Leaving pt. 1

"I'm going to the store," he yelled up the stairwell. He listened to his voice echo up to the second floor, and after a brief pause and a realization that he wasn't going to get a response, he continued. "Do you want me to pick up anything?"

As he propped his weight up on the wall immediately to his right, he closed his eyes and began imagining what it was going to be like. He wasn't really sure when he'd come up with the plan, but after letting it brood heavily in his mind for the last day or so, he was sure that today was the day. He breathed in a deep, stress-filled breath that could have easily epitomized the last seven and a half years of his life; the breath he let out was completely placid and would come, he hoped, to define the newest chapter in his life as he pictured it currently.

"Honey?" he called up the stairwell. After pausing briefly and jovially debating whether he actually wanted a reply, he realized once again that no reply was waiting for him. Undeterred, he shrugged slightly, turned around and grabbed his coat from the rack to his right; then, in one fluid motion, he reached out, turned the door knob and scampered out the open door before his wife had a chance to call after him. As he closed the door behind him, he was greeted by the smell of the Washingtons' freshly cut grass filling the air from next door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the fragrance into his lungs before letting it out and beginning across his the yard.  His racing mind lost track of all the insignificant bustle that delivered him to his car, and before he realized it, he was in his black four-door, hugging the headrest to his right and craning his neck backward, whispering goodbye to the family's driveway for what he hoped would be the last time.

He sped carelessly out and into the lane behind him, where he jerked suddenly to a stop. As he sat in the road, well beyond the sidewalk separating his yard from the freshly paved street, he removed his arm from the adjacent seat and replaced it on the gear shifter; in so doing, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and paused, suddenly in awe of the man looking back at him. This was the man who just last year had renewed the vows that he and his wife had shared as young, barely-legal adults without a worry in the world; this too was the man whose cubicle job had never mattered much to him but who had given it up and had taken that new position at Lockheed so that he and his wife could manage the payment on the gas-guzzling SUV which stayed parked in the garage whenever she wasn't using it for herself; this was the man whose six-figure salary was far more than he as a child could have ever imagined, and yet at the same time, this was the man who was giving it all away on something as fleeting as a whim.

You're giving it all away, his more logical side reminded as he gripped the shifter with his cold, sweating palm. And for what? What's next, his mind continued, and why, god why, are you doing something this goddamn illogical? With that thought and for the first time since his mind had unconsciously hatched the idea, he stopped and was afraid; his stomach, now wrenched with anguish, finally put him to the decision he'd been avoiding since first conjuring the idea. Is this what you want, he asked himself, and more importantly, are you willing to face the consequences?

Afraid of what exactly the 'consequences' entailed, he closed his eyes and dropped his sweat-covered brow onto the steering wheel with a loud thunk. In that moment, he could hear his heart beating from the insides of his ears, pulsating down his arms and his legs and echoing throughout his torso. Even then, the dialogue continued running through his mind at a louder, more accelerated pace; in that instant, the logical part of his brain was arguing back at him so fast that the arguments started stringing themselves senselessly together. Why would you do thatwhat were you thinkingare you out of your f*****g mindyou have to beyou have to be off your f*****g rocker….

Before he could think of anything to say in response—before he could even sort his thoughts – a panicked barrage of car horn rang out from behind him. He jumped nervously and lifted his head just in time to see old Mr. Moskowitz from 1013 creeping slowly by and giving him the finger from across the front seat of his beige Cadillac; he was pretty sure he'd also heard a Get the f**k out of the way spewing from the car, although it had lost most of its severity by the time it had reached his window. He removed his hand from the shifter just long enough to wave at the old man—a gesture he accompanied with a complaisant I'm sorry—before replacing his hand and shifting the car into drive. He pulled slowly away, taking one last glance at the man who had said goodbye to it all. With that, he refocused his attention straight ahead and before he knew it, he was well on his way to being a free man.

He made it through the first eighty-or-so miles of his journey without so much as a second thought; he found that if he kicked back, watched the road and hummed along to the sounds of Breezy 107's Weekend Wind-Down, the moment itself—today…now—lost all meaning and that the only things that mattered mattered only in the context of the future. He decided that the transition would come much easier if he approached "today" as something distant so that when he did have to catch up—later tonight, when he'd arrived in San Ramo and was getting situated in the cheapest, dumpiest motel room he could find—the idea of "now" would have caught up as well and would have tied itself into what was, at that very moment, "the future". At that very moment, he focused on the road—on the open road, and on a breezy spring afternoon highlighted by breeze blowing in from the ocean and the vocal accompaniment of Sir Elton John as he belted Goodbye Yellow Brick Road for everyone in the world to hear. At that moment, nothing else mattered. At that moment, he took the opportunity to peer back at himself in his rearview mirror, and at that moment, he was no longer afraid of the person staring back at him. In fact, he smiled one of those pat-yourself-on-the-back smiles and thought silently to himself: Goodbye indeed yellow brick road and I hope that you have a grandiose f*****g life.

