Running Jump (124 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by charminglybeef (View user info) at 2006-10-24 10:29:43 EDT
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Open the notebook and that damn letter falls out. The old lady. Don't want to be reading that now, you vagabond, you. Nothing but tears stored up in those folded pages. May as well go snort some vinegar instead.
Fool.
Focus on the road; the next few days; the next few months. The Bahamas. Cat Island. Joshua Tree. Bivvy well.
Man, it's tough to write in the truck. Semi. None of that pussy Ford shit. The floating seats; the imperfections of the I-5 -- they come together in a matrimony of motion sickness. Writing in here is stupid. Been at it just a few moments and already the rest stop coffee wants out.
"Boris, Boris, my love -- would you mind stopping the truck?"
"Stopping the truck? Why stopping the truck?"
Boris killed Afghans for the mother land. This truck will stop for nothing.
"Just kidding. When's the next stop?"
"Next stop, San Diego." His Russian accent is round and clumsy. And San Diego is at least one-thousand kilometers and two nights away. I wonder, what the fuck am I doing? And the desperate sadness I have eluded even through all the good-byes and see-you-soons catches me, quite some distance down the highway.
The CB crackles. CB is not dead. Ask the two truckers who converse of John and his sleepless braggery. We all know why he's not sleeping, and this thought troubles me, bouncing airily in my seat, amidst the small-town traffic and the Johns.
"Why for are you writing?" inquires the ever-interested Boris. His obtuse inflection and features seem to suggest he is a human of a lesser order. But he is not. He smiles beautifully, aware that he has interrupted me, in no way ashamed.
"I am writing a story, to take my mind off..."
He stares blankly, but still enthusiastically. He nods his head, but has no idea what I mean.
"I'm distracting myself."
He frowns.
"I am trying to forget."
"Ahh, you have much to forget?"
"Yes, Boris -- very much," and I squint through the bug-peppered windshield and chew at the inside of my cheek. But that's awfully self-indulgent, isn't it? And he is interested. And far more intelligent than his understanding of English suggests.
Boris deserves more than my melodrama.
"I left my girlfriend, Boris."
"Yes, you are here with me, but you will see here when you are gone home." His eyes -- standard-issue Russian -- dart from mine to the highway.
"I'm not going back. I have left everyone and everything."
He looks appalled. "Why not?"
"I don't really know." Which is kinda true, when I really think about it.
We both sit silently. A town created for nothing but the freeway passes us by, and the signs return to indicating dancing deer. Deer Dancing, next seven miles. The thought of deer, or anything else being that happy cripples me, and the great uncertain sadness comes seeping back into me -- an enormous, bubbling wave of it.
"Because I'm crazy, Boris."
He doesn't seem to be bothered by this admission. "You know, I am little bit crazy too you know."
I look over, eyebrows arched, offering him my incredulous face. Me -- crazy? He is smiling though, and it is a joke of sorts. "I was only eighteen," he says, "I didn't know really what I was doing. I get two months," he holds up the fingers, "two months training, then: okay, go. I don't even know what go mean. What does go mean? But I go and live in tent for two years and fight."
I have no idea what he's talking about. Afghanistan? Just smile. He is crazy.
"Yeah, well, I'm living in a tent now," I say, pointing over my shoulder to my backpack. "Is it fun?"
He laughs. "How old are you?"
"How old do you think?"
"Twenty-five; twenty-six," he says, wobbling his hand.
"Twenty-four."
He laughs again. "You will want house soon."
And it is true. I know I will. And kids. And a wife. And a dog too, probably. And the ignorance of my misery fades -- the conversation blowing off what little dust had accumulated.
Fucking Boris. No more talking. I try to write, but the pen bounces wildly.
"Is it okay if I sleep?"
"Yes, of course. You sleep when you want sleep. It is no problem."
"Okay -- I sleep now then," I say, dumbing down my English like an asshole. "You wake me up if there's any trouble," and I laugh goodnaturedly. He does too, but for what reason, I couldn't really say.
The upper bunk of the sleeper is narrow, and slick against my sleeping bag.
"Hey Boris, if you brake really hard, will I go flying?"
"No, no -- it is no problem," he assures me.
I slip into the bag, fully clothed, head resting on my sweater. It creaks against itself and in my ear with each bump. Which is to say, constantly.
I cannot sleep. But I must. These idle brain cycles will be put to use otherwise. Thinking about the old lady; the old bed; the old life. How I used to be spoiled. The steady job, steady money, steady friends, steady pussy, steady drink. All of that now gone. Many miles of yawning American interstate behind me. A fucking stinking mattress beneath me. Perhaps my face is on the end normally reserved for feet? Get used to it, you vagabond, you. Heck, you should be used to it -- you've been without bed or house or car or anything really for six months now. Quit the job, sold the car, bummed around the Bahamas, California, British Columbia -- sleeping wherever, as Tom Waits likes to say, you laid your head.
Started as a walk, I suppose. Moved to a trot. Quickly becoming a run. Running from all responsibility. Running from health. Running from the rain. Running from the family. Fucking running. It was damn hard though -- leaving it all. It took the changing of the leaves to get me out. That day my toes were cold in my sandals, I was out. Time to go.
