Month: May 2010

Here I go.

Melany and I spent the morning before I left in her room at her parents’ house. She made breakfast and we nibbled at the meal she’d prepared after she and I made love for the final time. For a long while I just sat at the end of the bed with Melany in my lap facing me, her legs enclosed around my waist as if she was holding on for dear life. Damned if she almost didn’t make me change my mind by doing so. In hindsight I realize that we were tired, the two of us, only I’d finally managed to figure out why I was tired. Melany thought she just needed a vacation or a new job, but that wouldn’t help. Melany was the family type, and she would never leave. She would stay in her parents’ house until she met a man to take her into his home, and that would be all she wrote. We loved each other and love does transcend such differences, but love and unhappiness make for a terrible life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this of course, and when she kissed me goodbye I could see in her eyes that she still held hope that I would return to her as a changed man. She believed that after my little journey I would return a good man, a family man, and a man with a plan. The problem was I had a plan, and it did not include staying in one place and hoping it would lead to a luxurious retirement. She kissed me at her doorstep, along the path to the curb, as I opened my door, and through the window of my truck, each kiss a terrible nail in our coffin. She told me if I ever had a plan or knew where I was going to be that I should call her. A smile and a nod of my head is all I could do to tell her I’d consider it.

As I drove away I sincerely hoped that she would quickly learn to hate me so that she could move on with her life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this, because I knew I would think about her every day for a long time to come. If there’s one thing I hated, it’s hypocrisy.

As I drove home to finish selling or giving away my things I began to think about the places I thought I’d miss. The Bowler’s Lounge, Mick’s Tavern, the Mediterranean deli where the fellas and I get lunch, the drive along the coast on a rainy day. Once, Jack and I were stopped at a vista point up near Carmel and met these gorgeous girls who had just come back from sun bathing. Jack managed to sweet talk one of them and that very night he was in his room with her while I parked near the beach with one of her friends. She went by Beatrice and had the most amazing voice I’d ever heard. She said she’d thought about being a singer when she was a kid, but that was silly. Beatrice worked at a law firm as an administrative assistant, and she was planning to go to school in order to become some kind of copyright lawyer. Good, I told her. That sounds awesome. The moonlight doesn’t really come in clear through misty windows but it still lit her in such a way that if I’d been a painter I would have done my best to remember that moment forever just so I could paint it in different styles. I remember thinking that I used to draw as a kid, and if I’d stuck with it I may have been able to paint Beatrice so that she could be remembered. But I couldn’t stick to it because that required time, a lifetime even, and I’d miss too many things, too many experiences. I couldn’t tell you exactly what experiences those were.

I was at the apartment, packing a duffle with the remainder of my clothes, when the guys showed up. They were early, but I was nearly done. Francisco took the stereo and speakers, which were too old to sell for anything but still good for a garage or something, and Mike just collected all the miscellaneous small stuff that was still there. I told the landlord that he could do whatever he wanted with the rest of it and he could keep the deposit. They invited me out to lunch and although I didn’t particularly feel like stopping for yet another farewell meal I told them it was fine. We were once the GLD, Gentlemen of Last Days, and although those days were well behind us we were no less close then than back when we were high school kids rebelling against comfortable lives and trying in vain to get laid. If we were going to do the last meal, we were going to do it right. They drove me down to Astro Burgers which had once been our headquarters and home away from home. Jorge, the fat man who manned the register every day for years, had since been replaced by a high school kid with more acne than I was comfortable looking at. So, I looked at the menu and told Mike to just get me a patty melt and raspberry shake while I got the table. The kids were out in full force by mid-afternoon and we had to sit at a table in the middle between a couple on one side and a giggly group of girls on the other. Nothing had changed. These kids would continue coming here every day until they graduated high school, at which point they would either go on to college or full time jobs. Then of course there are the unfortunate ones who would remain there in that restaurant for the rest of their lives. As I sat with my arm draped over the back of the booth I glanced ahead at the gigglies and smiled at one that was looking at me. She looked away quickly and whispered some indiscernible obvious secret to her friend. I wish such a thing could have been when I used to be one of the crowd.

