Song: “Gravity’s Gone” – Drive-By Truckers
I woke up in the back of my car. I tried to stretch my legs and couldn’t. A wild troupe of demons thunderously pounded on the front of my face. A sour smell lanced the cramped cabin. My tool box dug into my hip; my face was hard-pressed against the hard case of my guitar.
Rummaging through my pockets resulted in several plastic hotel keys, two packs of cigarettes, multiple lighters, and a loose collection of bills and change. None of them were a good sign.
Not again.
These were all the clues I had to go on. Faint memories of getting up at the crack of dawn slipped through the haze, a general understanding rising from the deep ocean trenches. I was undoubtedly blacklisted from a variety of places. I checked my face and hands for bruises. None. With my off hand, I reached out for Rambo. Then I remembered.
A groan slipped out. I heard myself through someone else’s ears. The sound was pitiful, an animal caught in a rusted bear trap. Every inch of me wanted to stay in that ball and let it all just-
No. I refused to fall apart. I had to pull myself out of this. My hands slid up to my shoulders and hugged, iron talons holding on for dear life. I had to be my own best friend, now.
It’s going to be alright. It’s going to-
Where was I? Right. Los Angeles. I had passed through here countless times, always running on to Vegas or Yosemite. The city maintains the largest award in my trophy case of visceral loathing. We’ve always been oppositely charged magnets, forever pushing away…
Time had changed nothing.
I know that it is foolish to hate an entire city. It is xenophobic prejudice; a self-created bias based on limited information. The City of Angels is no different than anywhere else. There is no reason that the bright, sparkling veneer of Hollywood should cause such disdain.
I do know I was here as a child. During my formative years. I can’t access those memories.
And here I was, back again. Baking in the heat. Tremoring with delirium tremens and self-loathing. In that moment, I hated that city with a passion that surprised even me. But this is where the cheap flights originated from. And this was the largest car market.
You gave away your best friend.
I’d scoured the entire country. I needed a place that understood his breed. Where he wouldn’t have to pee in the rain. It had taken thousands of miles and countless meet ups. Eventually, I’d found him a mansion.
You left him with a stranger.
I really wanted a Bloody Mary.
You’re going to die alone.
That kind of thinking would get me nowhere. I was the only one that could pull myself out. It had been eight days already. I was drowning, but it could be overcome. I pulled out my wallet. In it were some small photos of my dogs. I could almost see them tearing at the cushions of the couch, chest bumping each other and falling in a heap. I could almost feel them squirming, each trying to get as close as possible to one of my legs…
Their eyes stared at me from the faded glossy paper. Eyes that loved me when I couldn’t love myself. Their happy grunts echoed somewhere. I could almost hear them talking:
We’re okay. Go.
Something hesitantly woke up. The time had come. I felt the gear digging into my sides. I had to make this stuff disappear; to reduce my life to two bags. I could list the things that would sell online. The rest could be donated. There were visas to apply for, stories to finish, and plane tickets to buy.
One step at a time. First, I needed water. Buckets of it. And food.
It took me a few minutes to remember where I was. A yellow-clad parking attendant in a slow-moving golf cart passed… Ah, the parking garage. Of course.
I had parked here days ago. Driving under the influence is always a foolish mistake. It risks everything for zero reward. I had conveniently lost the parking ticket though.
The cart circled ever higher and eventually out of view. Nausea began to twist at my insides. I didn’t dare exit through the trunk. Instead, I squirmed my way out of my jumbled nest. It took a solid ten minutes to get myself untangled and into the passenger seat.
Towering, overpowering waves came from nowhere, threatening to-
No. I was going to be alright. The storm had passed. I could weather these minor squalls. I reached deep into myself and lit a torch in the depths of my own darkness. I could see why I was doing the things I was doing.
Congratulations, you’re human! Get up.
Water. Food. Move. Trinkets fell from the dash as the passenger door opened. As I stretched, I checked the map. Santa Monica. Okay. There was a burger joint around the corner.
Homeless men sprawled across the sidewalks along the way. The juxtaposition between them and the buildings they lay in front of was stark. These shining buildings jostled and elbowed, glistening with unfulfilled capitalist fantasies. We all know that these filthy men with exposed bellies will never see the inside of the world just outside their reach.
