One night, my brother Adam and I were cruising through Crescent City with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. If you’ve ever been there, you know the drill: one-way north, one-way south, like the town itself is politely guiding you along, no detours, no surprises.
Back then, before every corner sprouted a stoplight like a weed, the streets were ruled by stop signs. Red octagons. Simple. Final.
Except not to Adam.
That night, Adam was so stoned he rolled up to a stop sign, came to a perfect, textbook stop, and just waited. Hands on the wheel. Eyes forward. Engine idling. A full, patient pause like he was doing his civic duty.
I finally looked over at him and said, “What the hell are you doing?”
He didn’t even turn his head. Just said, calm like, “Waiting for it to turn green.”
I laughed so hard I had to lean forward in my seat. Tears, wheezing, the whole thing.
Adam stayed serious for another beat, then cracked a grin as if he’d just realized he’d got caught being profoundly stupid. We drove on, laughing at nothing, laughing at everything.
That was Adam. Not a bad guy.
Not a genius either. Just wonderfully, spectacularly human.
On this date, he’s been missing from life for sixteen years now. Long enough that the world has replaced stop signs with lights and replaced people with memories, and long enough that moments like that feel sharper instead of softer.
I don’t miss the chaos he brought, or the trouble, or the worry. I miss the dumb stuff.
The unguarded moments. The nights when time didn’t matter and neither of us thought about consequences or endings.
When I remember him sitting there, waiting for a stop sign to change, I don’t laugh like I used to. I smile, shake my head, and feel that familiar ache in my chest.
And yeah—when I think of shit like that he did, I miss his sorry ass.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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