A path of a thousand miles....

It all started early. Much earlier than I am used to. I’m floating above this amazingly comfortable cloud of a bed, sleeping deeply, when Bang Bang Bang, a pounding on the door followed by, “Get up, it’s time to go to Portland.” I rolled over, like I usually do when I’m woken up, about to disregard the event and go back to sleep, when it dawned on me, I’m not floating on my cloud, I’m at Force Berg’s house. All my stuff is in a baby blue RV outside. People are waiting for me 2000 miles away.

I jumped out of bed, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and waited another minute for my morning wood to go down before I made my way down the hall to the bathroom. I wanted to give Force Berg’s parents a gift for their hospitality, but not that. After a hasty shower and a shave (my last for weeks), we were in the kitchen making last minute arrangements and drinking coffee. We didn’t have much to talk about. I was busy checking and rechecking my mental list of things in my suitcase (flipflops, sleeveless tshirts, sunscreen, check). Force Berg seemed occupied clicking his laptop between stock market updates and a map of the US with a purple trail that made its way leisurely westward.

Both of Force Berg’s parents helped us get our trip off the ground in their own ways. Cindy was definitely the mom. She made lists of everything that was in the RV, from the bedding all the way down to the condiments in the cupboards. She brewed our coffee in the morning and gave us travel mugs so we could bring it with. She even demonstrated the proper way to empty the sludge tank that would surely begin to weigh us down later in the trip. “First you put these gloves on, Second don’t get it on you.” Force Berg’s dad was less practical with his help. When he was younger he had worked in the oil fields of Wyoming, exactly where we would be driving through, and we stayed up late the night before drinking beers and listening to him tell us the best bars in the small, rural Wyoming towns. He didn’t write us any lists, but he certainly got us pumped to go.

So we’re sitting in the kitchen when it dawned on me… the only thing left to do is go. So we did. We grabbed our travel coffee mugs, put on our shades, gave Cindy hugs, plugged in the iPod, and pulled out of driveway. This was it. The RV was moving. We were still in Edina, but I could already feel the electric pull of something. Something far away. Something faint, but would not let us go until we got there. We were on the road, nothing would stop us now. Force Berg pulled on to the highway not a mile from his house, and with a crash and a bang the small fridge in the kitchen flew open flinging the four bottles of champagne across the RV. Great, 10 minutes from home and we already broke the latch on the fridge. Ok, so almost nothing could stop us now.

I sat with my back leaned against the fridge door while Force Berg brought us back to his house. We pulled up and his dad was already in the driveway with a spool of wire, duct tape, super glue, and magnets. In no time he had rigged up a serviceable wire contraption that would hold us for the entire trip. I’ve seen a lot of MacGyver episodes, and this would have made the show for sure.

Leave for Portland, Take Two.

Force Berg pulled on to the highway not a mile from his house. This time the fridge door held, the champagne stayed put, and I could sit in the copilot’s chair instead of on the floor. We navigated around the crowded Minneapolis highways until we hit 169 south. This was the ideal highway to take because of its southwestern direction, the fact that it spit us out right on I90, and we could drive through Saint Peter to make a few well-timed phone calls. We had both driven the stretch between home and St Peter a million times. But for some reason, this time it seemed to take hours instead of the 55 minutes the trip usually took. It was probably because I had waited so long for this moment to arrive. Instead of having the end of this stretch as the destination, I knew we wouldn’t be stopping. Not for days. The other consideration is that we never really pushed the RV too hard. Gas prices would soon skyrocket, and we tried to be as conscious as possible of gas mileage. So a steady diet of 55-60 on the highway, a bit faster on the interstate, was usually the way we drove the RV.

With a slight but steady rain falling, we finally entered the unconstitutional speed trap also known as St Peter. The only stretch of 169 that was less than 55 mph was in town, and the civic leaders of this backwards thinking, exploitative, hick town had the audacity to drop the limit down to 30. Anyone finds themselves in the area will soon realize that St Peter is not nearly cool enough to warrant slowing down that much. I would rather fly over personally.

The only redeeming quality of this town is that two of Force Berg and my best friends live there. Having graduated from Gustavus, the two decided to move in together and begin their lives there. Krista Redden works selling huge slabs of genuine Kasota Limestone for the Eddie Stone Company, while Sarah Hamline decided to take a class and set up her own grant writing business. These two were dear friends of ours all the way through college, they would do anything for us; we would do anything for them. In fact, they were going to come with us on the trip. I could picture it in my mind: the skinny dipping, the home-cooked meals, the bottles and bottles of whiskey. Unfortunately they had to bail, and Force Berg and I were left to our own devices.

