Pete Murphy hummed as the car grumbled to a stop. And you don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone… He said the words under his breath, without thinking. What the hell is that song? he said to himself as he hurried to the side of the road, over a bump and out of the way. He felt lightheaded as he ran. His diet was abhorrent. His muscles were atrophied.

Ted was in the driver’s seat. Nick and Andrew were in the car behind. They too pulled off. Such nice American names in the middle of the last… not blank on the map, there weren’t really blanks left. Only question marks...

They were bounding around the last question mark on the map in small derby cars for no other reason than to do it. Ok, it was for charity, but Pete Murphy had neglected to even find out what they were covering such a great distance for – Paris to Ulan Batar, Mongolia. They were now in Kazakhstan, soon to traverse back into Russia. And that was the problem. Pete flew into Moscow and joined them in Kiev, the Russians stamped him too many times. He did not have an entry left. Regardless, like any true adventurers, they pushed on.

His forehead dotted with sweat and his legs began to ache. Things were rumbling but nothing would move. And that song was in his head. Something about parking lots? Oh yeah, Pave paradise and put up a parking lot… Weird. The lyrics were vastly different than the techno they’d been blaring. How did that get in his head?

With a sigh, Pete Murphy rose. Gritty was three weeks short of accurate. The earth was a drab lull of dirt and crags. This is it. Pete buckled his pants.

“You leave any artifacts?” Nick extended from the window and yelled with a carefree smile. Pete Murphy looked up and smirked. He shrugged and got back in the car. He was going to say something to Ted but it didn’t matter. This is the test, Pete thought, of what he didn’t describe. But it would be the test: to remain amicable in such a dire inevitability.

If he’d been with this team from the start he wouldn’t have missed the easy stroll through Europe. Nick had stories of Czech women. That was Nick though. He was the cliché.

He slept thinking about the flight to Moscow, wandering around the airport, then the city, looking for a way to check his email. The cab ride back to the airport and the short flight to Kiev. He didn’t even know where Kiev was before this trip.

Reality had become a slow dream, something he’d already had a vague experience of. He dreamt the experience and slowly trotted through the border station and quietly resigned to his fate as they barked clumsy foreign words at him and ushered him away from his friends.

"Any lasss...t..." Ted whispered the ‘t’ then stopped. Pete looked over his shoulder from behind the fence, a look of defeat mixed with shock. “Any words… for the camera?" Ted was filming. Nick was on the phone with the embassy and Andrew was pacing back and forth.

It was the same phone they used to update their blog each week. What ridiculous nonsense would Andrew write about this? It seemed Andrew was here more for an experience to blog about than anything else. It rubbed Pete wrong. Pete could already feel a strange jealously from Andrew. He could already feel Andrew trying to steal this experience as his own.

"Here I am.” Pete shrugged. He trailed off and Ted filmed him for a few discouraging moments before turning it off and standing there.

Brilliance and monotony. Cliché and creativity. There was a vast amplification of things.

"I don't know what to do, man. Our visas expire tomorrow and we have 300 miles to drive. Otherwise the Russians will arrest us when we try to leave the country," Nick said. He was rugged. He was an engineer; he was the one who wrapped the panty hose around the clutch to engage the tiny car just outside the Ukraine.

"I know," Pete Murphy said.

"I can't believe how calm you're staying." Andrew took a step and wrapped his fingers around the fence. The two tiny derby cars were on the Russian side. Pete was in an international holding pen. The Kazaks should have verified his next destination. But once the gravity of the stamp landed and the ink set in, it was incontrovertible.

Pete watched him and he felt a strange peace. A demented peace, perhaps. He’d heard stories from his parents’ friends about being trapped in flimsy sailboats during the eyes of hurricanes. His thoughts were all spliced up.

Pete didn’t answer his companion. Be careful the others. He remembered the Kazak guard and his strange accent. The voice was ingrained.

“I wouldn't be able to stay so calm." Andrew released the fence after seeing an answer wasn’t coming.

"What, really, are the fucking options?" Nick brought the phone down a moment and crisply defended Pete.

“Just saying,” Andrew said as he turned away.

"It’ll be ok,” Nick said. “Amy will help us out.”

