How Many Roads Pt.II

How Many Roads
By Taylor Dyer
PART II
cont'd from part I










V

Darrell Streeps awoke to the light chirping of the watch next to his ear. He looked at the lights of his clock in the dark. 1:31 AM. He looked out his window, to see the dimly lit streets below. An empty world of dull yellow light. Nothing stirred. No cars drove by, nobody was out walking at this hour. A solitary cat skittered across the empty street. The town was dead. Or asleep.
The street lights shining through his window lit his room in a ghostly fashion. He looked around the room that had been his sanctuary for so many years. He thought back to all the times he had come home stumbling drunk, somehow finding his way through the house, past his parents, and the feeling of safety and relief that making it to his room had always brought. He remembered times he had smoked pot out of the window next to his bed while his parents watched TV beneath his feet. He felt safely alone in his room and it was here that he spent most of his time when he was home, reading, playing guitar, or listening to music, or just lying in his bed thinking.
He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of faded, paint stained jeans, and a heavy flannel shirt. He slipped his feet into his old worn work boots. They felt familiar and comfortable. He took his knife from the dresser and slipped it into his pocket. He opened his drawer and pulled his money out of the sock where he kept it. Five hundred and eighty three dollars. This he also slipped into his pocket.
He grabbed his duffle bag from the closet. He had already packed it with clothes, mostly jeans and durable flannel shirts. He grabbed a few of his favorite books, “In Our Time” and “Islands in the Stream” by Ernest Hemingway and “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald. He tossed them in his duffle bag. He was about to go when he realized he had forgotten something. He went to his dresser and opened his sock drawer again. He felt around until he felt the comforting hardness of a glass bottle. He pulled out the bottle of “Black Velvet” his favorite whiskey and tucked it away safely in his duffle bag. He left his room.
Darrell passed his older sister’s room. She had left Maine far behind a few years back. She had gone out to New York to pursue an acting career. She had only come home for a handful of Christmases and maybe a Thanks Giving since she left and she rarely called. She was not looking back and neither would he.
He walked down the stairs. When he got to the kitchen he stopped. He took paper and pen from the counter and paused looking at the blank paper. He could not find any words. He thought for a minute, and then he wrote.
Dear mom and dad,
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry and I love you.
Goodbye.

He signed it and left it on the kitchen table where they were sure to find it.
Darrell Streeps stopped by the door and pulled on his varsity jacket. He picked up his duffle bag and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him.
He walked down the center of the street, his feet scuffing the yellow line. He loved the view from the middle of a long empty street. It seemed as if the road went on forever. It offered so much promise to those willing to walk its length. He followed the dimly lit street feeling alone and free. Feeling happy.
He heard a train whistle off in the distance. Darrell Streeps quickened his pace. It sounded again, closer one long mournful note piercing the emptiness of the night. He broke into a run.
He reached the tracks just in time to see the two engines pass by. He waited till he saw an empty car, moving by with it’s door open to reveal darkness. He ran alongside it. He tossed his duffle bag in and grabbed a hold of the side of the door frame. He planted his other hand on the floor inside, and jumped, hauling himself up into the car.
The train would carry him south into Windsport, where he would begin hitchhiking west and south. He didn’t know or care where he was going. He was leaving this town, and tomorrow with any luck this state. But for now he slept, as the world rushed by him one tree at a time.

















