It was difficult to accept that these two girls chose to do something else instead of come on what would surely be the trip of a lifetime. I wanted to make them come, demand that what I was doing was much more important than anything else, tell them I wouldn’t be their friend any more if they ditched us. But I didn’t. They mean more to me. If they had to cancel the trip to make sure they maintained their friendship with someone else, that’s a shitty spot to be in. They will have my friendship no matter what. Forever.

That didn’t preclude them from early morning phone calls as we were passing through St Peter though. Force Berg and I called them both and made sure to tell them how much fun we were going to have, how much booze we had, the names of all the mountains we were going to see, and most of all, how great it was going to be to arrive in Portland. That made me feel better.

We were really making wake now. 169 went down quickly since the rest of the small towns in southwestern Minnesota had the sense and courtesy to allow us to keep our speed above a crawl. The rain clouds seemed to hover over us as we drove, nothing too hard, but enough to keep the wipers on. Without taking an exit, we were on I90 and hauling RV ass towards Portland. As we neared the South Dakota border the rain picked up and started falling in sheets across the highway. Force Berg held the wheel steady, and almost exactly when we crossed the border, leaving beloved Minnesota behind, the clouds broke and there was nothing. Ahead in the distance, nothing. Not in the sky. Not on the ground. We wanted to stay off the interstate as much as possible, but cutting across South Dakota makes it a necessity. Nothing ahead for miles, home and heart behind getting smaller and smaller in the distance. I felt tears well up in my eyes as Force Berg pulled off into a rest stop. It was my turn to drive.

anticipation...

Well this is it. The RV is packed, the route has been planned (the first day of the trip anyway), and now the only thing left is to try and sleep. It shouldn't be hard. I'm laying in a king size bed in the guest room at Force Berg's house. I have a thousand pillows and maybe the best comforter I've ever had the pleasure of tangling up in. But instead I'm staring at the ceiling and following a mosquito across the room. A mosquito that seems to be buzzing awfully loud. I only get this giddy on Christmas Eve and before the first day of school. So it's obvious how much I'm looking forward to this.
What amazing things am I going to see in the next weeks? Things I've never seen or dreamed could be possible. How great is Traveling with Force Berg? How awesome will it be driving through Idaho while listening to Yonder give us a guided tour? How will it feel to get to Portland and finally see Port and Jacks again? Why does this one mosquito sound like a fleet of bombers scooting around my room? I am dizzy with anticipation.
But anticipation is too close to anxiety in my mind, and I feel both. Gas is going to cost an arm and a leg, and I've seen enough movies and talked to my dad enough to know that cops in rural Wyoming are going to treat us like shit because our license plate says Oregon and the bumper sticker says Free Tibet. What if I get us lost (which will inevitably happen) and drive up to that weird gas station run by a scary clown from House of a Thousand Corpses? What if the lugnuts are loose? What if I never fall asleep? How does Cindy get this comforter so damn soft?
Trying to put thoughts out of my head is something I may never be able to do. But I know we control our own destiny. If we mind the speed limit in those small Wyoming towns. And if we find a good hidey-hole for our unmentionables, everything will be as great as I want it to be.
And like most things that I am anticipating and feeling anxious over, until I'm actually doing it, I'll be keeping myself awake thinking about it...
I try and drift off. But first I have to stand up and kill that noisy bug. And I feel sleep fall over me like a shadow.

Introduction to a summer saga

I am sitting on a greyhound bus next to a teenager who's carrying only a basketball and his gym sneakers. I have much more baggage than that. I hear the metallic tink of the cymbals and the droning sound of the rapper from his headphones. He got on in St Cloud, I got on in Portland, and this stretch of I94 has never seemed to take so long. I smell the boy's cologne drift over to my seat. I never smelled that good after I played basketball. I smell even worse now. I'm not a stickler over hygiene, but after 42 hours on the bus, I am bad even by my standards.
It doesn't matter though. Right now the only thing on my mind is seeing that awkward clump of skyscrapers peak over the horizon as we get within eyeshot of Minneapolis. I have been on the road for weeks, and I am ready to be home. Truth is, I'm also thinking about the true friends I just left in Portland. I'm thinking about the crack-head who gave me his cup of coffee at 5am in Spokane. I'm thinking about Elise, and bluegrass music, and Rhoda, and swims in mountain lakes. About plotting a course for my life. About falling in love. About who I am.
So I guess it's not fair to say that I'm only thinking about home, even though getting back there is the best part of getting away. A lot of shit happened to me in the last few weeks, and I saw new things that I never thought I would. So that's how I knew it was a good trip... I'm pulling back into the town that I have loved all my life, and all I can think of is everything else.
The trip was a saga for me, so I will present it as a saga to you all. The following posts will be thoughts, events, episodes, revelations, and drunken ramblings from a 4200 mile road trip to Portland and back. Look for posts about twice a week, and feel free to comment on anything you want to.

