I unpack my things. The top handle of my backpack begins to rip apart. Fucking man from St.Laurient, and his shitty backpacks. Be it I bought the cheapest one there was. 20$ to pack my life into. I miss Kei. Perhaps he is the best that this journey will offer. Maybe God decided to mess with me, and give me the false hope that I’m going to be the next Polish Kerouack. The Beaten-Up Generation. Now that I’m in the middle of nowhere everything reveals itself. Everyone is at work, and I’m too far from the city to get a bus. I’m stuck, and I’m going to die, or worse come back to Montreal on a train. Before I dissolve into a full breakdown a car stops. Toyota. Quite new. Probably no earlier than 2022. 

“Where you go?”
“South.” 

“Middlebury?”

“Sure.” 

I get in. Radio plays quietly. Probably turned on along with the engine. The driver doesn't care enough to change the volume, or the station. Some people are like that. They roll with the flow. So does my companion. He doesn’t speak that much english. Haitian. Came here 6 months ago. This explains the car, credit. This whole country is built on credit. People buy things with money they don't have. Paid by the cash their employer borrowed. It’s the first step to Americanization. Get a loan you cannot pay. Now you’re rooted here forever. They won’t kick you out of the country if you owe money. He assimilated pretty quickly. Good for him. 

I try to start a conversation. My year of French is here to shine. Without much avail. I learn that he works at Middlebury College. Lives in Burlington. No further revelations. There’s some peace in that. Kei picked me partially because he was bored. This guy doesn't want to talk. Doesn't care where I’m from or where I’m going. Nor does he question anything about me. We’re there. With NPR in the background. I forgot his name, it got lost between the host’s description of bird migration in Vermont. Something like Jan-Jacques. He probably already forgot my name too. How did he get a job at a university without speaking any of the english. I begin to believe that it might have been a cover to avoid conversation. Smart guy. 

I record that views outside. Maybe handing someone free content to put in their future mediocre true-crime podcast. 

This place feels too peaceful for their motto. “Live Free Or Die.” Is it  an indicative statement or a command? “I live free or die,” or “Live free or die!” What if I don't want to live free. Maybe my freedom is getting a 30 year mortgage like my 23 year old brother. He didn’t even prove that he can stay alive for 30 years, why are they giving him that long of a loan. My freedom is when I hit 60 I want to take a business loan, and spend it all on heroin and strippers. Like an old man. Not in a creepy way. I’d like to play Monopoly with them. Then do a hot shot. Live free and die. For now this is my freedom. Running. Either towards or away. I’m not yet sure. Chasing the chase itself. Colonizing Americans by treating a 6 hours drive like a Columbus narrative. 

Middlebury College parking lot. We part ways with “Jaques.” 

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