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thisapplepielife · 4 months ago

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Written for @corrodedcoffinfest.

If It Makes You Happy

"What's the big rush?" Eddie asks, propping his feet up on the coffee table, in another hotel room, in another city. Another tour date among dozens of others. Nothing particularly special about it.

"Nothin'. Just, you know. Stuff," Goodie says, "I'll be back later. Don't wait up."

"Well, where are you goin'? Maybe I wanna go with," Eddie says, and that's not happening.

Not no way, not no how.

"Nowhere," Goodie says, "stop harassing me."

"Stop being so weird, and I will," Eddie pops off, slipping a cigarette between his lips.

Eddie won't stop being intrusive, never will, and being harassed by Eddie is just part of life. Has been since Goodie was a teen.

"I have plans, okay? Without you."

"Do you have a date?" Eddie asks, sitting up.

"Yes. Happy? I have a date."

"Gareth! Gareth!" Eddie screams, "Goodie has a date!" Eddie bleats, hoping to draw Gareth out of the neighboring suite.

Gareth doesn't show up, and Goodie is getting out of here before any more questions can be asked.

"Gotta go. Gonna be late," Goodie says, slipping his leather jacket over his shoulders, "for my date."

Goodie gets into the taxi outside of the hotel, and has the cabbie take him right back to the venue that they played at last night.

When he gets out, he looks at the ticket that's burning a hole in his pocket.

Front row, dead center.

Sheryl Crow.

Goodie is impatiently waiting for the opening act to get on with it, when he's jostled from the side, and when he turns to look…

Eddie.

He tilts his head back, as if to ask God why? What did he ever do to deserve this?

Eddie jabs his fingers into his ribs on his way by, and Goodie swats him away. Then sees that Gareth and Jeff are flanked by security, squeezing past everyone else around, drawing a whole shitpot full of attention onto themselves. Jeff is falling over himself apologizing, but nobody gives a fuck, because they aren't known. Not here. Not in this crowd, which is what Goodie had counted on when he planned to come all by himself.

Blend in.

Fucking Steve Harrington.

Steve must have told Eddie, and then got them all tickets. Not just the one, single ticket Goodie had requested to have a night to himself, looking up at Sheryl Crow. Listening to her sing and play the guitar, like a badass.

Now, he has to look at Eddie, Jeff and Gareth. And that's way less enticing of a prospect.

He's been stuck looking at their ugly mugs for the past decade.

He knew Eddie dating Steve was a horrible, terrible, awful idea right from the start.

And there is the little Judas now. Steve is pulling up the rear with Robin, and Goodie glares, and Steve looks back at him, absolutely unphased. Asshole.

After the show, they pile out of the arena with the rest of the crowd, and Eddie leans into him as they walk to the waiting van, their driver sitting behind the wheel.

Once they're situated, Eddie wraps his arms around Goodie's neck from behind, tight, squeezing, choking him a little.

"Just tell us if you want to do something, next time."

And Goodie nods.

Then Eddie slaps a shirt over his shoulder.

Goodie pulls it down, and laughs. It's her silhouette, backed with blue.

It's cool, and something he'd have picked for himself if maybe he'd been alone.

"I expect you to wear it tomorrow night on stage."

"Don't think I won't," Goodie answers, dryly.

Eddie squeezes his shoulders, shaking him, "If it makes you happy, then it can't be that bad," he teases, leaning over the backseat, talking right into Goodie's ear.

And then he kisses the back of Goodie's head, and the rest of them laugh.

The next night, he does wear the shirt, with his leather jacket over it.

And there's a girl in the front row that points at it, and then makes a heart with her hands.

Maybe this will be his new lucky shirt.

He thinks that really might be true when she's waiting outside of the stage door, looking for him. Not Eddie. Not Jeff. Not Gareth.

Him.

And it is his lucky shirt.

Every goddamn night he wears it, he pulls, and without much effort. The women damn nearly throw themselves at him.

Gareth is seething with jealousy, as Goodie holds his hotel room door open for the woman from last night to be on her way.

She runs her hand over his chest, and leans up to kiss him again.

The shirt, now soft with wear and magic, is the best thing that ever happened to him.

And then it's lost in the laundry.

Steve's gonna die. Goodie will make sure of it.

"It'll turn up," Steve says, not looking up from his clipboard.

