Neo Cassady
07/17/08, 03:37 PM
I’m awakened by a familiar sound. Police sirens. They’re not at all uncommon in this town; the constant stream of drunks would lead any outsider to conclude that there must be an art institute nearby. To their credit, they are half right, but it’s never the art students that you read about in the papers. I went to a frat party once. Within ten minutes of my arrival I watched someone get violently thrown out of the house and end up bloody in an adjacent alley. Don’t get me wrong here—it’s only a testament against big parties, not against alcohol. I rather enjoy a Saturday night consisting of a few rum and Cokes with the guys or some wine with my girlfriend.
My girlfriend. I slowly roll to my side and place my hand across the bed. It’s cold. It was only a dream. I open my eyes. The moonlight shining through the window illuminates the room, and confirms my suspicion. I sigh. When the person you love is half a state away, sometimes dreams are all you have. What time is it? In one swift motion I roll to my back and stretch out my arm toward the clock. 1:37. But I didn’t fall asleep until after two… The numbers disappear. Of course. I hear the distant crash of thunder, followed by the hum and splash of a car speeding along wet pavement. Must be the same cop car. This time of night—just past four, I suppose—the only signs of life outside my south side apartment are emergency vehicles and the train.
I reluctantly sit up, bracing myself with both arms. I say her name aloud, as if doing so would bring her to me. I sigh again and bring myself to my feet. I need to get out of here. I stumble across the room, shuffling my feet at an attempt to find my pants, but instead find the corner of my desk. I cringe, but shake it off and keep searching. Finally I nudge my toes against a rumpled pile of fabric. Somehow I manage to stay on my feet as I dress. I shove my hands into my pockets and feel the familiar shape of my car keys. The road beckons. I slide on my Etnies, grab my leather jacket, and slam the door behind me.
The parking lot, normally home to rows of sheet metal turned status symbols, stands desolate. A lone streetlight illuminates barren pavement and, to the far end, my destination: a gray Toyota Camry, scarred with scratches and freckled with rust. It seems as out of place now as it does among the statues of Hummers and Lexuses that normally fill the empty spaces.
There are two games I play every time I get behind the wheel of my car. The first is simple: if my car starts, I win. So far I’m batting about .500. The second, only playable if the first is won, is akin to Name That Tune. I consider myself somewhat of a music aficionado, and as such, generally fare much better in this second game than in the first.
Tonight both of my answers are correct. The song on the radio as my car churns to life is Jawbreaker’s “Condition Oakland.” It is a familiar tune and I guess it quickly. How fitting. As Kerouac’s words of wisdom flow like wine through the speakers, I realize where I need to be. I kick it into drive and tear out of the parking lot.
There’s nothing quite like the open road. With the stereo up and the wind in your hair, all your worries (and some of the receipts in the cup holder) fly out the window. On October nights, on back country roads, I swear it’s the most freedom I’ve ever had. I speed down straight-aways and slice through curves, testing old Betsy’s every limit. The car strains and shudders, but keeps up the pace. I round a corner and, in a sudden burst of realization, slam the brakes. A cloud of dust rises as the car slides to a stop along the side of the road.
I often wonder what it would be like to hop the train. I’ve read stories about people who do that kind of thing all their lives, just for fun. The adrenaline rush must be amazing. As the tracks lay before me, stretched out to the horizon in both directions, I wonder where they would take me. Maybe they connect to the rails behind my grandmother’s house in Columbus. Everything connects to everything eventually, right?
I sigh and take a seat on the rail. I stare off to the south for what seems like—and probably is—hours. I watch the moon fall out of the sky to my right, only to be quickly replaced by the signal of a new day. As the first glimpse of the morning sun peeks out from behind the horizon, I feel a vibration underneath me. The train. I hop to my feet and take two steps away from the rails. I turn abruptly and stare them down, with a sudden feeling of exhilaration. Flashing red lights, followed almost immediately by blaring of a train whistle from the east. As the locomotive squeaks by, the engineer greets me with a friendly wave. A few coal cars, some flatbeds, and finally the boxcars. If I ever had a chance, this is it. The decision I make this very moment will determine the path of the rest of my life. I begin to jog with the train, steadily increasing speed to nearly a full-on sprint and glancing every few seconds to find a safe spot to jump. As I run, images flash through my mind. My family. My home. My friends. My girlfriend…
I collapse to the ground in exhaustion as the last of the train cars rumble past. As I gasp for air, I tell myself over and over that I should have jumped. But I’m only trying to dissuade myself from what I really think. True, the train was heading away from my problems, but it was also heading away from the people I love. I think I knew all along that I could never go through with it; I just didn’t want to admit it.
