The Breakfast Club meets TheSilver Linings Playbook in this powerful, provocative, and heartfelt novel about twelve strangers who come together to make the most of their final days, from New York Times bestselling and award-winning author J. Michael Straczynski.
Mark Antonelli, a failed young writer looking down the barrel at thirty, is planning a cross-country road trip. He buys a beat-up old tour bus. He hires a young army vet to drive it. He puts out an ad for others to join him along the way. But this will be a road trip like no other: His passengers are all fellow disheartened souls who have decided that this will be their final journey—upon arrival in San Francisco, they will find a cliff with an amazing view of the ocean at sunset, hit the gas, and drive out of this world.
The unlikely companions include a young woman with a chronic pain sensory disorder and another who was relentlessly bullied at school for her size; a bipolar, party-loving neo-hippie; a gentle coder with a literal hole in his heart and blue skin; and a poet dreaming of a better world beyond this one. We get to know them through access to their texts, emails, voicemails, and the daily journal entries they write as the price of admission for this trip.
By turns tragic, funny, quirky, charming, and deeply moving, Together We Will Go explores the decisions that brings these characters together, and the relationships that grow between them, with some discovering love and affection for the first time. But as they cross state lines and complications to the initial plan arise, it becomes clear that this is a novel as much about the will to live as it is the choice to end it. The final, unforgettable moments as they hurtle toward the outcomes awaiting them will be remembered for a lifetime.
Release date:
July 6, 2021
Publisher:
Gallery/Scout Press
Print pages:
304
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Chapter 1 “Should we go in there and break it up before somebody gets hurt?”
“No need. They were having a bite together and laughing. So either they patched things up or one of them is an alien imposter and needs to be turned over to Homeland Security.”
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out for tentacles,” I said, and the smart part of my brain jumped in front of the stupid part of my brain before it could say especially the hentai kind because no way was I going to try to explain that one to Vaughn.
Instead I started to apologize for being totally fucking useless during the festival fight, but he waved it away like it was nothing, wouldn’t even let me finish.
“You know what I’ve decided?” he said. “I’ve decided most people are morons.”
“Okay, maybe a bit broad—”
“The reason they’re morons is they spend years, decades, hell, their whole lives regretting or apologizing for things nobody else even remembers. They carry those things around like bags of sand that keep them from going to all the places they could’ve gone and would’ve gone if they hadn’t been so busy thinking about the goddamn sand.
“You want to go around hauling sandbags, that’s your business, but don’t do it on my account, because I never thought twice about it. We’re in this together, we do what we can when the moment comes that we have to do it.”
Then he smiled in this kind of embarrassed way and shook his head. “Damn, sometimes I sound old even to me. But I’m not. I’m not that fucking old. I’ve just given it all a lot of thought.”
“Is that why you kicked in the money to get us into the festival?”
He shrugged. “I had it, they didn’t. Not a big deal.”
“I’m just surprised you were carrying around that much cash.”
He looked at me for a second, like he was making a decision. Then I guess he must have made it because he stood and said, “You want to see something I’ll bet you’ve never seen before?”
He led me into the empty bus, reached under his seat to pull out one of the two suitcases he’d brought on board, snapped open the latches, and pulled out a bag slightly bigger than a shaving kit. Unzipped it.
Inside, shoved in tight, were stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands. Given the size of the bag, I clicked through the numbers and came up with a figure somewhere between fifty and sixty thousand dollars.
“Aren’t you worried somebody’ll steal it?”
“Nope. Besides, under the circumstances it’s not like I’ll need it to live on during my yes-okay-now-I’m-that-fucking-old age. Hell, technically it’s not even mine.”
That part caught me by surprise. “What’d you do? Rob a bank?”
“Something like that,” he said. “Point being, I had the cash to spend, so I spent it and I’m glad and I’ll do it again if sufficiently provoked.”
Then he saw the rest of the group headed our way, zipped up the bag, and put it back in his suitcase. “On the other hand,” he said, “I’d rather not have Lisa find it and use it to buy the world’s biggest ball of string.”
