Monday, September 23, 2013

Of Bean Bag Bullets and Riding Alone



Sean and I walk to the car in the dark. We need to drive downtown to meet friends who will take Sean to the airport. I still go to the driver’s side out of habit, but he intercepts me and holds out his hand for the keys.

“Wait until you see how smooth I can shift now – totally pro,” he says as he puts the five-speed coupe into reverse and revs the little engine.

He was right in that we did not stall backing up as he usually did before he got his license and took over the car. 

Before the license, we had gotten into a routine of riding bikes together to work and school during the spring semester. It was a six mile commute, and we talked while rolling along some of the back streets of Tucson. That was a while ago. It is summer now, and spring has receded along with cool days leaving us in long days and the heat of desert summer along with the vacation that goes with it. Sean wants to travel rather than stay home. I remember the feeling. 

The back seat is filled with the gear he is taking with him to visit a friend in Rhode Island: a long-board, a duffel stuffed full with a shorty wet suit, beach togs, and sunblock.

“I still can’t believe what happened with that guy in the red Mustang the other night..” he muses, looking at me for a response. Seeing a blank face, he says “I haven’t talked to you for quite a while.”

“Yeah, you haven’t been around much for the last couple of weeks.” 

He had been spending time with a girlfriend when I was at home, or spending time at home while I was at work. He was asleep when I woke up and I was asleep when he was coming home. Despite living in the same house, we had not seen each other much all summer.

Now that we have some time, I have forgotten those things I want to tell him, so he takes off with his story about the red Mustang.

“So this guy driving a red Mustang convertible is skidding sideways down on Broadway. There is a big cloud of dust and smoke and there are police cars following him, so we pulled over where we could see what was going on.”

I sit and nod, noticing that he has a stubble of beard, much more than I had at sixteen. His lean and muscular arms broadcast his love of rock climbing; the blonde fur on his legs, his Norwegian heritage. He shifts smoothly, but waits too long to brake for my tastes, revving the engine up toward the red-line. 

He has not yet introduced me to his girlfriend, but has no trouble sharing action stories.

“So, when the car stops, the driver refuses to get out and the cops start shooting at him with these guns that shoot little beanbags. Pop, Pop. You can see them exploding on his chest in little puffs of dust. The guy raises his hands, and they stop. But then he puts them down again, like he is going to reach into his pockets, and they shoot at him all over again.” He stops and thinks about this for a moment and then continues. 

“The guy kept putting his hands up until he couldn’t take it anymore, putting them up and then doing it all over again. The cop cars appeared out of nowhere. Pretty soon they were all around him, in a big oval, just shooting at him. But he wouldn’t give up.”

I listened. And wondered what else he would see around Tucson now that he could drive and be out at night. I realized I had no control over what would happen to him or around him, no control of either the hazards or the wonders. I suspect that the wonders will rain down and far outnumber the adversities. I pray that the hard times come in doses that he can handle.

Sooner than I hoped, we arrive at the house where he meets his friends. He has his ride to the airport. We load up the little station wagon with the skateboards and the luggage, hug, slap each other on the back, and wish each other well. Then he returns the car keys, joins his friends, waves, and drives off.

I take over the driver’s seat again and start the car. There was a sad acoustic ballad playing on the radio. I can't help but feel a little lonely as I turn and drive in the opposite direction, going home to the solitude that I thought I wanted so much.

Sean had not filled the car with gas for a while. The tank was pretty near empty, so I stop and put in more gas. 

As the gas passes through the hose, I realize that I will ride my bike to work in the morning alone.

2 comments:

  1. Sad for my own loss of proximity to Sovay. I think my lesson has been is that my love for her niether grows or diminishes with distance. Hey Eric, there are many young guys needing good men to show up for them. You would be inspired staffing our rite of passage in November. Just sayin.

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    1. Hey Mark, I hear you, and I do the prison workshops every Saturday. Got to make choices and I've made mine. Keep up the good work! Yours in brotherly esteem -- Erec

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