As the rear of the train disappears into the horizon, I nod my head and turn back towards my car. If the train had been going east, would I have hopped it? It might have taken me right to the people I need most. Maybe someday I’ll take that chance, but for now I’ll stick to my dreams. I take my seat behind the wheel and turn the key, but nothing happens. Tally up a loss for Game #1. I sigh and lean my head against the steering wheel. It’ll be a long walk home.
My girlfriend. I slowly roll to my side and place my hand across the bed. It’s cold. It was only a dream. I open my eyes. The moonlight shining through the window illuminates the room, and confirms my suspicion. I sigh. When the person you love is half a state away, sometimes dreams are all you have. What time is it? In one swift motion I roll to my back and stretch out my arm toward the clock. 1:37. But I didn’t fall asleep until after two… The numbers disappear. Of course. I hear the distant crash of thunder, followed by the hum and splash of a car speeding along wet pavement. Must be the same cop car. This time of night—just past four, I suppose—the only signs of life outside my south side apartment are emergency vehicles and the train.
I reluctantly sit up, bracing myself with both arms. I say her name aloud, as if doing so would bring her to me. I sigh again and bring myself to my feet. I need to get out of here. I stumble across the room, shuffling my feet at an attempt to find my pants, but instead find the corner of my desk. I cringe, but shake it off and keep searching. Finally I nudge my toes against a rumpled pile of fabric. Somehow I manage to stay on my feet as I dress. I shove my hands into my pockets and feel the familiar shape of my car keys. The road beckons. I slide on my Etnies, grab my leather jacket, and slam the door behind me.
The parking lot, normally home to rows of sheet metal turned status symbols, stands desolate. A lone streetlight illuminates barren pavement and, to the far end, my destination: a gray Toyota Camry, scarred with scratches and freckled with rust. It seems as out of place now as it does among the statues of Hummers and Lexuses that normally fill the empty spaces.
There are two games I play every time I get behind the wheel of my car. The first is simple: if my car starts, I win. So far I’m batting about .500. The second, only playable if the first is won, is akin to Name That Tune. I consider myself somewhat of a music aficionado, and as such, generally fare much better in this second game than in the first.
Tonight both of my answers are correct. The song on the radio as my car churns to life is Jawbreaker’s “Condition Oakland.” It is a familiar tune and I guess it quickly. How fitting. As Kerouac’s words of wisdom flow like wine through the speakers, I realize where I need to be. I kick it into drive and tear out of the parking lot.
There’s nothing quite like the open road. With the stereo up and the wind in your hair, all your worries (and some of the receipts in the cup holder) fly out the window. On October nights, on back country roads, I swear it’s the most freedom I’ve ever had. I speed down straight-aways and slice through curves, testing old Betsy’s every limit. The car strains and shudders, but keeps up the pace. I round a corner and, in a sudden burst of realization, slam the brakes. A cloud of dust rises as the car slides to a stop along the side of the road.
I often wonder what it would be like to hop the train. I’ve read stories about people who do that kind of thing all their lives, just for fun. The adrenaline rush must be amazing. As the tracks lay before me, stretched out to the horizon in both directions, I wonder where they would take me. Maybe they connect to the rails behind my grandmother’s house in Columbus. Everything connects to everything eventually, right?
I sigh and take a seat on the rail. I stare off to the south for what seems like—and probably is—hours. I watch the moon fall out of the sky to my right, only to be quickly replaced by the signal of a new day. As the first glimpse of the morning sun peeks out from behind the horizon, I feel a vibration underneath me. The train. I hop to my feet and take two steps away from the rails. I turn abruptly and stare them down, with a sudden feeling of exhilaration. Flashing red lights, followed almost immediately by blaring of a train whistle from the east. As the locomotive squeaks by, the engineer greets me with a friendly wave. A few coal cars, some flatbeds, and finally the boxcars. If I ever had a chance, this is it. The decision I make this very moment will determine the path of the rest of my life. I begin to jog with the train, steadily increasing speed to nearly a full-on sprint and glancing every few seconds to find a safe spot to jump. As I run, images flash through my mind. My family. My home. My friends. My girlfriend…
I collapse to the ground in exhaustion as the last of the train cars rumble past. As I gasp for air, I tell myself over and over that I should have jumped. But I’m only trying to dissuade myself from what I really think. True, the train was heading away from my problems, but it was also heading away from the people I love. I think I knew all along that I could never go through with it; I just didn’t want to admit it.
As the rear of the train disappears into the horizon, I nod my head and turn back towards my car. If the train had been going east, would I have hopped it? It might have taken me right to the people I need most. Maybe someday I’ll take that chance, but for now I’ll stick to my dreams. I take my seat behind the wheel and turn the key, but nothing happens. Tally up a loss for Game #1. I sigh and lean my head against the steering wheel. It’ll be a long walk home.