The Longest Way Home

by Andrew McCarthy

  PRAISE FOR

  The Longest Way Home

  “McCarthy’s careful, often luminous prose . . . [is] filled with rich descriptions of foreign lands and people.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Andrew McCarthy treks from Baltimore to the Amazon, exploring his commitment issues as fearlessly as he scales Mount Kilimanjaro.”

  —Elle

  “Brave and moving . . . McCarthy’s keen sense of scene and storytelling ignites his accounts. . . . Threaded with an exemplary vulnerability and propelled by a candid exploration of his own life’s frailties.”

  —The National Geographic Traveler

  “McCarthy delivers a deeply revealing memoir about settling down, both with a woman and in his own skin. An unflinchingly honest examination of his life as an actor, son, brother, husband, and father, as well as his struggle with committing to a woman in his life whom he plans to—and does, by the end of the book—marry in Dublin. Alcoholism, infidelity, the dark side of celebrity—McCarthy holds nothing back. . . . He skillfully brings the locations and their characters to life. . . . Like the best travel, accompanying McCarthy on his road toward self-awareness and the woman he loves is much more about the journey than the destination.”

  —Gothamist Magazine

  “This is not some memoir written by an actor who fancies himself a world traveler. McCarthy really is a world traveler—and a damned fine writer, too. . . . To readers who think, ‘Andrew McCarthy? Really?’ the answer is a resounding and emphatic yes. Really.”

  —Booklist

  “Combining the best aspects of Paul Theroux’s misanthropy in books like The Old Patagonian Express and Elizabeth Gilbert’s emotions in Eat, Pray, Love, [The Longest Way Home] is hard to put down. Bound to be popular, this compelling and honest chronicle will not disappoint readers.”

  —Library Journal

  “It’s hard to write books that are both adventurous and touching, but Andrew McCarthy manages to pull it off and more! A smart, valuable book.”

  —Gary Shteyngart, bestselling author of Super Sad True Love Story and Absurdistan

  “Rarely have I seen the male psyche explored with such honesty and vulnerability. This is the story of a son, a father, a brother, a husband, a man who finds the courage not only to face himself, but to reveal himself, and, in so doing, illuminates something about what it is to be human, fully alive, and awake.”

  —Dani Shapiro, author of Devotion

  “Where lesser writers might reach for hyperbole and Roget to describe such exotic lands as Patagonia, Kilimanjaro, and Baltimore, in The Longest Way Home, McCarthy leans on subtlety, a straightforward style, and hard-won insights to allow his larger stories to unfold. It’s not hard to imagine him as the solitary figure in the café, scribbling in a notebook by candlelight, making the lonely, tedious work of travel writing look romantic and easy.”

  —Chuck Thompson, author of Better Off Without ’Em and Smile When You’re Lying

  “As an actual voyage, McCarthy’s globe-trotting tale is an evocative, highly entertaining read. But as an introspective and emotional journey, his story is unforgivingly honest, courageous, and hard to put down.”

  —David Farley, author of An Irreverent Curiosity

  “This book is the one that keeps you up later than you wanted and occupies your mind long after you put it down. It’s the kind of great writing that transforms my thoughts into its same cadence and has me suddenly writing my own stories in my head, attempting to pull something from the inspiration of incredibly detailed observations and well-turned phrases.”

  —The Beat of NJ

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK

  “Wanted: Eighteen, Vulnerable and Sensitive”

  CHAPTER TWO

  PATAGONIA

  “I Hope You Like to Be Alone”

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE AMAZON

  “A Dirty Trick Life Plays”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE OSA

  “People Said to Avoid This Place”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  VIENNA

  “Leave the Man Some Privacy”

  CHAPTER SIX

  BALTIMORE

  “The Best Thing That You Could Do Is Show Up”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KILIMANJARO

  “What Do You Say We Get the Hell Off This Rock?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DUBLIN

  “Everything You Ever Dreamed Of?”

  EPILOGUE

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  NOTE

  AKNOWLEDGMENTS

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  Topics & Questions for Discussion

  Enhance your Book Club

  Author Q & A

  ABOUT ANDREW McCARTHY

  PROLOGUE

  “Are you awake?” Something in the tone of the voice cut through to my sleeping brain.

  “Coming,” I called back.

  “What time is it?” D murmured.

  “Four fifteen. We’re late.” The night was still black. The canvas tent flapped in a dry breeze. I grabbed our bags, pulled at the zipper, and we were out. We slashed along a path through the dry bush lit by a waning moon, loaded into the jeep, and were gone in minutes. Occasionally, at the edges of the beam of light cast by the single working headlamp, a pair of shining red eyes was briefly lit in the darkness. We bounced on over the dirt track and after half an hour we came to a locked gate. From somewhere in the night a man appeared and opened it, and we drove into the Chitengo compound. A few limp fluorescent lights lit the area. A small young man grabbed our bags and threw them into the back of a decrepit minivan—the kind that are the lifeblood of Africa. He jumped behind the wheel; we climbed into the backseat.