And so without further ado: Travel West, My Son: A Destiny... Manifested (working title)

On the shelf

I'm sitting on the shelf. I was just put here. One minute I'm sitting on a well lit counter. The next I'm being whisked off my feet, flying through the air, not knowing if I would ever stop or if I wanted to. Well, I stopped all right. Right here on the shelf in front of the older cans that I can't quite see; the lights went out when the cupboard door slammed shut.
But I know things could be worse. I'm up front. I may be on the shelf, but I get looked at every time the door swings open. When my eyes adjust to the light again, I can see the others in rows dissapearing into the blackness. Rusted souls, covered in dust, labels drooping, weeping. But I gather no rust. I am desired. When they are hungry, the come looking to me.
The door opens but instead of being ushered into the world beyond, my view is blocked with another, an example of perfection. No dents to mar the exterior. Large and shining, I can't see the door swinging shut until we are all bathed in darkness.
I'm sitting on the shelf. I am behind rows and stacks and piles. I exist, but only to myself. My sight is dimming from the thin layer of dust collecting, my joints are sore from the oxidation. I am on the shelf, and I have been forgotten.

her...

Let's just say I have a new respect for the little coffee shop on Minnetonka Blvd by the police station. I asked her to lunch because we needed to talk and our last conversation had left a foul taste in my mouth. I needed to tell her things. I needed to see her face instead of only hearing the cold metallic drone of her voice through my cell phone the day before. I was steadfast as I waited for her faded green Taurus to pull up outside my house. I was going to let her have it. Dump me will you?
I waited for her to pull up, and then I saw her face through the glass. Her small face framed with that golden hair falling well past her shoulders. I could feel the blood pumping through my heart and I knew that my logical brain would soon take a back seat. Hi I said. Where should we eat? I don't care, where do you want to eat?
I suggested the closest place where we could both agree on the menu. Before we had said ten words to each other she was eating her balsamic chicken salad and I was eating my turkey sandwich on pumpernickel. The food was bland, so I ate my sandwich slowly and felt the growling thunderstorm that was raging in my stomach.
But then i looked up and I met her eyes. Those eyes that captured me. I always want to look away but I drown in deep seas of understanding. Seas of mischief. Seas of desire. I can't look away, and she asks what I'm looking at. I can't summon the words to describe what I'm looking at and how it makes me feel, so I look down and pick at my sandwich.
How can I be so sure when she keeps pushing me away?
Are you sure we should be having this conversation over the phone? I ask her when she says what she has wanted to say all week. No, but I don't think we should have it in your bedroom either. So now we're in a coffee shop on Minnetonka Blvd. by the police station, and all I can think of is how her tight long-sleeve tshirt is curving so perfectly over her round breasts, and how her pants show off her ass so well. Why can't you talk to me in my room? Do I make you weak in the knees? No, you make me weak in other places..." She looks at me and raises one eyebrow. I lick my lips.I want her to feel lust towards me. It turns me on to know that she is turned on.
Nothing is set in stone. Flying by the seat of my pants is more interesting, but sometimes it is like a blip on a heart rate monitor. Everything is moving along smoothly, placidly. And suddenly violent turbulence rocks you up and down faster than you can blink. Some people are scared of a little turbulence. I enjoy it. It turns me on.
I still don't know where I'm going to wind up next year. But if you don't either, then it could be together.

Arlie. . .