“So why’d you tell me?”
“Because I trust you, and if anything happens to me before we get where we’re going, I want to make sure this ends up with someone who’ll do the right thing with it.” He shoved the suitcase back under his seat, then gave it a little kick for good measure. “I like the way you think, the way you talk to the others and look after ’em. My wife used to have all these terms for different sorts of people, like she was some kind of street-corner zoologist: users, losers, takers, martyrs… bunch of others… and saviors, guys who spend their lives looking for birds with busted wings that they can save. A savior, that’s you.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “That was the kind she had the least patience with. Said it was self-indulgent. As for the fight, like I said, don’t give it another thought. Yeah, it got messy, but it’s the kind of thing that makes you feel alive, you know? Which is pretty funny, considering the circumstances.”
“I bet that kind of thing must’ve happened to you a lot over the years.”
“No, not really,” he said, and left it at that as the others piled back onto the bus. AdminMark We hit the pickup point in Des Moines, Iowa, well ahead of schedule. I’d gotten emails from about half a dozen prospects in the area, but since a lot of people have flaked out on us I emailed everyone to say we’d be doing group pickups to make sure at least one or two show up and we don’t waste time chasing our tails.
While everybody else got out to stretch their legs, I took Dylan aside to talk about what happened at the rave. I reminded him that this wasn’t the first time he’d come out swinging in a difficult situation, and that we could’ve gotten out with a lot less trouble if he’d played it cool. He can’t keep pulling this shit because it puts everybody at risk.
He promised he’d do better going forward, but I’d heard that before and it wasn’t enough for me anymore. I wanted to understand why he kept doing it so I’d know for sure whether or not he was going to keep on doing it despite his promises. At first he didn’t want to explain, but I kept after him and though it was really hard for him, he finally told me the whole story.
I can’t go into details about it because it’s uber-private and I never had him fill out a release form. I didn’t even think about it, which was my mistake; I figured he’s the driver; the story is everybody else. Should’ve known that would change once we got on the road. I could ask him to sign one now, but a) it’s kind of late in the day, b) I don’t think he’d sign it, and c) if he said no, it’s not like I could find another driver to step in at this point and I don’t want to back myself into a corner. So all I can do is take his word for it when he says he’ll try to be more mindful when the urge hits him to Hulk out at exactly the wrong moment.
The main thing is: I get it. I understand. Shit, if I’d been through something like that, I’d react a hell of a lot worse. I’d never get over it.
Gotta go. Newbies should be here any time now.
Hi, I’m Audio Recorder!
Tap the icon to start recording.
MARK ANTONELLI: Hey, hi, what’s your name?
VOICE 11: Theresa… Theresa Caldwell, I wrote you—
MARK ANTONELLI: Okay, yeah, but who’s this?
VOICE 12: Jim Atwater.
VOICE 11: My boyfriend.
LISA: Fuck me.
MARK ANTONELLI: This isn’t a passenger bus.
VOICE 11: We know.
MARK ANTONELLI: Nobody should be on here unless they intend to—
VOICE 12: We are, both of us!
VOICE 11: My father said that if we didn’t break up he was going to disinherit me and call the cops on Jim because he’s black and I can’t take it anymore and neither can he and we’re done, okay, we’re just done with people and this world and my family and—
LISA: This is bullshit.
VOICE 12: Hey, you can’t judge us, we’re just as serious as you are.
LISA: Talk to the wrist, the hand’s not listening.
TYLER: It’s a valid point.
KAREN: Tyler, come on.
TYLER: I just don’t know if we should be judging how serious other people are or their reasons for—
DYLAN: Mark, we should go, I don’t want to stay here too long, we’re exposed.
MARK ANTONELLI: Okay, we’ll sort this out later. Here’s the release forms, grab a seat in the back and sign them. Who are you?
VOICE 13: Theo. Theo two two five seven at gmail dot com.
MARK ANTONELLI: Last name?
