He walked out of the doctor's office into a cold and damp autumn afternoon. There was a new kind of lightness to him, not one of happiness and hope, but that of a man resigned to his short and likely painful future. He took a deep breath, trying to recapture the flavor of the season, the scent that he used to love so well. The cold crisp air that heralded a time of winter's darkness now had added irony for him. He was not surprised though, it had been several years since he had loved the seasons separately and piously, not since she had left. Now all he had was a steady, stolid ache that neither escalated or abated with changes in temperature or pressure, an ache that was about to embrace the vengeance and agony of the malignancy growing inside him. Frankly, he almost welcomed the diversity.
He opened the door to his three-quarter ton pick up truck, noticed the rust was progressing nicely, and climbed up in the cab. He liked this old truck, so much so, he traded his table saw and a few other woodworking tools for it straight up. As he reached forward to put the key into the ignition, he did something he could never recall doing - he slid the key in, then sat back in the seat and just sat there. For as long as he could remember, he could never just sit in a car or truck - when he got where he was going, he had to get out, even if a favorite song was playing on the radio, he could not force himself to sit and listen. He had chalked it up to impatience, something he knew a great deal about. But on this day, he sat back, and let the reel continue running in his mind. He looked out the windshield at nothing really, and drifted back a few decades.
He realized how much time he had spent behind a windshield as a boy - moving from house to house, town to town, state to state, and often relative to relative. The purpose of cars it seemed, was to take him away from a place, his friends, as soon as he had grown accustomed to them. They seldom took him were he wanted to go, certainly not on the dozens of promised fishing trips or other excursions that evaporated with his step-father's booze soaked binges. He had seen some terrible things from behind a windshield as well, brutal ugly events that would stay with him a lifetime.
One such incident happened when he was nine years old - a semi-truck had pulled in front of the family car, and his step-father chased the truck down, endangering the lives of the family. He sat helpless as his sister screamed and his baby brother cried, as the car sped down a two lane highway, trying to cut off the truck, horn blaring. Finally, they overtook the truck, swerved right in front of it to make stop. His step-father then proceeded to pull the driver, a much smaller man, out of the cab and began to beat him relentlessly into the ground. The man's cries for mercy still filled his ears as if it was happening yesterday. He felt helpless watching this spectacle, but a little relieved it was happening to someone else, and this made him feel very guilty. After what seemed like an hour, really only a minute or so, his step-father left the man lying broken and bleeding in the road, and walked back to the car as if nothing had happened.
The windshield didn't always "shield" him however, there were other incidents where he was not allowed to remain a spectator. Six or seven years after the truck driver beating, he was with his step-father going across town on a side street when they saw a sailor yelling at a woman over what looked like a minor accident. His step-father mumbled something like "he's giving her a hard time" before stopping the car in the middle of the street, and getting out to intervene. For some reason, he watched the woman as the three converged in the street. He face first eased in relief, as she must have thought chivalry had arrived, he knew better. He also knew it was a matter of only seconds until the scene exploded - he had no desire to see the violence, only to watch her face. Like a mirror, he knew what was happening a few feet away. Her face changed suddenly to astonishment, and he was sure that meant his step-father had just hit the sailor without warning, probably when the other man wasn't looking. Then as her face turned pale and she looked away, face in hands, he knew the sailor was on the ground, and that his step-father was pummeling him. A few seconds later, she ran off, heading down the street, trying to escape the ugliness that had just erupted in front of her. He envied her, the ability to just leave was never an option for him. As he watched her running down the sidewalk wondering where she thought she was heading, his singular focus was shattered by the loud bellow of "boy, boy can't you hear me, get out here." He slowly climbed out of the car and walked over to where his step-father was, trying to do so without looking at the sailor for as long as possible. When he did make it over to his step-father, he was relieved to see the other man wasn't too badly hurt, but he was terrified by what came next. His step-father was standing above the man holding him by the collar, keeping him on the ground, He was then told to hold the man there while his step-father went after the woman, ostensibly to check to see if she was ok. He was instructed to hit the man if he got up and tried to run away. In an instance, the horrible event had taken on a ridiculous hue - three people trapped in one man's nightmare. He couldn't imagine the woman's terror as she turned to see the large man following her down the street, while looking down at the man at his feet, not believing the man wasn't moving, wasn't trying to escape. In the course of a few minutes, three lives had been changed forever at the whim of an evil man. He pulled the sailor up and told him to leave. He then stood there patiently waiting for the police to come, and for his father to come back and club him in the ear for disobeying him.
He was about to let himself return from these reminiscences, when he reached up and gently rubbed his forehead, the last reminder of this day of windshields and blood. At twenty-two, he had run his car into a telephone pole at seventy miles an hour, and had lain trapped in the vehicle for twelve hours before anyone had found him. His head had shattered the windshield and he was blinded by the blood streaming down his face. His hallucinations had been vivid that night, and he had wondered if it truly was God he had conversed with. He remembered not really caring if he survived or not, and he remembered knowing how odd it was that he felt that way. Once finally freed, he spent two weeks in intensive care, where he emerged somewhat changed - no more or less ambivalent about life and death, but much more confident in the durability of his mind and body, and perhaps even more tempted to invite and court his own self-destruction.
