Chapter 1

The first chapter. Please comment!

It’s been a long trip. After buying my VW Bug with the implicit plan of driving to Buenos Aires and back, I have found myself in a San Franciscan Winter-Summer. The floor of my car holds sand from beaches, mud from rainy days, and dried grass from the hill I rolled down with that familiar boy in Lima, on my way back. Despite his persistence, I still don’t speak Spanish.  

My per-minute rented vacuum at the gas-station sucks these delicate artifacts into its lonely stomach, leaving me with a fresh floor. It should feel like a clean start, but I wish I had just left it alone. Now, I must find another thing to soil. 

It took me three months, the trip. I just left; I couldn’t stay in Denver. I am having a hard time forgetting how my ex-fiancé treated me. Nothing short of betrayal, I’ve concluded. I used to trust people openly, and let them make my decisions for me. He took all that I had and cherished. He made the people I loved distrust me, and I have little hope of ever earning their trust again. I left with the intention of never coming back, and never arriving somewhere else. I wanted an end, but I think I’ve learned that there are no ends. So, with a few signs of wear on my demeanor, I think I’ll stay here. My sister lives in Sacramento so I have a landing-pad if I need one, but her distance will relegate the abuse of her eager hospitality to emergencies only. 

After I clean my Bug I begin to doubt my ability to trust it, as I have to all things I owned with him, and all people I met because of him. I need to start clean. I get in and place my key in the ignition. The key feels sharper than before. Something about this car has changed. By now I’ve entered the freeway, but I just have to stop and gather my senses. I can’t shake the feeling that integral aspects of this car have been altered. Just to make sure, I exit the car, circle it, open the door to the passenger side, and take a seat. This is the second time I have sat in this seat. I also remember I have had my knees on the side walls of this chair as well, but the Peruvian boy made sure that was only for a second. Right after that we switched places, my naked a*s on the old leather. From that immediate moment, my memories of geographic placement, and perhaps even astronomical placement, have been erased, with vague sensations and enervations filling the void. I now feel my body lifting with the memory of the warm night we shared in this hemisphere of the car. I guess I physically lifted my body, because my neck begins to ache. I let myself fall back into the seat, seeing only pleasantly-dissipating images of steamy windows and sweat-tacked leather interior. As I run my hand towards the door handle, its shape reminds me of the way I excited that poor boy. He wanted me to stay. How terrible an idea that would have been.

The seat feels like the saccharine embrace of a reluctant friend as I sit on it; at first warm, but then haunted by insincerity and retraction. This fleeting comfort starts, then, to only feel like a lie. The old white leather, marked with holes for sweat and gaseous perspiration to escape, nonetheless hold my skin tightly in awkward torsion. This immediately irritates me beyond tolerability. I must leave this car. It did its job faithfully. I have never depended on cars, and my basic skills in driving a manual will perform even more poorly over a city of hills. In San Francisco I would not expect a dry market for vintage Volkswagen automobiles, but I forecast the feeling of the check or cash in my hand after ridding myself of this vehicle. Strangely, the piece of paper gives me the same sensation as the leather"my fingers find infuriating grease stains. The stickiness of the material eliminates my hypothesized emotional capacity to start clean. I must leave this car where it is, whether in coming months I miss its monetary value, or not.

I leave the car on the highway entering the city. I try to forget the license plate number, and surprisingly succeed. I have that ability. To forget unimportant details. The catch"I never regain knowledge of details when they become useful. Aspects of the world continuously change for each person, some more than others, and I am uniquely aware of my ignorance to those new developments. But, I can forget about the details. As I abandon this vehicle, not realizing the inconvenient situation I’ve created for motorists and maintenance persons, I feel the wind in my hair and the salt of the bay on my newly-tanned skin. The gravel and silt-covered asphalt gives a pleasantly-uncertain traction. A year ago, the floors kept feet firmly anchored. Though my feet may slip now, my general direction is pointed to a city in which I’ve never lived"a comfortable certainty, indeed. 

I want to walk forever, and I would have, but the toe holder of my flip-flop breaks. I am now stranded on the freeway, with the choices of risking glass-lacerated heels, raising my thumb to the passing possible hosts, or climbing down the nearby service ladder. I decide on the last. A new life deserves a new approach. I walk toward the ladder and the combination of an unexpected gust of wind with an altered direction lift the hem of my dress above my head, though only for a second. Four horns honk from attentive passersby. I unconsciously wiggle my legs in response--apparently my new life will include a little more flirtatious amusement.  More honking ensues. 

I push my leg over the chain, all the while contemplating its purpose. How could a thirty-link chain made from eighth inch wire, dangling horizontally, 16 inches above the ground provide passable discouragement from people determined enough to descend this mysterious ladder? I resign the search for a reasonable conclusion, and decide that an antic architect fantasized about tripping trespassers, and did not remember to remove the chain from the design thirty years ago.

Each rung feels more and less aged. Some are cold, freshly-painted, and slippery. Some are snapped in two. I like the idea of living in a city old enough to have abandoned, dangerous ladders. I appreciate even more a city that chooses not to fix the entire ladder, but only a few rungs every year. I am reminded of a story my father told me about the Golden Gate Bridge, and how a crew of men continuously paint from one side to another, starting back at the beginning immediately after they finish the last suspended wire on the far side. They must measure their lives not in years, but in painting cycles. Throughout this trip I have thought that my life could be measured with two halves of an apple. One has been eaten partially, the eater having had to halt mastication with the discovery of a worm. Looking forward, down the ladder, I only hope the undiscovered side of my apple is un-browned, and still fresh. 

Author's Note

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