Night began to fall. Ted brought out the camera again. There was nothing but the moon and two dim yellow lights near the guardhouse. Pete Murphy was a silhouette.

He sat beside his pack, alone. He held onto his knees and stared. The stars were demanding. A fat truck driver sat and smoked a cigarette in the darkness, looking at him. His face was hot. It felt as if his brain were fizzling, frying in some horrible poison. He had to do something.

His own heavy knocks alarmed him. He heard the sudden alertness and then the door opened. There were four and they sat with their heavy boots, fatigues and cards.

There were words, a sentence raised at the end. It was a question. It likely meant, "Yes?"

Pete displayed vodka and Polish cigarettes. The guards all had shaved heads and thick necks.

They unfolded a chair and Pete sat. He put his offerings on the table. The man at the right rose and returned with cups. The guardhouse was little more than a few cupboards against a wall and the small card table they all sat around.

Another guard had taken the bottle. He was studying the label. The fourth had taken the cigarettes. The guard took one out and nodded at Pete. Pete gestured in giving. The guard handed out the pack and let it rest in the center of the table. They had five glasses and the first guard, the one with the darkest stubble of hair, poured out the drinks. They toasted.

"Vladimir," the guard said with what seemed like an excess of syllables.

"Pete," he said in a nervous gulp. Vladimir shook his hand.

Yerzhan had light hair. He poured drinks and they lifted them and made faces.

Omar took another cigarette.

"You know English?" Pete asked slowly to the group. Vladimir did. He had spent some time in Russia.

"Do you... like working here?" Pete asked, afraid it was a stupid question. They looked at Vladimir.

"They say good. We are... boss."

Vladimir asked him where he was from.

"Boston," Pete said. They knew of it. They knew of Larry Bird. They made gestures of jump shots.

Yerzhan took a cigarette and passed it to Abdalla. Pete extended the pack to Vladimir who looked him in the eyes.

It felt like five hours but it could have been five minutes. Pete was heating up. His hands were clammy. "I don't want to stay... in there," Pete said and looked to Vladimir and motioned behind him. "Can you help me get out?" He finished and his heart was racing. His brain was quickly clearing.

Vladimir nodded in sober understanding. He turned and spoke to the other guards, motioning with his head toward Pete.

Finally, Vladimir said, "Ok, make ready before... sun."

"Ok. Ok." Pete smiled and rose. He extended a hand and felt weightless. He stumbled as they nodded him out the door.

The stars were more than brilliant. He went back to the fence and he could see the Russians in their guardhouses.

"Nick ...NICK." He whispered strongly. He paced but couldn't see in the vehicles. The trucks were lined up and he could see the embers from a cigarette rise and fall. He closed his eyes for a moment and prayed the Kazaks could get him out. When he opened his eyes there was a second cigarette staring at him.

He called once more to his friends then turned. There was an old and decrepit guardhouse. The Kazaks told him not to enter it. But he did. The moon fell through a hole in the roof and he rolled his bag on top of a pile of bricks.

His dreams were anxious predictions, preparations. There was noise. Rocks clunked hollow. He was a tourist and his dream was a setting difficult to escape. There was a strange silhouette and it was startled. It garbled words that sounded like the stones. “Fuck off, fuck off.” Pete said as if shooing an insect.

One of the truck drivers… Pete scrambled with his legs bound in the bag. Was that a knife reflecting the moon? The zipper was stubborn. He slipped and sprawled on his back. The man approached.

Pete shriveled and cringed. Rocks hit other rocks. Boots shuffled. Reactive steps and there was a stern question. Then there was the dull sound of impact and gravity’s result.

"Not the house. I say you. Come." Pete breathed easy and unzipped. Vladimir used giant white zip-ties to cinch together the man's hands. They left him there.

The first rays began to shine horizontal over the distant arid peaks. The earth was various shades of morning blue.

They were packed in their trucks. They jerked their heads and thumbs. They opened the gate and Abdalla took Pete's pack. Vladimir took him by the shoulder and pushed him into the back seat. With the aid of gestures, he said, "Hide." And Pete did. He crawled down and they piled packs on top of him. He heard their feet against the stone and the key twisted the car to life. It rumbled and the tires rolled over stones.

