The Lonely Anarchist

Excerpt:
Passports in hand, an American Express credit card and about a thousand dollars in cash in their pocket they set off. Rick turned south on to the New Jersey Turnpike in the direction of the first of the many bridges they would traverse during the journey. It was early in the trip for white line fever but cruising down the monotonous highway, they were both uncharacteristically quiet. Rick had even forgotten to turn on the car stereo which he’d spent so much time installing. Hypnotized by the hum of the sand tires that rode soft and low on the Jeep, they both stared at the vanishing point of the straight unimpeded road ahead of them. Their heads turned in sync as the sign for the Delaware Memorial Bridge appeared, the symbolism not being lost on either. It was a Zen moment of sorts, the calm before a storm.
Already tuned-in and sensitive to his moods, Ana reached over to cover Rick’s hand which was gripping the steering so tight, his knuckles had turned white. “We’re gonna have so much fun, honey,” she said lightly, breaking the silence.
Rick relaxed his hold and smiled. “Guess I need to loosen up. Roll us a joint, will you, Ana!” He leaned forward to rummage in the glove compartment and pulled out ‘Caravanserai’, his favorite Santana tape then inserted it into the deck. The soothing jazzy, environmental tones of the album filled the cabin and he stretched his neck side to side to rid himself of the tension which had gripped him. It had all been fine until he had turned on to the Jersey Turnpike. It had hit him, then…the enormity of the undertaking. No longer was it just simple talk. They were actually doing it. It was real.
A few hits and some more Santana later, they were both chattering away about their future plans and the lucrative potential of every conceivable scenario. After all, anything and everything was possible at this exact moment in their lives. One would always encounter the existential doors on the path of life, every now and then, right? Some conjured, some imagined, some real. Well, this was not only manufactured, it was real. There was no other more desolate and singular a place to realize how profound this moment was than the New Jersey Turnpike. It was something out of Tolkien like a big fucking metaphorical door rearing its dark massiveness in the distance. Was it close? Was far away? Was it a mirage?
Ana peered at him through the dense cloud of pot smoke which had accumulated in the air and began to giggle. Not that she could read his mind or anything but she did have a sixth sense. Maybe it came from her native Indian ancestors, or maybe it was because she knew him so well but in that moment she instinctively recognized that they were thinking of the same thing. “Don’t worry, Rick, I’ve got the key,” she whispered mischievously.
Astonished, he turned to meet her eyes. “What key?”
“The key to your existential door, Rick.”