The first 12-14 hours of my drive were glorious–I sang to about every cd I owned, I drank about a million different red bull-like drinks, I talked to random people at gas stations. I felt free.
Somewhere in between Fort Davis and El Paso, it began to rain–except it only rained on either side of the highway–the stretch of concrete and asphalt was left untouched, completely glittering in the one ray of sunlight that had popped through the clouds. It was as if I was being shown the way.
By the time I hit El Paso, I felt as if I could drive forever. New Mexico, with its dripping orange sunset came and went. Then Arizona and it’s bug storm. I made the mistake of thinking that I could
actually clean the bug juice with my windshield wipers. BIG mistake. How I ended up in Tuscon with 0% visibility is unbeknownst to me.
I stayed in a motel, all alone in a king sized bed, watching bad Melanie Griffith movies and calling information to figure out the correct time. Weird. I jumped on the bed too. Why not.
Day 2 was less exciting. In contrast to the first day, the only thing I could think about was getting to San Francisco. Day 1, my mind filed through a million memories and a million more thoughts about P, relationships, life. All of this was lost the following day, when I spent most of my time gripping my steering wheel and trying not to fly off curves.
It was outside of Phoenix when the temperatures hit 110 and stayed that way for hundreds of miles. I stopped at a Truck Stop, bought some water, bought some cigarettes (hey, i was getting sleepy and bored) and bought some corn nuts. I drove through the desert with the windows down, music blaring, cigarette smoking, and singing at the top of my lungs. The heat felt good in a weird sort of way.
In Cali, just after I crossed the border, I caught sight of a swirling cloud of dust. It was so beautiful the way the dust funnel danced over the parched ground. It mesmerized me.
Then I missed the exit to go to LA and ended up driving on Dead Man’s curve into some weird valley town where everyone owned a lowrider and waved at each other. I waved back, but after stopping to get gas and check the map, I got the fuck out.
My knuckles were basically white when I drove through LA. Traffic sucked. LA sucked. It was hot, roads were narrow, people were antsy. Still, seeing LA’s skyline kinda did something for me. I kept thinking of the millions of people who flock here every day–who have dreams of making it big. I thought about all the lives that were made or lost. Hollywood felt like this big, powerful machine that had the power to chew you up and spit you out. I felt it hanging in the air.
Weird fact about Californians: why do they all have funky license plates. I was stuck in traffic outside of Santa Barbara behind a guy who’s license plate said, “JR TRUCKN” and who had bumper stickers that said “A man and his truck…a beautiful thing” and “Caution: Horn is broken, watch for finger.”
And now I’m in Berkeley, but I’ll keep this part short. My friend’s place is so badass I want to cry. It’s my dream loft. Berkeley is so badass I want to cry. People=friendly hippies. I sat in the park and had conversation with a million different people.
But I guess you want to know why I’m going to hell. Okay, so. I met this guy–professional skateboarder/photographer. We talked. He took me on a motorcycle ride in the hills overlooking the bay. We climbed a steep hill. We kissed. I slapped him. We kissed again. Then he took me back to my place and I said not to call.
What the hell is in this California air? Part of me feels stupid, but part of me doesnt care. I’m young, I’m not attached, I’m having fun, and I’m open to opportunities. But then there’s P–who of course I thought about during the whole thing. Maybe that line about missing people as a reason for cheating is true. I wasnt cheating, we arent commited, but still…No excuses though and no regrets. It happened. Moving on.
P called later that night. Okay, so maybe we arent 2 perfect puzzle pieces, but we fit really well, and I dont know how to describe it except that sometimes, its seems like we were just made for each other. It may be jumping the gun, and I’m sure thats 99% infatuation talking, but hey, there it is.
I had a lot of thinking to do coming up here, but still, the answers are still left floating–in a swirling dust cloud–somewhere between Austin and San Francisco.