VI


Darrell Streeps walked along a long desert highway. For as far as he could see there was nothing but open sand, broken only by stands of cacti. The landscape was dark and gray under the shadow of the clouds overhead. He could hear thunder off in the distance and occasionally he could see lightning split the sky. He could just see the top of the setting sun ahead of him. A layer of golden sky separated the horizon from the dark ominous clouds. The very air was alive with electricity, and his body tingled all over as he walked.
He reached up to rub his face, feeling the ragged growth of his beard. He hadn’t shaved since he left. He ran his hands through his thick shaggy hair. Darrell Streeps looked back over his shoulder, still no cars. He was alone. The road he walked on was the only sign of human life for as far as the eye could see. He had only seen a handful of cars all day and none had even slowed down. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He hadn’t seen a gas station for the past two days.
He walked, enjoying the atmosphere of the coming night and the imminent storm. He wondered where he would sleep. He would probably walk through the night, he thought to himself. He was not looking forward to the rains that the rumbling clouds seemed to promise. There was nothing out here to shelter him from the rain.
He walked on. He loved the air before a thunder storm. It seemed so much fresher and heavier. It had more substance. Like a comforting blanket. He could feel the storm’s approach all around him.
The rain didn’t start slow and pick up like it did back home. It moved in a sheet across the desert. He watched it coming towards him from his right. And then it was upon him. It was a driving torrential rain with huge drops and he was immediately soaked. He kept walking.
A van passed him. Damn, he thought, a ride would have been nice. He saw brake lights ahead, and the van stopped and started to back up towards him. It pulled alongside him and the window came down. The driver a man with long brown hair and a bushy beard looked out at him.
“Sorry friend, we didn’t see you until we were right on top of you. Need a lift?”
“Yeah that’d be great man. This rain sucks.”
“Well hop on in the back man. We can always make room for another traveler.”
He was greeted by a small group of mostly long haired people sitting on cushions in the back of the van.
“Hey brother, have a seat.”
“Your soaked right through. You must be freezing.” A beautiful blonde with soft features, and wavy fair hair moved up beside him. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes. Jerry could you pass me a blanket?” she came around in front of him and helped him off with his jacket. She started on his shirt and he looked into her bright blue eyes just before his shirt came over his head. She gave him a soft smile and looked down. She passed him the blanket and he wrapped it around himself, huddling under its warmth. She sat down beside him.
“Hey man you toke?” said a bearded man as he held out a burning joint in offering.
Darrell Streeps laughed. “You bet I do.” He took the offered joint and hit it hard. “I haven’t had any of this since I left home.” He said as he exhaled. The blonde next to him took the joint from his and pressed it to her lips demurely.
“So where are you headed friend?” asked the man who had offered the joint.
“Not really sure. I’m just headed. As far as you’ll take me for now.”
“Oh I see man, I see. Where you from?”
“I’m from Maine.”
“Damn. You’ve come a long way. And you still don’t know where you’re going? What are you looking for?”
Darrell Streeps hadn’t noticed the patter of the rain drops on the roof until they slowed and stopped. “I dunno yet. I guess I’ll know when I find it.”
A skinny guy with blonde curly hair piped up from his cushion all the way in the back of the van. “You’re on a journey then?”
“Ummm… I guess so.”
“Like the Indians man. The shaman takes a walk out into the desert and he stays out there by himself. He doesn’t come back until he understands all the secrets of the universe as well as of himself. They call it a spirit walk. You’re on your spirit walk.”
“Umm yeah maybe.”
“But the Indians had help. You know we may be able to help you on your spirit walk. Here you want a drink?”
Darrell took the bottle and drank. It was a pungent homemade hard cider. He took another drink and as he tipped it down from is mouth he felt a weight at the bottom that hinted at solid objects within. He passed it back to its owner who set it down on the floor.
“So how are you going to help me?” he asked.
“I already did.” He smiled. He turned to the driver. “Pull over. Our new passenger is going to be sick.”
“I am?” he asked. And then it hit him, a burning in his stomach, and a heaving in his throat as the meager contents of his stomach clawed their way up. Before he knew it he was on his hands and knees in the desert sand, retching.
“You took a drink of my homemade brew,” a voice called from the van. “It was spiked with peyote buttons, hallucinogens that come from cacti. The Indians used to use it on their spirit walks. Have a good journey friend.” The van drove off down the road, leaving Darrell alone in the desert.

