Goingto California

 

March 1st

           Everythingis ready.  The car is packed with thosefew possessions I own, a lunch is made for the road trip and all the compactdisks I have are in the seat next to me. I am ready to drive on out towards California, to the land of riches andhoney.  I believe everything will changewhen I get to Cali, my luck, my fortunes, my position in life.  See, it has to.  California is the land of dreams andopportunity, isn't it?

            Ido feel a pained nostalgia leaving my apartment for the last time, leaving myjob (lowly though it is), leaving my few friends, everything I've known.  I think I'll miss the familiar details ofthis place, the cracks in the walls that I've spent so many hours following andstaring upon, the way the toilet did indeed rock and sway when you sat down,and the way the refrigerator freezes everything.  I give a smile when I think about theneighbors, one of few social interactions outside of work for me this past yearand their constant parties.  They seemednever to lack an occasion to invite me over, almost sensing my loneliness.  I'll also miss the small Irish bar across thestreet, a bar I spent far too many hours frequenting.  I met my work associates there after thenight shift some two or three, sometimes even four, times a week.  I went to that place enough, which indeed isa bit run down, a noticeable drip leak in the men's bathroom, that thebartenders placed my drink in front of me before I called for one.  I think maybe I drink too much.  Certainly, I think I drink too much.  Not that I am criticizing myself, no, I amjust telling it to you as true as I can. I shall miss some of the things of this city.

            I'llmiss the avenue of restaurants on Atwells, for even though I can't afford toeat at any of them, it somehow provided me with pleasure to walk buy, thesmells drifting out into the street, diners seated on the patio enjoyingexpensive conversation.  I was in thehabit of walking by that strip some ten or twenty times a week, the smellsconstant and sure, enough to stay with me for days.  One night I almost dined at Old Canteen witha co-worker, but we happened to choose Tuesday night for our excursion, whichhappens to be their day to be closed. I've always wondered whether a plate, any plate, even lamb, is worthalmost thirty dollars.  I guess I'llnever know.

            I'llalso miss the many days I spent at the arcade, watching pedestrians in thestreet, hurrying to and fro, an endless sea of humanity.  I sat there many a day, journal opened,waiting for something, anything to happen, and on many days, something,anything could be expected to happen. Stockbroker man could be counted on for an appearance at least once aweek, with his animal growl, scraggly beard, and his complete and total lack ofregard for those around him, watching.  Hewalked by, his gait long, his feet reaching out as far as possible, almostcausing a loss of balance, all the while his head moved in all directions, hismouth constantly moving and issuing forth various grunts and testaments toinvisible tortures.  He always seemed tobe in a controlled manic rush, eyes narrowed, staring forward, sometimes notbothering to move aside for gimps and cripples. I remember the day he ran over elderly man with cane.  He stopped for a moment, bent over the manwho lay writhing on the ground in pain, grasping for his stick, and stockbrokerman, his long, cigarette stained beard dripping down into elderly man's faceissued forth a grunt that made the entire arcade; pedestrians, workers, trafficrent a cops and writers alike stop and gape, with horror, disbelieve and atleast on my part, humor.  Stockbroker manignored the stares, righting himself and continued his endless circling of thesquare.  I'll miss stockbroker man,although I can't tell you how I gave him that name.  It is an inside joke of sorts. 

            Enoughabout Providence though, I have a trip to take.

I'm in the car and starting outfor Cali, off to see about a girl.  Yes,I've come to that part.  Off to see abouta girl that in truth I've never met. Yes, I can hear your objections now, but I can't answer you withanything that resembles a coherent argument. I've thought about the insanity of my decision for a great deal oftime.  I've thought about the logic ofgiving up job and home and friends for a chance at something, just a smallsliver of hope of a chance at that.  Iknow it all sounds crazy, but I feel this is indeed what I must do.  I want so bad to change this life, to changemy position, to shake the cobwebs from my brain, which have settled upon me inthis place. 

            Startingout and in truth I have no real idea how to get to California.  I figure I'll just make my way across, stateby state, just forever and ever heading west. I've not seen most of this glorious country and this will be anopportunity I'll not soon have again. I've decided to take the Massachusetts turnpike into New York, maybeeven make my way down to the city if I so feel when I get there.  I know I could just travel west fromProvidence, but I want to see the old familiar territory between my city and myold home once more before I leave.

