The first breath tightened my chest, as the crisp October air hit my lungs. Johnny’s pale 1972 Catalina idled in the driveway. I called out goodbye to my parents, and heard them respond from the kitchen, as I clutched the stolen bottle of whiskey inside my jacket a bit closer to my body.
Sitting still as stone watching- watching
People walking by you wondering why
No one ever stops to talk
or thinks about it-if they ever did
The Morningstar is out tonight, and I catch its gleam through the branches and dead leaves of the twisted Maple in my front yard. The backend spits exhaust into the dark, and is lit up white as the car is shifted into reverse. The cab is full, and I open the door to the warmth and beats of the blaring radio, before taking my seat behind the driver.
“What’s up man?”
I’m not sure who the question comes from, our whether it was only one of them, but the second question is more direct, and comes from Marcus.
“You got it?”
“Yup.”
I expose the top of the bottle in my jacket, the amber liquid sloshing in its glass compartment. Smiles light up all around.
“Nice.”
We pull out of the driveway, and turn down the street, towards the woodsy parts of town. A CD is pulled from a black case, and the track comes on. It’s 2002, and we’re listening to Dave so much it’s in our bones; the off-kilter mash of sound pounding into our collective views of the high school experience.
The tracks roll on like the car we are in, and we banter back and forth about the week’s events. The lights on Park Road shift from regular intervals to only the occasional lone post, as the houses become fewer and farther between. My reflection is raised in the window with each passing light, the slight stubble on my chin the only evidence of my impending manhood. I think the girls are meeting us tonight, and the fascination of discovery or a chance to impress awaits.
What if God shuffled by?
One day we might see
Doing not a thing
Breathing just to breathe
We might find some reason
But rushing around seems
What's wrong with the world
The houses are gone now, and everything outside the car is trees and bushes. I see the backpack on the floor of the car at Luke’s feet, he’s wearing his Birkenstocks, a last holdout against the end of the last summer before our Senior year.
“Lemme get that,” I say, pointing to the pack, and he hand’s it to me, the straps stressed from the thirty pack of Red Dog that it holds. There’s light metallic clanging as the cans jostle against each other. I unzip the main compartment and place the bottle of Jack inside, leaving the pack on my lap as we round the final corner.
The monastery looms in front of us; a large white building out of some southwestern school of design, with a red clay roof and black iron crucifixes throughout its stucco walls. All the lights are out, the brothers and sisters retiring after a long day of devotion.
The driveway and parking lot are located on the left, and Johnny looks twice before he kills the lights and pulls in. We draw down the music as well, the large car seemingly boating through the empty lot, making its way toward the tree-covered corner.
Lying on the roof counting
The suns that fill the sky I wonder is
Someone in the heavens
Looking back down on me -I'll never know
So much space to believe
We pull into a spot so the car isn’t visible from the street. All of us are silent now, and we exit the car quietly, taking great care not to alert the sleeping monastery. I shoulder the backpack, feel its weight on my shoulders through my jacket, and we begin walking.
In the woods, a space opens up, lined with woodchips. The walkway cuts into the woods, creating a black hole that we enter, the sounds from our shoes shifting from pavement to path. As we move into the trees, we feel it is safe enough to begin whispering again.
“Which one is it again?” one of us questions.
“Hold on, I’ll know it when I see it,” comes the response.
The path is used by the members of the monastery for reflections, and every few hundred yards, there are benches and a wooden sign. The Stations of the Cross are carved into each piece of wood, as we make our way along His journey.
Our eyes adjust to the light as the ordeal begins, and we trudge along as He is condemned.
“Matt, you sure about this?” someone, probably Marcus, asks in the dark.
The stars push light through the branches, and I watch the blue light cascade across his face as he walks behind me.
“Yup, let’s just hope the girls are as well,” I reply.
We pass a few more stations, and I begin to wonder exactly what it is I’m looking for. They see my concern.
“We didn’t pass it?”
“No, I don’t think so… but we’re close. Be patient.” I try to sound confident, but I’m not convinced it works.
Walking through the wood
No cares in the world
The world SHE'S come to play
She's all mine just for a day
There's not a moment to lose in the game
Don't let the troubles in your head
Steal too much time you'll soon be dead
So play
The Fifth Station. His friends help Him carry the burden. The carving shows Simon straining under the cross, and behind this, a small dirt path leads further into the woods. The path the senior at school told me about. The secret passed on.
“This is it.”
“Nice.”
“Let’s go.”
The path is tighter than the previous one, and the occasional pricker-bush snags our pant legs. We walk in silence for roughly five minutes, doubt again setting into our minds. This place can’t exist… The girls will never find it. At some point, I stop, and Johnny’s weight hits me from behind.
“Dammit!” he says, “What’s the problem?”
“Hold on,” I say.
I thought I heard noises ahead, but it seems to be only the last few birds sticking around before falling asleep; a far cry from the sirens and lights of the town cops.
We walk for another few minutes, and then the air itself seems to lighten. The path explodes into an open world. The light from the stars paints everything blue, and the low moon is finally visible in the distance.
We have arrived at the Dead Highways. For miles, there are two roads running into the distance. A large amount of brush divides what used to be a Jersey barrier meridian. Weeds burst though widening cracks along the paved surface.
We walk out into the opening, amazed at what has been left for us. High fives and smiles are exchanged, and we begin talking again, convinced that the protection afforded by this abandoned place is absolute.