***

The sun had gone down completely now, but a large full moon lit the landscape up in a colorless way. Everything was dull shades of grey and brown. He looked up to the moon. His eyes traveled through the shadows made by the waterless seas and the mountain scapes. They settled on a small minuscule speck. Although he would try to look elsewhere his eyes would always come back to that speck. He closed his eyes and suddenly has the sensation of moving a great distance very quickly.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the earth. Blue with green and brown masses under swirling white bodies. He looked down at the ground around him, it was all grey rock and dust. There was a range of mountains off to his left. He kicked in the dust and watched it float up past his chest.
He looked back up at the earth. His eyes moved along the continents, and over the seas, through the clouds. And again they settled on a speck. He closed his eyes and felt the shift again. He opened them, back in the desert looking up at the moon.
He looked down from the moon. His eyes caught the black forms of the cacti around him. They stretched towards the sky like arms reaching up to the heavens. Their branches extended up filling his vision as he looked back to the sky. They interlocked and crossed over each other, making a web that filled his vision, almost obscuring the moon.
Somewhere off in the distance he heard a pack of wild dogs howling. The long mournful cries reverberated in his head, echoing and amplifying. It seemed as if they were taking form as thoughts within his brain. Soon they were his only thoughts. Long plaintive notes echoing back and forth in his mind. He longed to run with the pack, to hunt, to kill, to feast on what he had killed.
Soon the howling stopped and the spell was broken. He looked back up to the sky to see the moon and stars unobstructed. Suddenly a shadow of outstretched wings passed over the moon. He followed it with his eyes, a black shape against a lesser black background. The giant bird glided majestically back and forth in lazy circles past the moon, casting his shadow across the desert sand.
Darrell watched the shadow of the bird as he soared in his slow stately dance across the sky and the sand below. Almost before he even knew what he was doing he was caught in the bird’s dance. He stretched his arms out to his sides and followed the bird’s shadow. They danced, entranced by the music of the earth’s rhythms and the airs movements.
He didn’t know how long he had been doing this but when he looked up again there was another figure there dancing with him. A vision of white grace danced around him copying his steps, dancing to the same rhythm. Gradually as his mind began to clear he recognized his companion as the blonde from the van. She looked radiant, in her white dress, with her creamy looking skin and her fair golden hair, blowing and bouncing as she danced.
Suddenly he realized what he was doing. He could no longer hear the thrumming of the earth’s vibrations. He looked for the bird’s shadow but it was gone. He stopped dancing.
The girl looked up at him. She put her hand on his arm. “Is it done for you?”
“Yeah.” He said almost sadly. Suddenly he felt angry. “You guys just spiked me and then left. What the fuck was that?”
“This was a journey you had to make on your own. We didn’t leave you. We went to set up camp for the night. We’re right up over those sand dunes over there. I came back for you.” She touched his arm again and looked at him in a way that made him want to melt.
“Oh.” Was all he could say. His thoughts felt a little slow and confused.
“Come on.” She took his hand. “You’ll want some food and a place to sleep. The others have tents but… I think you should sleep in the van… with me.”
He looked over at her. She blushed and smiled back. “Alright,” he said, and let her lead him back through the desert.
As they got into the camp all the vans occupants were seated in front of their tents around a fire. He was again greeted warmly.
“Hey friend, make yourself at home, we’re cooking up some grilled cheese sandwiches and some stew.”
“Hey brother, how was your spirit walk?”
It was the first time he had really thought about it. While it had been happening he hadn’t liked it. He had been scared, surprised and uncomfortable. But now that he thought back about it…
“It was pretty fucking amazing actually!”
“Yeah I remember my first peyote trip. Here man have some food.”
Darrell ate dinner with them and talked into the night over beers and marijuana. When at last the evening came to an end he went to bed with the gorgeous blonde.
And then the shaman, his spirit walk completed slept. A deep refreshing sleep. The sleep of enlightenment.

















