            Idrive Rt. 146, heading for Worcester and eventually the Mass. Pike.  This stretch of road is familiar to me, eachexit and town a story from my childhood. I could of ease exit at North Smithfield to pay a visit to my parents,but of necessity the questions would ensue. They'd no doubt ask me why my car is packed as if for a trip, why thephone at my apartment is disconnected and why in God's name mail was coming totheir home in my name.  I don't andwouldn't have any answers for them, so I continue on past exit 21 and roll ontowards Worcester.

            Itis a chilly windy day today, a raw unforgiving day to start a trip if you askme, affording me another reason to desire change.  I am tired of this weather, of the cold, ofthe wind, of the snow and of all the other nasty things handed down upon theheads of New Englanders.  This region canbe brutal and many people do indeed decide to leave for better climates, as Ihave indeed decided.  I find itimpossible to be happy in this weather. My soul is frozen today, dormant and waiting for the coming of spring,even summer.  This day, with a drizzlethreatening to turn into a cold rain, is a torment.

           Iknow that the reader desires to know more about my choices, such as whyCalifornia, why leave at all?  I havenothing to say except I can't live here, in this city, Providence, any longer.  The city decays under my feet and chokes thelife out of me.  The wind blows bitterand hollow through streets eternally in decay and indeed, this city is dying.  As sure as I sit here, and not matter howmany buildings they construct, this city is dying from within.  You see more old people than young, morefuneral homes than schools.  This city isdead and I must flee, like rats fleeing the plague.

            AndI settled upon California, for reasons of weather, promise and of courseher.  I met her through a friend of afriend.  My friend is in the army whoknows another guy in the army who knows the girl.  Quite a stretch I know, but you got to see apicture of this girl, you'd understand. I just am hoping that all the conversations we've had will remain thesame if I make it out there.  And I'lltell you, making it will be a problem. My car, even now, less than an hour into the trip, and parked in a fastfood parking lot in Worcester, is making noises and nasty little ovations ofprotest at the thought of this here trip. I am praying I can make it, for there, on the other side of this land wecall America, I may find salvation. All of this hell of life can change. 

            Worcesterhas not changed at all.  The city isfurther along the road to decay than Providence, without the futile attempts to'revitalize' downtown, so indeed, the city appears dead already, even to theoutside eye.  The city, so long agodependent upon a textile based economy has yet to move into the last half ofthe last century, never mind attempting to join the current one.  Most buildings in town are old, in greatdisrepair and some border on being condemned for demolition.  And all those days I walked the streets ofthis city I could feel that death in the air. The feeling of death from the buildings, the elderly citizens thatdominate the population, seeps into your consciousness, threatens to choke anygood will in your veins until only silent desperation is left in itsstead. 

            Notone thing in this city serves to brighten my mood today and all I see remindsme that California is the only place to be. I must make my way west to the promised heaven of sandy beaches andsunny skies, of mild winters and clear blue summers.  There is nothing that Cali can'tdeliver.  All of this misery and the coldI feel will be replaced with sun and smiles. For a moment I almost feel a sense of loss, sitting here eating hotdogs,at a little stand near the house in which I lived, but the day, bitter andempty dispels any such notions with ease, laughing, howling at me; madmanshades of mania.  This college town diesfrom the inside out, the disease being a simple case of not being ambitiousenough to keep up with the racing technology sweeping this world.  And who can blame them...these techie junkiessoon will wire their very brains into a computer terminal, forgetting nature,pure bold human nature. 

            NowI must leave this place, as I did Providence, before my mood sours to such adegree that I can’t continue.  Onward andwestward I drive onto the Mass Pike, past desolate, lonely forests and morereminders of my ennui.  As I drive, I cansee nothing, save green, green and greener. Trees are far as the eye can see, trees everywhere, dominating thelandscape in a wide panorama of green.  Ifind it all so depressing.  Nothing totell you that around the next bend there will be anything besides more trees,the same sickening color green to greet your eyes.  It is no wonder though, who would want tolive here?  Why would a person not followthe long ago uttered advice, as I am now, of go west young man?  Riches and love await you there.  This dying place holds nothing for me.  There must be something better over there,out west.  There must be something betterthan the sameness of this New England life, each day the same toil, the sameroutine of waiting.  I wait for the treesto change, wait for the brutal winter to end, wait for death to finally comeand claim your weary bones for its own.