VOICE 13: None. Just Theo. I travel light.
MARK ANTONELLI: Right, here you go, sit wherever you want. You?
VOICE 14: Shanelle Rose. Shanelle at—
MARK ANTONELLI: I got you. Go on in. Anybody else?
DYLAN: Not that I can see.
MARK ANTONELLI: Okay.
DYLAN: Wait, hold on, we got one more coming.
VOICE 15: (INDISTINGUISHABLE)
MARK ANTONELLI: Open the door.
VOICE 15: Thanks.
TYLER: Dude, take a breath, that backpack’s bigger than you are.
DYLAN: Are you okay?
VOICE 15: Yeah. I’m Zeke. I’m on the list.
MARK ANTONELLI: Right. Here. Okay, that’s the last of them. Let’s go. Jesus Christ.
END RECORDING LIsa This is the second time I’ve tried to write about what happened at the festival. I spent most of my first attempt blaming Crazy Lisa, writing about how she’s acting out and getting more and more reckless. Sane Lisa never would’ve let someone she didn’t know handle her drink, but Crazy Lisa did it because like I told Karen she thinks she’s way too smart to fall for something like that so the drink couldn’t be drugged and even if it is there’s nothing left to lose, so why the fuck not? And everybody had to pay for her choice.
So yeah, that’s what I said and that’s what I wrote, and it’s bullshit. I need to accept that there is no Crazy Lisa and no Sane Lisa, no Loud Lisa and no Quiet Lisa, there’s Just Lisa. Having “her” to blame for my stupid choices made it easier to live with whatever shit followed. It’s the lie that helps me keep going. Well, we’re heading for the end now and I don’t want to keep lying anymore.
The truth is that I’m fucked up. I’m making bad choices. I’m out of control. Not her. Me.
Don’t die with a lie on your lips, Just Lisa.
If we’re going out, let’s do this right.
Let’s do it clean. Username: VaughnR I’ve never been very good at typing, especially on iPads. My fingers are too big for these things, but it’s late, everybody’s tired or pissed off about the newcomers, and I don’t think they’d appreciate me talking back here.
I’ve decided I want to clear up a few things for the folks I leave behind so they’ll understand why I’m doing what I’m doing. Though on reflection, if they’re going to read this after I’m gone, shouldn’t that sentence be in the past tense? “Why I did what I did” instead of “what I’m doing”? It’s the kind of thing Mark would ask. He seems to like questions. Don’t know what he thinks about answers. Maybe I’ll ask him.
Anyway.
Carolyn and I were born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, just across the border from Illinois. It’s a funny border because it runs down the middle of the Mississippi River instead of along the shoreline. Turns out there are little islands in the river and fingers of land that stick out into the river from either side, so the surveyors drew a line down the middle of the river and parceled them out to one state or the other. So when you swim to the center of the river you’re technically nowhere. Swim a few feet east and you’re in Illinois. Swim west and you’re in Iowa.
This is what passes for a good time in Davenport.
Carolyn came from a nice part of town called Red Hawk, right up near the golf course. My dad worked as a plumber, and my mom waitressed four nights a week, so all we could afford was a small place farther south in Five Points, on Telegraph Road just down from Locust Street, and no, I’m not making that name up. As neighborhoods go it wasn’t much, just a handful of old two-story houses, rusted-out cars parked on the street for months at a time, and a smidge of grass just off the main road. In high school my friends and I used to hang out under an old bridge on Telegraph where it hit Pacific, smoking and talking about what we wanted to do when we grew up. We’d travel the world, seeing amazing places and doing amazing things. Live dangerous, die young! we’d yell out as one, then smash our Coke bottles against the bridge wall and ride our bikes down to the river to look across at Illinois, thinking about Chicago and everything else on the other side of that dark muddy water.
