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American Exceptionalism
By Dalton Rees
By the time the swine had switched on the alarm, we were halfway to Sacramento,
smiling wide with the rising sun. Donny said he knew a guy in town that could get us a gun and
some party favors, the rest was up to us; God, I miss cocaine. They say no one escapes from
Folsom Prison, but Donny and I, were smart. We had friends on the inside, you see, friends that
got us some quality cutting tools, snipped right through the fence in the dead of night- took the
storm drain right into that shimmering American River before the bastards even knew what hit
them. Donnys guy, goes by Ginsberg I think, said in his last encrypted letter to call him from a
payphone in Rancho Cordova when we got out, said that hed have further instructions for us.
Hurry the fuck up, Jack, we gotta get to the phone before the damn townsfolk get up for
breakfast and spot us in these rags!
Donny pisses me off sometimes with his billy-badass attitude.
Alright, alright, Jesus Christ. Were almost there!
Coming out of the tree line, I could see a Texaco about one-hundred yards away, right
outside of town. Its still early and nobodys out, the timing is perfect. We run up to the payphone
outside the front entrance, our standard-issue prison blues making us feel uneasy, exposed.
Donny calls up his guy while I stand guard around the corner. He places his arm against the wall
and nervously taps his foot as he waits for this Ginsberg fella to pick up. Donnys eyes light up.
Yeah, hey, its me, he says quietly, almost whispering.
I hear a voice echoing out the receiver, but cant make out the words.

Who the fuck do you think it is!? Donny has always had a way with words.
My attention wanders elsewhere as I scan the quiet suburban spread. I may be a scumbag
but at least I know the difference between freedom and oppression, you know? I crawled my way
out of an iron box for the freedom to live the way I want to, while these ungrateful pricks put
themselves in neat little boxes of their own. But me, Im the image of American exceptionalism
at its finest, a real modern citizen- a pioneer pushing the limits of democ
Now you set that telephone down, boy, real slowlike, a voice around the corner says. I
glance back and spot this grizzled ancient holding a baseball bat, a regular Dick Van Dyke,
Nixons wet dream. Donny takes one look at the guy and leans back into the phone, hold on
chief, one sec, alright? Like the good Boy Scout I am, I jump into action and wrap my arm
around the guys neck, making him drop the slugger right quick. Donny, I shit you not, starts
clubbing this good ol boy with the phone until hes confident the guy will be eating out of a
straw for the rest of his life. I drag the clerk back into the store while Donny wipes the blood off
the phone with his shirt, as if cleaning a pair of glasses, yeah, hello, Im here.
The backroom seems like a fitting place for the poor bastard, if he practically lived in the
store he can die in the store, too- Im a strong believer in fairness. I pull a pack of cowboy killers
and a keyring out of the guys slacks, it seems that karma had smiled on me yet again. Donny
walks in and turns the sign in the front window around, the store is closed for the day, sorry for
the inconvenience. We ditch our Folsom standard-issues for a couple of quality gas station getups, complete with blue jeans, t-shirts, and aviator shades; the most stylish Ive been in six years.
I light a cigarette and turn to Donny while he rummages through the cash register, Whats the
deal bub? I ask. Donny slams the register closed and runs his fingers through his hair, Were

hightailing it to Ginsbergs place in midtown Sacramento, hes going to help us out, he owes me
a favor, you understand? I understood, and we were burning daylight.
With the morning sun glaring off my reflectors, I smudge the smoke out against the heel
of my fancy new shit-kickers; I took the clerks cowboy boots before we left, he also wore a nine
and I dont usually let cosmic coincidences like that fly by me. The poor bastards keys fit the
door of the rusty-grey 59 Ford F100 parked out back, a real champion of American industry.
Donny tells me he wants to drive, the fuck if I care. We merge onto Lincoln Highway pushing a
good sixty-five miles-per-hour, Sacramento or bust. I check my reflection in the rear-view and
flip on the radio- seems that we caught the morning news. Good morning Sac-re-mento! You
are listening to the Danger Dan Morning News Flash on this, the day of our lord, June twentyfifth, 1973. Looks like we got some b-b-b-breaking news here for ya: If you thought communist
aggression and an oil crisis wasnt scary enough, weve received recent reports stating that two
convicted-felons have just escaped from the state pen down the road and are considered to be
armed and dangerous, the media has a knack for sensationalizing anything they can get their
greasy paws on, Donny Strange Love Moretti and Jack Brown, both convicted murderers,
were reported missing by Folsom Prison authorities early this morning when their bunks were
discovered covered in obscene drawings and messages, the contents of which are unsuitable for
public broadcast. The suspects are described in the reports as Donny jams his shaking index
finger into the on/off button in an anxious fit, I get a feeling that hes losing his cool and
collected composure. After a few seconds of uneasy silence, he drags his nails down his neck and
puts on a pair of yellow-tinted shades we got from our friend back at the gas station.
I dont like to listen to that shit, man, its stressing me out.

