Arielle took the I-87 going north. She was driving to Kingston, New York. 

She was driving to Kingston because it was the first capital of New York State; 

because the New York Times had recently declared it “formerly blighted”; 

because there were tapas bars that specialized in imported sherry;

because it felt like West Philly in 2015;

because that’s where punk was happening, she heard, but of course the real raw shit was in some basement down in Ellenville, they have contact mics wired to their fucking balls in Ellenville, no joke. They’re recording their balls dropping, and apparently it’s transcendent. 

She moved to Kingston because she wanted to sneak into the nearby Ashokan Reservoir and spike the New York City water supply with LSD; 

and talk to burnout Gen X hippies about their colloidal silver nasal sprays; 

and consult with the Buddhist master Bob Thurman on his compound in nearby Phoenicia. 

She moved there, really, because she wanted to get railed; 

she wanted a one-way ticket to pound-town, U.S.A. 

She heard Kingston was the spot, where women past their prime—say, 29—could still meet strapping young men, real men. It’s just like 2015, that’s what the Instagram ad read. They’re drinking IPAs, they’re getting tattoos in the American Traditional Style, they have jobs like line cook and carpenter and landscape architect. They own power tools, which they operate regularly and without issue. They’re the kind of guys who say, “I love live music.” They are men who will take you to pound-town, U.S.A. 

Arielle set up shop in the top floor of a decrepit building off the Rondout and got to work. 

She went to the local brewery and ordered their finest IPA. It was named for a nearby waterfall, and it tasted like dirt. She wondered for a few minutes if a man would approach her, and then a man approached her. He was wearing a very small denim vest and very tight denim pants.

“Hello, I’m an indie rock musician,” the man said. “I was recently interviewed by Spin magazine.” 

Oh my god. It really was just like 2015. Arielle asked his name. 

“My name is Jack Manly.” 

It’s great to meet you, Jack Manly. 

Jack Manly had an idea—what if they went back to his house, just a short drive away, and got into his hot tub? 

Arielle said it was the best idea she had ever heard. 

In the hot tub, Jack Manly put his arm around her and tried to point out constellations in the sky, but he kept getting them wrong. That’s Orion’s Belt, he’d say, even though she knew that it wasn’t visible in the summer. This was frustrating, as a real man would know his constellations, especially Orion the Hunter. 

Still she didn’t protest when he pulled her in for a kiss, nor when he removed her drenched cotton bralette. Nor when he insisted they move to the bedroom in his pool house, where he so readily provided her with a plastic bag for her wet clothes that she wondered how often he did this. 

In the pool house she tried to arouse his penis for a half hour, using her mouth and hands in various positions. But his member might have well been oobleck. No matter what she tried, they were never going to make it to pound-town, U.S.A. He blamed his anxiety meds; he blamed the hot tub (but wasn’t that your idea, Jack Manly?!). She said it was no problem. She asked if she could play Third Eye Blind on the drive home. 

The next night Arielle went to a punk show at the venue on the corner. There, after a few beers, she met a loud man named Sam. He wore a bolo tie over a stained white t-shirt, and thick leather bracelets adorned in spikes, and a shaved head, and a mustache. He was covered in tattoos in the American Traditional Style. He was missing a tooth. She learned from the bartender that he was known locally for his harsh-noise SUV, and also for being a pussy hound. This was great news. 

When they got back to his place, Sam asked if his dog could come up on the bed. 

“While we fuck?”

“Yeah, he just gets lonely. He’s got separation anxiety.” 

Was she lower than a dog?! This wouldn’t do. She wasn’t looking for hound-town, U.S.A.! She told Sam she had caught a sudden cold. She asked if she could play Third Eye Blind on the drive home. He insisted on patching it through his distortion pedal: “It’s the harsh-noise SUV, bro. I have a reputation to maintain.” 

Arielle turned to the dating apps. She swiped until she found a man with the occupation carpenter. His name was Salvatore and he went to SUNY Oneonta. Perfect. 

Salvatore picked her up in his pickup truck at 6 PM. They were going to see live music, because he loved live music. At the show, Salvatore got really into it, clapping his hands and stomping his feet, whistling at times. This was embarrassing, but Arielle knew she had to trust the process. 

Back at her place, Salvatore told her about his hobbies. He liked to enter various contests—did she notice the baseball bat rattling around the truck earlier? Well, he won that at the Hudson Valley Renegades game by correctly guessing the number of eggs in a wicker basket. 

“How many were there?” 

“Sixty-nine. And I got a year’s supply of eggs, too.”   

Maybe this was what real men did—put food on the table, through carpentry and contests at local minor league sporting events. Arielle went in for a kiss. 

You’ll know you’re entering pound-town, U.S.A. if you start to lie a lot. No, Salvatore, no one’s ever touched me like that. No, you’re the only one who’s ever thought to wrap his calloused hand around my throat as he fucks me from behind. That’s brilliant, Salvatore. 

You’ll know you’ve arrived if you can’t lie anymore, when suddenly all Arielle could say was thank you and yes and I’m sorry. She laid there heaving for a while. Did Salvatore want to stay with her, at her decrepit little apartment in pound-town, U.S.A.?

No, he had to go. He had an early morning in Ellenville, knocking down a condemned punk house where they once taped sandpaper to their balls for art.