  “My name is Jonasse,” the driver said—it was all the English he had.

  We waited at another gate for a sleeping guard to be roused, and by the time we exited Gorongosa National Park we were forty-five minutes late. We still had a four-hour drive to catch our flight north.

  If the road inside the park was potholed and scarred, the one outside the gates was worse. I set my jaw so as not to bite my tongue. Suddenly the wind blew strong and dust filled the van.

  “Stop!” D shouted. “The boot is open.” The back door of the van hadn’t been properly closed, and all our bags had fallen onto the road. “My computer,” D whispered.

  The zipper of my bag had burst and my clothes were scattered along the dusty road into the dark. We scooped everything up as best we could and stuffed it back into the van.

  “Do you want to check your computer?” I asked D.

  “No, let’s just go,” she said.

  When the sky began to soften we were driving through coarse bush. Dense and low trees crowded the road, which, impossibly, grew worse. We drove on. As we crested a small hill, D spoke again.

  “Something’s burning.”

  We stopped in the middle of the road and piled out. The right rear tire was flat. D and I looked at each other. The prospect of making our flight was slipping away. Then the untended van began to roll forward down the hill. Jonasse leapt behind the wheel and stopped the vehicle from going all the way. The minivan had no parking brake. D and I scavenged for pieces of wood to put in front of the tires to secure them. Jonasse retrieved the jack but didn’t know how to work it. It didn’t matter: the
spare tire was flat.

  We stood behind the van, looking up and down the road. No cars had passed us on our journey so far; none were coming now. We had no food and began to grow hungry. The sun broke the horizon and suddenly D burst into laughter. It was a laugh that took her entire body; it was raw and filled her completely. It was a laugh that made me realize I had done something right—to end up with a woman who could laugh like that.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  And then I heard it, too. Distant but distinct, the rhythmic pounding of drums filled the Mozambique dawn.

  “I hope those aren’t war drums,” I said.

  We had been married for less than a week, and just as I knew I had done something right, I also saw one of my biggest fears coming true—that I wouldn’t be able to take care of this woman.

  When the drumming faded we settled by the side of the road to wait. The sun climbed higher into the African sky; the day grew hot. Time passed. Our hunger became worse, and most unsettling of all, D fell silent. When I finally heard her voice again, it came from a deep, distant, and murky well of feeling. She looked straight ahead at the dusty road and spoke softly and slowly: “You owe me a honeymoon, buddy.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK

  “Wanted: Eighteen, Vulnerable and Sensitive”

  We had traveled just nineteen miles west—my childhood was left behind. Gone were the backyard Wiffle ball games with my brothers that had defined my summer afternoons, as was the small maple tree in the front yard that I nearly succeeded in chopping down with a rubber ax when I was eight; over were the nights lying in bed talking to my older brother Peter across the room in the dark before sleep came. We had lived atop a small hill, safely in the center of a suburban block, in a three-bedroom colonial with green shutters; now we would live in a long and low house in a swale on a large corner lot a half hour and a world away.

  “It looks like a motel,” I said when I first saw our new home. Unwittingly, I had spoken to the temporary quality that our lives were about to take on. My eldest brother had just gone off to college, ending the daily battles with my father—no longer would my dad chase Stephen out the window and across the yard in a rage. Peter’s star, which had burned so bright, grew suddenly and temporarily tarnished—driving and girlfriends usurped the passion for sports that had occupied his early years, yet he continued to look after me with a fierce protectiveness. My younger brother, Justin, eight years my junior, was slotted into a new school and tumbled in the wake left by the rest of us.

  Instead of feeling more confident after our move into the larger home, my parents grew tense. More and more often, when the phone rang, I could hear my father’s voice echoing from somewhere in the cavernous house, “I’m not here! I’m not here!” Whoever was looking for him, he did not want to be found. At the same time, my mother grew more remote due to an illness that we children knew of only vaguely—it was never discussed with us. In all this space, my family seemed to be coming apart. I was fourteen.

  A quiet child, I’d had a rotation of friends and a cycle of movement in my old neighborhood, the loss of which left me untethered. There were woods across the road from our new home and I began to spend more and more time, alone, picking through the trees and building dams in the stream. Always in the shadow of my brother Peter’s athletic ability, my passion for sports waned. I was never a diligent student, and as the work piled up, my interest faded. Noticing my rudderless unease, my mother suggested I try out for the school musical, Oliver. Reluctantly, I went along. When it came to the final audition for the role of the Artful Dodger, I surprised myself with how much I wanted the part. Pitted against another student who, it was made very clear, had a better singing voice and was more desired for the production, I threw myself into my performance in a way that left them no option but to reward me with the role.

  In describing first love, the playwright Tennessee Williams once wrote, “It was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been in half shadow.” I experienced a similarly wondrous sense of discovery with that first role. I felt the power and belonging I had been searching for, without knowing that I had been searching at all. I knew my experience onstage was a profound one because I told no one of its effect on me.

