Chapter 10

I had never even heard of Pucon, Chile until a day before I hopped on a bus heading to the town on the Chilean/Argentine border. Truthfully, I hate Chile. I don't like their weird 2,000 pesos for a hamburger currency. I don't like their flag's colors. Even the shape of the country pisses me off. But I decided I should give it a fair shot. 

On the bus ride over I met two guys from Bend, Oregon. Neither one was much of the talkative type, but the younger one, Jason, did not say a word for the first eight hours we hung out. Eventually I directed a question toward him, forcing him to break his unwarranted vow of silence. I learned he was a senior in high school who had been home-schooled by his mother for his entire life. Outside of parents who lock their kids in a basement and keep them alive only for sexual gratification, I can't think of a better way to socially retard your child other than homeschooling. 

His friend, Kalon, who was slightly cooler, older and more talkative, told me he worked as an underwater welder, which if you are  going to travel and make up a fictitious profession is as good as they come. However when I tried to ask him more about his career in aquatic assemblage, he really wouldn't tell me anything. He also had seven tally marks scarred over his heart. When I asked him about the tally marks, which appeared to be self-inflicted, he gave me a weird stare before saying, “Yeah... I really don't talk about that.” 

I assumed he did it while high on crystal meth because the only other time I'd seen such ugly, painful looking body art, my co-worker admitted to giving himself a tattoo with pen ink, a needle and an RC car battery during his third straight day of doing crystal meth. Whatever, more power to Kalon for overcoming his crystal meth addiction to become an underwater welder. 

One day as I sat alone in the hostel eating lunch, I noticed Jason's journal sitting on the family room table. I decided to read it because I knew I wouldn't get caught, and also because I felt entitled since my travel journal is a blog in the public domain, but mainly because I knew I wouldn't get caught. Hoping for some outrageous psychotic writing, I was disappointed to read the most boring entries ever. It was nothing more than where he had been, what he bought from the grocery story and how it tasted. His mother is a shit writing teacher.