Excerpt 2: Lostie and Connie in the car.

“Have you ever heard of Alan Watts?”

“No. Who is he?”

“He’s a philosopher. You should really start listening to him." He suggested and placed the ceramic wrap between his lips. I twisted my head to look at him and arched my left eyebrow.

"You want me to believe that you listen to philosophers?"

"Fuck yeah, I do!" Lostie yelled and took another draw of the reefer. "I started when I need to guiding light. When I was wandering the lost tracks. Now he's just my mentor."

My hand flew to my mother and I bit my lip. I turned back towards the front of the car and shook my head. I was trying to hard to keep the laugh that was erupting through me down, but the more I tried the more my shoulders began to shake.

"What?" Lostie asked. "He's legit. No shit." He insisted and shoved my thigh with his foot. "You should listen to him. Trust me. You'll be a changed person."

This time I couldn't hold it in. My laughter came out more like a witch cackling while dying but I couldn't help it. Maybe the pot got to his head just a little bit, but that's almost virtual impossible since Lostie was the champion at smoking ever drug known to man.

"Alright, Professor Aristotle." I chuckled and raised my feet onto the head board. I sighed and traced the sunset with my eyes.

After a couple minutes of silence and Lostie flicked the refer out of the window and released the smoke from his lips slowly. "Hey,"' He inched towards me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “What’s your favorite flavor of shit sandwich and does it come with an olive?”

“What?”

“What the most important question you could ever answer in your life?”

“I beg to differ, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Yes it does. According to Mark Manson everything sucks. And everything requires a sacrifice. Look at me, for example, when I die on the side of the road and some hobo finds me—after robbing me—hell call it in and my family will hear about it on the news and it’ll crush’m.” Lostie pulled another drag and sighed. “But I’m willing to sacrifice it in order to do something that will make me enjoy my last days.

His face suddenly shifted and he turned to me. “I want you to remember something.” Lostie curled his left leg into the driver’s seat and grabbed my hand. “Do the thing that makes you forget to eat and shit. Do the thing that makes you forget to breathe. God knows I didn’t.” He sighed and turned back to the windshield and set his feet on the dashboard. “When I was trying to capture stardom, I forgot the only reason I wanted to be an artist. I loved the notion of traveling and sharing my music with others. I forgot that…when the drugs set in.”

Lostie tilted his head and chuckled, “That was the worst shit sandwich I ever ate.” I shook my head as Lostie slipped off his beat up high tops.

After a long pause, I sighed and said, “Writing.”

“What?”

“That’s what makes me forget to eat and pop.”

“Awesome. So you better buckle up ‘cause you won’t be shitting for a while.”