Final Destination

Final Destination
By
Kevin Beasley




Interstate 65 at midnight, speed soaring at 85 miles per hour, darkness envelopes the one reaching out towards his destination. The high of the hour, the lack of sleep and the solitary highway creates a vacuum in his mind allowing those thoughts to creep through his skull until he has made his way without any light onto the last artery. From here, his eyes fill with tears, his nose runs, his ears only encapsulate the songs of old, reminding him of the times in which they shared so much. The 120 miles left are blinding, the rain drips down into his lap and the dread of the reality forces him to slow to 45 miles per hour. With the metropolitan of the South behind him and the truth heading his way, he plays songs that inspire and crate a moment of peace here and there. As the Dallas of the southeast becomes much more dim in his rearview, his tears became ice and his thoughts freeze. His anger begins to consume him and every song is only reinforcing this disgust he has with the world and the God to whom he had always believed and held in such high regard. God only exists now in the beautiful words he’s read, the beautiful masterpieces hanging on the walls in every city and the inspirational songs he’s heard, but the presence of God was now very absent in his small car built for two. If God isn’t riding with him on the highway to face the blinding truth his fragile, bleeding and dead heart awaits, then, he asks; “who is?” His despotism has suddenly turned the grey interior of his Beetle into a very scary, yet ironically, comfortable black. This moment forces an antagonistic rush, allowing the speed to coincide with the beating of the blood vessels in his temples. Goodbye, Mom. Sorry, but I cant’ see you later, I’m not here for a visit, I can’t give you a big hug as I leave. I’m just moving as quickly as I can to give to you all that I’m feeling in the hopes you will carry it with you.

Yes, on a Wednesday, you find yourself lying six feet below the surface of the South Carolina soil, many coming to express their sorrow that you can no longer provide for them what you, as an one of God’s special angels, a vessel for the Divine, transforming dark souls to bright spirits. Your power changed these people’s lives. As they pass through, I wonder how many continue your follow the gift of light you shared, perhaps even giving others a small taste of where you took them.

As the time passes second, by second, your family begins to wonder if, in fact, there exists such a thing as family. During your waking years, blood was obviously not an adhesive that bonded family. Such trouble, such sorrow, such happiness, and even joy followed you throughout your many years. The one thing you always wanted, the one thing that perhaps eluded you, the one thing that the pleasure of life seemed unable to provide, was that of a family. As I’m headed to the place where you and I met in December, 1990, I’m blinded by the truth, I can’t do this again, but Kevin is protected and I’m here to face the guillotine.

As I get closer, I realize I’m being followed by spirits in the late night that give my eyes the ability to see, my hands the ability to focus, my mind the ability to not to be left somewhere along Interstate 20 and my little piece of man-made mobility the strength to force it’s way through the darkness. What happened? I have too much time between now and then to shut it down, therefore my neurons motor their way from one synapse to another franticly. My driving is frantic, my speed is frantic, my thoughts are frantic and quite soon, slowing my German machine to make that treacherous right, transforms me into a frantic person. Kevin Beasley jumped ship and had been left somewhere between Chicago and Barnwell and the person arriving at the small beige, wood siding house of Highway number 3 just north of Barnwell, South Carolina, will be just who the friends and neighbors in this small community expect to see pulling into the gravel driveway following the one thousand mile hike. These folks are the ones who killed Kevin, trying his best to find that place where that poor, lost soul could thrive, could be he and exit left. Mom, did you seek truth, did you feel lost, and did you feel you felt you were the lead in the local production in the stage of the circular community? I hope not.