* * * * *

The car slowed and jerked. He could see light from under the packs. There was talking and he recognized Vladimir's voice. There was the answer and pause of questioning from someone with power against someone without.

A casual stroll disturbed the gravel. A pause and the packs were moved. The sunlight splashed then broke. There was the unlocking of a buckle and a zip. The sound of cloth on cloth. He felt tension. A pause. A word and a hollow slap on the jeep’s hull. They lurched off.

Vladimir pulled off the bags and Pete sat. The wind was loud and the road was dirt. They were gaining elevation and the shrubless desert was gaining thorns. It was road noise and thorns gave way to pines.

The view was enclosed by sparse, dry pines. It was the first time the horizon didn't lay miles away in every direction.

He followed Vladimir inside. It was the start of their leave, Vladimir explained, and it was a lax time of border protection. He opened the door to a shack in the woods and stepped in.

Inside there was a fat man in an unkept uniform with clouded eyes. He squinted and Pete felt this was a bad idea. There was an abrasive question and a meek answer. Suddenly, Vladimir looked like a teenager.

Pete looked at the decorations on the fat man's chest. His coat hung open and wild grey hair sprouted from his tight undershirt. His neck was a stalk that fell from his wide cheeks and his moustache was long and rained over the top of his beard.

The conversation became an animated monologue. Vladimir turned and gave a helpless shrug. The door shut and the general was staring at him.

He fixed a drink for himself and shook his head. He asked a slow question... perhaps it was a statement. What the hell are you doing, kid? seemed an appropriate translation.

The general repeated something. He sighed heavy and coughed. It sounded wet. He said it again and took his watch from a stand near his cot. The shack had little more than a small stove, one cupboard and an archaic radio. There was no telephone.

Pete opened his pack and fished for his passport. He pointed to his visa. He hoped Vladimir had said something of his problem, how it was not his fault.

The old man took the passport and studied the glossy patch of his country. The next page was his northern neighbor. He turned it back. He flipped the page again and spoke.

Then took a pen and scribbled. Pete was elated. He said a series of thank-yous and the general snapped at him. Pete stood still and stared.

The general threw his hand up with a force and gesture that could only be interpreted as Go! Get! LEAVE!

So Pete took a step of retreat. The general launched the gesture again. Pete grabbed his passport and fled.

It was quiet. He listened to the strange forest. His pack was heavy. He felt an odd combination of things.

There was one option. He walked down the winding trail. At the bottom of the mountain there were two options.

He picked west.

* * * * *

Pete made it back and it was a big deal. They met over drinks and Pete told them the story. Andrew had been pimping their experience, The Border Story. There was a blank page waiting for Pete in the center of Snowboarder Magazine. It took Pete three months to write up to the point of the Ukraine. He didn’t know how to proceed.

He left Boston. It was something he always wanted to do but his parents blamed it on the race. He landed in Telluride and cleaned toilets and skied.

He went to Santa Fe and wandered up to Denver. He got a blue collar job and a year went by. He developed a crush on a girl, Sophie, who worked at the front desk of the company he did janitorial services for. He thought about his path, his experience, the worth of it. He thought about what he spoke about when he told the story. He thought about the memories he had and what they summed up to. Did they equal this job here?

He told her the story. She said, “Wow. So your friends got back?”

“They made it unhitched. They got to Mongolia and made a scarecrow with my clothes.”

“They made a scarecrow?”

“Yeah, it was sort of an effigy, I guess. They left the cars and wanted to leave a scarecrow there too… so they used my clothes.”

“Did they know you were ok?”

“No. They had no idea. At that time, I guess, I was sleeping on the side of the road in that shit-ass Muslim armpit of a nation.”

“I would have been scared.”

“I was past scared. I was out of my mind,” Pete said and shrugged. “I was calm because I was out of my mind.” He hated talking like that.

“And you found an airport? I guess?”

“Eventually… to make a long story short I… got on the last flight to Europe in two weeks on an overbooked flight with less money than what the ticket cost, after an 18 hour train ride.”

For an answer she stared at him.

“Then I landed in LaGuardia and called my brother and had him pick me up and slept on his couch for three days. Then walked around Ground Zero and the East Village and ate Crunch Berries for eight meals in a row.”

