Even If It Took Forever And More
Maybe it was in California or Colorado.
It’s just me and him, shoving our most needed personal belongings in the back of my white, beaten up Subaru at three a.m. The moon is bright and the coolness of the pavement is seeping through my slippers, a knot built up low in my stomach as I watch him load the last few things. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than this in my life.
He closes the trunk and wipes the dust that got on his fingers onto his plaid pajamas before shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets and glancing around at the abandoned street. The porch light three houses down is flickering and Ms. Hamilton’s golden retriever is barking.
“Ready?” he asks me after a few moments, and I blink at him and smile because I can see the excitement swimming in his irises too.
I take in a deep breath, opening my mouth to let my tongue taste the dirty Jersey air one last time. Lightly, I chuckle, and then I nod and say, “Yeah, let’s go.”
We both climb into the car, him in the drivers seat and me in the passenger. He lights a cigarette and starts the car. I mumble a small, “Au revoir,” and press the pads of my fingers to the window as the neighborhood begins to disappear behind us.
I think about driving along abandoned roads and warm beaches until we find where we’re destined, and I don’t think I mind. As long he’s in the seat next to me and there to dig his toes in the sand with mine, I don’t think I mind at all. Even if it took forever and more.
*
When I wake up, the sun is high in the sky and he’s driving, an old pair of aviator’s shielding his eyes and the sunshine kissing his skin. The blue and red ink adorning his arm stands out more like this, I think, and then I ask, “Do you want me to drive?”
The car swerves a bit and the corner of his lips quirk at the edge before he says, “You were snoring.” His voice sounds like too many cigarettes and cracked pavement.
I cringe and then squint against the sunlight as I sit up. I glance at the clock and feel kind of bad, especially considering he’s been driving ten hours straight. “Do you want me to drive?” I ask again, and he pushes his glasses up onto his head and glances at me. He looks in the rearview mirror and then rubs one of his eyes with his left fist and shakes his head.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says, and then after a pause, “Do you want to stop and get something to eat?” I press the heel of my palm to my stomach and then nod slowly. “Any preferences?” he asks.
“Um, no, no anything’s good,” I mumble and stare at the cars as they pass.
After a moment of silence, he turns on the radio and then we’re headed to the closest exit.
*
Sheryl Crowe is playing on the radio when I drive pass the ‘Welcome to Ohio’ sign. I want to wake him up, tell him that we’re another step closer to home or freedom or whatever we’re looking for. There are still deep purple bags under his eyes though, and I know if he cracked them open they’d still be bloodshot all to fuck. I sigh to myself and turn up the radio a tad instead.
*
We don’t really talk much. One of us is usually driving while the other is sleeping. The only time we ever do chat is when we stop at a McDonalds or Denny’s for breakfast. We’ve only been on the road for six days, and I’m possibly already looking to give up. I feel sort of lonely, honestly.
When I tell him this over a cup of lukewarm coffee, he grimaces, nods and tells me, “Trust me, I know what you mean,” and then he scratches at his two-day old beard.
I push my hair away from my face and drink my coffee with a quirk to my lips. Truthfully, I don’t think he knows what I mean, we have two different mind-sets. He’s always been the partier. The delinquent, if you will, and I’ve always been the good kid. Ever since we were little. And now that I look at his chipped nails and tattooed fingers, I realize that we’ll probably always be this way.
“Do you want to stay at a hotel tonight?” I ask. I know that we don’t really have the money for it, but it’s worth a shot, I think. Neither of us has had a comfortable sleep in what feels like months.
He takes a sip of his own coffee and stares over my shoulder for a few seconds before saying, “Sure.”
We actually do get a motel room that night. It’s at a rundown motel on a mostly abandoned highway. There’s only one bed and the mattress smells kind of like cat piss. But, we huddle together under the itchy bed sheets and it’s probably one of the most comfortable sleeps I’ve ever had.
*
Duran Duran is playing when we pass through Illinois. Billy Idol singing when we drive along the curvy roads of South Dakota. We even sing along to House of Pain when we cross the Indiana state line.
My chest is light and there are thirty dollars to my name. I feel like I’m living on the edge, like maybe we’re Butch and Sundance. Hopefully we won’t have to go through that whole ‘jumping over the cliff’ thing though.
*
When we get to Washington, I throw my cell phone out the window and put my feet on the dashboard. I left the charger at home anyways. Plus, there’s no need for it anymore.
Both of us laugh and it’s nice to hear.
The aviator glasses are shielding his eyes again and his smile is wide. “I can’t believe you did that,” he says between broken chuckles, and then he glances over his shoulder and changes lanes.
