The Rithm Is Going to Get You

The Rithm is Going to Get You
(Draft January 2026)

By Paul Michael Peters

CHAPTER 1

Paradise fit in a van; the apocalypse fit in eight bars. I found heaven on earth and went through hell before the song finished playing. Silence saved me. The rhythm took everyone else. Five months between sunrise and ruin. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

People will tell you college graduation's the start of life’s big adventure, but that’s not how the world works anymore.

I couldn’t find a job. Not a real one. I couldn’t afford a house. Rent was nuts. And it seemed like things just weren’t going my way. So I did what so many did in those days: I bought myself a cheap-ass van and converted it into a home. It took all my savings and three months in my parents’ driveway, but I got it done. Pretty proud of myself, too.

Going in, I knew nothing about tools or electricity, and just enough about changing the oil on the Ford 6.6L Duramax V8 to keep it running. It’s funny how much you learn by throwing yourself completely into something. I’m told that’s true for language, but what would I know about that?

Ninety days. Nearly lost a finger — twice. Lots of rough edges, but all covered in paint. I named her Mrs. Driscoll, because she always demanded to be treated like a lady. So much kitty litter and spilled oil that my father basically chased me off the drive near the end.

Dad. I miss him. I miss Mom. But that — boy — that was in August? It feels like forever ago.

Before it all changed.

Let me go back.

August, I headed out on my big adventure. Filled the tank with diesel. She carried an extra tank for the long rides, and I could even use it for heating when the nights turned bitter. You don’t think of the desert as cold — but it is. Damn cold. The kind that slips through your layers, finds every seam, and settles deep in your bones until you regret ever leaving home, ever daring to call this an adventure. Especially at night. Alone at night. Those clear skies, where you can see every star in the Milky Way — beautiful, but with nothing to keep in the warmth of the desert floor. Just you and the universe. Nothing else. It’s easy to feel small and cold.

For fifteen dollars, one hours pay from a gig, you can get a year pass from the Arizona State Trust Land and Bureau of Land Management. Anywhere outside Phoenix, where the city isn’t rushing out to build new retirement communities, you’ll find camping.

You read about these van-life communities online, catch the closed captions on influencer videos, and it all looks really fun. Big community. Great people. Freedom to do most anything — mountain biking, fishing, soaking in natural hot springs, laughter and joy across the land. But that’s not what I found.

It must take forever to get those twenty minutes of footage the algorithms eat up. I'd spend weeks out there in the van, picking up gigs to pay for the StarLink and groceries, only to run into some dusty loner with a big beard giving me dirty looks.

Sure, on occasion, there was that world you're introduced to — the kite guy was first. It was easy to spot him in the valley with the two lines tethered to the ladder on his back door, reaching up into the blue yonder. One was a Chinese dragon kite, red and yellow riding the updrafts, tail whipping in the winds, watching over all. The other, twice the length at least, a neon green millipede crawling across the sky at the whims of directional winds which sent it running back and forth in a playful race. Moiz — he introduced himself later — would sit on the roof of his van to pass the days. His videos I found online talked about the history and importance of kites, how to build them, and the discovery of mixed materials and chemicals that let them linger aloft a little longer. Halfway through the week, he had to pack up and fly. His 14-day limit on camping at this spot expired; he was moving on to the next stop on his map to follow his bliss.

Moiz — smart, friendly, and thoughtful — was how I thought all of van life would be. But then I met Radio Guy. It was pure intrigue and fascination finding him. A glint of sun bounced off this metal monstrosity in the middle of a canyon. On inspection, I found the reflection was from his radio tower. He had parked his rig in a dried riverbed, and on each side fastened and staked six different tower tension lines to the raised riverbanks that looked like cliffs. I had to earn his trust like he might be a wild dog. Slow, no quick movement, treats in pocket with rewards at the ready. The van rocked back and forth, so I knew he was in there. I stood a safe distance away. His side door opened and the big man bumbled out, thick beard waggling, arms waving, and feet stamping.

"What, are you deaf or something?" I finally understood. "Didn't hear the alarm? Didn't believe the warning message?"

"No," I replied, and handed him my card.

Slow to step forward, timid in touch, he took the laminated card and read it.

"Well, shit," he huffed. "Didn't think of that scenario."

Radio Guy seemed to be one of those people who talked loudly. At least around me. Maybe he thought it would help me understand, but no. Shouting at a deaf man is a waste of energy, I assure you. He loved what he did. Didn't care about being a hermit. Didn't care how he smelled or looked. "Spent too much time in life trying to impress the ladies. Broken heart one too many times to care anymore. Just me, the radio, and the world."

He explained how world band radio bounced off the ionosphere to pick up stations from around the world. London, All India, KBS Korea, the Voice of Turkey — he could hear them all. He was a global tourist without having to leave the comfort and safety of his van. Yes, he had AM and FM — "mostly religion and radicals" is how he described it — but he also monitored the governments, VHF/UHF, police, fire, and air. NOAA — the weather — he always kept on in the background so he could drop the antenna and move the van in case it rained. He talked about his relationships, his friends, the connections he made with his ham radio all over the big blue marble. Good people in the same place as him.

“Government!" he must have said a dozen times each hour. I never really understood what he was saying about the codes, between the static and silence, the changes. Something was getting him excited about the governments. Not just ours, all of them. He kept pointing to his equipment like I should be hearing it too.

I discovered that in van life, you could stand out and attract others to make a connection. But when people want to be left alone, it's easy to stay away.

Those were the early days. I was just finding my way. Computer guy with a satilitte link doing code and AI gigs.

When I met the Scottish Madman, Nick, things changed. I remember his face like the sun burned into my brain. Big red hair, untamed, head and face to match — face on fire with expression — but it was still hard to see his lips. His eyes were an intense blue, almost unnatural. Nick had flown from Scotland and dropped a V6 into a toy car — the kind rich parents buy their six-year-olds to scamper around the yard. Batteries removed, frame strengthened, Nevada license added — Nick was riding it, driving it, whatever. He was trying to make his way from Las Vegas to a place called Bisbee, Arizona, in honor of his family's land of the same name in Renfrew. I didn't catch everything, but I got that much.

He would type things on his phone, show me maps, and I'd return notes. He talked a lot in the two days we spent together, but I don't think I made good company. I was good at holding and lifting things to help in repairs. Most people find it hard to connect with someone completely deaf. He wanted someone to talk with, not talk to. I suppose I wasn't much better than a cactus for him. But I was someone. Enough, for those days while he fixed his ride.

He explained what he called Valhalla. Southbound out of Vegas, he'd found untouched backcountry. A valley with water, trees, shade, and beauty unlike anything he'd ever seen. Pristine. Untouched. “Aye, like the first time you hike Angel’s Canyon in Armenia… all scramble and strain, till you get to the turn, and you know, it opens up. You’ve got to travel the Silk Road at least once in your life. And if I ever wanted to get away from it all, Valhalla is the place.”

I liked Nick. Good man. Handy. I took his point on the map and went for it. His trail, which could be handled by a toy car, was brutal for Mrs. Driscoll. These trails — ha — more like scratches in the dirt, went over and between boulders. Markers, when they existed, were faded and untrustworthy.

Mrs. Driscoll and I made it.

I once read that deaf people were excluded from most of human history's greatest tragedies. They didn't hear the Sirens. Couldn't be hypnotized. Never fell for the Pied Piper's tune. At the time, I thought it was just someone trying to make me feel better about what I'd lost.

Turns out, they were preparing me for what I'd keep.

Valhalla was everything Nick promised. I just wish I'd known what it would cost.