Morning in autumn is how he awakes, early, after less than
four hours of aspirated nerve-rattling sleep, trying to anticipate, trying to
stay cool, trying to leave to the place—a place he feels like he has already
left. Her smile. Her face. It is autumn 1996. He is a freshman at the community
college shaped like a russet brick ash tray across the river. He is all alone.
He is leaving. His bedroom adorned with pictures of vaunted writers and
tattered manuscripts and books. He has just given his best friend copy of
Herman Hesse. He quotes the rote Autumnal fallen leaf shaped verbal tithing’s
of Leaves of Grass. He feels all alone. He feels in Love. He feels as if he is
leaving. He feels as if he has already left.
The coffee
pot in his room makes a sound as if it is yearning to be petted. He has
showered the night before. He looks in the mirror, swipes the crusty flecks of
sleep from his eyes. Tries to smile. Tries not spend more than what seems
solipsistic getting lost in the mirrored slate of the Vanity frame.
And he is
leaving.
He is
taking one bag for the flight. A red duffle bag. Inside he has packed two
shirts, one gray and one black for long sleeved comfort. He rolls and extra
pair of jeans into the size of a papoose and wedges it deeply into the side of
his carryon. He stuffs a row of fig bars, two inside out pair of black socks
that a wrapped in a fashion suggestive that they are humping.
He is
leaving.
His hair is
cut short and fashionably coifed. His mother has done the best job she has ever
had cutting his hair. He feels as if he is trying to reclaim something. He
feels as if he is trying to discern something. He feels as if he is trying to
shout out, to pour out the contents of his overtly caffeinated soul into the
eyes and ears of a young seventeen year old girl. She is a senior in high
school in a city in Wisconsin
He smoked
cigars. He indulges in healthy summer nights jaunt, watching the sun as it
spills it golden late August rays. Watching the exact moment the globes of
street lights illuminate the side walks on Moss Avenue
And he is
leaving.
It is going
on 7am. The leaves in front of his house on Sherman Munich
He is
leaving.
He packs
deodorant. He packs his contact solution. He packs a light beige jacket. He
packs sunglass. There is two hundred
dollars in his wallet. More than enough for the weekend. For taking her out.
For holding her close. For conveying to her through the green-leaf world of
materialism just how he feels.
He is
leaving.
He misses
her. He wants to be with her. He wants to reel her shoulders into his body. He
desires to sputter out meaningless verbal drivel; hermaphroditic sentences, in
an endeavor to make her laugh. Make her smile. Make her come to him.
He is
leaving.
He draws
the navy blue comforter over his bed as if he is reeling back the polyutherane
sheet over a corpse and then tucks it into the corners. He looks at the bed and
wonder s what will change in his life between this exact moment and the next
time he looks across the horizon of his nightly continent. He slaps splashes of
acidic cologne onto both sides of his cheekbones. Takes a swig of caffeine.
Notices the morning denim; the stunning atmosphere of autumn, outside his
bedroom window.
He goes
downstairs and feels the gruff follicles of his father beard and he gives him
an embrace, His father tells him that he will be there Sunday night, at the
student center, at the Bus depot, to pick him up. His sisters have already
gotten ready for school. Beth is a senior at the high school he graduated from
just three months earlier. Jenn is a sophomore and attends a Christian Academy
“Girls have
an amazing weekend.” He says, not registering to hear their volleyed hi-pitched
confetti response of “you too.”
He is
leaving.
Shielded in
front of his immediate vision are notes for his pending Speech midterm. Prof Hahn
has allowed him to take the exam earlier in the morning so that he can catch
his bus. So that he can catch his flight. So that he can catch his heart.
He feels
good. This girl is good for him. He has not had a cigarette in over two weeks.
Back into
his bedroom he has little more to pack. He wedges a small bible into the bag to
feel that God is on his side. He opens the third drawer from the bottom of his
mahogany writer’s desk and brings out the envelope with his tickets and flight
itinerary. He places his copy of LEAVES OF GRASS in the top of the bag. The bag
is fraught with relics of his life. He packs two spiral notebooks (black
covers) with pens ( stalks bearing black ink). Zipping up the red sports bag as
a bride trying to fit into a corset, the last item he places in is his
notebooks of poems; inky linguistic scraps of his heart he has composed for
this autumnal creation over the discourse of the past year.
He sets the
red carry-on in the center of his bed and stares at it with wonder. He will
pick it up after his exam before he heads to catch the 10:30 bus. The red duffle bag is bulbous and
still life and a slight breeze sips through his bedroom window. Without pause
or hesitation the man drops to his knees. His body contorts into the mattress,
humped over in reverence, his chest concave, his fists a clenched fetus of
supplication and thanksgiving. His Clef note shaped body, his wild heart, is
now thanking God, asking God for safety. For protection. For the perfect
weekend.
Briefly he
wonders if it is going to rain.
He exits
his room shielded with only his midterm exam notes, taking copious swigs from coffee
cup. His sister Beth has already left for school. It his job to deliver Jenny
to her classes across town before he arrives to his own institution of
edification.
Arrive only
to leave.
He enters
the earthy-linoleum scent of the kitchen and kisses his mother on her cheek.
Her mother informs him that she will be praying for him throughout the weekend.
He saddles
his scholastic backpack over his shoulder and peruses over notes. His sister
Jenny follows him into the Buick. It is autumn 1996. Limp placards heralding
the arrival of Dole/Kemp or Clinton/Gore arch above the manicured lawns like
eyebrows. The air outside pulsates and
thumps with tilt of the planet slowly being brushed into the winter of another
year.
The car door rattles shut with a
thud. He twists the thumb shaped nozzle to the radio on full blast. With rote
orchestrations of his wrist and hands akin to that of a dance, the car jilts
into life and skids on to the road, into
the direction and discourse of another day.
He is
leaving only to find out he has already left.
A long, long time ago.
In a different world.