"Steve. I need it."

"It. Will. Turn. Up," Steve stresses, and then walks away.

Goodie resigns himself to a dry spell, but he takes the stage, and kind of forgets about it.

He gets the same attention he got the last time he wore it.

And that happens again. And again.

Then, about a month later, Eddie slaps it over his shoulder again, just like he did the first night.

"It was never the shirt. I don't know why it finally gave you the confidence to flirt back with women, but it did and I just wanted you to know it was you. Not the shirt."

Goodie doesn't say anything, can't think of what he could possibly say to that.

It's still his favorite shirt. The most comfortable one he owns, and he wears it at least once a week, but now, it's not always on stage.

Sometimes he wears it on travel days, or off-days, when nobody sees him but the guys.

And, yeah, sometimes he still wears it on stage, even as the print fades. Because he likes it.

But he doesn't need it.

Not anymore.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @corrodedcoffinfest and follow along with the fun! 🦇

Notes: That does appear to be a Sheryl Crow tour shirt from the 90s, I found it on eBay, but I'm not sure what year. So, just pretend it's right for this, haha.

#corrodedcoffinfest #prompt twenty-four: behind the scenes #goodie (unnamed freak) stranger things #gareth stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things #corroded coffin fic #ccf day twenty-four: behind the scenes #thisapplepielife: corrodedcoffinfest #thisapplepielife: short fic

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masterwords · 10 months ago

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I had a fun idea!

Derek is very tired during a difficult case and throws himself a little over enthusiastically onto the bed of the cheap motel they're staying in and breaks it. He goes to the front desk but they're all booked out and the only person in the team with a twin room is Hotch...

Well, anon, that idea is fun indeed! I had some fun with this, it flew from my head to the doc at lightning speed...I hope you like it! <3 It was nice to step out of the angst I've been writing lately and do a little cute mutual pining nonsense with adorable derek and awkward hotch. thank you for making my brain go bzzzzz!

pairing: pre-hotchgan (maybe...maybe not...)

words: 1.7k

He didn’t mean to. That’s all he can think as he stands in front of the door to room 164 with its crooked 6 and chipped up paint. The bright orange paint is old, probably seven layers of lead beneath whatever they last put on when they re-branded. He knows how this works, his mother worked in plenty of cheap hotels when he was growing up and he can remember each time she came home with a new uniform from new owners who slapped a coat of paint on and hoped it would fool people into thinking it wasn’t the same shitpot it always had been. His hand hovers over the door, loosely balled into a fist, ready to knock. He could always sleep in the SUV.

The thing is, he knows Hotch isn’t going to have a problem with him moving in. It isn’t like they spend much time in their rooms anyway, and he might even get a laugh out of the way Derek had come by this need for a new room it’s just...things have been awkward lately. He’s always sort of had a thing for Hotch, the Gucci ties and the expensive suits are easy on the eyes and he’s no fool. He knows Hotch would be a good date from beginning to end, they’ve known each other long enough that he’s certain of many things...the problem is, lately he’s been getting a vibe like maybe Hotch might have a thing for him too.

Things got a little awkward during the ride home from New York, that case was when he started to notice things. Little things. And his own feelings of jealousy hadn’t helped anything but that ride home. Well.

He thinks again about sleeping in the SUV, even turns to look at it. He could curl up in the back and be perfectly comfortable. It’s not cold and there are emergency blankets back there. New York wasn’t that long ago and Hotch is still pretty messed up by it, he’s not likely to want company. He’s nearly to his decision when the door opens to reveal Hotch nearly stepping right into him, looking at his phone.

“Morgan?” he asks, confused. Derek offers him a sheepish smile.

“Hey boss. I got a little problem.”

“The front desk called to verify that it was alright to move you into the room. You’re welcome to stay. I have to go sign some new papers with the attendant, make yourself at home.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize the beds were so…”

“It isn’t a problem Morgan. Back in a minute.”

That minute turns into something that starts to worry Derek as he unpacks his bag for the second time during this trip. He doesn’t spread out as much though, Hotch has his things in certain places and he’s not going to intrude, he’s just going to make a little space. They use the same toothpaste, that thought buzzes through his mind right about when he hears the key in the door and smells the pizza before he even sees it.

“I brought back dinner,” Hotch announces, tossing his keys on the little desk with a clatter before setting the box down. “Do you still like extra olives?”

