The Long Road Home

Sunday Morning Dawn. I’m still awake. Shit … I sift through the wreckage of drained beer and whiskey and reach for the bottle of Speyburn—empty. Sunday morning hates my guts. My jacket is starting to hug my body in a way that clothes do in the third day of wear. Taking a walk down the empty street, I look at the morning light coming over the trees, dancing between the pines and touching down on parked cars. A homeless man lies passed out behind an Element. Even in his sleep, he has no taste, not even what he passes out near. I’ve only drunk myself sober three times in my life, and this was one of those times. Watching the sun come up with nothing but a bottle of scotch and a feeling of emptiness and decay gets a man to thinking What happened to my life? We’ve all heard the awful excuse that some things are beyond our control, but those are never the things that matter, are they? You go bald, you lose the promotion, you disappoint your family—who cares? How did you lose your step? How did you get so dead inside? It wasn’t the drink; it wasn’t the smoke; it was the dream. No one ever tells you how hard life is going to kick you in the balls until it’s too late. They always wait until you’re kneeling on the ground cupping yourself and gasping for breath to tell you that people don’t change; they’re out for blood, and love is just a lie. A fairy tale to help you sleep at night, next to a stranger. The wicked thing is that you want to believe it so bad. I did. Time and time again we get beat over the head with reality, and here we are, crawling back into the shadows of illusion, of lies, of comfort and bliss. I look at my watch; nobody’s open for another hour and a half. It may take that time to walk to Linda’s diner. I might have enough money for a cup of coffee. I can’t even count the hours I’ve spent in avoidable pain, staring at the phone, too foolish, stubborn, or drunk to get up and go to sleep. Maybe they were spent in shouting matches, fighting so hard for something we aren’t sure we even want. We’re supposed to want it. That’s what they tell you to do. And it feels so damn good when it’s right, a safety net, a security blanket, making sure you don’t ever have to be alone. But I know better; you’re born into this world alone, and you’re damn well going to die alone. There is no escape. It happens to all of us; what matters is what we do in between. That’s where I am. Wondering where the hell all my time went. Friends dead or alienated, women infuriated, and only a flicker of the past to guide me into the murky future. I cut through the factory yard and over the fence onto concrete. I hear a crack and a crunch. There goes the back of my left shoe. Sunday mornings hate my guts. I look at my watch again. It’s almost 7:00, and I can see Linda’s in the distance—her red F-150 is there already; she’s opening up. I take off down the hill and reach for my cigarettes. Even though I can predict our behavior pretty well, I just don’t understand people. How many times can you get up after you’ve been hit and walk right into the same thing, all in the name of happiness? Self-fulfillment? I understand fighting the good fight; I try to do it every day. At least I realize that some days I’m going to kick ass and other days I’m going to get my ass kicked. Some of us think we’re fighting when in fact we lay down and died years ago. That’s the worst part. I feel even more hollow waiting to cross the street. All the dead 7:00 AM faces, corporate zombies hungry for mediocrity. They trudge through the morning without thought or effort as if programmed to go out and make scenery. I walk into Linda’s; it’s always warm in there. It has been for years. She greets me emphatically and puts on a pot. “You look like hell, son,” she tells me. “Sunday morning, huh?” I nod, rubbing my chin to confirm my mental image of myself, broken down and haggard. Linda is a very understanding and kind person. I suppose it comes with the territory of being a large, southern-raised woman. After becoming a widow her luck soured. Her oldest boy died in a dorm fire four years ago; her other son is in Afghanistan. Somehow she maintains, appearing not to have a care in the world but with an unbreakable smile and the best damned diner in the state. I put my change on the counter and she hands me my cup of coffee; then she sizes me up and asks about breakfast. I slap my pockets as if to say, “I’m broke.” But she just waves me off and starts making eggs for two. Frankly I don’t know how the hell she does it. I’ve been through a lot, seen my share of heartbreak and disappointment, but every Sunday I see this woman across the counter who embodies strength and perseverance. Linda has hope in this world with her sorrow, so I guess I do too …