VII

Darrell said his goodbyes and his thank yous, and closed the door of the old Pontiac. The old man had given him a lengthy ride and a couple bucks, “In case you get hungry along the way.” He had been a kind gentleman and the ride had been pleasant. They had talked about places they had visited and things they had seen. The old man had seemed accustomed to being lonely, and seemed to enjoy his newfound companion. He carried the conversations on for hours as the miles fell away. Darrell wondered if he would miss the old man.
He had met a lot of people along the way. Some friendly, some generous. Some not so friendly, some scared. He had met some interesting characters, and some people who were about as bland as they come. He could not count how many rides he had received, and he barely remembered any of those who gave them to him. He wondered if he would remember the pleasant old man.
He turned and looked at his surroundings. The old man had dropped him off in a small city. He didn’t know the name he hadn’t looked at the signs as they exited the freeway. He was on a busy sidewalk in the commercial district of the town. He turned into a small café and spent the money the old man had given him on a beer and a muffin. He sat there enjoying himself for a while. That was all his money. He was flat ass broke. He had been for a while. He was hungry too.
He left the café and walked through the town. It was a beautiful summer day and the sidewalk was filled with people, walking slowly, relaxed. Darrell needed to think of a way to come up with some extra money. Aside from the beer and the muffin, he hadn’t eaten in days.
He wandered the streets aimlessly. Hunger, he had noticed, had a way of sharpening the senses. It made the air around him seem crisper and sharper, more present. He saw clearer, he picked up on more smells and more sounds than usual. He had discovered this on his journey. He had become used to enduring hunger. So Darrell walked hungrily through the streets, experiencing everything around him. The faces, the noise of the crowd, the smell from venders, and the stale heat from the vents he walked over. The muffin and the beer could possibly hold him for a few days but he wanted to get some money somehow before he left town.
He continued walking. Following the sidewalks, seeing what the city had to offer. He stopped by a few fountains, watched a few street performers, walked through a few parks. All the while he watched the people. Going on about their business unaware that in all these people they were being observed. He imagined from their appearances what kind of lives they must lead. He wondered how close to the truth he came. All these faces and lives passed him by. His mind caught some of them for an instant, studied them intensely and then released them, forgetting immediately.
He turned onto a side street lined with shops. One in particular caught his eye. Halfway down the street was a shop with guitars in the window. “Ralph’s Music Emporium”. He opened the heavy door and walked in. a bell rang as the door glided shut behind him. It was a good sized shop with guitars lining the walls, and amps and pianos in islands in the middle. There were guitars of all sorts on the walls. Guitars he had dreamed about as a boy. He walked slowly admiring. He hadn’t played guitar since he had left. He wondered if his fingers still remembered. He stopped walking as his eyes fell on a beautiful acoustic guitar. It had a rich dark mahogany body, with a graceful maple top. It was a beautiful earthy guitar with rich wood tones showing through the finish.
“Can I help you?” questioned an interrogative voice.
Suddenly an idea came to his head. “Umm, I know this may sound strange, but do you think I could play that guitar outside?”
“Umm, I--”
“It’s a beautiful day outside. I would just play it right there on the stoop.”
“I’m sorry sir. But store policy says--”
“What if I gave you a deposit or something. Here’s my bag. It’s got all my clothes, everything I own. Here’s my knife. Here how about my boots, I wouldn’t get far without those.”
“I’m sorry sir but there is nothing of value here.”
“Man, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in days. I need to play where people can hear me and maybe tip me.”
“I’m sorry sir, but if I let you take that guitar outside what’s to say you don’t run off with it?”
“One hundred of my dollars as a deposit.” A well dressed older man said. Darrell looked at the stranger in gratitude.
“Well Mr. Simmons, I guess if you’ll vouch for him than it’s fine. Go ahead sir.”
“Thanks a lot sir.” Darrell Streeps said to the man.
“No problem, just make sure that guitar finds it’s way back inside before closing.
“Oh yes sir, of course.”
Darrell Streeps took the beautiful guitar down from the wall and walked out the door. He slouched down against the wall of the shop. He pulled off his boot and pulled it open to receive tips. He began to play.
After a rocky start his fingers began to move of their own accord. They remembered songs far better than he did. He started to play as if he’d never stopped. He thumped out a bass line with his thumb, while his fingers picked out a melody in the delta blues style his neighbor had taught to him. He had loved to go over to old Mr. Johnson’s house and hear his stories about roadhouses with sawdust on the floor, and his songs about whiskey and women. He began to sing slowly to what he was playing.
Once I lived the life
Of a millionaire
Spent all my money
I just did not care
Took all my friends out
For a good time
Bought bootleg whiskey
Champagne and wine

But then I began
To fall so low
Lost all my good friends
I did not have nowhere to go
If I get my hands on
A dollar again
I’m gonna hang on to it
‘Til that eagle grins

Oh because, nobody knows you
When you’re down and out
In your pocket
Not a penny
And as for friends
You ain’t got many
Said it’s might strange
Without a doubt
No, nobody knows you
When your down and out

