When you were thumbing around Kansas City the summer of '95 on your way to Louisville, and a college kid picked you up and told you he was on his way to a Spin Doctors show and he had an extra ticket, and you piled into his car with your canvas bag and oversize jacket and told him to call you Wild Bill. Tell him you were in ‘Nam, and show him your ID: William Hickok. Spend most of your time at the show handing out flyers at the marijuana legalization booth, then after the show when he asks you where you want him to drop you off, say, “Louisville.” When he offers to drop you off at the next gas station, refuse to get out. When he stops at the gas station, tell him to shut off the fucking lights. When he asks you to get out tell him to listen—you hear them? When he tells you again to get out, tell him you don’t see no bluegrass. When he asks you if you’ve even been to Louisville, ask him if he’s stupid. Then ask him if he’s ever been shot. Then tell him you’re a cheap date and sidle out of the car, and drift hazily from mortal threat to a romantic backstory this kid will tell and retell, until you only exist as an archetype, a phantom, a fiction.