I’d just started my senior year in fall ’71 when Carolyn transferred to our school after her family moved into the area. Her father picked Five Points to set up the main office for his new company because real estate was a lot cheaper than in Red Hawk. She was in my homeroom and three other classes, and I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. She wasn’t fond of this part of town since it wasn’t as nice as she was used to, so she wasn’t looking to make a lot of friends, just get in and get out. But like I said, we were in four classes together and I wanted to meet her, so I started taking better notes than usual. That way I could help out if she forgot hers or didn’t take any. Sure enough, she came up short one day and I jumped in to help. After that, she seemed to come up short on her class notes a lot, and we began spending time together.
When we started dating, I told her about how I was planning to leave Iowa so I could go to college out of state and study to be an architect. I’d filled out applications for Berkeley, NYU, University of Chicago, and a few other places. Probably could’ve gotten in, too. I had the grades, and I was able to convince a few contractors around town to use some of my designs for local stores, so I could include pictures with the application. My dad took a photo of me holding the blueprints next to a storefront I designed, and I was smiling so big I thought my face would break. I still have the photo, but don’t know what happened to the designs. Lost, I guess.
The downside to being an architect is that unless you’re lucky enough to be in a big company, it’s all freelance work. It’s less like having a regular job and more like being an artist. If people like your paintings, they buy them; if not, you starve. If businesses like your blueprints, they buy them; if not, well…
It was a risk for sure, and Carolyn saw that right off. What would I do if it didn’t pan out? What if I invested all that time and money into a degree and nobody wanted to buy my ideas? I could end up nowhere. I could fail. She didn’t want that, my folks didn’t want that, and I sure as heck didn’t want it, but I didn’t see any way around it until she talked her dad into giving me a part-time job at his company. Clearview Brite Boards produced long fascia boards used in interior design. They were made of pressed fiberboard that on the outside looked like expensive wood or marble depending on what kind of finish you wanted. They were light, easy to cut, and once they went in, they shined up great.
She said it was a good opportunity because I’d still be (sort of) working in the construction business, but with a regular paycheck and a chance for advancement. Yeah, there was a downside, since taking the job meant I couldn’t go to college out of state, and the local college didn’t offer any classes in architecture, but I could still work up designs on my own time.
Carolyn, I should mention, wasn’t a go-to-college kind of gal. She had plenty of money through her father, and back then it wasn’t a big deal for women to prefer being a wife and mother to pursuing higher education, assuming you met the right match, and we were both pretty sure we were the right people for each other. But I’d have to stick close to make the relationship work.
We all do what we do for the same reason: it seemed like a good idea at the time, so after high school I started taking classes at the local JC and working for her dad, first in shipping and invoicing, then sales fulfillment. But it wasn’t all just office work. When I said the patterns we used to reproduce the look of marble weren’t right, he let me redesign the paint system, and it made a big difference. Did the same for the wood boards too, so the grain looked like real grain and the knotholes looked like real knotholes. It didn’t have a huge effect on sales, I don’t think most people pay much attention to grain, but I’ve always been a detail-oriented kind of guy, and I got a lot of satisfaction seeing my designs on there.
Carolyn’s dad was a level-headed and practical guy who used to say “Better to be safe than sorry” so often that I had it printed on T-shirts for both of us. He thought that was pretty funny, so he’d wear it to the office under his work shirt and whenever anybody did something stupid on the manufacturing line, he’d pull his shirt open like Clark Kent and say “See! Right here! Better safe than sorry!” The line guys always got a kick out of that.
One day we had a meeting with some folks who were starting up a new construction company in Los Angeles. They were looking to place big orders for a contract they were bidding on to construct a bunch of office buildings and apartment complexes in Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. They were making the rounds and getting budgets to make sure they could do the job for the money they were asking for in case their bid went through.
Carolyn’s dad didn’t like dealing with new companies in speculative situations where the order might not even come through, so he left it to me to take them out to lunch and walk them through inventory, prices, stock, and the rest. They were very LA, real showy, not the sort we were used to seeing in Davenport. When they asked what I did when I wasn’t doing what I was doing, I said I was interested in architecture and the head of the company invited me to send him some of my stuff. I figured he was just being friendly or softening me up to try and get a better deal, but I sent him some of my blueprints anyway, assuming that’d be the end of it.