Time to go.
And so, here I am: drooping lids, poorly rested, cruising in the floating chair down the I-5, only two-hundred miles from Sacramento now. Boris drove while I slept; slept while I slept; drove while I slept. I woke once, cold, while the truck was stopped, then again, sweating, once it started again. The life of the lifeless.
Then the truck stop -- heart of the American interstate experience. It is an amazing sight, the sea of semis, sizes and colours as varied as their license plates.
"This is crazy," I marvel.
"What is crazy?"
"Look at all these trucks!"
"This is nothing; this is half full. Normally like this," and he makes a sweeping gesture with his arm.
I nod in mock appreciation.
"You like boofei?"
"Boofei?"
"Boofei," and he pretends like he's picking out food from beneath a sneeze guard, one hand busying the tongs and the other steadying the plate.
"Ahh -- buffet! Of course."
The truck stop: my new home.
I look around, at the boofei and its enormous island, filled with the staples of the American breakfast, and the forty or so baseball hats, jeans, and plaid-covered guts. They sit solitary and slow. Some appear tired, others well-rested, and more still, high on something. Jaws move. Eyes dart. The washroom calls me.
Rather nicely, actually. It might have been an email, now that I think of it. For its courtesy, I oblige, wondering if everything they say about the truck stop washroom is true.
08-02-06
Cute bottom
Looking to fuck - Let's cum together tonight!
Channel 27 - all nite
Handle: Tadpole
Indeed it is, says the carving into the toilet paper dispenser, and the countless others like it. On the mirrors, on the door, on anything that can be carved, or written upon really.
My asshole squeaks. Diarrhea already? I've only been gone a day and haven't even hit Mexico yet. Less certain with every passing moment that I can actually do this, I think, looking at my sandal-clad feet on the piss-stained tile. I can't live without her. And even if I could, do I really want to?
"Boris, I want to go home."
"You want I should get you tent?" he asks, laughing his deep, eastern laugh.
It is infectious, and I laugh too. It is a shallow, unconvincing laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. The first few months will be the hardest, I concede -- stay aloof. Forget about it.
Back in the truck, the highway worsens. Not only does the chair bounce up and down, but forward and backwards as well.
"Road is bad, from chain," he explains.
"Left lane looks good," I joke. It is a sad attempt at ESL trucking humour. Boris looks confused, then his eyes light up, and he looks confused again, and then he smiles. We sit silently, listening to the crackle of the CB.
"Jackass, jackass, come in jackass."
"Yeah, jackass, go ahead."
One guy starts making donkey noises.
"You shouldn'ta answered for jackass, ya jackass," says another.
Boris screws the side of his head with a finger and turns off the radio. We ride in silence -- if anything like it ever existed in a truck -- and another day goes by and another couple hundred miles of rolling, straw-covered hills. Much of it is burned from the careless or uncaring motorist flicking their cigarettes. I am amazed how -- burned or unburned -- all of the land on either side of the interstate is claimed. All of it. Cordoned off by unconvincing fence posts, topped with barbed wire. The intelligent farmers have overturned a patch of soil several feet wide along the path of their fence to prevent the spread of fire from the highway.
I am happy with my observation, having put thought into the purpose of that grass-less path running parallel to the fences, and I consider sharing this revelation with Boris. I look over, and decide against it. Those would be two hours I would never get back.
We roll and bump along. Sleep was weak and diluted and short. But San Diego is close, man, and I swear I can smell the Mexican border.
"We go through downtown, for you."
The city skyline opens up before me. Glassy buildings and small mountains creeping into the sky of the rising sun and the open ocean. The pollution gives a warm glow to the morning's light, and I don't mind.
"Where are we going to stop?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is no problem."
"You know a good spot?"
"Yeah, yeah, it is okay."
But it's not. We roll right on through San Diego -- passing downtown and it's impressive harbour, filled with the ships of war. Looks like we're going to go unload first.
In Otay Mesa.
We wait. Much cursing in Russian. A problem with the paperwork. We eat homemade bread and tomato and kielbasa. Unloading takes a long time and that means nothing but idle thought. San Diego. No money. Nowhere to stay. I would have preferred not to think about it -- just go on in, ready to face the day's challenges. Ready to figure it out. But here, with all this thought, the sadness and doubt come rolling in once again. It tickles my tear ducts and irritates my throat.
The old lady -- such a beautiful creature. Loves me so much. Would do anything for me really. Yeah man -- I need her. Or is it just the shock of this new life? Is it the feeling of an empty bed? Bed, no -- tent. The feeling of an empty tent.
Boris comes back, scowling, cursing gibberish. "Reefer is broke." Reefer is what they call the air-conditioning unit that cools the trailer. 'Reefer is broke' means two things: rotten tomatoes, and no San Diego. And there's that fucking doubt again, gnawing away at me. Really, a wrench in the plans of the plan-less should be no big thing, but it kills me. Murders me, in the second degree, I accuse.
"No San Diego?"
More cursing, and searching of the cab.
"So, no San Diego, Boris?" I hazard.
"Scotch?"
"Scotch?" I ask back, concerned by his desire to drink.