She looked at him. He said, “That shit gives you green poop.”

She smirked and looked away. “How did you get… the ticket, I guess.”

“It’s a little involved. It’s long. Basically it involves a PeaceCorps member, me getting drunk off vodka with an old man on a bench, me with a knife waiting near the sliding doors by the baggage claim… waiting for a man I didn’t know and… the PeaceCorps member again.” He thought about each segment of the experience. Each part meant more to him than the jumbled whole.

He shrugged and she smiled and their hands brushed as she reached for her Diet Coke. The small cafeteria was deserted.

“I’d love to go out with you, though,” he said when her half hour lunch was up and he coughed up the nerve. She smiled.

He got up and walked her to her desk where she’d sit and answer phones, “Verotex Pharmaceuticals, how can I help you?”

Pete went on his rounds. Then he went to the bathroom with the intention of sitting for 45 minutes with the New York Times. He was in front of the mirror pushing blackheads from his nose when he heard a loud commanding voice; heavy footsteps from hard bottomed dress shoes and then he saw… Neil, was it?

Regardless, it was one of the higher-end administrators. He burst through the door, oblivious, with his shoulder cradling a cell phone to his skull, without break, saying:

“I know damn well that’s the case but that doesn’t matter. We have 15 and that’s not the target so we need to get Anderson aligned with the program and…”

Neil charged on and he stopped in front of the silver trash cylinder and bent over. “Ok, ok…” Pete had stopped, slightly embarrassed to be so idly grooming himself on a Friday afternoon in early fall.

Neil squinted his face in an intense effort as his back bent far from the shiny trash cylinder. His face relaxed in elation as he hurled one of the wettest, nastiest, loudest, and longest farts Pete had ever heard. Pete was certain wet chunks had spattered his underwear. There was only a slight hesitation in speech as Neil struggled it out, the verbose speech resumed.

“No, no, no, I don’t care, do you want me out in Chicago, cause I’ll take a flight out there right now, I can be in my jet in 45 minutes, at your door before you tuck the little ones in. We can pull an all-nighter, but you don’t want that! Do you?”

Before he rushed out the door, just as declaratively as he barged in, Neil adjusted himself in the mirror, noticed the simple janitor and extended his arm. At the end of which was the most exaggerated, boyish, thumbs up Pete had ever seen. The thumbs up commanded a pause like a frozen Saturday morning Japanimation cartoon. Then it dropped and Neil punched the door and continued shouting into the phone.

Pete Murphy washed his hands and left.

Sophie was waiting for him after and he followed her to a happy hour bar. They sat and it was awkward. He told her the story of Neil.

“That’s weird… I wonder why he wanted to fart in the trash can?”

“Me too. And the best part was the crazy thumbs up.”

They looked around the white collar chain bar.

“You never met him, but Dennis, this guy that used to work in facilities. He’s gone now but he worked back there and apparently he’d been on some pills for the flu, or the cold, or something and he’d been on these weight lifting pills and sleeping pills, I guess. But apparently, and I may get the exact order mixed up. But I think he passed out and shit his pants. Woke up a little bit later, vomited and passed out again. And then he may have pooped again but we don’t know.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“Poor guy.”

“Somebody walked in and there was all this vomit and poop… They woke him up and he took a half-day,” Sophie said and Pete thought of something intelligent to say.

“I was terribly constipated in Kazakastan.” He shrugged. She looked at him and they didn’t have much to say. “One summer back east I worked at this camp in Vermont with my cousin. I was like… 16, and for some reason this old like… biologist, guide guy, I guess he was, decided to tell us this crazy story about this guy he used to know, that really liked this girl, asked her out and they had sex, a lot of sex, I guess. In many… uh, many positions. And… long story short, he fell asleep spooning her and in the morning she was gone and his crotch was full of… shit.”

“She pooped on him?”

“He never said, and I was terribly confused at the time. Didn’t really put the story together until I was much older. I just thought she shit on him. But, I now suppose they had some… anal, fun. I guess. And you know, her bowels were loosened up and…. Bada bing bada boom. You know… poop.” He gestured, shrugged and smiled. She raised a lip dubiously.

“Well.” She looked around. “On that note… I guess we should get a little drunk.”