Sliding
Sliding sideways down the road, he wondered how he had come to this point. So far, he had traced it back to 7th grade.
He had found a seat in the back of the class, where he was comfortable. Just out of private school, and assigned seating, he was starting a habit that would last for a while. He definitely wasn’t outgoing. The only person he met in that class was to be his best friend through high school, until they drifted apart. Sneaking in just before the bell, he had asked ‘Is this seat taken?’.
Matt had shaken his head. No, that seat was open. Just don’t talk to me. I don’t know you, or this school, or this town. I just wanna make it home today. The class had been the typical; Hi my name is _______, I teach ______. My life story is boring [chuckle] but I’ll tell you anyway. David, the sneak, had been pretty quiet. Every once in a while, he’d give a huff of sarcasm at one of Ms ______’s comments. Then class was over.
Ironically, they shared the another class that day. Then another. By the afternoon, they realized that they shared the same main classes, so they sat by each other.
Fast forward. Weeks going by, blurs, freeze frames of unfamiliar faces, glimpses at memories of grade school crushes. David and Matt were closer now, always talking in class. Chit chatting. David was a bit of a rebel, so Matt was regaled with stories of smashing ketchup packets in library books, stealing cookies from the cafeteria, potato guns, the works. He was a regular middle school mischief-maker.
Of course, Matt liked what he heard. He liked the unstructured life outside of school. He liked being able to bike over to his friends house. He liked pushing limits.
But then, in ninth grade, he had met her. Oh yeah, the beautiful Christian girl who changed his life. She was straight arrow, and saw him as a template: good looks, and good personality, just needed a few improvements on the character. So she went to work. High school flew by, he broke her heart more than once, but she always took him back, knowing that he’d be what she dreamt of. And one day he was. But you can’t cage a tiger and expect him to be happy.
He always dreamt of that wild lifestyle. He’d always wanted a motorcycle, tattoos. He’d never gotten enough of the ocean, and wondered where it would take him. So he’d set off, wandering the countryside, looking for a thrill.
First, he’d found booze. It was easy enough. No small town bar ever ID’d him, and he never got rowdy drunk. He’d cruise around the small towns, hearing the best stories from the locals, and moving on. That was the part he really loved: a good story. He’d be on a construction job, and an old-timer would say “This reminds me…” and he’d be set for the day. He’d daydream about the day when he’d be telling young whippersnappers about the one time he’d driven for three days without sleep, just to see if he could.
But these times always brought him back to her. She wanted so much better for him. She knew what he was capable of, and it was certainly a lot more than what he was doing, and she’d remind him of that every time they talked. He wanted better too, but he couldn’t see himself tied down, not yet. He wanted kids, sure, but he wanted to live first.
Not all of his history lessons were firsthand. Whenever he’d stumble across a college town, he’d stop in the library and head to the lonliest corner in the back of the study carrels, and spend the whole day pouring over history books. He was enthralled with the different strategies used in war, different styles of psychology used. He’d become a familiar face, staying for as long as he could find work, always washing up and heading to the library until late at night, then repeating in the morning. But the road would call again, and he’d disappear. More than once, he’d made it into college newspapers, but he never knew. He never stayed around to read about it.
The road loved him, the road owned him. He was a slave to its call. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d get the call. Deep down in his gut, it would start, and worm its way into his dreams, then he’d wake up, pack his things, and skip town.
Lately, the call never stopped. He’d stop for the night, but he’d be so restless that he’d leave after only a few hours. He went places he’d never been. Further North, he’d pushed. After weeks of this, his body had been pushed to the limit. All it took was a deer standing in the middle of an icy road to send him sliding sideways.
(c)2004 Chris N
He had found a seat in the back of the class, where he was comfortable. Just out of private school, and assigned seating, he was starting a habit that would last for a while. He definitely wasn’t outgoing. The only person he met in that class was to be his best friend through high school, until they drifted apart. Sneaking in just before the bell, he had asked ‘Is this seat taken?’.
Matt had shaken his head. No, that seat was open. Just don’t talk to me. I don’t know you, or this school, or this town. I just wanna make it home today. The class had been the typical; Hi my name is _______, I teach ______. My life story is boring [chuckle] but I’ll tell you anyway. David, the sneak, had been pretty quiet. Every once in a while, he’d give a huff of sarcasm at one of Ms ______’s comments. Then class was over.
Ironically, they shared the another class that day. Then another. By the afternoon, they realized that they shared the same main classes, so they sat by each other.
Fast forward. Weeks going by, blurs, freeze frames of unfamiliar faces, glimpses at memories of grade school crushes. David and Matt were closer now, always talking in class. Chit chatting. David was a bit of a rebel, so Matt was regaled with stories of smashing ketchup packets in library books, stealing cookies from the cafeteria, potato guns, the works. He was a regular middle school mischief-maker.
Of course, Matt liked what he heard. He liked the unstructured life outside of school. He liked being able to bike over to his friends house. He liked pushing limits.
But then, in ninth grade, he had met her. Oh yeah, the beautiful Christian girl who changed his life. She was straight arrow, and saw him as a template: good looks, and good personality, just needed a few improvements on the character. So she went to work. High school flew by, he broke her heart more than once, but she always took him back, knowing that he’d be what she dreamt of. And one day he was. But you can’t cage a tiger and expect him to be happy.
He always dreamt of that wild lifestyle. He’d always wanted a motorcycle, tattoos. He’d never gotten enough of the ocean, and wondered where it would take him. So he’d set off, wandering the countryside, looking for a thrill.
First, he’d found booze. It was easy enough. No small town bar ever ID’d him, and he never got rowdy drunk. He’d cruise around the small towns, hearing the best stories from the locals, and moving on. That was the part he really loved: a good story. He’d be on a construction job, and an old-timer would say “This reminds me…” and he’d be set for the day. He’d daydream about the day when he’d be telling young whippersnappers about the one time he’d driven for three days without sleep, just to see if he could.
But these times always brought him back to her. She wanted so much better for him. She knew what he was capable of, and it was certainly a lot more than what he was doing, and she’d remind him of that every time they talked. He wanted better too, but he couldn’t see himself tied down, not yet. He wanted kids, sure, but he wanted to live first.
Not all of his history lessons were firsthand. Whenever he’d stumble across a college town, he’d stop in the library and head to the lonliest corner in the back of the study carrels, and spend the whole day pouring over history books. He was enthralled with the different strategies used in war, different styles of psychology used. He’d become a familiar face, staying for as long as he could find work, always washing up and heading to the library until late at night, then repeating in the morning. But the road would call again, and he’d disappear. More than once, he’d made it into college newspapers, but he never knew. He never stayed around to read about it.
The road loved him, the road owned him. He was a slave to its call. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he’d get the call. Deep down in his gut, it would start, and worm its way into his dreams, then he’d wake up, pack his things, and skip town.
Lately, the call never stopped. He’d stop for the night, but he’d be so restless that he’d leave after only a few hours. He went places he’d never been. Further North, he’d pushed. After weeks of this, his body had been pushed to the limit. All it took was a deer standing in the middle of an icy road to send him sliding sideways.
(c)2004 Chris N