He belted out the song in a soulful raspy chant. His fingers moved on their own, pouring his soul into every note he played. He played there for the rest of the afternoon, playing old delta blues songs by the likes of Muddy Waters, and Robert Johnson. The passers by seemed to like it and he even attracted a small crowd that paused to listen. People were more than happy to stop and toss their coins or even some bills into his boot.
As the shadows started to lengthen, and the day became darker, the man who had vouched for him in the music store returned. He stood listening in the crowd for a while. And then he walked back into the music store.
He came out a while later, as the sun was sinking and the crowd was shriveling. Darrell stopped playing and began to count his money. The man started to talk to him.
“You play well. How long have you been playing?”
“Umm I don’t know. I haven’t played since I left home.”
“When was that?”
“About four years ago.” Darrell said, not looking up from the bills he was counting.
“Wow. Where do you live?”
“I used to live in Maine.”
“Where do you live now?”
“I don’t. I’ve been walking since I left. Haven’t stopped yet.”
“Oh I see, you’re a journeyer. I guess it did kind of sound that way in your songs. Where’d you learn to play?”
“My neighbor. He was an old bluesman. Taught me everything but the bottleneck. He said a bluesman had to keep a couple of secrets.” Darrell Streeps looked down at the guitar in his lap. “I guess I need to get this back inside. Thanks again.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Bring back the guitar. Anyone who plays as well as you should have their own guitar. And no man should go hungry.”
Darrell laughed. “Well what should I do, steal it?”
“You can’t steal something that’s already yours.”
“What?”
“The guitar. It’s yours.”
Darrell sat there confused. Suddenly he realized what was going on. “No. No, I can’t accept this. No. I can’t.”
“Would you rather go hungry? Consider it a favor to me. You’d be making a rich old man feel better about himself. And besides…” he smiled. “Maybe I can count it as a tax write off.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say thank you. And good bye, I hope you find what your looking for.”
“Thanks a lot. I… I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Well first go in and get the case that comes with it. To keep it safe on your journey.”
Darrell went in and laid the beautiful guitar in the black velvet of the case. He closed it and latched it solemnly. Then he went back outside.
The strange old man was gone. Darrell looked up and down the street but he saw no sign of him. He sat there in the street with his new guitar, feeling lost and alone, wondering what to do.

***

As Darrell Streeps reached the top of the hill he looked back on the lights of the city he had just left. There had been nothing to keep him there, just as there had been nothing to keep him in the last city, or the city before. It, like all the others had offered up a short moment of happiness, and left its mark on his life. But like all the other cities, it was already starting to fade from his mind.
He had hoped that his journey would maybe change him, maybe enlighten him. Maybe he had hoped to find out who he was. But the more miles, the more faces, the more years, the more places that he left behind him, the clearer it became. He was still the same old restless soul. He still could not find what he craved.
But there was no turning back now. There was still no reason to stop and stay anywhere. Nothing to sustain him but the promise of what the next city might offer. So he walked on, with food in his belly, money in his pocket, and a guitar under his arm. He walked on,
happily.











































