John S. Mith was a likable man, a sizeable man: 45 years old two dogs a wife and a toolshed. A faithful husband, pleasant neighbor, concerned citizen &c. We don't know where he's got to. He liked to pet his dogs in a particular way--starting, say, right near the tail, moving up towards the neck in quick circular motions, quickly retreating to the tail [repeat sequence]. Even in his normal life, his exact location was often uncertain, though he was usually at home or at the office. But this time he's been gone for weeks. As we said, we have no idea where he is now. At this very moment.

He might be. At this very moment he might be extremely tired in the Odd Motel just outside of Kansas City MO. Well, if he checked in there last night he would've run into a desk clerk named Bobsy. Bobsy would have worn him out but good, because Bobsy is a neurotic conversationalist, while John is shall we say easily run roughshod over in matters of verbal intercourse. To clarify:

J: Excuse me, I want a room.

B: O God I don't wanna talk about that. I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just drop the subject okay?

J: But

B: But me no buts let's just change the subject okay? Jesus Christ, walk in here wanting to talk about...What kind of nut are you anyway?

J: I just want

B: DON'T SAY IT! Don't say it. Your wife. Baseball. Anything ELSE. Look, you got any pets?

J: Why um...yes two dogs.

B: Two dogs? What are their names?

J: Joe and and Jim. Look, can't I just have a

B: SHUT UP! Daily feeding schedule?

J: At night just after dinner.

B: Spayed? Neutered?

J: Um yes.

B: Good much better. Here.

J: Oh um thank you. Does this room have a

B: GOD DAMMIT! Are you a fucking IDIOT? Haven't you figured it out yet? I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT. Now get the hell OUT of here.

At this point, perhaps, John would have retreated to the room he was given. He would have gone right to sleep, slept straight through morning. When he woke up, he would have rethought his purpose. We believe he might be on a search for himself, or a search for America, or perhaps a search for other Americans like himself who suddenly feel called to desert their lives, to leave everything behind, for no other reason than vague dissatisfaction.

Even in this case, we think he would have called his family and waited for them to answer, just to make sure they were all still alive, then would hang up immediately. His family remembers no such call. Maybe John is just dead, then, or has disappeared into a forest of sorts, sleeping and living in a silence, perhaps a blessed silence, broken only by the quiet negotiations of lower life forms looking for a mate on a Saturday night.