no question. So he paid his bill and tipped the bartender like he had given him a lap dance and exited the smelly bar with the purpose of getting to his motor home.

Somehow, once more, circumstances played a part and Wes ended up getting himself lost in a nice friendly park that he was sure he hadn't passed on the way to the bar initially. He simply stood there for a minute or two, trying to figure out his next move when all of a sudden there was a light blinding his eyes. It was a car. The car had a siren on top. Oh, fuck. How the two police men managed to get Wes inside the police car he couldn't quite recall and all he knew was that they were silently driving him somewhere he futilely hoped was home as he tried to stop seeing double while resting in the back seat. He didn't think he'd resisted being taken because there was no sign of struggle and nothing really hurt. It began dawning on the blond drummer that they were taking him to spend the night in prison and Wes just had to moan at that. Exactly then, or perhaps because of it, one of the cops, the one in the copilot's seat, turned to look at him over his shoulder and laughed.

"You're droppin' me off at home, righ'?" He managed to ask the cops playfully. They didn't answer. "Officer Krupke?" The driver merely looked at him through the rear view mirror. They either hadn't seen West Side Story or they just didn't find it funny. No, it was eminent. He was being taken in.

Long moments of silence went by them again before Wes started talking again.

"Could we at least put on some music?" He asked. "I'm falling asleep 'ere." He paused. "Ironic, isn't it?" But he was much to drunk to realize that the cops wouldn't understand why it was ironic. Once more, they ignored him. Wes got testy.

"Fine! I'll sing then." But he waited, at least until the driver stole another glance at him through the mirror. Then he began.

"Our life... together... is so special... together.... we have growwwn..."

And then, as he was starting to really feel John Lennon in the lyrics, he was taken back by the sudden participation of the cop that had initially laughed at him. The man sung, and he sung well.

"We have grrooowwwn..."

There was an astonished pause after which Wes propped himself forward and rested his elbows on both seats, peaking his head between them. He continued.

"Although our life... is still special..."

And the line that came was sung in a chorus by the three people inside the car, softly and with feeling just as it should be.

"...let's take a chance and fly awaaaay... somewheeere... alone."

The rest of the car ride to the police station was a perfect harmony (perfect to Wes's drunken hearing) of Just Like Starting Over which led the small trio to, somehow, spend the following couple of hours playing poker outside the cell. At some point during the evening the cops had reminded Wes that he had a rightful phone call which he had then used to order a pizza from a 24/7 place near by. It was nearly four in the morning when Wes had lost his watch and pack of cigarettes to one of the cops who'd been in a lucky strike and, somehow, it got late. The cops started collecting the cards and putting everything back in its place while Wes protested that it was still early and that he could still win his cigarettes back. But they apparently had gone back to ignoring mood and one of them simply took Wes by the arm and guided him to the cell where he'd be spending the rest of the night. They bid him goodnight, playing deaf ears to his whining and eventually just switched off the lights and left.

"Officer Krupke?" Wes called one last time from where he was sitting, resigned, inside the cell. "I'm distoirbed." No, surely they'd never seen West side Story. Wes found a comfortable position for him to spend the time and it wasn't long before he fell soundly asleep.

The next morning there was a distant sound of clinging keys which he vaguely registered and it wasn't until a hand on his shoulder shook him non so gently that he finally woke to the face of a cop in front of him.

"Time to go home, son."

Wes rose from his place ever so slowly and stretched, which is when he felt the striking pain, as if his brain was attempting to crawl out of his head through his ears. It was the mother of all headaches. The mother of all hangovers.

"Come on, go on home."

The bright sunlight violated his eyeballs savagely when he stepped out of the police station and squinted his eyes as he looked up and down the street, wondering which way he was supposed to go. The cops hadn't taken the remainer of his cash and he had been able to afford a cab to take him to the lot where the bands caravans were parked during their stay in Pomona. Stepping out of the vehicle, Wes tried to make it to his own motor house but only managed to get to the grounds surrounding the lot where a small hill of grass seemed to him like a nice place to sit and rest until he was well enough to make it to his caravan. He put his head in his hands and wondered if he'd be falling asleep again right there.