Born to Run

Chapter 1

My story, I suppose, is pretty goddamn generic. So I'm not sure quite how many details to bother you with. So I'll try to stick to just the things that will help you understand. First off, California isn't all it's cracked up to be. More than 160,000 square miles and only about four cities worth visiting. If you're from here, you'll be nodding to yourself right now, if not, banish all images of beaches and palm trees from your mind.

I grew up in the suburbs of a small suburb in the central valley, the name doesn't matter, for all intents they are mutually exchangeable; the withering sun, the blistering heats, 

icy fogs, arid high desert air and the dust. The kind of dust 

that blew in on the north wind and blanketed the whole place, the kind of dust that floated high, filtering the light of the sun and moon down in a burnt pumpkin hue.

It was small town America at its small town worst. 

Every inch of the place drove me insane. It was white picket death, stained various shades of rickety, downtrodden brown. My four years of high school were passed in obscurity in a different world, my head persistently buried in a book.

At risk of sounding cliche, a capital sin, punishable by obscurity among writers, I knew I was destined for greater things. I had a fire in my gut that would never be satisfied by the meager successes this highway rest stop of a town had to offer; as a side effect of this, I was branded a slacker in high school, never striving for any of the recognition they had to offer, not because of any laziness on my part, but simply because I didn't want it.

I graduated with passable grades, in all honesty better than I had expected. I had floated through high school, and with a similar evanescence I floated through graduation, making as little impact in those final moments as I had in the four years that preceded them. If I were to be interrogated by the Italian mob, I couldn't remember a detail of that night. Not the speech. Not the valedictorian. Not who laughed, or cried, or tripped running for their diploma. I simply didn't care.

I passed through those hours like a ship through a fog, picked up my diploma, and then my bicycle. I rode home through the hot thick summer air, the wind whistling in my ears, cooling the sweat beaded on my brow.

The windows were dark when I got home, as I had known they would be. My parents had divorced six years ago, my father had chosen me and my mother had chosen LA. Something about him not being supportive of her dreams of being an actress. I don't honestly remember too well. Those were the days that I first began to bury myself in books, dreaming of other worlds.

I didn't know whether my father was at the Silver Dollar, drowning six years of insecurities and loneliness, or on another trip, shipping wine over the grapevine. It didn't matter. I hadn't seen him in what seemed like the better part of six months and it just gave me more time to pack.

I was leaving that night and never looking back. I'm not really sure when I decided, but it had to be that night. Maybe it was the poetic justice of it all.

I let my bicycle roll into the cracked driveway, sliding off of it as it bumped over weeds and clumps of matted brown grass. As the bike's pedals clattered against the ground, I had already thrown my weight over the side gate and was headed for the back door, sliding the key from my pocket. It was pitch black inside, a hallmark of high desert construction, which treated the sun like a hated nemesis.

I stubbed my toe ten feet into the back hallway, letting out a stream of rather un-writer-like language. I didn't even have to look down to evaluate the damage that some unidentified car part had done to my goddamn foot, there was sure to be blood.

After that I took better care to flip on each light switch as I passed through the small single story house to my room. Throwing my back against the lumpy mattress I evaluated what I would need. Shoes, food, water, money, paper. I stripped off my clothes, hobbling down the hallway, for what might be my last shower for quite a while. 

The hot water battered against my back, stripping away the thick dust that clung to my skin and hair, as I watched the water, gray and brown and red, circle the drain. I tried to list to myself the things about this place I would miss, and came up empty. I watched all my doubts slip down the drain with the dust and the blood from my badly cut big toe.

So I bandaged my toe and stuffed my backpack tight with old shirts, canned food, cereal, an old milk jug filled with ice water and three notebooks. I laced some old work boots from my father's closet, the kind that were sure to last on the road, and tied a thick sweatshirt around my waist. Then I left on the long walk to the railroad tracks on the east side of town.

Reviews

[Gypsy Dreamweaver]

The pain described is heart wrenching. The physical bleeding of the injured toe and the emotional bleeding of the soul is so well expressed. I feel the author's pain on so many levels. His words move me. His generic story is the story of so many. So many who don't have the courage to express themselves, to show their vulnerability, their humanity to the world. Congrats on a piece well written.

[Bowers]

oh wow, I like this a lot! I like the detail... but yet... it's almost with held from readers in a way, it's very provoking, getting the readers attention. a great write!