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

[Creepy Swine Guy]

The descriptions are vivid (I liked the reference to the fresh cut grass), the writing is tight. I just wish the story went farther. I read deeper and deeper, waiting for this act that had him tied into such knots, and it appears he was simply ... leaving. I guess I shoulda read the title, huh. Since this is a Part one, I can understand, I hope the adventure becomes grander ... I'm in, I want a wild ride.

[Rc R. Vagilidad]

hmmmm, well, to say this, I really didn't notice the repititive effect that Mr. Bergstrom commented...upon reading that line i come to think that it was just a way to your style to do redundancy...and this piece is just on your side once more, your style, my appraisal; JUST great!!!

[Jazlean]

great start to a story, infact its almost a story in itself. i really like it and made me think the whole way, worm myself into his mind and try to figure what was going on, what was he going to do next..was it really the right thing?
i cant wait to read prt 2 and see what befalls this man or even see a section of what his wife thinks when he doesnt come back..
well written, well done.

[Arthur Bellfield]

I agree with the others the emotion of this piece sets it apart from alot of other stories on this site..folks aint putting enough pain and self in them...this isn't just good writting this is good life!

[Erik Bergstrom]

I agree with Natasha for the most part on the title, there's nothing like letting some other pop culture icon to decide a title for you :)

At first I was turned off by the lengthy discourse the main character carried on with himself, but then I had to remind myself that this is a Chas Stover original, and I at once noticed the fluidity and even-pace of the language. We are different in that I try to be more concise, but because of that, I lose some of the flavor that you present here. You've got some wonderful lines, and I think you have one of the greatest grasps on the English language out of most people I read on this site.

Do try, however, to make the language you use stick with the reader. By doing this, you might have to sacrifice some of the less important details, especially some of the lines where words get repetitive:

As he closed the door behind him, he was greeted by the frsh smell of the Washingtons' freshly cut grass filling the air from next door.

We see 'fresh' twice in the same sentence, which may catch the reader. Simple things like that. I know, I'm being nit-picky, but I hope it's also helpful.

I'm excited to see how this pans out. Your poetic style really transcends into your stories, and your commanding use of the language is always a fun read.

[Tasha]

Wow, this was...let me think on that. You could feel the emotion, the fear, the indecision. Then there was the hope for a change, for a new more exciting life instead of being stuck in the norm of every day society. This was spectacular. Since it's only part one I can't wait to read the second part. And as for a title...well maybe his turning point. "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road."