A month passed. Tom was stocking the empty cupboards of America’s soul kitchen like a madman. And get this, it was fun! Sometimes it barely required any effort. It usually never cost a cent. Tom couldn’t believe how much stocking his country needed. Every morning he wrote about his experiences. There was no goal when writing them up. He just wrote the way the Columbia River used to flow before humans murdered its watershed.
Jimmy monitored Tom’s progress and they maintained their correspondence. He went nuts with the ink pad and made art everywhere with his hands, feet and tail. He opened new doors of perception with his art. When people noticed these doors, and many did not because they were fiddling with gadgets, they walked through and saw strange faces in the rain contorted with pain and they wanted to help.
If you ever encounter art made by chipmunks blazing on magic mushrooms, you best pay attention. If you do, your world will never be the same and it finally might start making sense.
One evening, Jimmy typed a message to Tom and a conversation ensued:
Ever read The Grapes of Wrath?
Yes, decades ago.
Read it again on mushrooms.
Jimmy left behind some of his stash. Tom procured a copy of Steinbeck’s great novel chronicling a terrible American diaspora. Tom ate the mushrooms, stayed up all night, and read the entire book. At dawn he stood outside his rig and laughed. At long last, he had a title for his novel: The Grapes of Meth. He would write a great novel about the new terrible American diaspora, of the new Joads who no longer wanted to work, who had quit, checked out, tunneled into the margins, and didn’t give a shit.
Tom typed a note to Jimmy about his breakthrough. Jimmy wrote back, congratulated Tom, and asked for a double serving of Hamm’s, double cracklin’ cold, to celebrate. His work with Tom was complete.
But there were others in the RV park who needed Jimmy’s help. There were also plenty of magic mushrooms around.