I let the reflectors slide down to the tip of my nose and lean in nice and comfy to my
uneasy driver.
Staying informed is our civic duty. As good Americans, its our responsibility to keep up with
the times and stay current, bub. We better keep an eye out for those damn criminals running
amuck in our community, like the radio man told us!
When I can tell hes about to have a panic attack I lean back into my seat and light
another smoke, real smooth. Donny slams his foot against the break, bringing the land-cruiser to
a screeching halt. He shuts his eyes and exhales deeply, perhaps finding his center or some hippie
bullshit like that, I dont know.
This is Ginsbergs place, lets take care of business and get the hell out of Dodge. He
has the right idea, I fear the snakes are closing in.
Ginsberg has a real nice set-up: trimmed hedge perimeter, three stories of luxury
supported by a row of Roman columns, the guy even has a pissing cherub statue in his front yard
for Gods sake! This is what the American dream is all about- trimmed hedges and pissing baby
angel statues. Donny rings the doorbell while I lean against one of the beams, taking in the
pleasantries of midtown Sacramento. I hear loud music playing inside, sounds like hes listening
to the Stones. The door swings open revealing a portly, bearded fellow wearing a groovy pair of
shades and an undone bathrobe with only a leopard-printed speedo underneath. I straighten up to
put off a real professional vibe but am taken back by his impressive mass of chest hair- this guy
is a real class act.

Hey hey hey, if it isnt the dynamic duo straight outa Folsom, come in, come in!
Ginsberg leads us inside the manor and slams the door, checking the peephole for suspicious
parties.
Donny boy, its been too long. Why dont you introduce me to your friend?
Donny combs his hair back and takes off his shades, this is Jack Brown, met him in the
cage.
Down-town Jack Brown, I dig it, I dig it. You cats have a seat, Ill be right back.
The groovin caveman two-steps out of the room while we occupy a couple of spots on
the psychedelic-patterned couch. I light up another smoke and examine Ginsbergs set-up,
finding myself fixated on the twelve by eighteen foot Siberian Tiger painting on the west wall.
Before I am able to say anything, Ginsberg grooves back into the room with a joint of grass
hanging from his mouth and a metallic briefcase. He throws his full weight down on the opposite
couch and pulls out a vial packed tight with primo-Columbian cocaine, laying out a few lines on
the table, and passes the reefer cigarette over to Donny.
You gotta know, Donny, Im only helping you out because youre a friend, and I owe
you big for the incident back in Cabo, I mean to ask what happened but am too fucking
distracted by the gargantuan tiger, and well, I love you man, so in this briefcase here Ive got
you, -he pauses midsentence and snorts up one of the lines on the table like a vacuum cleaner
and pinches his nose, snorting loudly, Shit, where are my manners?! You boys want some
blow? Without responding, I sniff up one of the beautiful lines and dart back into my seat; highho white lightening! Donny just shakes his head and takes another hit off of the jaybird, hes
never been much fun. Where was I? So in this briefcase here Ive got a couple of unmarked six-

shooters, two-hundred rounds of quality ammunition, and enough speed and blow to kill an
elephant. Ginsberg slides the case across the table and hoover-vacs up another line. Donny
displays his pearly-whites and opens up the briefcase, pulling out one of the revolvers. He passes
the joint over to me and looks up at the red-eyed Neanderthal; I take the opportunity to puff the
magic dragon and admire the California chronic. Say chief, is this thing loaded? Ginsberg
leans back into the couch and sprawls his arms across the top, Locked, cocked, and ready for
action, my friend! Without a moment to spare, Donny points the hand-cannon at the guys
cranium and pulls the trigger, spreading blood and gushy brain-chunks all over our bodies and
the noble white tiger on the wall. What the fuck, Donny!? That was a real nice painting! Have
you no appreciation for good art, you uncultured prick!? Donny, being the crass asshole that he
is, ignores my complaints and shoves the smoking gun into his back waistband, picking up the
briefcase. Rat bastard got what was coming to him. The cavalry will be coming any minute,
lets hit the road, Jack. This pun really tickles my fancy, maybe hes not so uncultured after all.
Under the blaring midday sun, we walk passed the pissing cherub statue, the blood on our faces
shimmering brightly- American exceptionalism at its finest.