He shook his head a bit, tossed out the thoughts of windshields, violence, and blood, and drove off in no particular direction - a good metaphor he thought, for his life.
To be continued..........................
He opened the door to his three-quarter ton pick up truck, noticed the rust was progressing nicely, and climbed up in the cab. He liked this old truck, so much so, he traded his table saw and a few other woodworking tools for it straight up. As he reached forward to put the key into the ignition, he did something he could never recall doing - he slid the key in, then sat back in the seat and just sat there. For as long as he could remember, he could never just sit in a car or truck - when he got where he was going, he had to get out, even if a favorite song was playing on the radio, he could not force himself to sit and listen. He had chalked it up to impatience, something he knew a great deal about. But on this day, he sat back, and let the reel continue running in his mind. He looked out the windshield at nothing really, and drifted back a few decades.
He realized how much time he had spent behind a windshield as a boy - moving from house to house, town to town, state to state, and often relative to relative. The purpose of cars it seemed, was to take him away from a place, his friends, as soon as he had grown accustomed to them. They seldom took him were he wanted to go, certainly not on the dozens of promised fishing trips or other excursions that evaporated with his step-father's booze soaked binges. He had seen some terrible things from behind a windshield as well, brutal ugly events that would stay with him a lifetime.
One such incident happened when he was nine years old - a semi-truck had pulled in front of the family car, and his step-father chased the truck down, endangering the lives of the family. He sat helpless as his sister screamed and his baby brother cried, as the car sped down a two lane highway, trying to cut off the truck, horn blaring. Finally, they overtook the truck, swerved right in front of it to make stop. His step-father then proceeded to pull the driver, a much smaller man, out of the cab and began to beat him relentlessly into the ground. The man's cries for mercy still filled his ears as if it was happening yesterday. He felt helpless watching this spectacle, but a little relieved it was happening to someone else, and this made him feel very guilty. After what seemed like an hour, really only a minute or so, his step-father left the man lying broken and bleeding in the road, and walked back to the car as if nothing had happened.
The windshield didn't always "shield" him however, there were other incidents where he was not allowed to remain a spectator. Six or seven years after the truck driver beating, he was with his step-father going across town on a side street when they saw a sailor yelling at a woman over what looked like a minor accident. His step-father mumbled something like "he's giving her a hard time" before stopping the car in the middle of the street, and getting out to intervene. For some reason, he watched the woman as the three converged in the street. He face first eased in relief, as she must have thought chivalry had arrived, he knew better. He also knew it was a matter of only seconds until the scene exploded - he had no desire to see the violence, only to watch her face. Like a mirror, he knew what was happening a few feet away. Her face changed suddenly to astonishment, and he was sure that meant his step-father had just hit the sailor without warning, probably when the other man wasn't looking. Then as her face turned pale and she looked away, face in hands, he knew the sailor was on the ground, and that his step-father was pummeling him. A few seconds later, she ran off, heading down the street, trying to escape the ugliness that had just erupted in front of her. He envied her, the ability to just leave was never an option for him. As he watched her running down the sidewalk wondering where she thought she was heading, his singular focus was shattered by the loud bellow of "boy, boy can't you hear me, get out here." He slowly climbed out of the car and walked over to where his step-father was, trying to do so without looking at the sailor for as long as possible. When he did make it over to his step-father, he was relieved to see the other man wasn't too badly hurt, but he was terrified by what came next. His step-father was standing above the man holding him by the collar, keeping him on the ground, He was then told to hold the man there while his step-father went after the woman, ostensibly to check to see if she was ok. He was instructed to hit the man if he got up and tried to run away. In an instance, the horrible event had taken on a ridiculous hue - three people trapped in one man's nightmare. He couldn't imagine the woman's terror as she turned to see the large man following her down the street, while looking down at the man at his feet, not believing the man wasn't moving, wasn't trying to escape. In the course of a few minutes, three lives had been changed forever at the whim of an evil man. He pulled the sailor up and told him to leave. He then stood there patiently waiting for the police to come, and for his father to come back and club him in the ear for disobeying him.
He was about to let himself return from these reminiscences, when he reached up and gently rubbed his forehead, the last reminder of this day of windshields and blood. At twenty-two, he had run his car into a telephone pole at seventy miles an hour, and had lain trapped in the vehicle for twelve hours before anyone had found him. His head had shattered the windshield and he was blinded by the blood streaming down his face. His hallucinations had been vivid that night, and he had wondered if it truly was God he had conversed with. He remembered not really caring if he survived or not, and he remembered knowing how odd it was that he felt that way. Once finally freed, he spent two weeks in intensive care, where he emerged somewhat changed - no more or less ambivalent about life and death, but much more confident in the durability of his mind and body, and perhaps even more tempted to invite and court his own self-destruction.
He shook his head a bit, tossed out the thoughts of windshields, violence, and blood, and drove off in no particular direction - a good metaphor he thought, for his life.
To be continued..........................
can't wait for the next installment :)g
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