Ways To Travel by Becca Gaffron

The Brewer brought me a copy of Tin House. He made a special trip, walked through 2012’s last chilly snakebite sky to get it. Left his wife standing in the kitchen on her own, looking out of place, like I used to feel when I was a little girl, standing in the hardware store while my dad told lies with the other men. “Run upstairs to the toys,” he’d say, when he noticed me, shuffling my feet and examining kitchen-wares or hammers with no interest whatsoever.

And yes, The Brewer reads literary journals. And books... Dostoyevsky on his Kindle. Nihilism is dead. It’s time to get back to your roots. My roots. Words. Or cooking over cook-stoves. The journal’s creased and worn from killing time in his car – probably been there for weeks – waiting for the moment he could hand it over. Send something to them. His eyes are wide and earnest. I laugh and nod. It’s New Year’s Eve and I’m not kissing anyone, so why not send some little prosey thing to a journal like that one. The real deal. The Brewer writes songs on his iPhone, but he says they aren’t about him. Writing is seeing life through someone else’s eyes, he tells me. Dylan knew. All that shit he sang, it wasn’t about him ya know? I smile and shake my head. I’m more a Hemingway kinda writer – it’s easy, just sit at your computer and bleed.

Tin house, tin roof, tin can, tin cup. They don’t even make cans out of tin anymore, The Brewer says. It’s a shame. I don’t really care what they make cans out of. In the grand scheme of things it seems small, insignificant. Like everything. Like sending stories to strangers half-way across the country so they can judge the merits of my blood splatter decorating a screen in Times Roman 12-point.

I move from room to room still holding the Tin House. People look at me funny. Glass of champagne in one hand, book in the other. I make small talk. A tin house is better than a tar-paper shack, that’s for damn sure. Now that was a narrowly averted disaster. But it made great writing material. Betrayal, addictions, almost lovers. You can’t make this shit up. No really – you can’t.

Now it’s almost 2013 and I’m so over tar-paper shacks. But Daddy said write what you know, only when he said it, he wasn’t Daddy. He was my 11th grade English teacher. He counted Hemingway one of the greats. Not because of the blood, not for my Old Man – a final bastion in the Congregation of Social Realism and Dead White Men as Gods of Literature. But blood is about all me and Papa have in common. And good advice is good advice. Write what you know. Well, I know chaos, so here it goes. “Damn,” Dad tells me, after having a few too many of The Brewer’s best, “Got to be careful what I say...I might end up in one of your books.” I shrug. Payback’s a bitch.

There’s a story here. Made up of all the missing bits. Import in absence. But writing is seeing life through someone else’s eyes, ya know? So I skip over the fact that my heart is torn. Past wondering if I’m really me. I pretend I’ve never even seen a tin roof, let alone been stuck on one, and type. Once upon a time…(that’s the way these stories start)…somewhere in the middle of Nebraska, I was a girl crouching in the booth of some beat-up truck-stop. There was probably a town nearby. And it probably had a name. Whatever. 

The waitress’s name was Cherry. It suited her. Big eyes, red hair. Pretty, in a worn-out way. She gave me breakfast at 3:42 a.m. It was the first real food I’d had in four days. But who’s counting? She’d been standing outside the back door on her break. Smoke from her cigarette circled her head like a halo, as my body crumpled against the dumpster. At first I didn’t think she was gonna do a damn thing. She just stood there, watching. After the fucker that’d fucked me and fucked me up locked the door to his cheap-ass motel room, she finally seemed to see me. She walked over, not too fast, and looked me up and down. I was barely dressed.

“You need a doctor?” I swallowed a whimper and shook my head. “You know him?” Her curls bobbed in the direction of the blue light leaking from around the edge of the door and the foul curtains. I shook my head again. “He was just a ride.” She stared at the blood oozing patterns between my legs. “Damn expensive way to travel.”

The Brewer prefers wine with meals. He really does, but don’t spread it around. You don’t pair beer with specific foods, he tells me under his breath. He’s at a local farmers market stumping for an upcoming pub event. Some sort of VIP shindig – pay beaucoup bucks to rub shoulders with The Brewer and eat locally produced cheese and Nouveau Dutchie meatloaf. I’d rather have a nice Malbec with a traditional 50s style meatloaf, or maybe a $30 bottle of California Petite Sirah if it’s a more hoity-toity version, The Brewer says to me as his eyes follow some sweet-young-thing in a tank top and short-shorts. Beer should be enjoyed on its own. I’ve never given it a thought. I’m not a beer aficionado. I didn’t even realize I liked the stuff until I started sipping from The Other’s cup.

Cherry bundled me into the waitress’s booth at the back of the truck-stop. She’d wrapped me up in a fuzzy blanket. Pulled it from the back of her trashed minivan before we went inside. She disappeared through the swinging kitchen doors. I sipped lukewarm coffee from a cup. It was hard not to cry. Here. Now. Getting warmer made the cold worse. I had trouble clenching my jaw with my teeth chattering. She returned with pancakes, eggs and toast. I pushed them back across the table at her. “Can’t pay.” Cherry shook her head and laughed. “Eat.” The smell was too much. I shoved a pancake in my mouth. “Thanks.” With all that food in there, it didn’t sound right.