I laugh and say, “Me either.”
*
In California, we both get easy jobs and live out of our car. We always park by a boardwalk and walk the beaches before we go to bed. It really is like a breath of fresh air, in a way. There’s still city smog and dirty sidewalks, but it’s new and thrilling.
Before we go to work on the third day, he tells me that he’s happy. I smile and it’s not fake at all and I say, “Me too.” He smiles back at me, the smile that shows both rows of his slightly crooked teeth. It’s good to know that we’re both on the same page. Or that, you know, that this whole trip to find ‘home’ was a waste of time. Because that would pretty much suck.
On the seventh day, neither of us have work and we drive around Orange County. When we drive through a tunnel, I push my oversized sunglasses atop my head and stick my torso out of the passenger window and scream for no reason while Guns N’ Roses plays on the radio. He honks the horn for a good ten seconds and yells, “Get your stupid ass in here,” jokingly. I laugh like a lunatic and duck back into the car. He’s biting his lip with the corners of his mouth turning upwards and I feel infinite.
We stop at different cities and walk around it’s almost sundown, stopping at random corner stores and sitting on old park benches. It’s warm out, but not too warm, and autumn leaves coat the roads until we get close to the boardwalks, which is where the palm trees start and the oak trees end. From there, we park at our usual spot, down Sunset Lane, three houses down, straight across from the pier. I’m actually surprised we’ve never been asked to relocate considering the amount of people that visit the area daily.
He turns off the car and sits there for a few seconds. The sound of waves breaking against the shore is audible, even from this distance, and it’s kind of like a lullaby at night. When the windows are cracked and neither of us can sleep, something constant to fill the silence when we don’t have anything to talk about.
“You wanna walk the beach?” he asks after a few moments, causing me to startle slightly.
“Yeah, um, yeah,” I mumble and reach for the door handle.
We both roll up our pants legs and step onto the cool sand. No one else is around, oddly, and the tide is high while the sun is peeking over the water. It looks like it’s kissing his skin again, in a different way this time though. The faint purple glow causes the ink to become more vivid and his skin to become more of an olive tone. It reflects off of the aviator glasses he’s still wearing, showing the vast amounts of water and orange clouds with a purple hue twisted in.
It actually makes him look like a bad ass, with his white wife beater matched with various amounts of ink and dark sunglasses. I smile at the thought and he asks, “What?”
I say, “Nothing,” and we continue walking.
Around an hour later and we’ve walked so far that you can’t even see the pier. The sun is barely there too, making everything look like a rainy day in Jersey. I breathe in deep, tasting the salt on my tongue and the ocean breeze on my skin and realize that I don’t really miss it.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn to look at him. I didn’t even notice that we stopped walking.
I cock my eyebrow and tilt my jaw as a ‘hey’ back. He grins at me and steps towards the tide, just so his toes get lapped at by the breaking waves, and then holds out his hand. “Come on,” he says, jerking his head towards the ocean.
For some reason, Burden in My Hand plays at the back of my mind as I take his hand. A small chill runs through me when his thumb smoothes against the back of my hand as the cool water covers my toes. “What?” I ask, but I can feel the curve of my lips as I ask the question.
“I think I love you,” he says, just flat out with a pink tint to his cheeks.
Laughter bubbles at the back of my throat and he drops my hand and turns away, quick. “No, no,” I say, and I’m still laughing as I grab his forearm to turn him around. By the look in his eyes I can tell that he’s furious and let down. “Hey,” I say, and I pull on his arm a little so he stumbles a little closer, “it’s not really a secret or anything, but, I think I’ve kind of been in love with you,” and it’s nothing but honesty.
We don’t kiss or anything, but we do grin at each other like fools until he splashes me with water and I push him further into the Pacific.
*
On his birthday, we do kiss, slow and sweet and shy before deciding that we’re tired of California.
We quit our jobs and spend one last night on the beach, standing on the shore and people watching. It’s kind of heart wrenching watching the beach disappear through the rearview mirror, but this isn’t our home. Just where we found a portion of ourselves. Another piece to the puzzle of our lives.
When we pass the Nevada state line, the Pussycat Dolls are playing for some reason, and he talks about how we might want to drive up to Canada or down to Mexico. Maybe even fly to Australia and Russia when we magically come up with the money.
I grin and press the gas a little harder, say, “Yeah, maybe,” and he squeezes my fingers in his before putting the aviator sunglasses over his eyes.