I'm sitting in the back of the pizza shop that I close on Friday nights. It was after midnight; we close at eleven. I was sipping a beer as the dishes bobbed in the sink. I don't always wait for my shift to end before I open a beer, but I did tonight. Before long my afterwork beer had turned into an afterwork few beers and I sat basking in the glow of being off my feet.
I heard a key being fitted in to the lock of the heavy steel door that I had closed before I counted the till. I was startled, like I always am when he comes in on me, as an aged figure walked in through the door. Arlie is the cleaning service for the pizza place I close on Fridays. He must be at least 75, and his years hang on him making him slump forward as he shuffles past me towards his chair. I wonder if he pissed himself today, but I don't smell the damp, acrid smell that sometimes follows Arlie when he walks past. Does he see me? Is he ignoring me, hoping I'll leave without speaking? "Hi Arlie," I say. He looks at me from behind his glasses and smiles. "Ohhhh, Hello."
And without another word he shuffles past me and sighs as he drops into his chair. Arlie is acting his normal, slow-moving way, but I know something happened that he hasn't come to grips with. His wife died a few days ago.
Marnay was not a nice lady. She treated Arlie like shit. She was the pillar that held his universe together. He would show up during the day when the owner was there, mumbling about how the social security check just didn't make ends meet this week. "And yoooou know, Marnaaaay neeeeeds her cigarettes..." Marnay didn't smoke. Her piece of shit son did though. A deadbeat piece of shit that leached off his unsuspecting mother, who in turn, made Arlie beg for money to pay for his cigs. He's not even Arlie's son. But he didn't care. As long as Marnay was happy, his universe remained stable.
He sat there with me that night and pulled out of his coat two applesauce cups, a yogurt, and a can of spaghettie O's that he ate cold straight out of the can. He didn't want the money he earned from cleaning the dirty floor in the pizza shop I close on Fridays. But he does it for Marnay. And as I sit here across from him, blowing smoke rings as I watch him eat, I wonder if he still comes here for her.
"How things going for you Arlie? Holding up OK?" My buzz is kicking in and I want to know more about this poor old man who cleans a dirty restaurant and only eats things that come in a cup. He looked up at me and his lip shook like he was going to say something. He drew a breath and stopped. "Whaaat's the difference between the Yooou-nion Pacific and the Pony Express? Just a little bit more horsing around..."
I took his hint and dropped the subject, drawing attention to the crap that was blathering on the TV. Maybe my barometer of human feeling is a little bit more skewed than I thought. Maybe I don't know people as well as I think I do...
Arlie finished his meal and moved towards his broom. His hands gripped it and he swept the floor around him. He stopped every so often to lean on the broom and catch his breath. How long would it take him to finish? Would he be here all night?
"Well, goodnight Arlie," I said as I pushed the heavy steel door into the cold night air of late March, "I'll lock the door behind me."
"What did the octopus say to the ball-point pen..." I heard him saying as I slammed the door shut and fit the lock into place. I didn't know if he was talking to me or some thing else altogether. His wife died, the centerpiece of his life. The reason he swept a dirty floor every night even though his back hunched badly over the broom and his orthopedic shoes made every step an awkward fight to keep his balance. He came in the back door every night because he had a reason: to please Marnay and keep his pillar stable. What was his reason now? How long would he keep his balance with no pillar?

The Great University Hunt, Part I

If you scroll up a bit you'll see my at the time list of possilbe graduate programs. Well, scratch that becuase I narrowed it down to three, two of which aren't on there. I was in Duluth today checking out the graduate English program at UMD, and I was impressed. The trip wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be; almost 150 miles, barely enough time for my ass to get sore. And before I knew it I was doing 75 down a narrow two lane highway coming over the last hill before the great lake spilled out all around me like someone had knocked over a jar of paint, staining the landscape. It is awe-inspiring, that's for sure, but for me the great Northwoods are about that, the woods. I love trees, and seeing those old-growth groves stretch back from the highway for miles was enough to make me daydream in the hum of my car's engine about a time when this country was an unbroken forest from coast to coast. A time when a squirrel could go from Boston to Portland without touching the ground. Blasting down a narrow highway drawing up quickly on semis, I was quickly snapped back to reality by the impulse of self-preservation, if not for the roadsign that signaled my exit.
I met with the head of the English Department there, and she answered my questions and introduced me to some of the current teaching assistants, a position I hope to hold next year. One of the girls (they were all female) talked at me for a while about the finer points of her particular program, but instead of listening I found myself thinking about her shining red hair, about her tight green pants, and about all those brains in her cute little head, and before I could ask any questions it was time to go sit in on a class. I had my copy of Song of Solomon with me (which I read in time for class) and was even able to get in on the discussion for the day; but I still couldn't shake the image of that firey tangle of red curls from my head. It didn't help that she was sitting so I could just see her profile thrown against the light coming in through the windows, it didn't help that she asked some really intelligent questions in class, and it certainly didn't help that she offered to walk me back to my car after class.
Anyway, it was a good day overall. I made myself known to the English Department (the head lady even said she "really wanted me to come to UMD"), I got the email address of the cutest girl in class, and I even stopped in to the Chinese Dragon in downtown Duluth for some really good Seasame Chicken and Wontons.
I was walking down the street after lunch to start the long (but not that long) trip home, my head in the clouds about the newfound "direction" my life had, when a bum-looking guy came up to me on the street. But instead of shaking me down for change, he said "I need bus fare. Sell you two smokes for a quarter," opening a pack of camel menthol lights. I took the smokes and pressed a quarter into his hand, and we walked apart. His downtrodden face, his torn clothes, and his deep, husky voice lingered in my mind as I light that cigarette and sucked in a painful breath of minty smoke, coughing instantly from its harshness. I don't know why he asked me to buy his cigs from him. Maybe he actually needed one more quarter for a busride, maybe he just hated the menthol flavor like I quickly grew to. But as I looked up at the top of the hill, at the University where I would devote two more years of my life to reading and writing, protected from the world outside, I realized that the bum looking dude gave me those cigarettes to remind me that not everyone is lucky enough to live like me. As I sucked in, I felt what he goes through each and every day just to make his bus fare. I tasted his life and it was harsh.
Here's to Prolonging the Magic...