“Hell yeah,” Derek says, walking back into the main room with a smile. “Olives, mushrooms and green peppers. What do I owe ya?”

“My treat.”

Derek studies Hotch as he moves around the room, slipping out of his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. Had he been wearing them the whole time or had he just put them on to go out? Derek thinks it was the former. He rarely allowed himself to be comfortable during cases.

“Well hey, thanks man. For letting me crash in your room and buying me dinner.”

He thinks he can detect the slightest hint of a blush in Hotch’s cheeks as he fumbles around in the little kitchenette for paper plates. Of course he brought paper plates. A man who never eats during cases still thinks about these things.

“You can turn on the television if you’d like.”

“You wanna watch something?”

“I’ve got a bit of a headache, I’ll probably just take a shower and go to bed. Please don’t mind me.”

“Wait, you’re not even gonna eat the pizza?”

Hotch levels his gaze at Derek helplessly and suddenly Derek can see something he’s been concealing for weeks now. He’s not just a little off the mark, he’s actually suffering. He hides it too well. It’s almost scary.

“And here I was thinking you were setting up some kinda date night here…” Derek says quietly, a sneaky little smile on his face. He’s trying to lighten the mood and the way the crease disappears between Hotch’s brows says it almost worked. Almost.

“Is this really how you think I…” Hotch starts, but catches himself. He’d been lulled in by the warmth of the room, by Derek lounging easily on his bed, by the smell of pizza as Derek flips mindlessly through television channels. It was almost too easy to let himself slide, to let himself bare something he shouldn’t. Derek doesn’t miss it though. Not even a little. He drops the remote and sits upright.

“How I think you what?”

Hotch hums and runs his thumb along his fingernails, back and forth against his thigh. Derek is looking at him expectantly, he has to finish the sentence.

“Okay. So you wouldn’t do it this way. How would you do it?”

“How would I…?”

“First date. You and me. If it’s not a broken bed and a pizza with some shitty made for TV movie starring Tori Spelling then...what is it?”

He’s clammed up pretty bad, just standing there hovering between honesty and the feeling that he’s about to cross a line from which he can never return. The thoughts in his head are so wildly inappropriate he can’t even believe he’s entertaining them. The thing is, some part of him fundamentally changed when Haley had him served with divorce papers. This innate part of him that placed work on some pedestal, the part of him that said if he worked hard enough everyone around him would benefit from it. He knew now that it was all lies he was feeding himself when all he was really doing was avoiding giving himself to something that might really hurt. And in the end? Well, it hurt worse than he ever could have imagined.

Now he’s looking at Derek and thinking about how badly this could hurt, but he’s not scared of it like he used to be. He would land on his feet if he had to leave this job. It would be better not to be disgraced, but he thinks he’d land on his feet even if he was. People had done just fine after much worse rules being broken.

“Hotch?” Derek asks, standing now. “You okay?”

“Oh. Yeah. Just thinking, I’m sorry.”

“Thinking about what I asked or how to get out of it?”

Hotch smiles and shrugs. “A little of both.”

“You’re worried about breaking some arbitrary fraternization rules when I haven’t even kissed you yet. If I did, would you immediately start planning your next career move?”

Derek is having a little too much fun now, watching the bright red rise against Hotch’s throat.

“Hotch, chill out. I’m just flirting. There’s no harm in that.”

Hotch looks down at his feet for a moment and feels the burn of honesty in his chest. It isn’t that simple for him, it never has been. And that’s why it hurts so bad when he messes it all up. “There is if it isn’t just flirting.”

“What else would it be?”

Silence. Hotch feels like he’s on stage beneath a spotlight and he’s forgotten all of his lines. How did he get here? He should have been more adamant that he was going to take that shower. The dizziness and ringing in his ears is bad and he’s fighting against it with everything he’s got, which is making it a lot harder to navigate these dangerous waters. But then Derek’s hand is taking his, his long fingers smoothing Hotch’s worrying thumb, holding it in place.

“Hotch. It’s okay to have feelings for me. I got ‘em for you too. All the time we’ve spent together over the years, all the things we’ve shared that no one else will ever come close to? The injuries and the nightmares and all that travel time...I think it’d be impossible not to feel strongly about each other. Doesn’t make it wrong and the Bureau’s rules can’t change the reality of it.”