Mike brought the food, Francisco brought the beers. They asked what I planned to do about money, about jobs, about repairs, about food. I told them I didn’t know, and they laughed and weren’t surprised. They knew me, after all, and I knew them. Francisco used to be monumentally fat but he lost the weight in middle school when he started running. He became quite the popular guy afterward, and even then he was doing well as a sales rep for a computer manufacturer. Mike didn’t do as well but he found his calling as a manager at a shoe store in the mall, and he makes enough to pay for his home and provide for his wife and kids. They were genuinely happy, those two, and I’m glad they were. I sometimes envied that they could be so happy, but that just made me consider that perhaps I had a problem and everyone else was fine. At the time I couldn’t fathom such a thing because surely I had things right and everyone else was miserable. Poor saps, that’s what they were.

We ate and laughed for a while as everyone around us left and new customers streamed in. We weren’t there enough to be known or know them, so it wasn’t quite the same as the old days.

When I’d said goodbye to them (again) I returned to the apartment and picked up the rest of my things. I threw whatever was left into the truck bed and closed the camper before stopping by to give John, the landlord, my set of keys. He then asked me what my plan was, and I told him I didn’t know. He scowled and wished me luck. As I walked away I’ll admit I did glance at my window, but only for a moment. A room, a table, a stove… no one needs those things. I thought I didn’t need those things. With the final step into my truck I was officially done and I drove north to the highway with the late afternoon sun as my only companion. The sun and I would become very dear friends.

They told me it was dangerous, out there on the long and lonesome highway. It seems all manner of unsavory individual lurks along the veins that allow the lifeblood of America to flow. It’s difficult to understand when one is used to living within the bubble, but yes it is dangerous out there. And, well, at the time I needed some danger. I needed to get fucked up, both physically and spiritually. I could only know about the highs when I’d hit the disturbing lows, and so I did not doubt and drove on the highway eager to leave the city behind. This choice would not matter until I reached a point where no house could be seen and no other car could be heard. I played no music and allowed the hum of the engine to lull me into a state of numbness. I allowed this until the rest stop north of Barstow where I stopped for a nap. I noted there that I’d officially been gone for four hours and twenty seven minutes. It felt the same.

I smoked the last cigarette of my life that night while I stared at the ceiling of the truck cab that would be my home for some time to come. A lot of things crossed my mind, but all of them were about things I would be leaving behind. I didn’t want to think about those things anymore. I wanted to think about the long and lonesome highway ahead, where I realized I wouldn’t know what to expect anymore. The plan was no plan at all, just a drive. I could’ve very well returned to my place in the city or back to Melany’s arms, but I didn’t. I thought about the drive and the need to go.

And I’m gone.

Here I go.

Melany and I spent the morning before I left in her room at her parents’ house. She made breakfast and we nibbled at the meal she’d prepared after she and I made love for the final time. For a long while I just sat at the end of the bed with Melany in my lap facing me, her legs enclosed around my waist as if she was holding on for dear life. Damned if she almost didn’t make me change my mind by doing so. In hindsight I realize that we were tired, the two of us, only I’d finally managed to figure out why I was tired. Melany thought she just needed a vacation or a new job, but that wouldn’t help. Melany was the family type, and she would never leave. She would stay in her parents’ house until she met a man to take her into his home, and that would be all she wrote. We loved each other and love does transcend such differences, but love and unhappiness make for a terrible life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this of course, and when she kissed me goodbye I could see in her eyes that she still held hope that I would return to her as a changed man. She believed that after my little journey I would return a good man, a family man, and a man with a plan. The problem was I had a plan, and it did not include staying in one place and hoping it would lead to a luxurious retirement. She kissed me at her doorstep, along the path to the curb, as I opened my door, and through the window of my truck, each kiss a terrible nail in our coffin. She told me if I ever had a plan or knew where I was going to be that I should call her. A smile and a nod of my head is all I could do to tell her I’d consider it.

