I drove the old maroon colored cruiser, why I chose it I have any idea. I got to Helen's, before anyone else. Since I broke every speed limit on the way, I was a little surprised that I didn't have at least one sheriff car following me. I went to the front door of her house. "Helen," I shouted from the porch."Maxine, thank you for coming, we don't know what to do." Helen said. Jack was no where to be found."Where is Jack," I asked."He has gone looking for Julie," Helen was in tears."Now you have to hold it together Helen. Where did they go into the woods?" I asked."Over there," she said pointing to the closest point to the woods from where we stood."Okay, let's see if we can get organized, while we wait for Jack to come back. Does he have his cell phone with him?" I asked."I don't know," Helen said. I handed her my phone."Call him now, lets see where it rings," I suggested."What," he answered all out of breath. I motioned to her, so Helen handed me the phone."Jack it's Maxine, how far. He begins to relax. The drink pauses the treacherous grind, and when this sublime relaxation sets in, the man finds a kernel of truth within the mountains of desperate lies. At this point precisely a special relationship is formed with that particular glass of beer. Ah, the texture of it. Cold and penetrating, so penetrating that the man glances into his own soul and discovers through the joy of inebriation the purity of it. With each sip, leading to voracious gulps, the alcohol removes the man from the hard reality. Does this mean the man is some scoundrel, some blemish needing a removal by the hypocrites who follow some established good? Certainly not. A departure from reality through that bountiful elixir only conveys, to anyone in a position to observe, the highest respect for that reality. The drinker manifests such a reality, a collection of forces interacting, an unbearable history penetrating the present, a routine of rising at dawn and sleeping at dusk. Call the drinker.
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