by R. J. Blacks
“It’s what we both want, isn’t it? Why hold back? Let your heart go. Fulfill those desires you’ve always held inside. It’ll be good for you.”
This was starting to get weird. I was seeing a side to Logan I never imagined. He was trying to use me, take advantage of my hopeless situation.
“You know Logan, all of a sudden I’ve lost my appetite. If you really want to help me, you’ll do it, without any special favors. And if not, screw you!”
I throw the napkin on the table, get up and walk out the door. I wasn’t about to be a mistress for anyone, even Logan.
I head for the black-iron gate, enter the university, and on to my friend Ben. I see Will up ahead, feeding the pigeons as he always does about this time of day. He sees me coming, but senses I’m in no mood to talk. I sit in solitude next to Ben staring at the trees avoiding eye contact with Will. Will finishes the bag of bread scraps then empties the remaining crumbs onto the ground.
“Who’ll take care of your family when you’re away?” I ask.
“I’ve already made arrangements with my friend Moe. He comes by here every day anyway, and we both go to the same places, so he said he would pick up the bread scraps for me and feed the pigeons.”
“I bet that eases your mind, that someone will look out for your family.”
“Moe’s a good guy. He’ll do anything for you, if it’s possible. I trust him completely.”
“When do you want to leave?” I ask.
“Oh, any day’s fine. I can be packed in an hour.”
“How about Sunday?”
“Sunday’s fine, as long as we make it after twelve o’clock noon. I always go to the Chapel on Sunday mornings and I want to say goodbye to my friends.”
“Okay, settled. Sunday it is, at noon. Meet you right here.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he says.
CHAPTER 8
It’s Saturday, and my apartment is getting sparse. I’ve already sold off the couch, TV, bed, dresser, and a few miscellaneous cabinets. My bed now consists of a Yoga mat rolled out onto the floor. I’ve made arrangements with the landlord to leave the remaining items in the apartment and he was fine with that. He said he would sell, give away, or leave the items for the next tenant. He offered to send me money for the items he sold, but I told him to keep it. He’s been a good landlord, and I was not going to worry about a few dollars.
I spend the day packing my clothes, books, cookware, and knick-knacks in cardboard boxes and sealing them with packing tape. It’s amazing how much stuff a person can accumulate over the years. I throw out what I can, but there are certain things I just can’t part with, so into the box they go. I come across a framed photo of me and Logan at a faculty dinner when he first agreed to be my doctoral advisor. He wanted to parade his new protégé in front of his colleagues so he had me do a short speech about how much I appreciated having him as my mentor and what an honor it was to be part of the post-graduate program. And I was glad to do it. Dr. Logan Smith was my hero, the quintessential professor, the man I looked up to.
But that was then, and now is now, and it’s time to move on. I’ve seen another side of him and I don’t like what I see. I slide the picture out of the frame, grab some scissors, and then, with surgical precision, cut out his image. I gaze at the excised image and reflect on the past, how he had captivated me with his charm, and then abandoned me in my time of distress. With a burst of independence, I tear it into a dozen small pieces and throw them into the trash. It’s pointless to hang on to broken promises or brood about what might have been. It’s over, and he has no place in my life. How amazing it is that a person of distinction could degenerate into an opportunist when they surmise you have nowhere else to turn. It occurs to me: the truly great people of the world are those that, when presented with temptation, have the moral conviction to turn away. It’s a life lesson I will never forget.
And then I think about my friends; should I call them? It’s not like we chat all the time, in fact, I haven’t seen them in weeks. The demands of finals week are so overwhelming we become effectively isolated behind a wall of time. No one has time for anything except the essentials and meeting those long-term commitments that move us closer to our goals. Add to that the pressures of the Christmas season, where everyone scurries around seeking out those perfect gifts, and we’re left with an atmosphere of mass confusion.
But what if I did call them; what would I say? What could I tell them when they wanted to know why I was leaving the area? How do I avoid revealing the truth, how I was fired from the university, and am leaving in desperation, trying to find some way to get back in? And what about those inevitable questions that would follow? Tough questions. Questions that would evoke their sympathy, and place me in the uncomfortable position of having to make up answers to avoid embarrassment.
I decide against it, after all, I can always call later, when I’m settled and things are beginning to look better. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll call later.
I spend the rest of the day hauling the sealed boxes from my second floor apartment to the trunk of the Cruiser. The trip is now only eighteen hours away and the excitement is building in me. I’ve already had the car checked out: oil, antifreeze, tire pressure, and filled it up with gas. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a one-thousand mile trip, and I want everything to go smoothly.
It’s almost dark as I place the last box into the Cruiser and lock all the doors. I don’t have anything to cook with so I head down to Sid’s. He already knows I’m leaving, but I need to say goodbye. Even though I’m only going for a year, it would be rude to just leave without saying anything.
I walk past the university and my eyes well up as I glance at the buildings I’ve known so well for almost ten years. I remind myself it’s only temporary, but still I have difficulty keeping the tears back.
Finally, I see the sign for Sid’s. I go inside and see him in his usual place, greeting customers as they walk past him. He sees me enter, waves, then slides into a booth inviting me to join him. I sit directly across from him.
