He sighed long and loud. His car was parking at a traffic
light in New Bern, North Carolina. He’d made it 37 miles from his starting
point – the Atlantic Ocean. How on earth was he going to finish this task in
the three weeks he had?
Burying ghosts isn’t something that comes with a manual. He’d
been dealing with them like a pit bar-b-que guy must deal with flies, he swats
and hopes for the best.
She’d left him over six years ago. Six years, four months
and 17 days ago to be exact. Two nights before, he’d finally realized that he’d
been pining over her for longer than he knew her – six years, four months and
11 days. That epiphany hit its mark while lying in bed that morning. The wind
was blowing outside and the cars were driving by on the still wet from an early
rain road. He had to stop. And to make that possible, he had to do something
interesting, something dramatic, something only he would think of.
So, he took a shower and went to work. Like he always did.
For five days. Then, while sitting in his dusty cubicle at work, listening to
the trollish co-worker beside him crying for the God only knows how manyieth
day in a row, he got up walked to his boss’ desk and said “I quit.”
Stunned, the copy desk chief stared at him. “It is what it
is, man,” he finally uttered.
“Fuck that,” he countered. “You’re just as stuck as I am,
dawg.”
With that, he went outside knowing full well he’d never
enter another newspaper office again. At least as an employee. That felt more
liberating than what he was about to do, and that, he decided, was a damn good
sign.
Driving the 58 minutes home he started plotting a course of
action. How on earth could he do this? He had no job, was deep in debt and had
a girlfriend. She knew he was messed up about his past, but she thought he was
just too emotional.
His first decision was she couldn’t come with him.
He dialed her number. They rarely talked on the phone. She
hated it. He hated it. His worst relationship moments had come on the phone.
Fights from New Orleans to Arlington, Virginia. Crying fits. And the break up
from Gainesville, Florida, to New Bern, North Carolina.
She picked up.
“Hey, honey,” she said. He didn’t remember her ever calling
him honey. He tried to call her honey or hun a few times. She said it creeped
her out.
“Hey, babe,” he responded. “I’ve got some news.”
“Good news?”
“I think so.” He paused. The next words out of his mouth
were very important. And he hadn’t thought them through at all.
“Listen, I need some time by myself,” he instantly knew
those were the wrong words.
“What?” she said, terrified.
“Let me re-phrase that,” he said. “I need to take a road
trip. It’s going to be a long one. But I have to do it alone.”
“OK…Why?” she said, tentatively.
“I have to bury her,” he said. “She’d dead now. Well, she’s
been dead for a long time. But I just found the corpse.”
He hoped she’d get it.
“You mean her? The one you always talk about in your sleep?”
“Yes,” he said. “I quit my job today.”
“What?”
“Good news is, I can move in with you now. No more long
distance relationship. That is, at least after this trip is done.”
“Honey,” she sadly, “are you going to come back?”
“Unless I get killed driving or while eating pancakes
somewhere, yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “I promise.”
“Love you,” she said softly. Her voice didn’t sound
confident. He knew she had doubts about his intentions. It was funny, for the
first time since they began dating a year and a half ago, he didn’t have any
doubts about his.
“Love you too, babe,” he said. “I’ll send you a postcard
from every stop I make.”
“OK,” she said, now crying.
“It’s going to be all right, baby. I promise. I just need
this. We need this. To survive.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Good bye baby,” he said.
“Love you,” she said, hanging up.
He stared at the phone. He had a real hatred for phones. He
hated having life-altering conversations on them. Twice in his life, he’d
suffered through that life-shattering talk on a phone. One of them was while he
sat on his parents’ living room floor; the other, on a broken down futon. His
grey-blue eyes looked around to see where this one occurred. He was sitting on
a hand-me-down couch in his holey underwear. It seemed fitting.
In the spare bedroom he kept his suitcases and bags. Under a
cheap spare bed, he reached for, and found his sister’s old Virginia
Commonwealth swim team bag. He loved that bag. She’d given it to him years ago.
“I don’t need it anymore,” she said. He marveled then at how easy it was for
her to just give away something that used to mean so much. It was a concept
foreign to him. Things that had meaning, you hold on to them. They keep you
grounded. They remind you of when times were better. Because, honestly, they
don’t get better.
What an awful way to look at life, he thought to himself
after that flood of memory.
His first instance of purging came in 2003. He and the
redhead were moving. Well, she was moving, and he was moving his stuff. A box
of old letters and trinkets popped up while he was taking things out of a
closet. His old girlfriend’s letters and memory box. Things that reminded him
of her. He looked through it all, smiling at the things it contained. His
current girl had replaced her. While he was lost in thought, she walked in.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Just some old junk I don’t need anymore,” he said, throwing
the entire box into a trash bag.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen
you throw anything away.”
She was right.
Six years later, he was in a crappy apartment in that same
town. He’d moved twice, but somehow ended up back where he was. Another girl
had come and gone, and she had the audacity to say she left because he lived in
the past.
She was right.
And he was throwing it all away. Garbage bag after garbage
bag was filled with his past. Diaries and notepads. Menus and receipts. He even
threw away the necklace that the first girl he saw naked had left on his bed
that night. That was one of the things he never thought he’d throw away. Now,
years later, he still can remember what it looked like, but he can’t describe
it.
“Guess that’s progress,” he said out loud.
He’d packed up a bag while thinking. He also had his digital
camera and his laptop.
His bank account was empty, he’d paid the rent for the month
and turned in his notice. He’d get back and have one week to move.
“Good plan,” he said with a chuckle. It made him think of a
line from Lucero’s “She Wakes When She Dreams” Which, of course, made him grab
his Ipod – which contained only Lucero and Ben Nichols songs.
“Time to hit the road,” he said, slamming the door shut.
He’d go north first, he decided. Go right into the belly of
the beast.