“I’m your boss,” Hotch whispers finally, devastation in his voice. “It would be a gross misuse of my power.”

At that, Derek laughs incredulously and shakes his head. “You’re a trip, man. You know that?”

“Too many things could go wrong,” Hotch offers after a moment to reconsider his trepidation. “It would be a mistake.”

Derek shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe. I got rules about dating people I work with. You would if you’d ever given that any thought...but when I think about all the reasons I don’t date where I work, none of those things would be an issue with you.”

“What if something happened?”

“Alright. Hey. I was just tryin’ to flirt a little, see if you would maybe flirt back. If you’re thinking something more serious, here’s my offer: you go take your shower, do some thinking. Come back out and eat a piece of pizza and watch this movie with me. When the case is done...we meet up and talk this out. And if we decide it’s too complicated or maybe the emotion was just running a little wild tonight and it didn’t mean anything? No harm no foul.”

“Do you mean it?” Hotch asks, finally meeting Derek’s eyes. “Because the last thing I would ever want…”

Derek shakes his head and cuts him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand, the hand he’s still holding. “I mean it. No harm no foul.”

#aaron hotchner #derek morgan #criminal minds #hotchgan #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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harrison-abbott · 2 months ago

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I used to go down to England with my father in the summers when I was wee. To Norfolk, which is where my father was from, to visit my grandparents and we stayed in their little home for a week.

One time I went with my little sister, who was only about three or four at the time. She’s my half-sister, i.e., from another mother. Catherine is her name. It was her first time in going down to Norfolk with us.

And, in that little Norfolk town, there was also my great-Uncle, called Howard. He was a bit of a weird fella. Originally from Ireland, but he had lived in America for most of his life. Then for some reason he came back to this sleepy nowhere town in little England. So he had this strong American accent. And this huge beard, and, hmm, he was just odd. You’d probably agree if you met him – just the way he spoke and how he acted, there was something unusual about him.

Anyway. We went down with my sister Catherine for the first time.

And a few days into the holiday, Uncle Howard came along to the house to visit.

He didn’t know who Catherine was. My little sister. He had never met her before, and was totally confused. He’d met me and my brothers before many times but never Catherine. Thus he had no clue what was happening.

It turned out that my grandmother, Howard’s sister, had never told him that my father had broken up with my mother, and then had a kid with another woman. Or about the affair, with this other woman, which was what caused the break-up. Because my grandmother was ashamed about it and didn’t want to tell him the news.

And when Howard found out about this new child, and the whole story, he was so fucked off. He got so angry with his sister for never telling him.

It was a really weird incident when I was that young, because I was only eight or so, so I didn’t quite understand what was happening. Which is often how kids react when they see adults shouting at each other; because children haven’t gotten to that stage of verbal turmoil yet.

From what I know, my grandmother never apologised to Howard. And my grandfather only called Howard a ‘shitpot’ under his breath. My father didn’t say anything either.

But, what Howard did do eventually, was come and say hello to Catherine eventually. She was only a wee girl and so he came and met her properly and hugged her. And, Catherine was so tiny she didn’t understand any of it.

Yeah, ultimately, it was a strange experience. One of those dark family dramas that are quite like fiction, but which happen in real life. I’m sure there are many other stories from other peoples’ families that have a mucked up element to them. I kinda felt sorry for Howard. Because, though he was quite strange, he meant well, and was a nice man.

#writeblr #real life stories #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #tumblr writers

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tooteadoo · 2 months ago

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Heyy. finally an intro post !

Little overview, this is my blog and I don't censor myself, unless its nsfw which i try to tone down but my recent obession, the Beloved Assad Zaman, has taken over my mind and body. but it'll be mostly kept to tags :P I'm very down to have IWTV mutuals! my favorite is armand but i could literally talk for years about any of the characters. I also super like Daniel (which i feel is kinda a given..) I also would love mutuals who wanna talk about Assad and his other projects! I've seen a whole lot of em and he's so talented i love him sm.

