He peered through his trailer window, hazy from purple smoke as it sat on the edge of an unchanged landscape since 1953.

On the floor lay a pee stained copy of The Third Reich with a few ripped pages pulled out. He once was a sailor, but now he was land locked in a rural community with no one over a 10th grade education.

The trailor was hot from the computer's and monitor's heat as he and his wife jockeyed for position about who's turn it was next to respond. The bookmark section was overflowing with website links to help justify their morbid existance. A large cockroach walked out of the bag of Doritos on their counter, big enough to carry a completely intact chip. It was so large, it was obvious it needed a shave.

The toilet paper had run out, but a pile of used copies of the Jewish Daily forward set in a pile next to the indelibly stained commode with the plastic seat with a crack in it. There was much satisfaction found by the Sailor in it's usage.

The Sailor was resolved to his fate. His trailor was now his ship, his computer his only window to an America outside of the sounds of dispair and odors of the distrought that surrounded him.

His fingers postioned themselves again on the keyboard but there was a knock on the door. It was his neighbor Mohammad, looking to tell him more stories of his homeland and share the last beer in the Sailor's barely cold refrigerator.

His wife called, "Jack, who's out there with you" from behind the curtain where the commode was.