We stand in tomorrow's parking lot.
Rain drips, the disaster of a storm just a pathetic drizzle.
Santa Claus stares down at the Traveler. The Traveler stares back, clinking quietly.
We've been thrown out of the valley by the head flower.
"The Asylum", Indiana says, "you in?"
"Its to small in there" I venture.
"Yup" he replies.
I turn to Santa "you in?"
He chuckles like Christmas Eve, "Yeah".
"The old lady," I say, "we were both going to go..."
"Going to get tangled up in yarn," Indiana laughs.
Like plastic Walmart bags in a windstorm we blow away to the other lives.
The Insane Asylum is full but the food looks pretty good.
We were there a while ago.
The big pole with the ticking clock has orange lights spiraling around it.
Not much has changed.
I see Ringo... Haven't seen him in a few years. Not many Beatles are still alive.
The Beverly Hillbillies arrive - junk tied on the roof of the truck, hanging out the sides, too many people piled into the front.
"How does it all fit?" I wonder.
I hold the door for Jethro.
We play musical chairs.
I see a gorilla, or something like it, in old, ripped clothes. It beckons to the Crazy One. They disappear in a cloud of smoke.
Baby Huey. He's big, way too big. Duct tape holds his diapers together.
The orange spiderweb lights the ceiling a strange maroon color.
The devil appears in a red and white cape: good and evil on his shoulders. Like an omen, good sags, trying to fall off.
We're all tired or sick but without obligation there's no point in waiting until the very end.
We drive away to the other life.