Reticulated

House of the Rising Sun

There is a house in New Orleans,

They call the Rising Sun.

- House of the Rising Sun, Lauren O'Connell

The smoke from his cigarette drifts to the ceiling lazily, joining what's left of the steam from his too bitter coffee. He's somewhere in Louisiana he thinks, looking outside the window at the row of small shops bathed in early morning light opposite him. He's not entirely sure how he got here, or why. All he knows is that he's been driving since June, with no purpose and no particular destination in mind.

It's October now.

Adjusting the long sleeve of his shirt, Tim barely notices the chill that fall has brought with it, even down here in what's probably known locally as "the bayou" or something. He's not sure - he doesn't know anything about Louisiana. He wouldn't be able to tell a crocodile from an alligator or a swamp boat from a pirogue. Tim's never even been on a lake, let alone in a swamp. He's seen them - lakes - recently even, he supposes. He's taken his time in his travels lately, no longer in a rush to get from A to B. The stakes aren't dire anymore. He isn't running for his life.

It's been a little over five months, and truthfully he hasn't gotten far. He's only two states over from where he started, which by rights really should have only taken him a couple of days at his old pace. It's different now. He doesn't drive for nearly the same amount of hours in a day. When he stops somewhere he stays for a couple of days, a couple of weeks. It doesn't matter. He's not really exploring - there's intent inherent in that. No, it's more like he's just...wandering. A landmark here, a lake there, a scenic route in that area...Nothing stops Tim from seeing and experiencing anything he wants, but he takes no pleasure in it, and certainly doesn't set out with a goal in mind each day.

Sometimes he works. He skims through discarded newspapers looking for short-term odd jobs; takes them if he feels so inclined. Some lawn-mowing here, some help moving there. Brainless stuff, mostly. Things he doesn't have to be tied down to take. Jobs where people don't even need to know his name, really. Just exchange the cash in return for services and bid a good day! It's worked decently well so far. Its not like he spends too much these days. There's no camera upkeep and no tapes to buy. He's got to pay for gas to keep the car running. He tends to get a hotel for more extended stays in some places, but he can occasionally skimp and just sleep in the backseat if he feels no need to linger more than a night. Wi-fi tends to be free at the hotels, and Jay's computer works just fine enough to get him connected to whatever's happening on the internet these days.

somedayshecan'tstophimselffromcheckingthechannelfromwatchingitfromseeingjayfromseeingbrianfromseeingalex

He reaches for his coffee and takes a giant gulp. It's gone cold.

As if on cue the waitress approaches. She gives him a shy smile as she gestures at the coffee pot she holds and then to his mug. He slides it her way.

"Can I get you anything else?" Her accent is different - nothing like he's ever heard before and certainly not like the rest of the people in this town. He shakes his head at her.

"No, thanks," he tells her hoarsely.

She hesitates. "Need me to empty that?"

"Sorry?"

"The ashtray? Looks full."

Tim looks down at it - its really not all that full, and he wonders if she's just bored and needs something to do. He's been the only customer in this diner since they opened this morning. "Up to you," he tells her, leaning back to give her access if she so chooses.