"Scotch tape."
"Ahh -- no. Only first aid tape."
He laughs. "Reefer first aid!" And he pulls the straw from his Burger King cup, then jumps from the cab. I dig through my bag, and it occurs to me: everything I want is always at the bottom. How is this possible?
Outside, the sun and the heat are horrendous. Between the cab and the trailer, I spy Boris, cleaning the fuel line of the reefer from the opposite side of the truck. He sees me, and smiles broadly and pulls at the line like he's jerking off. "Reefer first aid," I say, ignoring his joke and producing the tape. I toss it through the gap and he catches it, rather unathletically, it must be said.
He holds up the fuel cable for me, and it drips greasy diesel.
"Some eedyoten crash trailer hook-up into cable."
"It is no good?" I ask, speaking in the now-familiar vernacular.
"It is no good," he states with finality, and then, suddenly optimistic, "but reefer first aid!" I watch in horror, as he cuts the fuel line with his pocket knife, severing in my mind, the line itself, and my chances of making it to San Diego today. Diesel flows freely.
"Did you turn off fuel?" I ask. Like I'm retarded. Boris just glares at me, shaking the severed hose. Still it comes, but gloriously, slows, and finally stops. Could it be? And he cleans the lines with a paper towel, once again laughing at his masturbatory motions, and then slips the straw over one end. It is way too loose, and slides right back into his hand.
"Cut it down the middle and wrap it tightly around -- then tape," I suggest.
Boris glares once again. "It is okay. You see," he says, and begins wrapping each end of the hose with tape. I feel like an eedyoten, for it is a cardinal rule of living with very little: do not destroy what can be kept whole. In this case, I had forgotten that, and demonstrated a very small perspective. I thought the straw was too big -- Boris, that the hose was too small.
Better to add than to take away.
He finishes up, and starts the reefer. It runs, and the straw bulges, but nothing leaks.
"San Diego," I yell, jumping to my feet and clapping my hands. Boris just stares. "Boris, I am going to kiss you!" And I begin running around the truck. I hear him yell in protest, but I keep running. When I round the corner, he is in a fighting stance, and I remember Afghanistan.
"How about a handshake," I offer, holding out my hand. He obliges, and we are friends once more. "I love you, Boris," I say quietly.
Off we go -- my sadness, replaced by joy. Apprehension with acceptance. The simple philosophy of the road reigns supreme: there is no purpose to life, other than to enjoy it. And I do. And I pack my stuff up in the back with vigour. I throw on my boots in anticipation of the walking ahead. I roll down the window, and set my feet out upon its sill. I long for a beer, but want for nothing more than that, and the open road.
"San Diego, Boris," I proclaim, pointing towards the city growing in the distance.
"Yes," he says, smiling and nodding. "Where you want I drop you off?"
You know, I hadn't really thought about it. Downtown? Shit, do I dare sleep on the streets downtown? What would my mother say? What will the crackheads say? "Hey you -- middle-class white-boy with the tent and top-notch kit -- give it here." In broken Spanish, or Ebonics most likely (no offense!). No -- fuck the city.
"Right here."
"Right here?" he asks, pointing to the floor and laughing. He thinks I'm kidding.
"No, no -- right there," I say, pointing to a small building off the next exit from the highway.
He hesitates, pushing slightly on the brakes. "For really?"
"For really, Boris," and the truck leans heavily forward.
I shake his hand. "Thank you, Boris. You are a very good man." I smile warmly, benevolent, and magnanimous in our triumph over misfortune.
"You are good too. Good luck to you."
I grab my bag and heft it out of the truck. It sits beside me and I lean on it, holding the door open, about to bid my final farewell. He looks sad. Company is always good. Loneliness, not so much.
"Good luck to you, Boris. Drive safe," I say, shutting the door. He waves, and honks the enormous horn as he pulls away.
I hear a tremendous, tense snap. Sparks. Right beside me. A power line has come down, caught on his truck. Its sizzling end sits a moment on my backpack, which catches on fire along with the grass beneath it. Boris is sitting at the stop sign just in front of him, and I am offered a moment for reflection.
Going to die. To run is to die. To stay is to die. To do nothing, is, at the very least, to lose all my stuff. My bed. My shelter. Is on fire. There is white gas for my stove inside. Boris inches forward and the cable falls to the pavement. The fire in the grass is growing, but my pack has died out. I pick it up, and run, and jump. And fucking run and jump.
Some distance away, I put it down. I think back to grade-school power safety assembly. I almost died. The rubber on the bottom of my boots, maybe?
Boris is gone. He didn't even notice. Or he chose to ignore it.
So here I am. Outskirts of San Diego. A tumbleweed rolls by. I swear to God, a tumbleweed. The grass beside me burns inconsequentially.
What the fuck am I doing?
Running, I know that much. Mostly running, I hope. Occasionally jumping. Out of danger, hopefully.
I look at my bag -- no big thing. Just a little melted. Still good though. I laugh. "Fucking hell," I say to no one but myself. Time to walk now. And I do, down the dusty, lonely street. No real direction really -- just the future, uncertain.
Which is pretty damn okay with me.
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