And we drive in search of ‘home’. Two lost twenty-something’s in search of something that we may have already found, but just didn’t know it. Maybe it was in California or Colorado. All’s I know is that I’d continue to search just to be sure, just as long as he’s by my side and the radio isn’t busted.
He closes the trunk and wipes the dust that got on his fingers onto his plaid pajamas before shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets and glancing around at the abandoned street. The porch light three houses down is flickering and Ms. Hamilton’s golden retriever is barking.
“Ready?” he asks me after a few moments, and I blink at him and smile because I can see the excitement swimming in his irises too.
I take in a deep breath, opening my mouth to let my tongue taste the dirty Jersey air one last time. Lightly, I chuckle, and then I nod and say, “Yeah, let’s go.”
We both climb into the car, him in the drivers seat and me in the passenger. He lights a cigarette and starts the car. I mumble a small, “Au revoir,” and press the pads of my fingers to the window as the neighborhood begins to disappear behind us.
I think about driving along abandoned roads and warm beaches until we find where we’re destined, and I don’t think I mind. As long he’s in the seat next to me and there to dig his toes in the sand with mine, I don’t think I mind at all. Even if it took forever and more.
*
When I wake up, the sun is high in the sky and he’s driving, an old pair of aviator’s shielding his eyes and the sunshine kissing his skin. The blue and red ink adorning his arm stands out more like this, I think, and then I ask, “Do you want me to drive?”
The car swerves a bit and the corner of his lips quirk at the edge before he says, “You were snoring.” His voice sounds like too many cigarettes and cracked pavement.
I cringe and then squint against the sunlight as I sit up. I glance at the clock and feel kind of bad, especially considering he’s been driving ten hours straight. “Do you want me to drive?” I ask again, and he pushes his glasses up onto his head and glances at me. He looks in the rearview mirror and then rubs one of his eyes with his left fist and shakes his head.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says, and then after a pause, “Do you want to stop and get something to eat?” I press the heel of my palm to my stomach and then nod slowly. “Any preferences?” he asks.
“Um, no, no anything’s good,” I mumble and stare at the cars as they pass.
After a moment of silence, he turns on the radio and then we’re headed to the closest exit.
*
Sheryl Crowe is playing on the radio when I drive pass the ‘Welcome to Ohio’ sign. I want to wake him up, tell him that we’re another step closer to home or freedom or whatever we’re looking for. There are still deep purple bags under his eyes though, and I know if he cracked them open they’d still be bloodshot all to fuck. I sigh to myself and turn up the radio a tad instead.
*
We don’t really talk much. One of us is usually driving while the other is sleeping. The only time we ever do chat is when we stop at a McDonalds or Denny’s for breakfast. We’ve only been on the road for six days, and I’m possibly already looking to give up. I feel sort of lonely, honestly.
When I tell him this over a cup of lukewarm coffee, he grimaces, nods and tells me, “Trust me, I know what you mean,” and then he scratches at his two-day old beard.
I push my hair away from my face and drink my coffee with a quirk to my lips. Truthfully, I don’t think he knows what I mean, we have two different mind-sets. He’s always been the partier. The delinquent, if you will, and I’ve always been the good kid. Ever since we were little. And now that I look at his chipped nails and tattooed fingers, I realize that we’ll probably always be this way.
“Do you want to stay at a hotel tonight?” I ask. I know that we don’t really have the money for it, but it’s worth a shot, I think. Neither of us has had a comfortable sleep in what feels like months.
He takes a sip of his own coffee and stares over my shoulder for a few seconds before saying, “Sure.”
We actually do get a motel room that night. It’s at a rundown motel on a mostly abandoned highway. There’s only one bed and the mattress smells kind of like cat piss. But, we huddle together under the itchy bed sheets and it’s probably one of the most comfortable sleeps I’ve ever had.
*
Duran Duran is playing when we pass through Illinois. Billy Idol singing when we drive along the curvy roads of South Dakota. We even sing along to House of Pain when we cross the Indiana state line.
My chest is light and there are thirty dollars to my name. I feel like I’m living on the edge, like maybe we’re Butch and Sundance. Hopefully we won’t have to go through that whole ‘jumping over the cliff’ thing though.
*
When we get to Washington, I throw my cell phone out the window and put my feet on the dashboard. I left the charger at home anyways. Plus, there’s no need for it anymore.
Both of us laugh and it’s nice to hear.
The aviator glasses are shielding his eyes again and his smile is wide. “I can’t believe you did that,” he says between broken chuckles, and then he glances over his shoulder and changes lanes.
I laugh and say, “Me either.”
