8 Weeks humping prehistoric 35mm camera gear in the Pennsylvania snow climaxed with a daring wrap party to be forever unparalleled in dance, drink and carnal debauchery. The morning after: the day before Christmas, 2005. “Dude,” I said - gently but sternly stirring you from your nest of hung-over art assistants, “We have 24 hours to drive 1200 hundred miles or my family disowns me.”

I remember the waitress’s voice at the Cracker Barrel in South Carolina. I asked her where the bathroom was - “You jus go straight on tru dem double daws.” It was good to be back in the South - safe from icy night-time roads and E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles fans. Upon returning to the table, there sat a red, white and blue box quaintly printed with a forgotten style of bold nostalgia. Inside: this harmonica - shining gloriously under the economic, chain-restaurant lighting like all the angels and Robocop’s helmet. I showed as much gratitude as any masculine heterosexual can.

We ate, we paid, we drove.

In Destin, Florida, you got in an old cadillac that a friend bequeathed you - a battered pile of metal, like a transformer had taken a dump in Shane’s front yard - but it would get you to New Orleans. My toyota echo and your caddy pulled out of the neighborhood and stopped at a T-intersection. We faced the coastal highway, running East and West, and feet beyond that heaved the Gulf of Mexico - the first water we’d seen since the frozen Delaware. We shared a knowing glance, lingering as long as our masculine heterosexuality would let us. As I watched you turn West towards a long, arching bridge I made a silent promise. It was a masculine, heterosexual promise. It was this:

I will earn this harmonica.

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