I feel exit 8 calling me, thePalmer exit, and the exit I indeed took so many times to make my way throughthe winding roads of western Massachusetts to the university.  I felt the same desperation and death thenthat I feel now as I traverse these roads. The very land itself seems dead, devoid of human presence.  There is nothing here, nothing here forme.  Those days spent on campus, awarethat the university was indeed a lonely island in a sea of dead or dying trees,an island of humanity abandoned in the wilderness.  The population of students exceeds those ofthe towns surrounding.  It is adepressing state of affairs, especially for those permanent residents when thecollege is not in session.  I spentlonely and dead summer days, just praying for fall and the return of ragingcollege students to banish away the bitter empty of this place.

            Iwill not stop here today.  The car doesnot sound well and I want to move on to a more populated spot in case oftrouble.  I am anxious to get this tripdone with and even though I'd like to stop and enjoy the sites I wish more tobe there with her, to finally put my arms around her and whisper into her ear"I'm here after all."

            Ithink I shall spend the night in NYC before I move further westward.  I will have a mechanic type person take alook at the car and hope for a clean bill of health.  I do not have enough money for anythingresembling a major repair.  I am left topray that my car holds together and makes the great trek in one piece.  What shall I do, indeed, if my car decides totake a rest? 

March 2nd

            Thiscity seems a mirage today; the cold air burns red shiny spots into my cheeks,seeking me as I wander about burning time, trying to enjoy myself as I wait formy car to be checked.  I feel an urge tobuy stolen books and used compact disks, but I need to save my money.  In truth, if you lack money, NYC is not theplace for you.  No indeed.  As per usual, I walk, walk, walk endlesslyaround, street giving onto yet another street lined with wares I can't hope toafford, all serving to remind me of my pitiful station in this life.  Oh, I know how many others carry crosses andbare them with far greater dignity than I am showing at this moment, but I donot give a damn.  I see money flow eastand west with this streets and I chew on a half cold egg sandwich, passing on adecent breakfast in an attempt to save money. I see a blonde woman, tall and slender beautiful waiting patient in hergray silver cashmere sweater and silk slacks for her chauffeur to fight throughtraffic to whisk her to a penthouse to allow her to recover from the two bitsof food she ate at breakfast, which no doubt cost her more money than I paidfor the clothes on my back.

            Oureyes meet for a moment, beautiful blue and dull, lost brown clash in greeting,and I see on her face a bitter distaste. Her pretty mouth, light pink painted lips, twists into an unpleasantfrown at the sight of me.  I can't blameher, for I present a scraggly appearance today. My hair is a mess, unwashed dirty blonde and running off in everydirection.  My clothes are rumpled and abit worn, those familiar spots on the knees and pockets of my favorite pair ofjeans.  I almost feel the distaste myselfand before the bitterness gets to me entire, I leave the blonde beauty, withher long legs of honey and poison.  It istime to see about my wonderful car.

            Themechanic type person said the car is in fine condition save for a leak orsomething of the sort in the engine.  Hetold me it may indeed give me trouble, but that in keeping with my wishes toavoid a major repair there was nothing he could do about the situation.  And so, hoping again for the best, I pulledout of New York early this morning, ready for a day on the road.

            I'venow left territory familiar to me and as I pass on through Pennsylvania, I amsurprised not to find many differences between this place and the ones I'veknown.  The cities remind me of New Yorkand the places in between are just as empty and desolate as they are in NewEngland.  I've decided to stop for lunchin Philadelphia, in part due to my knowledge of the city and in part due to mycar beginning to make loud and strange noises. I am beginning to doubt I'll make it to California after all.  But see, I have to make it out there.  I can't go back.  Everything behind me is dead, dead in thewater, covered with mold and dust.

            Thestreets are filled with people on this day, even though it is cold anddamp.  The rain has stopped, but thestreets are still wet and give off a chill that makes its way up through yourbody and hovers over your heart.  Thechill is making me feel lonely today. The chill is making me doubt everything.

            I'mhaving a steak and cheese sandwich for lunch. I just had to have one, I mean, can you go to Philly and not have asteak and cheese?  I am happy with mychoice.  The sandwich indeed lives up tothe hype, but other than that I'm disappointed with Philly.  The people here just rush back and forth inthe streets, quick steps to gain their destinations, in a right down hurry toescape nature and the cold wind that is blowing through my hair as I sitoutside this cafe and enjoy my sandwich. Not one person stops to talk to me, not one person slows to nod agreeting in my direction.  I think oneperson said it best, 'the people of the east are as cold as the weather.'