As I drove away I sincerely hoped that she would quickly learn to hate me so that she could move on with her life. I didn’t tell Melany any of this, because I knew I would think about her every day for a long time to come. If there’s one thing I hated, it’s hypocrisy.

As I drove home to finish selling or giving away my things I began to think about the places I thought I’d miss. The Bowler’s Lounge, Mick’s Tavern, the Mediterranean deli where the fellas and I get lunch, the drive along the coast on a rainy day. Once, Jack and I were stopped at a vista point up near Carmel and met these gorgeous girls who had just come back from sun bathing. Jack managed to sweet talk one of them and that very night he was in his room with her while I parked near the beach with one of her friends. She went by Beatrice and had the most amazing voice I’d ever heard. She said she’d thought about being a singer when she was a kid, but that was silly. Beatrice worked at a law firm as an administrative assistant, and she was planning to go to school in order to become some kind of copyright lawyer. Good, I told her. That sounds awesome. The moonlight doesn’t really come in clear through misty windows but it still lit her in such a way that if I’d been a painter I would have done my best to remember that moment forever just so I could paint it in different styles. I remember thinking that I used to draw as a kid, and if I’d stuck with it I may have been able to paint Beatrice so that she could be remembered. But I couldn’t stick to it because that required time, a lifetime even, and I’d miss too many things, too many experiences. I couldn’t tell you exactly what experiences those were.

I was at the apartment, packing a duffle with the remainder of my clothes, when the guys showed up. They were early, but I was nearly done. Francisco took the stereo and speakers, which were too old to sell for anything but still good for a garage or something, and Mike just collected all the miscellaneous small stuff that was still there. I told the landlord that he could do whatever he wanted with the rest of it and he could keep the deposit. They invited me out to lunch and although I didn’t particularly feel like stopping for yet another farewell meal I told them it was fine. We were once the GLD, Gentlemen of Last Days, and although those days were well behind us we were no less close then than back when we were high school kids rebelling against comfortable lives and trying in vain to get laid. If we were going to do the last meal, we were going to do it right. They drove me down to Astro Burgers which had once been our headquarters and home away from home. Jorge, the fat man who manned the register every day for years, had since been replaced by a high school kid with more acne than I was comfortable looking at. So, I looked at the menu and told Mike to just get me a patty melt and raspberry shake while I got the table. The kids were out in full force by mid-afternoon and we had to sit at a table in the middle between a couple on one side and a giggly group of girls on the other. Nothing had changed. These kids would continue coming here every day until they graduated high school, at which point they would either go on to college or full time jobs. Then of course there are the unfortunate ones who would remain there in that restaurant for the rest of their lives. As I sat with my arm draped over the back of the booth I glanced ahead at the gigglies and smiled at one that was looking at me. She looked away quickly and whispered some indiscernible obvious secret to her friend. I wish such a thing could have been when I used to be one of the crowd.

Mike brought the food, Francisco brought the beers. They asked what I planned to do about money, about jobs, about repairs, about food. I told them I didn’t know, and they laughed and weren’t surprised. They knew me, after all, and I knew them. Francisco used to be monumentally fat but he lost the weight in middle school when he started running. He became quite the popular guy afterward, and even then he was doing well as a sales rep for a computer manufacturer. Mike didn’t do as well but he found his calling as a manager at a shoe store in the mall, and he makes enough to pay for his home and provide for his wife and kids. They were genuinely happy, those two, and I’m glad they were. I sometimes envied that they could be so happy, but that just made me consider that perhaps I had a problem and everyone else was fine. At the time I couldn’t fathom such a thing because surely I had things right and everyone else was miserable. Poor saps, that’s what they were.

We ate and laughed for a while as everyone around us left and new customers streamed in. We weren’t there enough to be known or know them, so it wasn’t quite the same as the old days.

When I’d said goodbye to them (again) I returned to the apartment and picked up the rest of my things. I threw whatever was left into the truck bed and closed the camper before stopping by to give John, the landlord, my set of keys. He then asked me what my plan was, and I told him I didn’t know. He scowled and wished me luck. As I walked away I’ll admit I did glance at my window, but only for a moment. A room, a table, a stove… no one needs those things. I thought I didn’t need those things. With the final step into my truck I was officially done and I drove north to the highway with the late afternoon sun as my only companion. The sun and I would become very dear friends.

