O P I N I O N
TINY WHITE BOX
By Keith Howard
Least surprising fact about me? I majored in English. Of course I did. I drop writer names like a nerd at a comicon—pantheon to the obscure. Here’s the thing, though, and this might shock you: I’ve never taken a formal writing class. None. Zero. What self-respecting university would ever want this mess of words as the crown jewel of its writing program anyway? No, I’ve read a lot. I’ve written a lot about reading. But learning how to write? Not from some class.
Here’s where it gets weird. Poetry. I love poetry. Browning, Housman, Eliot, Rich. Yeah, I even love the old-school trio: Tinkers to Evers to Chance. But—and this is the kicker—I can’t write it. Not a line. Not a verse. Nothing that even smells like it.
But Rob? Rob’s earned something special as we near the end of this trip. A poetic salute. An accolade. And this? I’ve written two different versions, each of which fails in different ways. The third version, at the end, is the only one worth a warm pitcher of spit.
It’s the best I’ve got.
On Choosing a Sidekick v.1
If you’re heading into the city, pick someone who’s seen the worst of it. Someone who can smell a scam, spot a pickpocket, and knows which bars you walk past, not into. You don’t want to end up as a cautionary tale on the news.
For a long ride, get a driver who won’t lose their mind after mile 200. Someone who doesn’t freak when the GPS goes dark or when you’re stranded on a two-lane highway in the middle of nowhere. They’ll either get you there, or they won’t. But at least you’ll die laughing.
Going into the wilderness? You need the guy who can start a fire without YouTube, who can look at moss and tell you which way is north. The kind of guy who sees a bear and doesn’t wet himself. He knows the difference between a survival story and an obituary.
Innocence. That’s a trap. A minefield. Don’t trust the saints. Don’t trust the sinners. Innocence is just one lie away from corruption, and you’ll never see it coming. You think you’re safe there? Wrong.
Debauchery? Yeah, good luck. One guy’s thrill is another guy’s trauma. Choose your wingman like you’re choosing your surgeon. Someone who knows where the line is and when to stop. Before the whole thing blows up in your face.
Wherever you’re going, it doesn’t matter. The destination’s just a distraction. The real question is: who’s coming with you?
Because it’s not the place that’ll get you killed.
It’s being alone.
Bring a friend
I chose Rob Dalrymple.
I’m still alive.
On Choosing a Sidekick v.2
If going to a city, choose a streetwise tough,
someone who can spot trouble before it spots you.
If going for a long ride, choose a good driver,
someone who knows every back road and won’t complain
when you sing off-key to the radio.
If going to the wilderness, choose a wise man.
He’ll read the trees like an open book
and keep you calm when the world feels too big.
If going to a place of innocence, choose wisely.
Neither saints nor sinners follow requests or demands.
A child’s laughter can undo you more than a sermon.
If going to a place of debauchery, choose even more wisely.
One man’s sin is another’s sacrament.
Know your limits, or you’ll leave with more than a maxed out credit card.
Wherever your destination, remember these words.
Remember these.
Remember:
Bring a friend.
I chose wisely
Rob Dalrymple is the right friend at the right time.
On Choosing a Sidekick v.3
Rob Dalrymple is a hell of a guy.
Choose him as a sidekick and you probably won’t die.
Keith Howard is a freelance writer who lives in Manchester when he’s not in the desert. Contact him at keith.howard@gmail.com