            Backon the road and certain my car is not going to hold up and make it as far asOhio, never mind to Cali.  A grindingnoise is coming from the engine and while I am no expert on cars, I know thatthe noise cannot portend good things to come. I mean, you don't have to be a scientist or anything to figure out thatthe grinding is probably bad in nature. 

            Theland outside of Philly is much the same as the desolate spaces west ofWorcester.  Trees and more trees.  And although there doesn't seem to be much inthe way of a destination in the westward direction traffic has backed up and I’mstuck in this car, which is indeed threatening to overheat, trapped inside mythoughts.

            Imet her almost by accident, or rather; I came to know her almost byaccident.  As it is now, I've yet toactually meet her, officially you know. See, that friend of my friend came into possession of a few of mystories and it seems that the young lady in question happened to read a few orsomething like that.  In any event shewas impressed enough to go through the trouble of posting me a letter.  She seemed to be impressed, or rather, toquote her letter claimed 'She'd never read anything like I'd wrotebefore."  I think her constantassurances of my talent in that very first letter sealed our friendship.  From that moment on I've been in almostconstant contact with her, through letters and phone calls, for the last sixmonths or so I'd guess.  She'd call ondays she received a new story or letter from me or on days she just felt alone,which I assume like me, is the great majority of days.  She talked often about her former boyfriendand always expressed the wish for me to write a story that painted him in themost insidious light possible.  I oftenthought of the reasons she clung to our calls and letters and long nights oncomputer talk with such enthusiasm. There are days I'd chalk it up to her liking my writing, making herlaugh on the phone, being taken and overwhelmed with the pictures I senther.  (Ok, I know, shush)  I think I just didn't care to know the truth,which is this girl spent as much time wishing for 'someone else' as I.  Could it be so simple?  Oh, the stories started it, but I think theother is why it all came together as fast as it did, so very fast indeed.

            Theidea to pick up and abandon my station in Providence to chase a new fortune inCali, which hopefully will include her, came to me rather early in ourcorrespondence.  Her ovations anddescriptions of California filled me with a longing to leave and follow whatmillions have done before me in deciding to go west.  She talked often of her town, the beaches atwhich she swam; (not forgetting to tell me about the never ending stream of hotyoung men she saw at the beach) told me of the skiing, the strip malls, thesun, the sun, the sun.  I wished to ridmyself of bad weather, constant and sure, and move myself to Cali.  I did not mention this desire to herthough.  I just kept it to myself.

            Butfate has a way of tempting us and bringing out our inner desires doesn'tit?  After a period of months she herselfmentioned the idea, planted the seed that I would be happier living in Cali, anidea I'd thought about often enough indeed to tell her that the idea held meritfor me.  It does not take long when twopeople are of the same mind to come to a resolution, which is indeed what I dida month ago.  Although I have to say thatsomething about the whole thing bothered me, right from the start.  I mean, I began to put things in order forthe trip as soon as we began discussing it, but a doubt refused to be erasedfrom my mind.  What if she will not haveme when I arrive in Cali?  What if shechanges her mind?  What if Cali isn't anydifferent from any other place?  What ifit is all just a pipe dream to think that any place can make me happy?  What if it is just a pipe dream to think I'llbe happy anywhere with anyone?

            Itried not to let these things bother me too much though.  I continued to ready myself for the trip;canceling the utilities, giving notice at my job and selling those items in myapartment that were too large to fit into my car.  In truth, it didn't take as long as I thoughtit would and from the time of the first discussion on the subject, it took buta month to be ready.  I do not own manythings, so it became rather easy to prepare myself for the move.  I only sold a few things, due to thecondition of most of my furniture, and threw the rest out with thegarbage.  When the last of the trash wasput out on that last night, I knew I would leave in the morning.

            Andhere I am, stuck in traffic west of Philly, less than one quarter of the way toCalifornia.  I feel a panic rising in mythroat that I am not going to ever see this so called land of honey, whateverexactly that means.  I somehow feel thatI was never meant to go to such a place. I mean, what would I give to California? Aren't there enough struggling writers there already?  Am I just plain fooling myself after all this? 

            Thecar is struggling to keep speed.  I knowI shall have to pull over soon.  Thereseems to be no alternative.

March 3rd

The car died last night at nine o'clock.  I'm not going to make it after all.