I place the backpack on the concrete, glad to no longer carry the load. I remove the bottle, uncap it, and take the first swig. The bite hits my nostrils immediately, and the burning in my throat descend all the way to my stomach, where the warmth lingers.
We pass it around, the four of us, and wait.
“Let’s hope they make it,” someone, Lou probably, mutters.
“They will.”
All of us are in agreement. They have to get here, it’s so perfect.
The bushes in that divide the two stretches of road rustle, and we turn in unison.
A ragged shape shuffles from the darkness. It gets closer, and we can here the ramblings of his madness.
When he sees us, sees the drink in our hands, his eyes open wide, and his focus is solely on us.
“Hey boys,” his cadence is as inconsistent as his gait, “Whatcha got there?”
“Nothing, man,” Marcus replies, “Be cool.”
“Awww, you ain’t got nothing for me? What I done?”
His beard is mostly white, but every once and a while, patches of black catch the light of the moon, and I can’t tell if he’s been drinking already.
“C’mon man, we don’t want any trouble.”
“Me neither boys, me neither. We could trade sumptin’? Maybe?”
“Whaddyou got for us?” Luke says.
The homeless man looks hurt, “You boys been here before?”
“No,” I say, “First time.”
“Good, good. If you walk that way,” he points south to where the road disappears, “You’ll hit the real highway, ‘cept you’ll be on a bridge above it. It’s a nice spot, cool.”
By his grin we can tell that he is proud of himself for having this knowledge.
“Ok, thanks man,” Johnny says, clearly trying to get rid of him, “here’s a beer, have a good night okay?”
Johnny rummages through the backpack and hands him two Red Dog’s. The homeless guys reaches for them greedily, and shambles back to his bush at a quickened pace.
“Weird,” someone says.
“Yup.”
I find it hard to explain how I got here
I think I can, I think I can
And then again, I will falter
Dream
“So what do you think? Take a walk?”
“Let’s wait for the girls.”
As if on cue, three shapes emerge from the path we took earlier. By the giggling and the tone of voices they are easily identified.
“Over here girls,” Luke calls, beckoning with the bottle in his hand.
There is small talk, and drinking, and the guarded pretense and competition that goes along with almost any social interaction at this time in our lives.
The drinks take hold, courage swells, and I reach out to cup the elbow of the girl who has laughed during our conversation the most.
“Let’s take a walk I whisper,” letting go of her elbow, and motioning with my outstretched hand.
“Okay,” she replies, the hint of a smile noticeable even in her voice.
We break from the group, although I’m sure the lingering curiosity left by the bum’s claim will be enough to bring us all out there eventually.
There is small talk as we move down the road and toward the moon. It is arching higher in the sky, stopping the stars behind its glow from being seen. Other than the road, its cracks and refuse, everything around us is nature. The road stands out like a scar or shame.
At some point in the walk, she takes my hand. The space between our palms a haven of sudden warmth in the cooling air.
I smile and wonder if she is doing the same. It is quiet here; the sounds of our footsteps on the broken blacktop the only noise, the birds having recently fled.
Ahead, the brush and trees break away into the open air. The trees form a V on the horizon and suddenly, there is only the road.
To our left and right, nothing but dark blue air. Our hands break from one another, and we walk to the fence that now lines both sides of the highway. My fingers reach into the rusted rungs, tiny diamonds between myself and the sight below.
We are standing over I-84, and I know exactly where we are. The cars speed by below us, and I suddenly feel exposed. I step back, thinking I will be seen, exposed.
She turns and laughs.
“How many times have you driven by here Matt?”
“Jeez… Hundreds I guess.”
“Exactly, and how many times have you even looked up here.”
“Never.”
She’s right of course. We’re safe here, undetected. Yet we are observing the world. It’s like a secret painting with the eyes removed. We belong to this world, but are not a part of it. It is electric.
She comes to me, hands at my waist, and circles her arms around me. The kiss is sweet, the faint taste of whiskey on my breath and tongue. I place my hand behind her head, the victim of so many films and book covers my only instruction in these matters.
She removes her mouth from mine, smiling, and turns her back to me in my arms. Her body is warm, connecting to mine from foot to shoulder, and we watch the world pass beneath us for a while.
Out of the darkness comes light like a flash
You think you can, you think you can
Sometimes that is the problem
Dream little darling, dream
Spinning on the wind
The leaf fell from the limb
But everyday should be a good day to die
Oh, all fall down
It won't be too long now
Every fire dies
When the rest of the group arrives, their experience is similar, but not the same. Discussions are had regarding various crimes we could commit here, the thrill of being undetected hatching plans in our wild brains.
We walk back, I take her hand, and the group chatters.
The night passes comfortably, and we eventually realize it’s time to go. Johnny rattles his keys, impatient from not drinking his fill.
We trudge, all of us, back to the empty lot at the monastery. I give her a short kiss goodbye, and a promise to call tomorrow.
“C’mon, Romeo.”
“Yup.”
We get into the Catalina and leave the parking lot.
The conversations are fewer now, we are tired and contentedly drunk, and I look out the window, searching for the Morningstar. I find it in the window, reach my finger to where it is, and watch as it follows the car. I wonder about the red lights on the highway, the real one, the cars going off into the distance, and their passengers. The lights are white as they approached, becoming red as they left, finally disappearing from our sight.
I look back to the window; the Morningstar obscured by the trees, and close my eyes until we get home, reveling in my burgeoning secret life.
Oh I think I can, I think I can
Dream little darling dream
Spining on the wind
The leaf fell from the limb
hey there
10 years ago
