Fredericksburg

I was trying to fall asleep in the van
in a sultry truck stop of a town in Virgina.
The power at the club inexplicably went out
and we were told that we
might not be able to play.
I wandered aimlessly
between shopping centers
and parked cars
like any other bum.

America.
Birth place of Anxious Boredom,
and the Atomic Bomb.

I met a girl,
I don't remember how or why.
She said she liked my band
and that she was 17.
I didn't care and didn't pretend to.
I small-talked then snaked my way back to the van,
half-hoping that she was following me
in my nervous pace through
the gathering of hopeless shit-talking teenagers
huddled in sporadic clans throughout the lot.

She did.
I sat on the rear bumper
picking at the rust
and stared her directly in the eyes.
She had nothing to say.
No good to offer.

Between the morose symphonic roar
of highway traffic,
the churning of my empty stomach and
the awful monotone wail of generators,
I quickly lost the urge
to swoon the girl into a
sweaty cargo van conjugal visit.
I climbed to the back of the stifling
88' GMC Conversion Van
after exchanging contact info with
the young woman and politely
sending her on her way.

I don't remember much more after that.
I woke up, we played,
I signed my autograph for a couple of kids
(a different sad story in and of itself)
and then I crossed that town
off of my
"Places I'd Want to Live"
list.

A couple of days later,
I received an alarming email from
the girl.

She wrote about how much she'd been
thinking about me and how
felt hopeless and alone.
She claimed she was 'in love' and implored me
to move in with her and her grandmother.

She also included nude pictures of herself.
It looked as if they were taken in a dungeon
or cave and many were slightly out of focus.
I perused slowly through the photos
in an attempt
to digest every incriminating detail.

The bathtub and mirror and unmade bed.
The mascara and swamp brown eyes looking
into the lens, into my skull.
My name written backwards across her naked chest
in blood-red lipstick.
The unholy desperation.

I stared at them for a few moments
contemplating a possible response
before I decided there wouldn't be one.

I scrolled down to the bottom of the
message and below the pictures she concluded:

"P.S.

I'm actually 15, not 17.
Sorry for lying

XOXOXOX "