“Is there someone I should call?” I didn’t stop eating. “Yeah,” she said. “Didn’t think so.” She glanced at my thighs, covered by the blanket, and walked back to the kitchen. The food was almost gone. I wiped runny egg yolk up with a piece of toast. Just like my dad. Maybe he would come, if she called. Maybe me running off would be a wake-up call. Maybe he’d take me home and things would be different. Things would be better. Or not.

My dad took me to see classic movies. Before VCRs. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, Stage Coach, My Darling Clementine. His choices. I wanted to see Gone With the Wind and Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. All this occurred long ago, before baby brothers and sisters. Before I stopped feeling. Dreaming. Before I turned tinny. The Brewer shows me his latest song. It’s a strong woman still hard-done-by kind of tune. I need to find someone who can do it justice, he says. He’s like a kid the teacher wants to put on Ritalin. He can’t stand still. It’s that exciting. I need to find a woman with a deep throaty voice and a shitload of soul. Maybe there’s a double meaning in that, I think remembering his wandering eyes, but I let it pass. Too caught up in my own turmoil. “I sing,” I want to shout, mirroring his own enthusiasm back at him. But I don’t. Long ago I lost the nerve. To sing. To jump. To run. 

I’d drifted off, head resting on the table. Cherry shook my arm. Shook it gently. It hurt. I cringed and opened one eye. “Fuck.” I didn’t want to think about the bruises coming up. The room seemed smoky. Fuzzy. Maybe it had all been a bad dream. She pushed a tall glass of orange juice at me. “You could use the sugar.” I fumbled with the drink. Sloshed some down the front of me. Who cares. But then I remember her blanket. “Sorry.” She patted up the spill with a napkin. “Just curl up on the seat and sleep for a while, ok? We’ll figure out what to do with you when my shift ends.” I pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and slumped into a heap. “Poor girl.”

Or Shropshire Lass. Maybe that’s me. My dad’s certainly had many a trip to the modern equivalent of Ludlow Fair. And malt does more than Milton can / To justify God’s ways to man. / Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink / For fellows whom it hurts to think. He sits at the bar with The Brewer reciting. It’s impressive. He draws a crowd. Holding court we call it. The King of Literary Escapism and Brewskies. And what does the Old Man think of my words? He doesn’t say much and I can’t remember things as I used to. Recite! But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache.

The sound of laughter woke me. I jerked suddenly. Banged my head on the bottom of the table. I knew that sound. The bruises on my arms knew it. He laughed just like that when he cinched them tighter with his belt. I swallowed hard and forced my head up, peeked over the booth seat. He sat at the counter drinking coffee. Laughing. My pain. Blood. They meant nothing. I meant nothing.

Fuck. Why can’t we just die? I wondered. Why don’t we have the power to shut everything down. Heart. Brain. Stop. Now. That’s an order. Cherry stood behind the counter. She was talking with another truck driver, but her eyes stayed trained on Him. A man in a blue baseball hat walked past me. At the counter he gestured in my direction. “Ya got a sleeper back there.” Several heads turned to look. I ducked, but not fast enough. Not before I saw that face.

“Just a girl.” Cherry’s voice. “Had a rough night of it. Someone worked her over pretty hard. Prolly should take her to the doctor, but they’ll ask questions and she don’t seem like she wants to answer much.” Murmured assent. Then His voice. Cold. Indifferent. “You watch yourself, Hon. Most of them runaways are drugged-up pieces of shit. There are reasons their families don’t want ‘em.” Cherry replied hard. “If you’re gonna be to LA on time you best get your ass off that stool and into your rig.”

He laughed and dropped a few coins on the counter. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I was a runaway toddler. A baby who’d’ve done Houdini proud. Did you lose a baby? Why, yes, yes we did. Imagine that. But it’s hard to run when someone needs you. I mean really needs you. Or they make you think they do. Call me the dutiful one. Raskolnikov rang the bell. It made a faint tinkle as though it were made of tin and not of copper. That’s me. Somewhere along the way I stopped believing I was copper. Somewhere, I started thinking I was tin.

I’ve got it dialed now, The Brewer says. He’s talking balance and brewing. But he might as well be talking seeing life through someone else’s eyes. He juggles conversations like bottles. Beer is essentially communal. By its very nature it brings people together. I notice his wife looking out of place (like me at the hardware store when I was little) while The Brewer goes head to head with my Old Man, rebuffing stodgy Housman with butchered Bukowski. I don’t know how much beer I have consumed waiting for things to get better. I don’t know how much whiskey and wine and beer...mostly beer... I have drank after splits with women. I’m quite familiar with the poem. All about drinking alone and waiting. Lonely words. So much for beer bringing people together, I say quietly. The Brewer grins. Loves like tin cans lined up in a row. Ping! And down they go.

In my case only two remain. The rest were more like cans in the street. Oh, they made a wonderful clatter, but kick the can’s not much of a game. Not for the long haul. These are my thoughts sitting alone in a truck-stop somewhere in Nebraska. There is probably a town nearby. And it probably has a name. Whatever.