*
In California, we both get easy jobs and live out of our car. We always park by a boardwalk and walk the beaches before we go to bed. It really is like a breath of fresh air, in a way. There’s still city smog and dirty sidewalks, but it’s new and thrilling.
Before we go to work on the third day, he tells me that he’s happy. I smile and it’s not fake at all and I say, “Me too.” He smiles back at me, the smile that shows both rows of his slightly crooked teeth. It’s good to know that we’re both on the same page. Or that, you know, that this whole trip to find ‘home’ was a waste of time. Because that would pretty much suck.
On the seventh day, neither of us have work and we drive around Orange County. When we drive through a tunnel, I push my oversized sunglasses atop my head and stick my torso out of the passenger window and scream for no reason while Guns N’ Roses plays on the radio. He honks the horn for a good ten seconds and yells, “Get your stupid ass in here,” jokingly. I laugh like a lunatic and duck back into the car. He’s biting his lip with the corners of his mouth turning upwards and I feel infinite.
We stop at different cities and walk around it’s almost sundown, stopping at random corner stores and sitting on old park benches. It’s warm out, but not too warm, and autumn leaves coat the roads until we get close to the boardwalks, which is where the palm trees start and the oak trees end. From there, we park at our usual spot, down Sunset Lane, three houses down, straight across from the pier. I’m actually surprised we’ve never been asked to relocate considering the amount of people that visit the area daily.
He turns off the car and sits there for a few seconds. The sound of waves breaking against the shore is audible, even from this distance, and it’s kind of like a lullaby at night. When the windows are cracked and neither of us can sleep, something constant to fill the silence when we don’t have anything to talk about.
“You wanna walk the beach?” he asks after a few moments, causing me to startle slightly.
“Yeah, um, yeah,” I mumble and reach for the door handle.
We both roll up our pants legs and step onto the cool sand. No one else is around, oddly, and the tide is high while the sun is peeking over the water. It looks like it’s kissing his skin again, in a different way this time though. The faint purple glow causes the ink to become more vivid and his skin to become more of an olive tone. It reflects off of the aviator glasses he’s still wearing, showing the vast amounts of water and orange clouds with a purple hue twisted in.
It actually makes him look like a bad ass, with his white wife beater matched with various amounts of ink and dark sunglasses. I smile at the thought and he asks, “What?”
I say, “Nothing,” and we continue walking.
Around an hour later and we’ve walked so far that you can’t even see the pier. The sun is barely there too, making everything look like a rainy day in Jersey. I breathe in deep, tasting the salt on my tongue and the ocean breeze on my skin and realize that I don’t really miss it.
“Hey,” he says, and I turn to look at him. I didn’t even notice that we stopped walking.
I cock my eyebrow and tilt my jaw as a ‘hey’ back. He grins at me and steps towards the tide, just so his toes get lapped at by the breaking waves, and then holds out his hand. “Come on,” he says, jerking his head towards the ocean.
For some reason, Burden in My Hand plays at the back of my mind as I take his hand. A small chill runs through me when his thumb smoothes against the back of my hand as the cool water covers my toes. “What?” I ask, but I can feel the curve of my lips as I ask the question.
“I think I love you,” he says, just flat out with a pink tint to his cheeks.
Laughter bubbles at the back of my throat and he drops my hand and turns away, quick. “No, no,” I say, and I’m still laughing as I grab his forearm to turn him around. By the look in his eyes I can tell that he’s furious and let down. “Hey,” I say, and I pull on his arm a little so he stumbles a little closer, “it’s not really a secret or anything, but, I think I’ve kind of been in love with you,” and it’s nothing but honesty.
We don’t kiss or anything, but we do grin at each other like fools until he splashes me with water and I push him further into the Pacific.
*
On his birthday, we do kiss, slow and sweet and shy before deciding that we’re tired of California.
We quit our jobs and spend one last night on the beach, standing on the shore and people watching. It’s kind of heart wrenching watching the beach disappear through the rearview mirror, but this isn’t our home. Just where we found a portion of ourselves. Another piece to the puzzle of our lives.
When we pass the Nevada state line, the Pussycat Dolls are playing for some reason, and he talks about how we might want to drive up to Canada or down to Mexico. Maybe even fly to Australia and Russia when we magically come up with the money.
I grin and press the gas a little harder, say, “Yeah, maybe,” and he squeezes my fingers in his before putting the aviator sunglasses over his eyes.
And we drive in search of ‘home’. Two lost twenty-something’s in search of something that we may have already found, but just didn’t know it. Maybe it was in California or Colorado. All’s I know is that I’d continue to search just to be sure, just as long as he’s by my side and the radio isn’t busted.