Forgive me if im awkward tho, i haven't had tumblr mutuals since i was 10

Frequent tags:

#My talk - All the posts that i make. I reblog a lot so i like to keep my thoughts separate

Beautiful art - The art that I love that isn't fan art

Fan art - Art i love that is exlusively fanart

Fashion - Clothes i like, usually vintage stuff

INTEREST GOOD OMENS - I don't talk abt it much but best believe when (oh god if) we get a season 3 I'll be back on my shit

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE -Main intrest rn obviously, I have voiced some thoughts and shitpots about this show just search either a character name or iwtv on my blog and you'll see em

and thats it! no im sure there's more but i can't think of them rn my brain saying interivew

anyways im currently reading The Vampire Armand if anyone wants to ask me about it i have soooo many words oh my god

#my talk #fan art #Beautiful art #fashion #intro posting!!

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t-tomuras · 11 months ago

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VIXEN. HELLO BABEY. you said that you, tenko, n touya are all roommates in the streamer au. how does touya feel about the two of you being together? is he jealous? supportive? pls tell me! 🎤

My sweet Amira HELLOOOO I hope you’ve been well!!!

We do among multiple other streamers (something with Kippen and Katsuki hehe 🤭)

Touya is supportive but that doesn’t mean ONE BIT that he doesn’t like to stir the shitpot by flirting, bringing up old things in front of me or Tenko and that isn’t just limited to us 😂 he just likes to sew chaos.

#➛ asks #➛ amira #me when I answered this but #sent it to drafts instead of posting it WOW #Cwies and dies

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sleepypalpita · 7 months ago

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guys. i miss little lloydster shitposts.

give me your best SHITPOTS PICS that remind you of small lloyd NOW.

#saying stuff #ninjago shitpost #lloyd montgomery garmadon #ninjago lloyd #lloyd ninjago

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deviantartdramanow · 1 year ago

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so it appears that tria is trying to wring me and a handful of others into a chat, the chat's name being "also at (discord link)", and the discord link leads to a server called "Cyber Reception Room", well i hate to break it to you, miss triangle, but i don't want to involve myself in this shitpot anymore for the sake of my mental health, i've seen too much drama unfold for the day, your welcome.

y'all know we've already discussed to report these chats, right

-Mod S

#deviantart #drama #triagonal #trigonal #loyalpuppy

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coreymichaelsmithson · 2 years ago

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I Gave My Heart To The Junkman

Yesterday I sold my best friend to a stranger for $315.

This was, of course, far less than what a 2005 Kia Sedona ought to fetch, even for scrap alone. There were certainly a lot of useful parts still tucked inside ... but beyond any question of material worth, the sentimental value was incalculable. After all, I had poured so many financial and emotional resources into this long-term relationship, and steadfastly made repairs whenever the need arose, and had shown more unflagging devotion to this soccer-mom minivan than I had for some of my boyfriends, jobs, teeth, and homes. She was my first car, and like any first love, a first car carries a special significance.

I bought my Pamela in March of 2017, springing her from a dusty little shitpot in Bonner Springs, Kansas. I paid $2300 in cash for her, and easily poured ten times that amount into repairs. In just under six years, I replaced her starter, radiator, alternator, thermostat (twice), drive shafts, brakes, catalytic converters, power steering pump, rear shocks, rack and pinion, tie rods, hub and bearing, window motor, door actuator, timing belt, alternator belt, EGR valve, purge solenoid, charcoal canister, air conditioning compressor, cooling fan, valve cover gasket, tensioner and idler pulleys, exhaust Y-valve, oxygen sensors, hood struts, coils, hoses, filters, batteries, rear window, and three camshaft position sensors. We broke down in Iowa, Colorado, Washington, and Florida. We blew tires in Wisconsin, Oklahoma, Minnesota, and Georgia. I got to know the various components of my vehicle, one by one, as they fell apart.

Last week, she failed to start. In and of itself, this wasn't anything new, as she had crapped out so often in the past. But this time felt different, somehow. There was something so final about this silence. I knew, in that moment, that Pamela just didn't want to go any further. She had gone far enough.

With a heavy heart, I made arrangements with the junkman to come cart her away. I took the next few days to clean her out, retrieving all the tools, camping gear, and souvenirs I had stashed in her crates and cargo areas. The last thing I removed was the bobbing statue of Hula Girl, which I had glued to the dashboard back in Missouri. Her nose had gotten chipped in Iowa, when a sudden crosswind thwacked my camera's lens cap across her face ... but her irrepressible smile and cheerful ALOHA had accompanied me for over 99,700 miles, and I couldn't bear to leave her behind. I did, however, tear off the last few shreds of her disintegrating grass skirt, which no longer afforded her any dignity.

