He hates to go out as much as he hates to stay home; can stand neither the mall nor the couch, neither the silence nor the blare. Mostly he’s a man marooned between two states of being, adrift somewhere on the wide sea that separates the hubbub from the hermit.
He forces himself to go out to lunch and finds himself trapped under country-western speakers. He usually avoids this kind of music, it being too flag-wavy and preachy, and populated with females that all seem to be carrying the torch for him or contemplating slashing his tires or praying that he give up the booze, give up the road, come back home for good and put a ring on it once and for all. These are not his kind of women and, even though they’re only disembodied voices, he can’t stand to be around them.
He had a woman once who loved him almost to death on several occasions but ended up slashing his tires anyway. He gave up the road for her and begged her to give up the booze but, in the end, he had to walk away—even though in her mind they were already inseparable. He never saw her again after that except in the occasional dream that—when he awoke—he recognized as his favorite nightmare.