VIII


As Darrell reached a bend in the winding mountain road, a beautiful view opened up before him. A majestic snow capped mountain range jutted into the horizon, and was reflected back to him from the mirror like lake that occupied the valley. He looked down on this view from his perch halfway up the mountain he stood on now. The road he walked circumvented the mountain. He looked back to see the shape of the trestle that spanned the gap between this mountain and the last.
He broke himself from the spell of the snow covered peaks and began to walk again. The air was very thin at this altitude. He felt extremely light headed and became short of breath easily. His head felt good. Everything seemed brighter and more joyous. Everything seemed to rush through his vision quickly as he moved his head to look around. The wind helped increased this effect.
He walked along enjoying this new feeling. The wind blew his hair, but he felt safe and warm within his jacket. He walked on bravely, enjoying himself. The air, while not as easy to breathe tasted delicious. It was crisp and fresh and barely there. This must have been what air tasted like before there were humans to poison it. It tasted clean and innocent. Untainted. Untasted. Virgin. It tasted like uncorrupted life. He would have given anything for a taste of the water from the glass-smooth lake below.
As he walked he heard the soft hum and eventual growl of an approaching vehicle. He moved well off of the road and stopped to hold out his thumb.
An old grey pick up came barreling around the corner. It passed by Darrell and then locked its brakes, skidding to a stop a few yards away. Darrell walked over to the truck’s cab.
“Hey, you need a lift boy?” called the truck’s occupant. He had wild dark curly hair and a scruffy beard. He wore an old army jacket.
“Yeah, definitely.”
“Well then toss your guitar in the back and climb in.”
Darrell climbed in and shut the door. “Hey.”
“Hey. Where you headed?”
“As far as you’ll take me.”
“Fair enough.”
“Did you serve?”
“Oh yeah, 101st airborne. I was in the ’Nam. In the thick of the shit as we used to say.”
“Oh, that must have been terrible.”
“Well it wasn’t as bad as everyone seems to think. ’Sides I got kicked out before I finished my first tour.”
“For what?”
“Well I got pretty heavy into acid while I was there. After a while it got so I couldn’t pass a psych evaluation. War is a crazy thing to see when you’re on acid. I still have flashbacks.”
“War flashbacks or acid flashbacks?”
“Both. I’m so fucked up now I can’t have one without the other.
Darrell went silent as they rounded a bend and a huge snowy mountain filled their view.
They passed the time with conversation, mostly about The Doors and acid, but some about the mountains, and Vietnam. They road along the winding mountain road at a break neck pace, the driver maneuvering his truck ably through the hairpin turns. They passed a sign depicting a warning for falling rocks.
Darrell heard a rumbling and looked out the window to his right. A small stream of rocks rushed down the slope, kicking up dust as they went.
“Look out!” he yelled.
His companion sped up and swerved around the rocks that tumbled down into the road. A swarm of small pebbles pelted the side of the truck as they passed, making metallic thuds and pings.
All of a sudden the driver started yelling beside him. “We’re taking fire! We’re taking fire! We need support, get us out of here!” he mashed the accelerator and the truck shot forward down the road.
“What!?” Darrell looked over at him.
The driver had a scared, hunted look on his face. His eyes were wild and full of terror, casting around unseeing, trying to find the source of the imaginary bullets. He looked quite insane.
“Come on man, you gotta calm down.”
“Calm? Calm. Calm is a snake. A blue snake as it winds itself around life and squeezes it into a lake.”
“What the fuck are you talking about!?” Darrell yelled as the truck sped crazily along the road. He looked over at his companion. His eyes were wide and red. His head rolled slowly from side to side, his mouth open, drooling slightly. His hands gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, but no longer moved in response to the road.
Darrell looked up and saw the sharp turn approaching fast. Without thinking he opened his door and leapt free of the truck. He hit the ground and rolled, making a sickening thud as he impacted. A sharp pain exploded in his ribs and his shoulder on his right side. He heard the truck crash through the guard rail and rev as its wheels found open air.
He got up slowly, painfully, clutching his right shoulder. He looked at the dented, crushed, ends of the truck sized hole in the guard rail. He could still hear the clamor of the truck rolling down the mountainside. He walked to the edge and looked down.
The truck hung suspended in the boughs of a group of pine trees a couple hundred yards down the mountain. It was upside down and the rear wheels were still spinning lazily. The truck had left a trail of destruction in its wake. Shattered tree limbs, scarred rock, upturned soil, all of which sparkled with broken glass.
Suddenly a deafening roar sounded from below. Darrell looked down to see a fiery cloud rising from where the truck had been. He walked back to the roadway and sat down on the pavement. Darrell Streeps began to cry.
He didn’t cry for the crazed driver of the truck. Although he did feel bad, he had hardly known him. He cried because his guitar had been in the back of that truck. His only companion, and his only pastime for the past year, he had carried that guitar halfway across the country. He had played it in the streets for money for food, and booze. He had played it during the lonely nights before he went to sleep. Occasionally he had even stopped on the side of the highway just to play as cars whizzed by. It was all he had. He sat there bawling.
It was all he had had he corrected himself. He picked himself up off of the ground. He wiped his eyes. That part of his life was over. It had ended like so many others along the way. He had lived a thousand lives since leaving home. They had all ended, and he didn’t miss any of them. He started to walk again, leaving the guitar behind to burn.
He was happy to be moving on. He realized the restlessness that he had been trying to shake was truly a gift. Nothing could touch you if you kept moving. You can only get hurt when you’re standing still. He had thought that his journey would feed his restlessness, and eventually satisfy it. That eventually he would settle down and his journey would be over. But now he realized that he was merely embracing it. His journey was just a submission to the restlessness of his soul.
In that moment he realized that his journey would never be over. He would never stop walking.
He smiled and walked on.

























































