and it isn't pitiful or boring, was last night - (italics were the parts I left out)

Someone had left a nice new fly-fishing kit and rod at the home of the man I hated and couldn't leave. I think it was probably payment for drugs. One day I decided to steal it and walk out. Just walk out the door, (the way I walked out of the classroom to be his prisoner for eight hours a day. ) I got down to the lobby of the thousand-year-old moldy mildewy flophouse Mr. Fuckhead lived in and couldn't think of what to do next. So I called my friend H. whose family and friends never noticed he wasn't there either. He brought his car. We Got Away. The getaway car was a Chivas-colored Ford.
It was so hot that night that our backs still stuck to the seats even by midnight, when we were still going towards the Oregon border. We took turns singing and driving, getting high and drinking coffee at every gas station with a funny sign and peeing every time either one of us felt like it. We were still children enough to avenge ourselves in this way - stopping the car whenever we wanted.

The tackle box was full of mysterious drugs, and I never asked H. what plans he had for them. I never asked what plans we had. It was a day into night into day drive. By the time we finally got tired of taking turns sleeping in the moving car and killing two hours at a time in coffee shops, we were lost. The sign I could remember read Tillamook county . We had run out of food, and talk, and almost out of gas, and we had run down on our momentum.

We were out of money and hungry and no one knew where we were, even ourselves.

H. pulled over by a stream. We were both wild with fatigue, and neither one of us spoke. Then I got out of the car and took our 8-Track-Tape caddy down to the banks to look for the berries I had seen from the car. H.took the fishing pole with him and came back with a pearly adolescent salmon that had been spawned and bred to be caught by a fag the first time in his life he cast a line. The thorns from the blackberry bushes scratched at my back like a purring tomcat. I took one bite out of half a dozen different crabapples and then pitched them,and felt like a drunken pirate doing all the bars.

Without talking about a plan, we finally were following one. I gathered the strange twisty branches I had seen and put H's Zippo lighter to a pile of them. We crumbled blackberry leaves into the fire and roasted Friend Salmon in the dreamy cloud of sweet smoke and ate blackberries by the handful out of my rolled-up t-shirt. It was so good that H. thought he was tripping and we both strained to remember if he had taken any acid on the long drive up. I felt it too. We laughed until we drowsed, and woke up shivering with lips and hands stained as if we had murdered something blue together. We covered our little fire like we had seen the roustabouts do it on "The Thornbirds" and when we got back in the car we were both crying.
Then without any comment he turned the car back toward the home where no one was looking for me except a married drug addict who wanted to kill me and our 89-year-old Fuller Brush man.

He didn't tell his parents he was gay until a year after this happened. I didn't leave the fuckhead until two years later. Whenever I eat berries and salmon, I think of this.