An essay about traveling, and death, and Pete Seeger . For Carol. =========== The Drifter =========== When my work is done, I will become a drifter. Apparently, there’s no better place to do it than in Jefferson City, Missouri . Jefferson City is as close to lifeless as a city can be. You can probably see dust on the sidewalks if you look closely enough. I’ve been there exactly twice, and both times, I was only passing through. It has an Amtrak station that runs to Chicago, its only valuable asset aside from the state capital. It’s sort of a sorry little station, painted with the essence of Charlie Brown’s wooden Christmas tree that wilts as soon as he places a red ornament on its body. One woman calls for tickets in that raspy voice that exists everywhere else where there are old people that hate their jobs. The wrinkled, peeling green paint is layered over itself so thick it cracks and mushes underfoot, two wicker chairs adorn the decrepit porch area outside of the ticket booth, a...
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