I sat for a long while in the driver's seat, holding the wheel that had been in my hands for thousands of hours. Its foam grip had been shredded by the stress of too many white-knuckled rides, all those times when I prayed for us to make it through blinding downpours or snowstorms or terrifying deep country two-lanes or narrow construction zones.

Sitting there, like a kid playing vroom vroom in the family car, I recounted some of our many adventures aloud. "Remember driving down the Vegas Strip? That supercell catching up with us in Valentine? That sunset in the wind farm? Heading out to the Olympic Coast? Devil's Tower? Ed Gein's place? Tinkertown? Bonneville? Waco? That refinery by Dodge City? Sunrise at Monument Valley? That one flat we got in Viroqua, and the farmer helping us change it? Dawn at Cades Cove? Those little hilltop dairy farms in The Driftless? The Badlands? The rim of Bryce Canyon? The meadow in South Park? The pueblos at Bandelier? Finding the trail at Butler Wash? The caves of Maquoketa? Picking up that hitchhiker in Dinosaur? Taking the Mountain Loop Highway up to Big Four? Morning mist on Steamboat Slough? The salmon run at Granite Falls? Taking the Alaskan Way Viaduct? Running along the Skykomish? The vultures on 312? Shiloh? Hooking up with the guys at Magnetic Springs? Going up Mt. Baker?" This went on for ages. Each memory brought to mind another, and another, experiences strung in sequence like beads on a string, a rosary of perils and deeds. After about ten minutes, my soliloquy devolved into a précis ... all I had to do was murmur "Kitty Hawk" and we returned immediately to one of the worst nights in our history, when we had to drive 700 miles through a tornado outbreak with a busted alternator and half a dozen batteries, sometimes driving blind in the rain without headlights or windshield wipers. We had so many close calls in our time together, and our survival sometimes seemed miraculous.

Finally, words failed me, and I wept. I sat there, finding myself once again broke and broken, a few weeks shy of turning forty-nine, devastated at another huge loss, crying my eyes out because my car wouldn't start.

Pamela had listened to me laugh, scream, sing. She heard my deepest secrets, my most buried fears, all the things I will never share with another living soul. She held space, literally and figuratively, as I processed early traumas, the kinds of injuries that had to be coaxed out of my soul like splinters. She kept me company as I mourned lost friendships, raged at failed opportunities, exulted over spiritual and professional victories, learned the lyrics to dozens of showtunes, and sifted through the smoldering wreckage of too many love affairs. She saw me at my very best and my very worst.

We traveled from coast to coast, crossed the Mississippi dozens of times, explored every kind of terrain in the continental US. We'd chased after tornadoes in Nebraska, dodged hailstones the size of tangerines in Oklahoma, coasted into Death Valley with squealing brakes, gunned through the Cascades on bald tires. We'd raced across salt flats and skidded out on gravel roads and slid on ice and got stuck in the mud. We climbed narrow mountain roads, corkscrewing upwards like a buggy in a Disney darkride, and were rewarded near the summits by whispering aspen groves and skies the color of lead. We followed thunderheads across hundreds of miles of cornfields, doubled back to photograph collapsing barns, got lost and found and lost again. We nearly ran out of gas on a stretch of moonlit desert, and were almost forced off the road by a madman near Mexican Hat. We saw insect swarms, murmurations of starlings, clouds rising from firs, incandescent sunsets, fogbound highways at 4:am, hazy feedlots, mine shafts, floodwaters, dust devils, wildfires. She had given me a treasury of beauty.

