Prologue
If I should die and leave you here awhile,
Be not like others, sore undone, who keep
Long vigils by the silent dust, and weep.
For my sake — turn again to life and smile,
Nerving thy heart and trembling hand to do
Something to comfort other hearts than thine.
Complete those dear unfinished tasks of mine
And I, perchance, may therein comfort you.
— A. Price Hughes and Mary Lee Hall
My name is Kenneth Spurlock and I am 64 years old. In October of 2008, I bought a bus ticket from New York to San Francisco, a five-day journey across the United States evocative of what I can only describe as a physical excursion from my own reality. The San Francisco Ballet and Symphony Orchestra was performing Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring at Davies Symphony Hall in San Francisco. The Greyhound ticket cost me $79 and I purchased it as a one-way trip without any regard for a return trip. The idea of coming back seemed distant to me. The route made stops in Pittsburgh, Columbus, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Kansas City, Denver, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles before arriving in San Francisco, California. I went on this trip not as a personal hiatus, but as a prelude to my surely death.