Suddenly, the nausea couldn’t be ignored anymore. Whatever was left in my stomach came up in a flurry. I received several knowing nods. I was being tacitly welcomed into the community. The open-arm hug of the universe casting its blessing on the filthy, unkempt masses. I waved and bowed. One of the men even clapped. Ah, the pressures of fame.
Get moving.
That was the wolf I needed to feed. I sluiced through oppressive sunlight and crowds of vain, self-obsessed tourists. Hidden amongst the smog was a consensual cancer, spread outwards in concentric circles. The starry eyes of the people I passed were all muted from the grim realities and false expectations. We’d all already been gnawed, torn apart, then digested. I certainly couldn’t judge.
I’m sick too.
The restaurant attendant was happy to take my money and hand me some bean water and a bag of cardboard sandwiches. The broken sliding door jittered and opened halfway. I slid through and almost stumbled on the legs of a man lolling against the entryway. I handed him a sandwich. I was a man of the people; a beacon of hope to the discouraged and downtrodden. I munched and sipped as I walked back to the car. The rest of the day was a blurry torrent of wheeling and dealing.
My drill went to a man who had been robbed at his jobsite the day before. I threw in my box of tools too. The man who bought my guitar was getting back into playing after a long hiatus. His divorce had left him with some free time. He got the case for free. After a few hours, my calves were burning from going up and down the stairs of the parking garage.
Around midday, I wadded up the cash and packed the rest of the stuff in a duffel bag. There was a pawn shop two blocks away. The storefront was slashed garishly with reds and yellows, everything faded and worn. Bars were interlaced with more bars. The door looked like it had been crushed by a truck multiple times. The shelves were mostly full though.
I walked in and dropped my belongings onto the glass counter. Over the bulging bag, the owner looked at me with the yellow eyes of an ancient wolf. I knew I was about to make his day. His salt-and-pepper beard drooped all the way to the counter his hands rest on. He knew I was too tired to argue. We played the game for the minimum amount of time and I left with cash in hand.
I returned to a nearly empty car. All that remained were two bags and a wickedly bruised cardboard box. It contained all of my memories and had survived hundreds of moves, breakups, and road trips. The seemingly worthless trinkets had travelled countless miles, always to be stuffed in yet another closet. It was my past, for better or worse, and it did not want to be thrown away.
I checked into a hotel and lugged the box up with me. I needed the privacy. These were my favorite things, an entire lifetime written on slips of paper and chipped pieces of plastic. With trembling hands I tossed childhood love letters, pictures, and hundreds of nametags. Each had its own chapters. The memories washed over me until I finally became numb.
Everything must go.
By late afternoon I was headed down to the pier. All I had left were a handful of letters and some old photos. Something had stopped me every time I had threatened to throw them away. Just bringing them to the sand felt like giving up on a dream.
The crowds lessened the closer I got to the beach. The thick posts underneath the pier stopped me dead in my tracks. Fleeting slips of memory came through like crumpled receipts pulled from the dryer. I could feel ghosts standing next to me.
The sounds of the waves crashing echoed against the salt-sprayed boards. Cinnamon, bearing oil, salt, and pine tar filled my nostrils. Creaking wheels whined above and seagulls darted in the peripherals.
He would have loved this place.
I finally let myself miss him. The feeling breached my walls, taking a bigger chunk of me with each rolling wave. The storm of my life was steady and relentless, haphazardly carrying me through time underneath a resolute sun. I slid down to the sand. Grief was everything, the doors to the House of Pain thrown wide open.
I let myself sink, knowing that it would pass. This was just one moment; the snapping of a finger; the briefest flash of lightning from the smallest of clouds. The wind tussled my hair. Without thinking, my notebook drew itself out of my back pocket and my hands wrote a long, tear-stained letter on my small notepad. A lot of words appeared. It surprised me when it fit easily in my plastic water bottle.
My sandals disappeared. Sweaty feet gripped filthy sand. Salty water soothed burning skin. I walked knee-deep into the surf and waited. When the time seemed right, I tossed the bottle and and watched as it was repeatedly tossed back at my shins. Eventually, it made it’s way out to sea. I slipped the photos of my dogs back into my wallet.
Nobody’s perfect.
I stood there and watched my dreams slowly drift away. My heart burned and pleaded. I wasn’t going to fall apart. It was time to move on. I had to get back to the car to take pictures before the sun went down. Everything had to go. Including me.
The boards clacked above. Waves surged forward and ebbed backward. The wind whispered.
Go.