“This is it,” I say.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow, noon.”
“Why Sunday?”
“Well Sid, there’s nothing more for me here, and besides, there’ll be less traffic around Washington DC.”
“Good point,” he says, and raises his hand to attract the waitress.
“Bring us a couple of the best steaks,” he tells her.
“Sid, you don’t have to.”
“Quiet, I know what you like.”
“Okay, but I’m paying.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he says, as the waitress places a couple of coffees in front of us.
The steaks arrive in about twenty minutes and I eat in silence. What more can I say to him that he doesn’t already know. I methodically slice the meat into chunks and nibble on the periphery rather than chewing them whole. Occasionally, I glance up at Sid’s sad puppy-dog eyes. He knows why I have to do this, but it’s obvious he’s not happy with my decision. I finish off my meal, take the last sip of coffee, then stand up.
“I have to go.”
“Keep in touch. I’ll be rooting for you”.
“Okay,” I say, and then give him a hug.
I make my way through the restaurant just as the Saturday night crowd pours in, and then, quickly leave. If I had stayed another minute, I would have cried. But as I step onto the sidewalk, the chill of the night air snaps me out of it. I stroll through the town, just to give it one last look. The colored lights around each storefront, and the piles of snow at the curb, give the place a festive look, but tomorrow it will all be behind me.
I walk slowly back to my apartment, my mind full of memories from the past. I never thought it would end like this; failure is not part of my lexicon. But then I remind myself; it’s what I do going forward that will shape my destiny. Why fret about things you can’t change? My future rolls out in front of me like a team of galloping horses; and I hold
the reins. I can guide them to despair, or to victory; I am in control. It’s time to forget the past. I must look ahead, set goals, and make new memories.
I arrive at my apartment, unlock the door, and go inside. I sit in the only chair that’s left and look around for something to do. It’s not that late, but I have no TV, and my laptop is packed away. I pick up a pen and nervously fiddle with it, clicking it on, then clicking it off, on, then off, a dozen times, in rapid succession, until I get bored and throw it into a box. I pick up a travel magazine and thumb through the pages, but nothing interests me, so that goes in the box also.
I feel my eyes drooping so I roll out my Yoga mat, throw some covers on it, and slip inside. As I lay there in the dark, I realize I’m more exhausted than I thought. I must have been running on adrenaline because in minutes I unconsciously close my eyes and fade into a deep sleep.
My alarm clock wakes me at seven AM. I hit the snooze button and reality sets in. Am I ready for this? I’ve completely uprooted my life and will be traveling to a far off land, a place I know nothing about. It’s a place of swamps and snakes and alligators and poisonous spiders and the only creature I’ve ever had to deal with up to now is a cockroach.
I start having reservations, doubts I can pull this off. But challenges always seem formidable when I’m lying in bed and feel helpless, so I get up and make myself some coffee. It’s still early and I think about going to the local Chapel for the nine o’clock service. I’ve never been there—it’s mostly for the homeless—but I could meet up with Will and be introduced to some of his friends.
I get there at a quarter to nine and there’s a lady at the door inviting everybody in. Inside it’s nothing more than an old store-front dressed up to look like a church. The walls are white with posters of Jesus and the apostles scattered around the room. In the front is a large wooden cross attached to the wall and next to it an organ. An old lady plays some hymns while the people file in and take a seat. I see Will third row from the front and join him. He’s surprised to see me.
“I didn’t know you go to church,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say. “This is the first time.”
“Your first time in a church?”
“No, first time going myself. My grandparents took me almost every week when they were raising me. But when they passed, and I was on my own, it just didn’t seem relevant anymore.”
“Well I’m glad you’re here.”
The organist leads the people in a song and Will enthusiastically joins in. I’m amazed at his powerful and melodic voice; in another life he could have been an opera star. The pastor approaches the pulpit and delves into the complex writings of the Bible. But my mind drifts. I’m overwhelmed and begin to think about the thousand-and-one details that need to be worked out in order to make this trip successful.
Before I know it, the service is over, and people are filing into a back room. Will takes my hand and leads me into the room. It’s been set up with a dozen tables scattered about in various places. At the head of the room is a row of tables holding a pair of black-iron soup pots each manned by a volunteer brandishing a ladle. Further down the row are some coffee urns. The people follow a time-tested routine; they line up along one wall, and wait for their turn at the soup pots. There’s two kinds, chicken noodle and beef barley. The people point to one or the other and the volunteer fills up their bowl. Then the people help themselves to a slice of bread and a cup of coffee at the next table. Will and I do as the others, and then, he leads me to a table with some empty seats.
As I sip the steamy soup, careful not to burn my mouth, he points out his friends. “That’s Anna,” he says, then tells me the story about how she ended up on the streets. He repeats this for more than a dozen friends, one by one, until the whole experience becomes surreal to me. I begin to realize that every one of these people had come from a life not unlike the rest of the population. That life had been torn from them, in many cases, through no fault of their own. In some cases it was a disease, in others loss of a job, while in others rejection by their families. They had become the outcasts of society, left only to each other, and to the too few volunteers that give up their weekends to make them feel human again. And the scary part was... I was now just like them!