This was the typical farewell ceremony. I pulled into the rural path towards the home in which you used to occupy, the abode in which I was raised with much love and along each side of the undone entrance were cars, each telling me that you were dead, that you were gone. In my sick heart I had expected this, but seeing the reality of the fords and Chevy’s that surely brought well-wishers to what was now my hell, still couldn’t bring myself to open my car door, there were only two doors and I looked at both, glanced out and saw the full emptiness around me and was still emotionally strapped. The only sight that gave the spirits the will to unlock me was that of a young man with whom I had spent the majority of my life. My brother Howie, with sadness and tremendous compassion illuminating the dead gravel, walked towards my grey coffin and without hesitation, almost as if the spirits had ejected me, I stepped towards my brother and his love resonated through my aching heart, providing for the masked gentleman from Chicago the only moment he would have to be Kevin. Tears dripping from my heart fell onto his striped shirt, he held me tightly and walked me into the rectangular structure that not 23 years prior he had been there and had given me the same strength and same love to face you and place a terrible reality equally into our hearts. This time, you weren’t there. As I walked through the back door, seeing a few of the professionals, the small town funeral followers and sharing with them something from someone that wasn’t me, I stepped through the glass doors, placed my feet upon the green and white flooring, glanced at the place where for so long we all shared much laughter, meals, time and love. As I headed towards the room where you patiently waited for your creator to place your spirit way above our heads, I felt a cold chill overcome me. This was no longer my home. I didn’t know where I was. Dad’s friends who in their unique way expressed their sorrows reinforced the disconnection I felt. Not only did I find myself not home, but I also looked around and couldn’t find Kevin. Where was I?

The house seemed so quiet, so dark, so empty and cold. My Mom’s flower angel greets me. She says to me, “Well, she went peacefully.” I said, “Yes, that’s a blessing.” She gave me hug and as she turned to escape, I was still on the road, still driving down the highway. How could I have just been given an empty condolence if I wasn’t there? Oh, how quickly reality blurs when your heart stops beating, Kevin is absent from this questionable traffic of sincerity. I’m his proxy. Why do people feel it necessary to fill your stomach and forget where you truly hunger? Our neighbor was at the door, I was frozen, I had not moved after my last act. Now, begins act two.

I open the door and I see in her hands the beginning of what will become a continuous flow of cakes, casseroles, pies and in her case fried chicken. She was smiling as I attempted to speak, but she quickly said, “I know you love fried chicken and you can’t get good fried chicken in the big city, so here you go. I’m just dropping this off, I have to go and help Jesse start the lawn mower.” I said thank you and another image passed by so quickly I couldn’t close the door.

As I watched your new silver home being lowered into the earth, I said my goodbye, or rather I said goodbye from your loving son, the one you held in both hands just as I emerged from the most incredible woman I’ll ever know and said to God, “he’s yours and thank you for allowing me to borrow him’; bless him” Mom, Kevin found his way, strong, no longer feeling he needs to pacify those with small minds, those who expect you to kill the real you and what’s left is molded into them. Thank you. You never made Kevin hide, or play the lead in the Shakespeare tragedy that is Barnwell. Now, I am fortunate enough to lift you and say to God, “she’s yours and thank your for allowing me to borrow her.

As I turn left, knowing my destination, my home, Elton John climbed out of the radio and confirmed the truth. These words say so much.

“H o l y M o s e s I h a v e b e e n r e m o v e d
I h a v e s e e n t h e s p e c t r e h e h a s b e e n h e r e t o o
D i s t a n t c o u s i n f r o m d o w n t h e l i n e
B r a n d o f p e o p l e w h o a i n ' t m y k i n d
H o l y M o s e s I h a v e b e e n r e m o v e d

H o l y M o s e s I h a v e b e e n d e c e i v e d
N o w t h e w i n d h a s c h a n g e d d i r e c t i o n a n d I ' l l h a v e t o l e a v e
W o n ' t y o u p l e a s e e x c u s e m y f r a n k n e s s b u t i t ' s n o t m y c u p o f t e a
H o l y M o s e s I h a v e b e e n d e c e i v e d

I ' m g o i n g b a c k t o t h e b o r d e r
W h e r e m y a f f a i r s , m y a f f a i r s a i n ' t a b u s e d
I c a n ' t t a k e a n y m o r e b a d w a t e r
B e e n p o i s o n e d f r o m m y h e a d d o w n t o m y s h o e s

H o l y M o s e s I h a v e b e e n d e c e i v e d
H o l y M o s e s l e t u s l i v e i n p e a c e
L e t u s s t r i v e t o f i n d a w a y t o m a k e a l l h a t r e d c e a s e
T h e r e ' s a m a n o v e r t h e r e
W h a t ' s h i s c o l o u r I d o n ' t c a r e
H e ' s m y b r o t h e r l e t u s l i v e i n p e a c e ”