In the
weeks leading up to the end of 2008, I'll post some blog posts that ran
on 500 Words long before anyone knew what a blog was. By request, from 08/05/2000...
500 Words is usually 500 Words long. Tonight, it is not. I traded in my car for a newer model today. Without so much
as a goodbye, she was gone--driven away by Nick, the car dealer who wanted to
be sure she still was operable.
Though it did not bother me then, I sit here now, upset,
sad, and angry… angry that I did not say the things I really wanted to say to
her. Angry that I did not thank her, thank her for the nine years she gave me,
and thank her for the memories… memories that were lodged deep in the cushions
of her seats.
I never thanked her for taking us on that trip to Cleveland six years ago.
(Six years ago, it seems like forever sometimes, but tonight it feels like
yesterday.) There were three of us in that car, leaving at midnight like bandits looking to steal back a
little back a little bit of our youth. O.J. was only a football player when we
left that night, though that would soon change.
We stopped at Foodtown for supplies… Gatorade, chips, Pez.
Though the cash register tried to betray us, twice flashing 666, we ignored the
omens and piled in, caffeine at the ready.
It started raining about five minutes into the trip. Early
on a Monday morning, driving across the barren, perpetually under-construction
wasteland that is Pennsylvania,
we laughed and ate and listened to the crazy people on the sports talk-radio station.
By the time I stopped to refill the gas tank, the earliest
fingers of morning gray began to permeate the dark. My passengers, the ones who
promised to remain awake through the night, began to stir.
We pulled into the hotel parking lot around 8 in the morning. It was too early
to check in, so we drove to town. The driving tour of Cleveland took less than an hour. We ate
breakfast, checked in, and fell asleep.
Jacobs' Field was our destination and, tickets in hand, we
made our way to the stadium. Fortunately, the stadium proved worthy of an
eight-hour trip. It glistened the way a new field does, alive, green. I do not
remember the final score. The game was secondary.
We got dinner at a greasy spoon near the hotel and went back
to the room, pigging out on wings, pizza, and burgers. We were boys on a road
trip, on a mission. And I don't know that we appreciated just how lucky we
truly were.
The next day posed a dilemma for one member of our traveling
party. The New York Rangers had not won a championship in 54 years and they
were on the verge of winning one that night. However, we had tickets for the
baseball game. For Chris and me, the choice was clear--go to the game. For Anthony,
the choice was also clear--stay in the hotel.
Chris and I walked back into the room with three minutes to
go in the game. He sat at the edge of the bed, transfixed when we entered.
Though neither Chris nor I had said a word, we were told to shut up. Anthony
was drinking this in.
And when the buzzer finally sounded, at the end of the game,
he jumped in the air, he screamed, he cheered. He nearly got us kicked out of
the hotel. So we dragged him to the car and drove to the Flats. We ended up at
an empty sports bar, with the only Ranger fan in Cleveland. We toasted the victory, happier
for Anthony than we were for the Rangers.
The next morning, we began the long trip home. About two
hours in, the right rear tire blew out violently. We pulled over to inspect the
damage. There was little evidence that I ever had a tire on that wheel. We
tried to take the tire off and put on a spare, but even with gloves, the lug
nuts were too hot. We waited, baking in the sun, in the middle of nowhere.
Eventually, we changed the tire, found a tire shop, and
bought a replacement. And a few hours later we were on our way. By the time we
stopped for a late lunch, we were tired and crabby. The trip was over, though
we still had hours to drive.
Looking back now, I realize how that trip could be seen as a
metaphor for life. We went out with great anticipation, great dreams. We
realized those dreams and on the way back, we were deflated. Nevertheless, we
got through that bump in the road and we moved on, difficult as it was.
Unfortunately, my friend Anthony had to move through life
more quickly than the rest of us. He would have been 28 years old Sunday, and I
guess I wanted to make sure he knew that no one has forgotten that fact.
While he got to see many of his dreams come true, many more
remained unrealized because he left us way too soon. While I am grateful
because I got to say goodbye to Anthony and I got to wish him Godspeed, I feel
like another part of him left me late today, when my trusty Nissan Stanza drove
off into the gloaming.
Comments