IX


Darrell walked in the dirt that bordered a straight country road. The tall emerald grass in the fields beside him hummed lazily. The sun beat down on him hotly but it was an enjoyable day without any humidity. He walked not really seeing but experiencing.
Suddenly something solid got tangled up in his feet. He stopped and looked down to find a fishing pole laying there with the line all tangled up in the eyes. He stooped to pick it up.
The feeling of the rod in his hands brought back memories. He remembered going out on the Kennebec with his grandfather when the stripers and the blues were running. His grandfather was an old sailor; Darrell knew he would have liked to see him end up at the maritime academy. It also brought back memories of trips to the lake with his neighbor Mr. Johnson. They would drive to the lake in the next town over, and sit on the dock playing guitar, sipping whiskey sours and fishing for bass. If anybody from his old life would understand what he was doing now it was Mr. Johnson.
There was a bobber on the end of the fouled line and a couple of hooks stuck in the handle. He sat down by the road and unfouled the line, cutting off the tangled end, pulling the fresh line through the eyes, and tying a hook to the end. Last he placed the bobber about two feet up the line from the hook.
Now he really wanted to go fishing. He hadn’t been fishing in a great many years. He figured if there was a fishing rod here than there had to be water somewhere close by. So he shouldered the rod and headed down the road to find a fishing hole.
It wasn’t long before he found a trail headed off through the field to his right. It looked promising so he decided to follow it. The trail wound through the tall grass of the field until it opened up into a clearing. There in the clearing the sun shimmered off of a small pond. There were a couple apple trees and cat nine tails spread around the pond. Frogs croaked and birds sang. The spot was completely secluded, surrounded by the tall grass of the field. It felt like it was miles away from any humanity. It felt tranquil and serene.
He laid his old worn duffle bag down in a copse of apple trees. Then he took off his boots and his socks, letting his feet feel the cool soft grass. He rolled up his pant legs to the knees and took off his shirt. Now he needed some bait.
He went into his bag and pulled out an empty whiskey bottle. He rinsed it out in the pond. He found a large rock and lifted it up onto its other side. The rich dark soil underneath wriggled with insects. He dug around until he found a few fat earth worms. He replaced the rock and slipped the worms into the bottle.
He made his way over to the pond. He found a log not too far from the shore and waded out to it with his rod and his whiskey bottle full of worms. He found a comfortable sitting position and sat down to bait his hook.
He cast his bait out into the pond and sat back against the log. He let his mind relax, soothed by the song of the frogs and the birds. Now this was the way for a man to relax. He kicked his toes in the cool murky water, as the sun warmed his back. He let everything slip away, all the tension drained out of his body as he let the stress slip from his mind. He just sat there with no thoughts but the chirping of birds and the croaking of frogs. No feelings but warmth and peace. He began to doze lightly.
Suddenly a tug on the line stirred him back to consciousness. Another tug and then a jerk let him know that the fish had taken the bait. He jerked the rod hard to set the hook and the fight was on. The fish jumped hard, making a splash out in the middle of the pond. He could feel every movement of the fish through the pole, and as he fought him it was almost as if their lives were connected momentarily. He could read the fish’s mind through the reel. He could feel when he was angry, scared, and finally when he was tired and defeated.
Darrell caught three more bass before the sun set.
As dark fell Darrell made camp in among the apple trees. He hung his duffle bag and his boots from a branch. He gathered some stones and some brush and built a fire. He cleaned the fish he had kept with his knife and cooked it over the open flame. He ate the fish with some apples from the trees over head. After he had eaten he made his bed. He stuffed all of his clothing into a shirt and set it by the roots of an apple tree for a pillow. Then using his jacket as a blanket he lay down on his back looking up at the stars through a clear night sky.
This was the life he thought. He felt safe here. It was peaceful. He was happy. It was secluded and tranquil. It felt like home. He fell asleep under the stars and the boughs of the apple trees.

***

Darrell stayed in the clearing for two more days and two more nights. He fished and slept. He ate what he caught as well as the apples from the trees.
On the morning of the fourth day he woke up and tore down his camp and packed his things. He leaned his fishing pole up against one of the apple trees.
Then he walked down the path without looking back. The old restlessness had found him again. He could not be at peace for very long. He had to keep moving. He hit the road at the end of the path and resumed his journey. He walked on, still searching.



































“Inside the dream, button sleep around your body
like a glove. Free now of space and time. Free
to dissolve in the streaming summer.”
-Jim Morrison




















