c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(7-24)
Dean McCray had been thrilled to revisit his former homeplace in New York State many times over the past forty years. But when these trips actually occurred, they only seemed to confirm that he had grown more distant and disconnected from that period of his life. He was older now, more burdened with responsibilities, and less impulsive. The reality of his transformation into a solid citizen filled his heart with sadness. Eventually, he simply quit going back, to avoid confronting the harsh reality of his exile.
The concept of anarchy, once an artistic paradigm by which he had lived, was gone.
Yet upon reaching retirement and separation from his wife and family, and the point of paying off his mobile home at Evergreen Estates, suddenly the bonds of practicality were untied. He could roam once again. He could do things that were ill-advised and capricious. He could shed the skin of a senior serf. And return to the young perspective of a free man.
In Ithaca, on Cayuga Lake, he celebrated long into the night. With music and dancing and alcohol. In his hotel room, he nursed a hangover after this wild moment of triumph. Yet something rang hollow in the experience. Many old friends had either moved away, or died. Others were grandparents now, or great-grandparents. Content to tend to their brood with sage advice and creeping senility taking hold. The counsel of like-minded souls had evaporated over time. The promised land he sought no longer existed.
Finally, on a Sunday night blessed with the slow, sleepy influence of summer, he decided to go home. It was his last escape. What awaited in Ohio was loneliness and eventually, the judgment of mortality. So, he did not hurry.
West of Corning, he paused in the Village of Riverside. Stealthily slinking along under the cover of darkness, for a quiet moment of reflection. There, a trio of bandmates had once lived. On Balcolm Avenue, and around the corner, on Freeman Street. He sat in his Ford Bronco, sipping coffee from a convenience depot. The drive back to Buckeye territory would take a few hours. He wanted to be awake and alert. But also, clear-headed and unemotional.
Tears of regret could come later. For the moment, he needed to be sane and safe at the steering wheel.
He drove past Campbell, Bath, Hornell, and Angelica, while languishing in personal memories. By the time he reached Cuba, where the notable Cheese Shoppe was located, it was far too late for a stopover. His eyes were red and fatigued. He passed Olean and then reached Salamanca. There, on Allegany land, he found a fast-food meal, and a parking space. By then, the temperature had cooled. He rolled all the windows down in his SUV, and sat staring into the limitless eternity of night.
A twist of the radio knob brought him a crackle of static. Followed by news on WTAM 1100, a station that boomed through the receiver. Despite the fact of still being many miles away from his home environment. He closed his eyes for a moment, and drifted in space. A broadcast announcer spoke in serious tones, as he napped.
“The Ohio National Guard was called to Geauga County today, by Governor Mark Moerlein. There have been several violent incidents in a rural development of trailers, after the last election. But recently, the volatility between residents and law enforcement has spun out of control. An evacuation was conducted by the county sheriff and his deputies, following a citizen blockade. The park is now officially closed, and empty. Those who resisted being relocated have been taken into custody. A flurry of lawsuits exploded, but so far, judges have ruled that the move by state and local authorities was justified. Much of Pine Trail Road remains off limits, with barricades set up in front of the mobile-home community. We will bring you more details as they become available...”
Dean rubbed his eyes. They felt scratchy and dry. He sat upright, and peered out of the windshield. Points of light dotted the parking area, from cars and trucks and poles towering overhead. Yet no sense of urgency had anyone motivated. He was still in a different world, one separate and apart from his own.
He scrolled through contacts on his cell phone. Then clicked on a number for his neighbor to the east, Kiki Krale. Her line rang and rang and rang, until a voicemail program was activated. He breathlessly petitioned her to call back, whenever possible.
“Hey Kee, what the hell is going on? I’ve been on a little vacation, one last horse ride to my old stomping grounds in the Empire State. I turned on the radio just now, you know how I roll. I still listen to the regular airwaves, my ex-wife said it was a sign of being an old fart and out-of-touch! Anyway, there was a news bulletin from Cleveland, something about our crap-tastic, hillbilly neighborhood. What happened to the community? Did they really shut down that junkyard paradise? Give me a jingle, I want to know where I’m going to sleep tonight! This little 4x4 ain’t too comfortable for stretching out!”
He chewed on McDonald’s fries while waiting for some sort of reply. But his device remained silent. Traffic came and went lazily, as he pondered the situation. Could he go home tonight? Should he go home? The question burned in his head like a hot cinder, spilled from a fireplace hearth.
Uncertainty made him impatient, and restless. So, he decided to take a walk, alone. There were few others outside of their vehicles, but after a brief jaunt across the lot, he found a trucker who was resting in a folding chair. The burly, big-bellied driver was bald and covered with tattoos. But he had a friendly demeanor.
“Hey buddy, ya look worried! Something go wrong at home, or are ya running away?”
Dean laughed softly. He and the professional road warrior exchanged a fist bump.
“Not exactly, I was out chasing ghosts, you might say. Over in the Finger Lakes Region. But I found out that what’s dead is dead, you know? Memories live forever, but people don’t...”
The rig pilot nodded and grinned, knowingly.
“See, I don’t have ta run away from home, this 18-wheeler is my place to live. I got everything I need, right here. And if I don’t, there’s a travel plaza around the bend. I can find a shower and a hot meal. Maybe even a lot lizard for companionship, if I’m so inclined...”
Both of them were amused by the candid admission. But then, their mood stiffened.
The Ohio refugee crouched with his knees bent. His back settled against the concrete buttress of a light post.
“I’m not sure if I have a home anymore, that’s the thing. I’ve lived too long to call myself an orphan. Yet right now, I’ve got to confess that I feel like one!”
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