Pamela drove me to jobs in corporate office demolition, sanitation, construction site cleanup, disaster services, aerospace manufacturing, warehouse fulfillment, toy merchandising, and food delivery. She waited in parking lots while I went skydiving and whitewater rafting and hiking, while I ate, slept, got laid, gathered sharks' teeth, watched lions mate, and raised a circus tent. She carried me to zoos, sex clubs, cemeteries, battlefields, dormant volcanoes, dams, lighthouses, shipwrecks, museums, rodeos, waterfalls, weird roadside attractions, a nude beach, a monastery, a cassowary ranch, and the homes of countless friends. We saw Monterrey, Santa Fe, Orlando, Tukwila, Minneapolis, Fort Sumner, Little Rock, Mukilteo, Pensacola, Oso, Tulsa, Jupiter, Oakland, Bellingham, Eureka Springs, St. Louis, Mosca, Wichita, Portland, Pahrump, Ocracoke, Waco, Memphis, Sarasota, Montgomery, Estes Park, Vernal, Coeur d'Alene, Peoria, Birmingham, Lumberton, Des Moines, Topeka, Darwin, Beaverton, Bemidji, Enid, Deadwood, Hot Springs, Cullman, Austin, Ocean Springs, Chattanooga, Carlinville, Abilene, Darrington, Nashville, Moab, Pagosa Springs, McEwen, and innumerable parks, farms, rivers, and valleys. She took me to Judy Garland's birthplace in Grand Rapids and my own origin point in Ellensburg. We killed a hare near Ogallala and drove below arches made of lightning. We endured for far too long the joyless mazes of suburbia. She brought me into and back out of my homeland. She was my home at times.

Yesterday, a tow truck showed up on Reef Drive, our residence for the last four years. Pamela was marooned just behind her usual spot, along a hedge at the front of the property, in the shade of a nearby palm. A flock of scarlet ibises used to roost on her roof, and a clowder of feral kittens sometimes took shelter beneath her when it rained. There was a big rectangle where the grass had long ago given up and stopped growing. All of this was about to change.

The junkman was a friendly, toothless old chap named Thomas, and he had been doing this job for decades. His skin had been leathered by the sun, his hair bleached into straw, and save for the ball cap and tee shirt he looked exactly like a Gold Rush prospector. On his flatbed slumped a '71 Ford Bronco which had clearly seen better days. In any other circumstances, I'd be delighted to photograph such a wreck ... its windows were blown out, most of its panels were rusted, and it had an appealing patina of green mold, the sort of picturesque decay that I've spent decades documenting. But now it all seemed just too sad for words ... two old vehicles, far past their prime, being taken out to pasture. I thought of how horses used to get shot if they couldn't be ridden anymore.

Thomas indicated that my car seemed to be in pretty salvageable shape, though, and that she was likely to undergo a refurb rather than being scrapped altogether. This gave me a ray of hope that perhaps Pamela might yet play a special role in somebody else's life, and that just because our road had come to an end did not mean she herself was destined for oblivion.

I told him a little about the vehicle he was buying, how famous she was, how there were loyal followers around the world who had been cheering her on for the past several years. "This isn't just a car," I said. "Pamela's been through a lot. She's special." I told him about the memoir I published last year, about how we had traveled together over the whole country and seen the most incredible sights. He nodded and smiled and feigned interest, as he pointed out the numerous papers for me to sign off on. Then he handed me a check, which seemed pitifully small in my hands, and he set about hooking my poor old hooptie onto the tow rig.

I'd witnessed this ritual so many times ... the slow humiliating whine as my baby got hoisted into position, the rattle of chains around her undercarriage, the sinking helpless feeling as the tow truck lurched forward. I had already seen her get pulled away when her radiator blew up in Boulder, when her starter crapped out in Bothell, when her fuel lines got clogged in St. Augustine. But this time was different. This time there would be no joyful reunion at the shop. I stood across the street, and the reality of the situation hit me full force. Pamela, the car who had transformed my entire life, who had freed me from a desperately unhappy stint in Kansas City, who had framed most of America in her windshield, was leaving me forever. In a few minutes, she would disappear, and that would be that.

It's different in the movies, when a love story wraps up. Your heroes ride off into the sunset together, and the music swells, and THE END appears in big fancy letters over the clouds. And as the credits roll and you stand and brush popcorn from your lap you enjoy a tidy sense of closure. There is a clear sense of something having been finished, of a narrative having reached its rightful conclusion. My last few minutes with this minivan, on the other hand, felt weirdly anticlimactic and unsatisfying. I caught a few seconds of video on my phone as the tow truck began its journey. Then I just stood in the middle of the road with my arms hanging limply at my sides and watched as the most meaningful possession of my life rolled away, growing smaller and smaller until she reached the end of the block. And then the tow truck rounded the corner, and left my view altogether, and my Pamela was finally gone.

"Goodbye, old girl," I said, wiping my eyes. "Goodbye." Then I went back to my studio, returned to my easel, picked up a brush, and began the search for a new frontier.

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