They told me it was dangerous, out there on the long and lonesome highway. It seems all manner of unsavory individual lurks along the veins that allow the lifeblood of America to flow. It’s difficult to understand when one is used to living within the bubble, but yes it is dangerous out there. And, well, at the time I needed some danger. I needed to get fucked up, both physically and spiritually. I could only know about the highs when I’d hit the disturbing lows, and so I did not doubt and drove on the highway eager to leave the city behind. This choice would not matter until I reached a point where no house could be seen and no other car could be heard. I played no music and allowed the hum of the engine to lull me into a state of numbness. I allowed this until the rest stop north of Barstow where I stopped for a nap. I noted there that I’d officially been gone for four hours and twenty seven minutes. It felt the same.

I smoked the last cigarette of my life that night while I stared at the ceiling of the truck cab that would be my home for some time to come. A lot of things crossed my mind, but all of them were about things I would be leaving behind. I didn’t want to think about those things anymore. I wanted to think about the long and lonesome highway ahead, where I realized I wouldn’t know what to expect anymore. The plan was no plan at all, just a drive. I could’ve very well returned to my place in the city or back to Melany’s arms, but I didn’t. I thought about the drive and the need to go.

And I’m gone.

Evening was closing in. Night was wonderful… silent. But eyes could not see in the dark. There was no need to drive when nothing was visible. The eyes needed to see.

Lids were heavy, susceptible to collapse. They were weak. He would not allow them to fall. He would hold them up, give them strength. He could not allow them to quit. They needed to remain open.

The right foot ached. How long had it been since the last gas stop? How long had that foot pressed upon the pedal jutting out from the floor of the vehicle? Too long, he figured. The ankle was more sore than usual. He must have been driving for a long time. On a typical day he did not mind. Today, he did. Why today?

A large transparent bag lay untouched on the brown and tan pattern of the passenger seat. “Bison Jerky,” read the label. As he looked over the right leg, doing what he could to absorb the pain for just a while longer, the eyes wandered to the bag. He hadn’t eaten in hours. Seemed like days, really. The mind had been active, distracting him. Too much thought. Thoughts of family not spoken to. Friends, long since forgotten. For their sake, he thought. Why worry over someone who didn’t want to be worried over? Logical? Yes, he thought.

The mind thought about eating “Bison Jerky.” He wanted to eat “Bison Jerky.” Maybe later.

The vehicle drove upon a sign: “Camino se Termina.” The neck turned, eyes locked on the sign. The mind turned, locked on a thought. He could. Why not? The hands held the dusty black steering wheel steady. The road remained stable. The mind was wondering… wandering. This is safe road. But, the road relented. It could not extend forever.

Abruptly, and quite suddenly, what little stable road remained gave way to the coarse crunching of rubber on dirt and leaves. The vehicle was becoming unstable. It was uncertain of what to do. This was not road. This was not safe. The ground pulled it to the left, the hands forced back it in line. The ground pushed it to the right, the hands brought it to the left.

The crunching eventually eased. The sore ankle turned, moving the foot below it to the adjacent pedal. The ankle creaked, and groaned, and aligned itself. The foot pressed the pedal in. The vehicle obeyed and slowed until it stopped. The left hand reached to the door, pulling a black handle hidden in a depression in the plastic molding. The door opened.

He pulled his legs out. They complained, but he persisted. The filthy denim rubbing against the door in the same place it always did. The black spot on the door. One crunch of dirt beneath a worn and weary boot, then another crunch. He stepped out of the vehicle and the eyes looked at the unsafe land ahead.

There was nothing.

But he looked, and he did see.

There was the edge of a precipice. Beyond the edge of the precipice a valley of green, sliced in two by a twisting blue wound. The river could not be heard from such a distance, but he could see it. And HE could hear it. He reached into the jeep through the open window and stared at everything there is. He pulled something out, held it in his hand. He leaned against the tire of his jeep and allowed himself to slide down, the rubber pulling his worn black t-shirt up around his lower back. And he sat, legs sprawled out across the unsafe dirt.