 

Reviews

[mick weller]

"If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things."
thus:
`His racing mind lost track of all the insignificant bustle that delivered him to his car` - why mention this?
it almost reads like an apology - you're giving such detail that it seems like a device - and then `and before he realized it`
I understand that you want us to stay right up with your character - but I feel an uncertainty in the narrative here.
maybe his mind could be racing as he climbed into the car or his mind racing as he started the engine/car/station wagon-
...let the reader fill the gaps?
cheers though
good write - you really hooked me with the opening

[Mystery Inside]

Great first chapter. I enjoyed the vivid imagery and intriguing details.

There are some sentences that seem a bit long to me and words that are a bit repetitive. I think that shortening the sentences up allows the reader to have time to process the information you are sharing. When there is a bunch of info shoved into one sentence, things tend to get glossed over. There is not time to pause and process. Like the following.....

He breathed in a deep, stress-filled breath that could have easily epitomized the last seven and a half years of his life; the breath he let out was completely placid and would come, he hoped, to define the newest chapter in his life as he pictured it currently.

To me this sentence seems rather long. Now this may be your writing style and I don't know it yet, so take this as a matter of opinion.

Overall I really enjoyed reading this and look forward to reading the next few chapters!

[The Last Wayward Son]

Ah, now here we have something cool; stories like this tend to have rather mundane beginnings, but with the mental aspect in place, you key in to the reader. I also got a kick out of the comedic moments throughout. You set the tone with perfection, and (to me) this person's values and thoughts are very special. Anyway, I would go on and on, but you actually have to read this eventually, so in short, congrats in a wonderful beginning!

-Brightside

[Lyttleton]

I would call this story workman like. That's my pull quote, now let me go further into this. I think you know this story is technically well written, hits all the right notes and even has a few chosen moments of humor. Of course, you throw in the musical reference (I'm a big Elton John fan, but that really wouldn't surprise anyone). It's solid all the way around.

But, and there has to be a but, I don't get a strong sense of you. I mean, there is the definite point of view (the anti-yuppie sentiments, the disdain for white picket fence simplicity), but that worldview has been so tread it's pretty much as establishment as the establishment. Rockstars live in million dollar homes and sell their songs to Nike, the beatnicks got houses and fat, and the socialists decided they didn't like being broke.
(This all coming from a beatnick, socialist wannabe-rockstar, but that's a whole other point)

What I'm saying is, being anti-suburbia really isn't enough of a point of view to establish a voice. It's a stock voice. Token black guy, smart Asian, unsatisfied Suburbanite. It's like those box houses they put up, 20 in a neighborhood that all look alike. Okay, so yeah, they jazzed up the design, but it's still got the ring of manufacturing.

My point isn't that there's anything wrong with your writing, or with the point of view this character has (and, I do get the sense that the story arc of this character isn't going to end up with him all happy that he left his family, so I'm not blind to that). And there's certainly nothing wrong with the writing. I could pull out a dozen or more sentences of top-notch description or narrative (your opening paragraph is stellar).

But I'm just here to tell the truth. I don't feel anything when I read this. I don't know if I should side for or against this guy. I'm not sure how this distinguishes itself from the million other married men in America who think about leaving their wives (and the many many thousands who do it). Granted, your story may tread new ground, it may explore a side of America I've never heard of, or even imagined. But right here, right now, in the beginning, all I know is this guy dissatisfied with his suburban life and all I can think is, "Yeah, you and everyone else."

Why should I go on to read further (other than I think you're a good guy)?

With a character/story like this, you need to come out the gate on fire. Honestly, I'd rather read the oldest, most predictable story in the world if the writing was spectacular than the most fascinating, uniquely plotted story with only serviceable writing. Of course, you're much better than serviceable, don't think I'm saying otherwise. You've got flat out talent. But it's the distinctive talent that I want to see. You are not the only person who can write this story, but you are the only person who can write it like you, so utilize that.

I am interested in seeing where the next parts lead.

[J Kowett]

Wow. This is very good and I'm so glad I read it. The flow is very good and gets straight into your face and does not back down.

Very good!

[Valerie Jones]

Reading the second one was not complete without reading this one. Very honest and forward, this makes for an intense read.

[Caroline Tigeress]

Sweet work, it's bold, it's punchy, very in your face.

[Pierce Franklin]

Nice flow to this, I'm keen to read the next instalment now. Incidentally, "complaisant" should be "complacent." Other than that, fantastic.

[Bailey Hicks]

Nice writing and your use of imagery flows well with the piece..keep it up!

[Avoiry]

I agree with jazlean , this is a very nice piece chad and a nice vivid read send the next part my way