They called back on a Wednesday a few weeks later to say they were close to making their deal, but the guy in the Architect II position, who does smaller designs that the lead man doesn’t have time for, had left to take another job. They felt that some of the designs I’d sent them were in line with what they had in mind, and if I came on board in the Architect II position, it’d save them a lot of time training someone to see things their way. They had to move fast because they were supposed to submit the final bids in two weeks with all the positions locked and loaded, so they’d need a firm yes or no by that Friday. If I wanted the job, I’d have to be on a plane to LA first thing Monday morning. I asked my folks what they thought I should do, but they didn’t know architecture as well as I did, and said it was up to me.
Carolyn and her father understood how I might find the idea exciting, but there was an awful lot at risk. This was a new company that hadn’t done any previous work, applying for a contract they might not get. And that Monday a bunch of buyers were coming in for a contractors’ convention in Des Moines and I’d already said I’d be there to help with sales and logistics.
“If you put all the reasons to do it on the left side of a page,” her dad said, “and all the reasons not to do it on the right, it seems to me the right side is a lot longer than the left side.”
I really wanted to give it a shot, but Carolyn helped me see that he was right: the situation was just too uncertain to take that kind of risk. Besides, even if they got this contract, there was no guarantee they’d get another one later. Most new construction companies go out of business inside a year. I could end up quitting my job and moving to LA only to find myself out of work in six months with no prospects and no guarantee that her dad could hold my job open.
So that Friday, I called and said I appreciated the offer but would have to decline. They were very kind and understanding about it.
I didn’t give the conversation a lot of thought after that, as there was plenty to do and never enough time. Six months later, Carolyn and I were in her folks’ kitchen stuffing envelopes with invitations to our wedding, when her dad’s copy of Construction World came in the mail. It’s kind of the bible for contractors, so I flipped through it while Carolyn and her mom took turns looking at photos of bridal gowns.
Dead center of the magazine was a two-page article about the guys from LA. Their company had not only scored the big deal they were hoping for, they’d gotten two more contracts for a shopping mall in Culver City and a medical plaza in Woodland Hills.
Over the next few years they went on to become one of the biggest companies in Los Angeles. If you want something that doesn’t look like everything else, these are the guys you call.
But at the time, none of us knew that things would go this way, so it was still the correct decision.
Not everything is meant to be, right?
Better safe than sorry. AdminMark Funny how fast group dynamics change when somebody new enters the circle. Lisa had just started to calm down when Theresa and Jim got on board and now she’s back up to ninety. Totally pissed. And I can sort of understand it. Everything about the newbies says Death Tourists, like they’re just acting out and not as serious about this as everybody else. Lisa refers to them as TheresaAndJim, one word without a breath in between because they’re always together. They’re not even trying to engage with the others, which makes them feel even more like outsiders.
Theresa’s one of those people who seems nervous all the time, super thin with long auburn hair she combs straight like a curtain and is constantly peeking past it to see if anyone’s looking at her. Of course the more she does that, the more we’re all looking at her and the more nervous she gets. Jim seems like a nice guy, maybe too nice to be with someone who is clearly high-maintenance. He’s always talking low and reassuring her and getting her sodas or munchies from the cooler when she could just as easily get them herself. And she’s constantly holding his hand but not in a romantic way. Some people hold the other person’s hand like they want you to know She’s with me, all protective, while others want you to know I’m with her, because they’re proud or maybe showing off a little. With Theresa, it’s like I’m holding your hand to keep from falling off the earth, which is weird.
So yeah, I can see where Lisa’s coming from, and I’m not sure she’s wrong, but for now I’m going to let them stay and see what happens. They still haven’t entered anything into the group chat, which is a requirement for staying on board, so I can always use that as grounds to boot them out if things get too tense.