A bag labeled “Beef Jerky” was in his left hand. The right hand reached into the bag, ripping off one parallel strip of the heavily textured meat. He brought the meat to his mouth. A single bite, a pressured twist of the neck. A piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” remained in the mouth. His teeth chewed on the “Bison Jerky,” his mind digesting it. Smell of marinade, of smoke. Taste of salty dead bison. The piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” broke down in defeat. The right hand lowered to his side, resting on the loose gravel.

His eye lids fell. It was dark, and he could see everything.

Evening was closing in. Night was wonderful… silent. But eyes could not see in the dark. There was no need to drive when nothing was visible. The eyes needed to see.

Lids were heavy, susceptible to collapse. They were weak. He would not allow them to fall. He would hold them up, give them strength. He could not allow them to quit. They needed to remain open.

The right foot ached. How long had it been since the last gas stop? How long had that foot pressed upon the pedal jutting out from the floor of the vehicle? Too long, he figured. The ankle was more sore than usual. He must have been driving for a long time. On a typical day he did not mind. Today, he did. Why today?

A large transparent bag lay untouched on the brown and tan pattern of the passenger seat. “Bison Jerky,” read the label. As he looked over the right leg, doing what he could to absorb the pain for just a while longer, the eyes wandered to the bag. He hadn’t eaten in hours. Seemed like days, really. The mind had been active, distracting him. Too much thought. Thoughts of family not spoken to. Friends, long since forgotten. For their sake, he thought. Why worry over someone who didn’t want to be worried over? Logical? Yes, he thought.

The mind thought about eating “Bison Jerky.” He wanted to eat “Bison Jerky.” Maybe later.

The vehicle drove upon a sign: “Camino se Termina.” The neck turned, eyes locked on the sign. The mind turned, locked on a thought. He could. Why not? The hands held the dusty black steering wheel steady. The road remained stable. The mind was wondering… wandering. This is safe road. But, the road relented. It could not extend forever.

Abruptly, and quite suddenly, what little stable road remained gave way to the coarse crunching of rubber on dirt and leaves. The vehicle was becoming unstable. It was uncertain of what to do. This was not road. This was not safe. The ground pulled it to the left, the hands forced back it in line. The ground pushed it to the right, the hands brought it to the left.

The crunching eventually eased. The sore ankle turned, moving the foot below it to the adjacent pedal. The ankle creaked, and groaned, and aligned itself. The foot pressed the pedal in. The vehicle obeyed and slowed until it stopped. The left hand reached to the door, pulling a black handle hidden in a depression in the plastic molding. The door opened.

He pulled his legs out. They complained, but he persisted. The filthy denim rubbing against the door in the same place it always did. The black spot on the door. One crunch of dirt beneath a worn and weary boot, then another crunch. He stepped out of the vehicle and the eyes looked at the unsafe land ahead.

There was nothing.

But he looked, and he did see.

There was the edge of a precipice. Beyond the edge of the precipice a valley of green, sliced in two by a twisting blue wound. The river could not be heard from such a distance, but he could see it. And HE could hear it. He reached into the jeep through the open window and stared at everything there is. He pulled something out, held it in his hand. He leaned against the tire of his jeep and allowed himself to slide down, the rubber pulling his worn black t-shirt up around his lower back. And he sat, legs sprawled out across the unsafe dirt.

A bag labeled “Beef Jerky” was in his left hand. The right hand reached into the bag, ripping off one parallel strip of the heavily textured meat. He brought the meat to his mouth. A single bite, a pressured twist of the neck. A piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” remained in the mouth. His teeth chewed on the “Bison Jerky,” his mind digesting it. Smell of marinade, of smoke. Taste of salty dead bison. The piece of the strip of “Bison Jerky” broke down in defeat. The right hand lowered to his side, resting on the loose gravel.

His eye lids fell. It was dark, and he could see everything.