  A few years later, when the time came to apply to college, with few options because of my poor grades, I quietly took the train to Hoboken, then the PATH under the Hudson River, and went to a building off Washington Square in Greenwich Village. On the second floor of a windowless room I spoke a few paragraphs of a play I had read only a portion of, in front of a petite man with an effete manner who wore a bow tie and a waxed mustache.

  “Sit down,” he said when I was finished. He wanted to know why my grades were so bad and why I wanted to come to acting school. He asked if I had another monologue I could perform for him. I could do some of the lines from the Artful Dodger, I said. When I was finished he looked at me for a long while. “Okay,” he said at last, “here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to get you into this school, if I can. I’m sure they’ll place you on academic probation to start. You’re going to get good grades and be grateful to me for the rest of your life.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, slipping on an attitude of casual indifference to mask the thrill I felt.

  “No son of mine is going to be a fucking thespian,” my father snapped when he learned of the audition—but when no other college accepted me, he had no choice.

  This was the same man who then drove me into the city and knocked on door after door until we found an apartment for me to live in just off Washington Square Park when the university refused me housing. And it was during the buoyant ride back to New Jersey that we played “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” on his John Denver tape, over and over again. I bowed the air fiddle and he lowered the windows and the wind ripped through the car as we sang at the top of our lungs with our hearts wide open to each other.

  As I packed my bags to leave home, my mother offered me a painting that I had always admired—a large canvas with the profile of a hawk, its golden eye staring boldly out at the viewer. When my father saw it leaning against the wall by the door, instead of on the living room wall, he grew enraged.

  “That painting is not leaving this house,” he barked. “That is my favorite piece of art.”

  My mother, who rarely engaged with my father when he lost his temper, pushed back. “I’m giving it to him,” she declared. “He is leaving for school and I want him to have it.”

  A vicious fight ensued. I knew, even in the midst of the shouting, that this had nothing to do with a painting and everything to do with a mother losing her son in whom she had been overinvested, and a father who had resented their closeness.

  A few months after I had settled in my apartment, my father made one of his many unscheduled visits, carrying the painting. He presented it as if it were a new idea to offer it to me. I tried to refuse but it was no use. When he left, I put the painting in the back of a closet, and when I moved from that apartment, I gave it away.

  The man who had gone out on a limb and gotten me into NYU was Fred Gorlick. He rarely acknowledged me when I saw him at school, and he left shortly after I arrived. I never saw him again. I have been grateful to him for my entire life, but I could only keep half my word. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to attend my nonacting classes, and after two years, the powers that be at school asked me to leave.

  A few months later another transient angel swept across my path.

  “Wanted: Eighteen, vulnerable and sensitive” read the ad in the newspaper. I hadn’t seen it, but a friend called and told me about the audition. I got on the number 1 train and went to the Upper West Side. I sat on the floor of a hallway in the Ansonia Hotel on Seventy-third Street and waited for three hours with several hundred other eighteen-year-old, vulnerable and sensitive hopefuls. I had never been to an “open call” before; I had never been to a movie audition.

  When I was finally call
ed into the room, I handed my headshot to a man with soft features who immediately flipped it over to look at my résumé. I had acted in exactly one professional play, for one weekend. The play was listed there, alone on the white page.

  “You spelled the author’s name wrong,” the man with the soft features said.

  “Oh,” I responded meekly, “sorry.”

  Then he looked over his shoulder to a woman with a head full of untamed blond hair, who was busy with work of her own. She looked up, glanced at me briefly, and nodded. The man with the soft features turned back and said, “Come to our office tomorrow.” He wrote the address and time on a piece of paper.

  I went to the office the next day and was handed a scene from what I assumed was a movie script. I read it with the same man, whose name I learned was David, and went away. The following week I was summoned to meet the director of the film, Lewis Carlino, in his suite at a midtown hotel. He was a gentle, soft-spoken man with a trim gray beard. We chatted for a while, and then I left. As I waited by the elevator, David came out and asked me back to the office again the following day. We read the same scene I had before. This time, Lewis was also present and they were recording me on videotape. I was nervous and knew I was performing poorly, unable to follow the director’s suggestions. Worse, my eyes unwittingly opened wide, apparently giving me a look of frozen terror.

  “Just relax your eyes,” Lewis said kindly.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  I left, disheartened, knowing that I had lost any chance for the part.

  Six weeks later I pushed the button on my roommate’s new answering machine on the floor just inside his bedroom. And there was David’s voice, asking if I could come in to the office yet again.

  Marty Ransohoff, the film’s producer, had seen the tape and saw something he liked. “He looks crazy, like Tony Perkins in Psycho,” Marty had said.

  I was brought to Chicago to meet and screen-test with other actors, and finally I was flown out to Los Angeles to meet with Jacqueline Bisset—the role I was to play was that of her young lover and she needed to approve the choice.