The Cosmic Burrito
by
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Crosby looked at Tosh lying on the back bed. How content he seemed -- sleeping pleasantly, probably dreaming about sexual escapades with some exotic woman he encountered overseas. Sleeping pleasantly, deep in slumberland, while Crosby fed himself another cup of stale, black, truck-stop coffee. Sleeping pleasantly, spread out on the back bed, while Crosby tried to stretch his cramped legs and aching back at 60 miles per hour. Sleeping pleasantly, warm and comfy, while Crosby rolled the window down a crack, hoping the cool night air would revive his heavy, bloodshot eyes. Sleeping pleasantly, oblivious to everything around him, while Crosby futilely searched the radio on the engine cover for some type of entertainment to pass time on the endless road. Sure, Crosby could have pulled the van over, said "To hell with it," and caught some shut-eye. He did not have to flirt with the fringes of fatigue, push himself to the edge of exhaustion and let the highway lull him into the lower levels of lassitude. After all, they didn’t have to be anywhere. They didn’t even know where they were going. They were just driving. Destination wherever. But that didn’t matter. The point was that Crosby was now a traveler. He was a beatnik nomad, crossing this great land at his own whim, searching for adventure. He was a drifter, living on the road. For this reason, he could not let the road get the best of him. What kind of voyager would he be if he gave into the travails of the highway? He had to be in control, master of his domain. For Crosby, this was not just a drive but also a contest of wills, a test of endurance. It was the darkness versus his vision. The monotony against his sanity. The hours versus his strength. But he did not fight this battle alone. Crosby had Josephine on his side. It was pavement versus rubber. The elements versus performance. Mileage versus durability. It was small, winged insects against headlights. Crosby intended to prove that they were worthy of this trek, if only to himself. He would continue until...until...until when? Crosby, like a seasoned journeyman, figured he would know when he got there. * * * * The time had come to wake up Tosh. Lowering his face towards his friend’s until they were nose to nose, Crosby spoke ever so softly. "Boo." Tosh sprang up, startled and sleepy-eyed. "Wha-- What? What is it? What happened?" "Take it easy, dude. It’s morning." "What time is it?" "Five forty-five." "That’s not morning. I’m going back to sleep." "C’mon, dude. You gotta see this." "Where are we?" "Just come look." Tosh threw on a hat, sweatshirt and flip-flops. He cleaned the crusties out of his eyes and took a swig of Crosby’s orange juice. The day’s first light filtered through the blinds that provided Josephine with a little privacy. Crosby opened the side doors and Tosh jumped out. "Holy sh--!" Tosh could not believe his eyes. He had seen nothing but cornfields for the past few days. "I thought the Grand Canyon was in Arizona." "It is." "How did we get to Arizona?" "We didn’t. We’re in South Dakota." Tosh studied the magnificent cliffs that he stood above and gazed at the wide-open plains in the distance. "What is it?" "It’s the edge of the world," Crosby said with a far-away look. "South fuckin’ Dakota. Damn. I never knew anything like this existed in South Dakota." Crosby seemed lost in contemplation. Finally, in a reverent tone, he said, "This, my friend, is the Badlands." They stood silently, side by side. Daylight crept through the sky though the sun was not yet visible. A cool breeze whistled past, disrupting the awesome silence. Not a creature stirred, not even a mouse. The Badlands were a series of small canyons carved into the earth, forming an endless maze of jagged clay hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. Though every hill had a different shape, it seemed impossible to distinguish one from another. They all had a pale rust color with dark horizontal lines. Only an occasional tumbleweed graced the barren mounds left standing by raging water many centuries ago. Tosh peered down the bluff he stood upon, making sure he kept a safe distance from the edge. No need to have a close-up look at the texture of the cliff, he thought, wincing at the idea of his flesh being scraped from his bones as he slid and bounced all the way down the rocky precipice. It’s strange how distance affects perception, he thought, looking down a couple of hundred feet to the scrubby valley below. He knew the ravines were all roughly the same depth. Yet, as he surveyed the immense land, the more distant the ridge, the flatter it seemed. This common optical illusion amazed Tosh at that insane hour of the morning.
Crosby gaped far into the distance. As the orange sun peeked over the flat horizon, he took a deep breath. The vista looked like a canvas. Was he really part of this beauty surrounding him? Canyons, plains, a river in the background. Gorgeous land that, throughout the better part of time, has withstood geological shifts, blizzards, floods and droughts. Earth that has seen millions of lives come and go. Ground that will endure until the planet ceases to exist. Suddenly, Crosby felt very small and meaningless. He adjusted his filthy cap and skipped over to Josephine. He pulled the sleeping bag and blankets off one of the benches and pried it open. While propping open the lid with his left hand, Crosby reached into the cooler with his right and yanked out two icy cold beers. "Here, Tosh." "Ho! Beer -- it’s not just for breakfast anymore." Tosh cracked the lid and took a healthy swig. "Here’s to a beautiful day." Crosby touched his bottle to Tosh’s. "It’s good to be alive."
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About the Book
College graduation, a bittersweet occasion. For Tosh Tyler, bitter, for Crosby Graves, very, very sweet. For Tosh, graduation meant the end of a carefree, decadent lifestyle that featured four years in a fraternity with an extremely active social life. He had lived predominantly on junk food, cheap beer and psychedelic drugs, managed to seduce quite a shameful amount of coeds, and finished with a very respectable grade point average. He did not want to graduate. Not yet, anyway. If Tosh's college experience likened itself to dollar nachos in the sports bar, Crosby's path through post-high school academia was like wax beans in a cafeteria. While Tosh tailgated at Big Ten football games and ogled sorority girls, Crosby worked at a deli to pay his way through an art major at a local university. For Crosby, graduation meant an end to a disciplined routine, integral and rewarding, but not exactly fulfilling in the fun department. His four years of hard work had drained him of his lust for life and he approached his jump into the nine-to-five world like walking the plank. Crosby decided he did not want to get a job. Not yet, anyway. Two friends, two different paths, same result – wanderlust... The Cosmic Burrito is the story of two restless college graduates who decide to postpone their entrance into the "real world" by taking the cross-country trip they had always dreamed of, a mind-expanding gumbo of philosophy and spirituality served with a generous side of youthful antics. Leaving New Jersey in an old Dodge van, Tosh Tyler and his best buddy, Crosby Graves, set out to find understanding, direction and the Ultimate Burrito. With one foot in the metaphysical world and one foot in the gutter, they search for truth, yet never abandon their less noble interests. Tosh and Crosby’s whimsical journey, with the guidance of a mystical guardian, introduces them to an intriguing cast of characters and a new way of thinking.
About the Author
At a very young age, David Shiffman was coaxed into eating a poisonous wild mushroom by a flirtatious playmate. Though the incident led to a decade of mushroom-hating, his years living at the unruly Phi Who fraternity at Penn State University changed his perspective on mushrooms and in turn, opened his mind up to the wonder of the universe. David has spent the past decade writing for various music publications, writing, directing and producing an Off-Broadway comedy, acting in various commercials, plays and films and spending what little money he has made on his extensive music collection, which he has dubbed, "Rootsdude Sound System." He has a feverish passion for reggae music, Rasta consciousness and island culture. David plays ice hockey religiously for Team Rasta, a recreational team he founded and manages. His favorite food is Mexican beer, especially Pacifico.