X



A man awoke on a bench. The fiery pain in his back and shoulders tore him from the bliss of unconscious. He rolled over under the heavy canvas jacket that now served as his blanket, and looked out at the sea that had been his mother for uncounted years. The sun floated there just above the horizon firing its rays of gold through the prisms of the waves. The light assaulted his worn, tired eyes, safe behind their permanent squint, caused by innumerable hours of exposure to the sun’s reflection off the water. He heard the screech of gulls and turned his neck painfully to watch them wheel over his head. His mother the sea and his father the city fed these distant cousins better than they did he, their own son.
He swung to a sitting position and felt the pain of existence shoot through his old worn body. He was forty eight years old but he didn’t know this. He had lost track of the years somewhere near thirty. His body was worn far beyond his years. His knees ached from hard use and old football injuries. His back and shoulders were worn down from hours of pulling oars. His hands were gnarled and scarred from pulling in fishing lines. The sea had taken something for everything she gave.
The pain was magnified by his sobriety. He hadn’t had a drink now for seven days. The newfound clarity was as different and sweet as being drunk to those accustomed to sobriety. He didn’t know why, but for the past week he just didn’t want to drink. He didn’t feel the same thirst, the same need that usually consumed him. Maybe he was dying he joked to himself. He had been a lot weaker of late, and the pain was certainly a lot worse. Especially the internal pains in his chest and his gut.
He looked over to the dock at the end of the pier. It was under this dock that he tied his boat the “Sweet Melanie”. He certainly had to money for a berth. That boat along with the knife he wore at his belt and the clothes on his back were the only worldly possessions he had. She was a fifteen foot sea going row boat. Just heavy enough to be a bitch to row out, and small enough that any rough seas would beat the hell out of him.
This boat was his life’s blood. He would row her out and fish by hand for anything that would bear meat or bait. Generally he would catch the first fish of the day on a line baited with a small chunk of flesh, freshly cut from his forearm or thigh. It was brutal work. Each time he hooked a worthwhile fish it was a brutal struggle, pitting every muscle and joint of his tired, hungry body against the speed, strength, and endurance of the fish. He had no fishing pole. He pulled the lines in hand over hand like a third world fisherman. His hands were gnarled and twisted, cut and scarred, heavily callused from the torturous work. Each fish had to be fought for hours. He caught enough to feed himself, but any prize fish he caught he could sell at the market, and get money to buy booze. It was these big fish, the marlin and the tuna, that he sought. And it was these fish that hurt his body the most.
He had only gone out when he was very hungry lately. He made sure that he went before the hunger took all his strength. He went less lately because the work was getting to be too much. The last couple of times he had barely been able to make the swim from his boat under the dock to the ladder and it had been even harder to haul his drained body out of the water up to the dock. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t drank lately. He didn’t have the money. He could barely remember the last time he had caught a drinking fish. It had been a big blue marlin, close to seven hundred pounds. That fish had been hell to catch. He had come back from the market with his money and fell asleep in the park for what must have been days.
That fish had brought him enough cash to spend the next couple of months in a continual drunken stupor.
He lay back down on the bench as his body convulsed in a coughing fit. Maybe his body wasn’t ready to wake up quite yet. The pain in his chest felt like it would crush the life out of him. The pain in his gut clawed at him, like a hand clutching, trying to drag him into an open pit. These made the pains of his tired body seem somehow far away, like a voice over a bad telephone connection. He pulled the heavy coat around him, nuzzled his head into his shoulder, and fell into an unsettled sleep.
He dreamed. They were tattered, ragged. Delirious dreams, brought on by hunger and sickness. His unconscious mind moved confusingly from dream to dream. He saw places he knew. An empty snow covered forest. A field beside railroad tracks. His childhood home. The locker room where the football team changed before games. The weight room at his high school. A desert. A mountain range in Montana. A bedroom in some unremembered friend’s house. He also saw faces that he knew. The faces of his two best friends; dependable Robert Stevens, fun loving Caleb Lawndale. He saw his parents. His football coaches. His teacher Mr. Andrews. His neighbor Mr. Johnson. A couple of the girls he had known. A car full of hippies. A kindly old man.
The faces flew through the places in awkward, disjointed scenes. Everything was backwards and surreal, but made sense in that way that only dreams can,
In every scene there was a figure that haunted his dream. A girl. A brunette with a nice figure and dangerous eyes. He saw her in all the landscapes of his dream. She would appear, smile at him and turn away. He would try to follow but she always seemed to be a couple steps away. He followed her through the snow covered trees, through a desert, through the rooms of his childhood home, through a field by some railroad tracks. She always seemed to be around the next tree, over the next sand dune, almost close enough to touch. The trees echoed with a beautiful melodious laugh.

***

He awoke with the sun on his face. Gulls screeched overhead. He had a vague feeling he had been dreaming but he could not recall any specifics. All he could think about was his boat. He could picture her bobbing up and down in the current. He could see clearly in his mind the name painted on the gunwale. Sweet Melanie.
He tried again to rise from the bench. He couldn’t even lift his head up, he was too weak. He thought back to his football days. In the fourth quarter, when everything had hurt and he had been able to tune out the pain and just go. He tried again to pick his head up off of the bench. He lay his head back down. Defeated. The pain in his belly twisted, and he grunted in pain.
He closed his eyes and thought back about his life. He smiled. He smiled and he died.
THE END