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PokeNirvash's entry for the first ever Uemb writing competition! He won second place!

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Life is rough. A real roller-coaster ride, in fact, with more downs than there are ups. At least, that’s how it was in my hometown. I’ve lived there 22 years, but it felt like a hundred, 96 at the absolute least. Being played by multiple sides, never knowing who to trust and who to avoid. Following one rule for one just made the other seem more or less desirable. It was an endless cycle, damn near a blood curse tied to those who came before me. It’s a good thing I did the unthinkable and broke it before it consumed me like a poltergeist. With nothing more than my life savings, a week’s supply of minimart food, my trusty laptop, several unused journals, and a backpack to hold it all, I ventured outside the village borders for the first time since I was a little kid and began traveling along a road with no destination. Taking whatever jobs I can to restock my cash supply and gain experience I never learned sitting at a desk. Meeting all sorts of people with so much character that you’d think they came straight out of a book or television screen. I’m currently in my eleventh year of this superior transient lifestyle, and my formerly seldom-used journals are filled with stories of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, and the people I’ve met.

 

Of those people, five stand out above all else.

 

First, there was the rebel daughter. I met her during a football game in Delhi, at the stadium where I worked as a custodian. I don’t know how exactly, but she took an instant liking to me, the moment we first made eye contact. My defense of her from a couple of crazed soccer fans pissed about their team losing that night only solidified those feelings of hers. Whenever I wasn’t sweeping up litter and cleaning restrooms at the stadium, she was there, practically and sometimes literally hanging off my arm. Not that I minded. I mean, who in their right mind would mind that? Anyways, it didn’t take long for me to learn that she was born into an important noble family, important enough to make arranged marriages for their children. She wasn’t big on that, though, so she ran away from home and started living in the capital, eschewing her given name in favor of a simple shorthand. She was beautiful, so beautiful that simply being with her would elicit death-stares from the public masses. It was like I was an untouchable simply by association to such a beauty, but she was nice and playful enough that I soon quit caring what the uppity commoners thought. Things went well with her; slow, but well. That was, until I tried her cooking. She was still a beginner, so I can’t fault her too bad, but it was terrible. Downright inedible. Hell, I’m no cannibal, but I think even human flesh would’ve tasted better than… that. I never voiced my feelings to her, but she could tell what they were deep down. I was never the best at hiding my emotions behind a poker face. It was around that time that I earned enough money from my janitor gig to set out on my next adventure, so I bid her a quick but painless farewell. I’m hoping to get back to her one day, but that depends on whether or not I’m ready to stomach the pains that come with that package again.

 

Next was the struggling novelist, living a dime a day in Hong Kong. During one of my breaks at the coffee bar where I worked and he frequented, we often chatted about books, writing methods, and influences for whatever ideas came to mind. He was young, college-age but living at his old home to support himself and his younger sister, orphaned by circumstances he never cared to bring up. He aimed for a writing degree, so regardless of whether or had free time or not, he was always writing, researching, looking for influences to fuel what he put onto paper. He dabbled in several different genres, finding the most success in his tiny fanbase with stories of the supernatural. The motifs of Satanism and witchcraft spoke to him, and he incorporated them into his works while ignoring all their negatives. I read his book one night, the tale of a woman scorned by forces refusing to let her live peacefully, finding trust in an ancient god summoned by natives, and finding conflict on whether to use the bond she made with it to either crush her enemies or make peace with them. It was simple, sure, and confusing too, but it was captivating, and that’s what matters most in novels. Too bad the masses didn’t gel with it, keeping it at the level of cult hit. He was looking for ideas for his next book, a hit in the making, by the time we met. I shot him several ideas, he wrote them down with interest, and when I departed my three-month residency, I wished him the best of luck. I don’t know if he finished his novel, let alone if it’s been released. Either way, I believe those ideas of mine will show up in one way or another.

 

Then there was the exile. Circling my way back on the Eurasian continent, I stopped in Ulaanbaatar for two weeks to stock up on some non-Chinese food. Turns out you can get sick of that stuff surprisingly quick. I only met him a few times, but boy was he memorable. He wasn’t an exile by choice; instead, he fled via happenstance. He was nobility �" two times in one year, what are the odds? �" and after his father was killed by a trusted ally, he ran to save his own skin. His homeland assumes he’s dead, but even this far landlocked in, he was at peace shedding his old identity in favor of something different. He lived in Mongolia as a thief, one who stole from the rich and gave to nobody. Constantly chased by the same guy, stubborn as a mule to get his hands on the man who’s outwitted him at every turn thus far. Reminiscent of a man I met in my first year of travels, but that’s a story you’ve likely heard by word of mouth by now. More on that later. Back to the exile, I always happened to be caught in the middle of his most important heists, but only as he was getting away. Our chats were never more than three minutes, but I learned so much in those bursts. His history, his profession, his love of the ladies… And then he was gone. Disappeared off the face of the Earth, as if he fell into an inescapable abyss. Even stranger, all of his loot was in the shack I called my home those two weeks. He left a friendly note, to make it seem more like a token of gratitude as opposed to a set-up. I returned most of his steals, but kept some of the few that didn’t match the return requests put out by the city officials. Regardless, I got out of there before long, before someone sent someone else after me.