As to the other newcomers… I’m not sure what to make of Theo, but I suspect that’s kind of the point. Shanelle is super friendly, an easy laugher full of energy who won everybody over in five minutes. Zeke seems okay, but my antennae are up. He’s pale and way skinny, with a backpack twice his size, a beat-up old army jacket, and a tangle of blond hair that doesn’t seem to know which way it wants to go. First time he smiled and I saw his teeth, it was the smile of a meth addict, but for now he seems straight and friendly and funny in a goofy, almost shy kind of way, so he may fit in fine with the rest of the group.
And just when I finally started to fall asleep, this showed up:
Username: IamTheo Most of my friends put their preferred pronoun in their Instagram bios—he/she, him/her, they/their—but I respond to any and all of them. I like to think of it as collecting pronouns: the more I get, the more fun I’m having. To get the obvious out of the way, because that’s apparently important to people, I think of myself as post-gender. I was trying to figure out how to explain that because sometimes it’s a paragraph and sometimes it’s a term paper depending on who I’m talking to, and I have no idea who will be reading this in the aftermath. Then I noticed that one of my fellow passengers has a cat with him, and that’s perfect.
When you visit a friend and find they have a cat, you just see it as a cat in all its pure catness, it doesn’t require further definition. You’ll probably get a name, and if you ask, whether it was born male or female, but even after you have that information you still don’t think of it any differently. It’s not a He-Cat or a She-Cat or a They-Cat. It’s just a cat. And unless the cat’s name has any gender-specific connotations you’ll probably forget pretty fast which gender it was born into.
My name is Theo, and by that logic, I am a cat.
What I was or was not born into has nothing to do with how I see myself. It’s not about going from one gender to another, or suggesting that they don’t exist. Some of my friends say that the moment you talk about gender you invalidate the conversation because you’re accepting the limits of outmoded paradigms, but I’m not sure I agree with that. I just think gender shouldn’t matter.
If you’re a man, aren’t there moments when you feel more female, like when you’re listening to music, or your cheek is being gently stroked, or you see a spectacularly handsome man walk into the room? If you’re a woman, aren’t there moments when you feel more male, when you have to be strong in the face of conflict, or stand behind your opinion, or when a spectacularly beautiful woman walks into the room? Well, in those moments, you are all of those things, so why deny that part of yourself?
For me, it’s not about being binary or non-binary. It’s about moving the needle to the center of the dial and accepting all definitions as equally true while remaining free to shift in emphasis from moment to moment. It’s about being a Person, not a She-Person or a He-Person or a They-Person.
There are three parts to this: how I see myself, who I’m attracted to, and how I’m seen by the world that I have to live in. The first I can manifest on my own, the second is what it is, and I have no control over the third. So I live and thrive in the space between them.
So I’m just Theo, which could be short for Theodore, or Theodora, or anything else that fits. And yes, I have a last name, but it has not been kind to me so I left it behind. Technically it remains on documents because it’s a legal identifier, but it doesn’t define me; it has no more to do with who I am than my social security number.
When you go into a clothing store, you don’t just go to the “one size fits all” rack. You look for clothes that fit your waist, hips, legs, chest, and neck, clothes that complement your form and shape, and reflect not just how you see yourself but how you want to be seen by others. If it’s still not quite right, and you can afford it, you get the clothes tailored to fit exactly who you are.
That’s what I’m doing. Post-gender is one term for it. Another might be tailored gender. Maybe bespoke gender. But definitely not one-size-fits-all. The world doesn’t get to decide what best fits who I am and how I choose to be seen. I do.
So rather than let the world define me, I’ve chosen, in an admittedly grandiose sort of way, to define myself. Unfortunately the world does not always take kindly to self-definition. You’re all unique, we’re told in school, but as soon as we try to be unique the world insists that we have to conform, to act like everyone else or face the consequences. Not to put too fine a point on it, this world sucks. So a few years ago, to preserve what little remains of my sanity, I began writing stories, just for myself, about a world that is better than the one I was born into. Fairer, gentler, and more decent; honorable and just; a place of clear streams, blue skies, and silver cities, free of cruelty and meanness of spi
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