The Journey Home (Chapter 1, part 1)
The Journey Home
(Chapter 1, part 1)
Tears wash in regret. Loss nods confusion. Good lord, I feel like I'm dying.
The speakers crack with every rhythmic peak. The .45 under the seat lies out of sight but top of mind. I have no idea where I'm going. It doesn't matter because I don't know if I'm coming back.
It has been a tumultuous year. Everything that I've worried about struggling for—obtaining financial freedom...security... prestigious place among my peers—torn away, left asunder. Is any of it real at all or just part of an illusion?
I've lost track of time. The clock is set at 11:11 as I pull the jeep out of town. For once my phone is away from me. Tossed in the back seat with a duffel bag and a guitar. Nobody knows where I'm at—there is no way to contact me and the icy rain seems to set the tone for the day.
A parking space calls out from a street somewhere in Utah. I haven't shaved in days; I'm wearing my most comfortable pair of jeans. Weathered is an understatement. My emotional roller coaster has let the bags under my eyes turn into luggage and the cold sleet outside matches me perfectly inside. I hop out of the car and pull the hood up from my black hoody, branded Indecline.
As I walk into the cafe I start to project on it what I believe it to be—white, suburban America…and all things associated. A dollar eighty-five for a hot tea, and two very crumpled dollar bills appear from my pocket to cover the toll. I find my spot among the housewives, soccer moms and working-class heroes at a corner table facing what appears to be a stage.
My notepad inevitably finds its way out of my back pocket to the tabletop. My thoughts lead to descriptions on the page. The barista scans to see if eyes are following, pirouettes as if no one is looking and lays down an empty cup on the back counter. I describe the gentleman a few tables back as a high school gym coach or at the least varsity football coach.
Laughter comes at times and so does sadness as I complete my assessment of the room, my projection on the room. My pencil scribbles away at each thought and outbursts of expression accompany each internal valley and crescendo. My pencil sways in the air awaiting the next thought as I scan the room.
There is a distinct barrier of empty tables surrounding me that separate me from the rest of the patrons. Apparently they have scribbled down their character descriptions as well. It seems I'm playing the part of the crazy homeless person. I don't know that they're wrong.
These past few years have left me reeling.... I had what by all accounts was a pretty spectacular life. A vacation home, security, cash in the bank. I had a wife and a new child. But your demons always run faster than you do. They'll always catch you unless you can ditch them completely. But feed them at all and they come at you in a fury. It's easy to play the wheel in the city of dreams. Another big swingin’ dick coming through with a pocket full of green. If your temptation is women, you're screwed. There's temptation at every turn and a new city presents itself every weekend. Married women from the heartland looking for a fix or a twenty-something coastal vixen enamored by the right side of the rope. Like Bambi caught in the crosshairs on wobbly legs filled with sweet high-octane elixirs. Then if all else fails, there's always the working girls. They seem to rise from the ashes of the clubs closing down. Solicitations come in droves from a carpeted ho stroll between the blinking slot machines. Vegas finds your vices.
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Thank you for reading...
Highest & Best,
CJ