 

Once I was sure nobody was after me �" like, extra sure �" I stopped in Switzerland for a while, took up a job at a department store. That’s where I met the crossdresser, another colorful character I met. He was surprisingly passable, for one. And he also didn’t wear women’s clothes for sex reasons or because he was transitioning. (He wasn’t.) He just felt more comfortable that way, it seemed. Anyway, he was always at the clothing section where I helped customers out if they needed it. We got to be good friends in that time; good enough that I felt comfortable telling him about all my travels prior. On foot, by car, by train, boat, plane, one time a camel. All the places I’ve been, the people I met, near everything. And he loved it all. After that, we started hanging out outside of work. Mostly at the local convenience store, ran by the same two guys who seemed to think we were a couple. Not that I minded, I had feelings like this before, just never with any real-life people of ambiguous gender. I won’t go into any more detail for the sake of decency, but after a night spent together, alone during a thunderstorm using a building hit with arson five years ago for shelter, we felt closer than ever. Sadly, I had to depart as I always did, but I promised to see him again. We keep in touch often through e-mail, though I’m hoping to contact him with Skype if I ever figure out how to work the damn thing.

 

But if there was anyone this year that I liked the most, it was the teacher. A black American who came to Paris to prove he could make it there, even with all the foul-mouthed taxi drivers cursing his nationality, and all the terror attacks too. He was bald, tattoos on the back of his head, and wore shades and a black jacket. It was like he was freakin’ Blade the first time we met, but the more I got to know him, he came off more like Professor Badass without the bushy facial hair. We ran into each other often; I was a delivery boy for a local pharmacist �" strange new policy they’re comin’ up with �" and he taught inner-city kids near the retirement home I often visited. After settling in, he decided to give these kids the education they deserved but never got. Problem was, he assumed they’d be too wild and unruly to teach so he wasn’t serious the first couple days. Too bad for him his group of kids wound up being the only bunch in France to actually give a damn about getting an education. Once he figured that out, he serioused up and got straight to teachin’. The kids look up to him like an idol now, and last I heard, they still do. I appreciated his out-of-the-box style too, but not as much as I appreciated his skills on the piano. As I was dropping off pills one day, I saw him playing in the retirement home rec room, playin’ the s**t out of those ivory keys. Some say he got so in the zone playing that he couldn’t hear the notes. Interesting, if true. And then there’s his smile. Whenever he realized something or noticed something funny, he didn’t act super-shocked or laugh his a*s off or anything. Instead, his mouth slowly curled into a smile, like someone spotted him eating a delicious cake, or if he was playing the Dating Game and one of the poor saps playing him got the dud. That was a great expression, for sure. I’m never forgetting it. The nickname “Pill Boy” he gave me, I could take or leave.

 

Shortly after, I made a few pit stops and performed this tradition I do every year I travel: I stop in a city, more often than not a regional capital, and tell the stories of my travels to whoever cares to listen. Both the memorables and those that aren’t, with certain portion omitted. Some believe them, some don’t, but if there’s one thing the crowd can agree on, it’s that they’re never boring to listen to. This year’s stop was Dublin, Ireland, and the crowd that they gave me was rowdier than the norm. One guy felt like he was out for my flesh, like a racecar driver with his sights set on the rear end of a Ford Pinto like an ace sniper. I’m pretty sure he was just drunk, but whether or not he remembers me after sobering up, I’m flattered that I left an impression on him, even if it was a negative one. Writing this down in the anonymous journal of potential blog posts I have yet to get around to typing up, I can only imagine how far around the world I have left to go, after circumnavigating it with nothing but what was on my back three or four times over. As the twelfth year approaches, I’m thinking about heading up to Oslo to get in some holiday celebrating. It’s freezing up there this time of year; perfect weather for the road ahead.

 

Life on the road is a hell of a thing. The ups outnumber the downs, and there’s always something interesting to talk about, be it the locale or the people within. It’s rough, yeah, but the experience makes the off-track roller coaster ride resulting all the more worth it.