Will and I finish our soup, then he goes around the room, one on one, shaking hands and saying goodbye to his friends. Each of his friends gives him a personal note of encouragement, and I can see he values every single one.
It’s 10:30 AM and people are now filing out the door. I ask Will if he needs to go back to his bench.
“No, I’ve got everything here,” he says, pointing to a backpack on the floor.
“How about your family?” I ask, referring to his pigeons. “Do you want to see them one last time?”
“No. I know they’re in good hands with Moe.”
“Shall we go then?”
“Lead the way,” he says.
Will and I follow the line out the door and into the bright sunshine. The temperature is still in the twenties, but the sunshine takes the chill out of it. We stroll briskly back to my apartment. Arriving, Will helps me load the rest of my belongings into the PT Cruiser. Then, as I slam closed the back hatch, I feel the need to take one last look. I dash up the stairs and unlock the door, opening it to a bare room with flat white walls, devoid of all my possessions save for those few bits of furniture I had decided to leave behind. It reminds me of the first time I crossed the threshold, eight years ago, when I was being shown the apartment. I had seen the ad in the school newspaper and made an appointment to see it. When the landlord opened the door, I was overcome by the repugnant odor of fresh paint, hastily applied just hours before. I almost didn’t take it, but he liked the fact I wasn’t going to share it with a roommate so he offered me a free month. “Compensation for putting up with the smell,” as he put it.
The smell faded by the end of the first month, and by then, I had already covered the walls with posters of the faraway places I wanted to visit: Paris, London, Rome, Barcelona, Amsterdam, and Athens, to name a few. Within a year, so little of the plain white wall was showing, I had little incentive to repaint it, so it remained as it was, and as it is today.
How exciting those days were. I had just been accepted to the university honors program and was full of ambition. I felt I could do anything if I just put my mind to it. Leaving here without a PhD in hand was completely incomprehensible. How could it be that when someone follows the rules, works hard, and meets their commitments; how could it be, that forces beyond their control can completely upend their life? It’s just not fair.
Mary Kay Ashe, America’s greatest woman entrepreneur, led me to believe that anything is possible if you just keep a positive attitude and work diligently towards your goals. In her autobiography, “Mary Kay,” she was fond of saying, “Every failure, obstacle, or hardship, is an opportunity in disguise.” In spite of her many setbacks and obstacles, she was able to turn a $5,000 investment into a billion-dollar multinational corporation, “Mary Kay Cosmetics.” If there really is an opportunity out there waiting for me, I’ll never know it unless I take a chance, leave this place, and give it a try.
Will joins me in the apartment and follows me from room to room, feigning an occasional cough, trying his best to give me a subtle hint we have to go. I nod, acknowledging his presence, and then we exit into the hallway. I lock the door and take the keys to the landlord’s mailbox. I slip the keys half-way into the slot, then a rush of fear overwhelms me. As soon as I let these keys go, I’m committed! What if it doesn’t work out?
Will sees me hesitate. Almost on cue, the university clock chimes twelve times.
“It’s time,” he says.
I nod and reluctantly let the keys go. They drop to the bottom of the box with a “clang” reminiscent of the way they start a boxing match. But this was real life, not a game. We were about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime and now, with nothing to keep us here, there’s no turning back
.
Will offers to drive first and I’m glad he does. My nerves are too frazzled to navigate the intricate routes through the city of Philadelphia that lead to the interstate. I just need to chill out for a while.
Up ahead is a sign for I-95, the major channel of commerce between Maine and Miami. Once on I-95, the directions are easy, you just never get off until you reach Florida. But I had no delusions about getting there in one day. We would take our time and maybe do a little sightseeing along the way. And why not? It will be my first time in the South and I’m well overdue to see what lies beyond my local borders.
Will maneuvers the Cruiser down a ramp and onto the interstate. A sign, “I-95 South” flies by. Chills run up my spine. We’re actually heading south. I almost can’t believe it. This is real, it’s happening, and Will and I made it happen, all by ourselves.
CHAPTER 9
The trip to Washington is uneventful, taking a paltry three hours, an exceptional pace by any measure. But today is Sunday and government offices are closed relieving us of the incessant traffic jams that occur on a regular basis. Normally, it could take up to eight hours just to cross the U.S. Capital, but not today, luck was on our side. While Washington DC has always been regarded as part of the traditional American South, it doesn’t feel it. There are too many northern transplants working here that overshadow the southern culture and lifestyle.
For me, the American South starts at Richmond Virginia, only a hundred miles south of Washington. During the Civil War, from 1861 until 1865, Richmond was declared the capital of the Confederate States of America. These were a group of eleven states that formed their own permanent federal government declaring themselves to be free from northern rule. Needless to say, it didn’t go over well and war broke out. It always amazed me how two rival governments could have their capitals so close together. But they did. Even during the depths of the war, when thousands of soldiers were being slaughtered daily, the politicians and bureaucrats from both sides respected each other’s space.