I have a booth by the window. Back at the counter I can hear Cherry, my waitress, telling some guy about The Girl she found the night before. “I don’t have enough cash to drive all the way to Walmart,” he says when she asks him to get The Girl some things. Cherry pulls a twenty from her apron and drops it on the table in front of him. “This will more than cover the gas.” He nods. She drops a second bill in front of him. “I need you to get basic shit...toothpaste and brush, some underwear – small – a woman’s razor, shampoo, soap, maybe some makeup, take Malina with you, she’s about the right age. She’ll know...” The man nods again. “Don’t she need some clothes?” Cherry’s pretty face screws up in a frown. “Ya know I can’t afford to buy her all new clothes, Jorge. But I called St. Andrews and the lady there is gonna let us sort through the bin for free. And we can find some stuff at the thrift store. That’s a start.”

The man finishes his coffee and pockets the money. “You have a big heart Cherry.” The waitress snorts. “I mean it,” he says with a smile. “Yeah, you mean it, but you made me pay for the goddamn gas.” She turns away, time to get back work, then pauses. “And make sure you get her some pads. The overnight kind.”

While they’re talking, The Girl moves between trucks gassing up at the pumps across the street. I recognize her by the sweatshirt the waitress gave her. It’s obvious she’s running. I want to bang on the glass and yell something about a better life being worth the risk. What a hypocrite. For an instant I am brave. I pull out my phone to text The Other.

Then the moment’s gone. So few things in life are certain. Why should this be any different. I’m that girl pulling herself up into a stranger’s rig, casting a long pained look back at the rundown building where a different future’s possible. What have either of us ever done to deserve a clear path to happiness?

I spell out a message to the husband I am separated from. My best friend. My rock. I miss you. Nothing could be truer. But whether it is true because it is or because I make it true I’m not sure. And worse yet. I’m not sure which is better. I can’t wait to be home. More truth. I want my path to run alongside his. Never mind the places where our needs rub the other raw. Keep trying. Will this future into reality. The two of us together. Forever. Make it so.

Just send them something. The Brewer makes it sound easy. And really, what’s the worst that could happen. Failure? Rejection? Put yourself out there. Parting words as another year ticks down its final moments. He’s talking about writing. I’m wondering how many chances we get before God stops sending lifeboats. My footsteps echo in the brittle winter night, Tin House, Volume 49 tucked under my arm as I walk away from the party’s warm murmurings. It’s damn cold. But that doesn’t make me any less a cat on a hot tin roof.

The booth was empty. On the table a cheap napkin played canvas for the most beautiful lily Cherry had ever seen. She wondered how an ordinary pencil could make something so real. Underneath the flower, perfectly symmetrical letters spelled out “Thank you.” She brushed away a tear with the back of her hand and pocketed the drawing.

People, strangers, ring in the New Year from a balcony above me. Then jump off the roof...the only words I catch as I pass. Jump where? Did you know I used to be fascinated by the thought of jumping. Off the porch roof. From my bedroom window. I imagined dropping and rolling like a ninja. They weren’t all that high. I know now I could have done it. But I didn’t. Something might go wrong, my parents would say. What if you failed? What then? The beginning of a trend.

The celebration on the balcony fades behind me. I remember a night much like this one. The Other sang “Open Your Heart,” bobbing and swaying in a hilarious Madonna impersonation. He grabbed me by the waist and danced me down the street, past frowning Victorian houses, their curtains pulled tight against the bitter night and ridiculous displays like ours. He made me laugh. Made me feel. Together we expanded, indifferent to prying eyes. I would have jumped off the roof with him, that night he tossed my keys away so I would have to stay.

Ten minutes ’til midnight. No dancing or drinking. I’m striding down snowy streets with a literary journal for company. It’s New Year’s Eve and I have someone to kiss. Time to go home and please the one I so love pleasing. And I’m not going to think about how often what I do doesn’t please him. Not tonight. My first resolution – leave the soul ajar. When the clock strikes twelve, The Brewer will lean down and kiss his wife. And she’ll finally look comfortable, caught in the moment of a kiss that spans decades and questions. He’ll read this story sometime I suppose. Wonder what my blood splatter looks like through someone else’s eyes?

I saw Cherry out the side mirror. She was standing in the parking lot watching me go. I felt kinda bad just leaving like that. But fuck it. I didn’t ask her to help me. I squeezed my eyes shut. The rumble of the road sounded like it would swallow me. Or maybe that was the pain. Doesn’t matter. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Or at least that’s what my mother always wanted me to believe.

The Other went searching for my keys a few minutes later. Found them just down the sidewalk. His goodnight kiss was giddy. Conflicted. But he sent me on my way. So what does that say?

Sometimes the universe hands us exactly what we need. And we turn around and walk away.

………………..

Rebecca Gaffron is an expressive arts therapist, visual artist and writer. Her written work has appeared in numerous journals, both online and in print, and has been nominated for the Best of  Net award. She has released a collection of short works, “Honest Lies and Imaginary Truths” and more of her writing can be found at rebeccawriting.com