Desolation angels: things to do in Australia when you're dead

Thrasher Magazine, April, 2005 by Jake Phelps

THE COPPER WAS FRIENDLY ENOUGH, asked the usual questions. He told us of others not so fortunate while he was loading our gear into his paddy wagon. Hubbard sat in the back with all the gear, while Busenitz and I sat in front. Hubbard did some serious lonely time in the cage. The man dropped Dennis off at the bottle shop and said, "After that you need a beer." I went to the cop shop while Hubbs got a cave. This little town was where we would post up. Dennis and I went to the bar at noon, and when we went back to the motel Hubbs was gone. Monk is one of my best friends and it spooked me that he just split. So it was me and Dennis now. I don't know the guy that well and when he asked me what we were going to do I said we'd head back to Perth and meet up with the rest of the guys, and then back to Melbourne. Simple enough; 100 degrees plus 300 pounds of gear and no replacement car plus two bloodied Vicars plus 1,000 miles of scorched earth equals two thumbs up by the side of the road. Would you pick up death warmed over?

After an hour and getting nowhere we posted up at this BP station in the middle of nothing. Dennis sat with the gear while I tried to muscle a fide. After a lot of head shaking and pointing, I found a lift--some cranker dude that claimed to have "been up for 50 hours" was going our way. His car was packed with the usual tweaker crap. I paid for gas and he took us to Perth. Dennis lounged in back while I played Dr Phil to Captain Zorch. I could have easily blown it off, but when you're dead it makes a great pastime. Hoping that the other guys were still in Perth, the hours clicked by. Two hours in we stopped for gas. I went for a brew and the lady behind the counter just pointed across the street out the store to what was, until yesterday, the Pulsar. It was in a wrecking yard behind a fence. Funny, it knew my name. I left the beer at the counter and laughed out of town. We made it to the hotel at midnight--too cooked to explain, too fired to cry.

Tired of dying, tired of living, my life is crazy. I just wanted to do something new. What I got was the life check. I missed everything that much more--my girl's arms, my home, my life. I could have easily called it over but I muscled through it--and on with the show. Dennis and me would be hauling around in traffic and joke, "It's tad being dead ... They can't see us, we're ghosts."

The underlying reality is just how fragile it is. My cuts weren't healing well; they were hot to the touch. I went to the hospital again. The ambulance cherries were my candy. Doctors get younger. They ask you what happened recently or in life. I just ask for antibiotics and pharmaceuticals. They were steadfast, "We don't have that here." I left and headed to the beach. Tourists, girls, skaters, and hot sun equal Australia. I sat in the sand, looked, reflected, and then I cried. Salt water tears for a dead man skating.

JESUS SAVES. A WISE MAN INVESTS.