Woe to Curiosity
Woe the curious mind. An undertone of melancholy all day because of a morning urge, with coffee, these urges always with coffee, to google an ex, the longest ex, and there, the first image was somehow an articulation of my deepest unthought fear for years, her letting go of me:
http://www.jpgmag.com/photos/85080
Another picture had just her haunting eyes, the ones that captivated me from the steps of the Indian National Museum in Delhi 15 years ago, and that I thought of during our years with the planet between us.
And so I got out of my Brooklyn apartment and hopped a train north, heading for the woods of Vermont. I knew a spot where I could sleep outside. First I had to get there, and there were no more trains to Vermont, only Sprinfield, Mass. There I would rent a car. But the car rental agencies would be closed. Only open at the airport. But the train conductors said there is no airport in Springfield, airport's outside of Windsor Locks, Connecticut, get out there. It's Bradley Airport. I got out there, but there was no town. Just a payphone and a parking lot. I had no cell phone, no change for a call, no number for a taxi to take me to the airport. Whoa, I've traveled all over India with no problem, and now this, Windsor Locks. What the fuck. I looked around, an interstate highway, a cop car pulled over. I thought about approaching the cop car, but it was way up on an overpass. I never get stumped on the road, serves me right, I was stumped.
An Estonian came out of nowhere and gave me a ride to the airport. He had pulled into the parking lot to check his tire. Was this a gay pick-up spot? I had asked him how far to the airport. He said he'd give me a lift. He hates his Russian in-laws. He hates El Paso. He buys used cars and drives them back to a dealership in Springfield. "Do a good deed for someone else," he said, dropping me off at the Avis counter at the airport. "Thank you, Vassily," I said. "Love your in-laws."
Avis quotes me a crazy price, so I try to go next door to Budget. These places ain't built for the pedestrian. There must be a break in this fence somewhere. Nope. I go to the edge and scale the fence. I've got a big backpack on my back and a small one with a laptop in it on my front. Scaling fences used to be easy. I'm doing yoga, why am I so stiff, I wonder there at the top of the fence, unable to swing my leg over. The fence spokes are sharp at the top. Hm. I get the leg over without ripping the pants, hop down, but one of the spokes goes into my wrist. Wow, almost a replica of the incident when I was eight that gave me three stitches on the wrist and whose scar everyone takes for a suicide attempt. My life had almost come full circle. But this one came just short of puncturing the skin. It left a grey welt on my wrist. Budget was sold out.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Memorial Day coming up, and college graduations," said a fat man.
I tried two more agencies, all sold out, wound up back at Avis where Vassily had left me. A grey minivan like the father I thought I'd be by now. Almost was. She had chosen to abort. Now a career in environmental engineering, and these photos on the side. Photography, she said, was something I introduced her to. I didn't remember, but I guess I did have a camera when we trekked across Ladakh that summer. This sadness in her eyes I see in her self-portraits. It preceded me leaving her. It preceded her father's death in an airplane crash, which she called from India to talk to me about the night it happened. It was in there already. She realized something.
Driving north on I-91 into Massachusetts, our song came on. I hadn't heard it in years, perhaps since I sat in my $5/night bungalow on a deserted beach in Thailand and listened to it on the mix tape she had sent me. "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits. What are the chances. She haunts me all day, and then this.
I stopped at Dartmouth's all-night section of library, where the kids are studying for finals, to eat my Pricechopper sushi, wash my hands and scour her 247 photos on flicker. I see myself in one of them, a trucker's rearview mirrow from a truck show I took her to in Wisconsin. And my footprints on a beach in Montauk. Now I will go to the woods to sleep. I got a flashlight at Walgreen's. It's 3 in the morning. I will not be haunted.
http://www.jpgmag.com/photos/85080
Another picture had just her haunting eyes, the ones that captivated me from the steps of the Indian National Museum in Delhi 15 years ago, and that I thought of during our years with the planet between us.
And so I got out of my Brooklyn apartment and hopped a train north, heading for the woods of Vermont. I knew a spot where I could sleep outside. First I had to get there, and there were no more trains to Vermont, only Sprinfield, Mass. There I would rent a car. But the car rental agencies would be closed. Only open at the airport. But the train conductors said there is no airport in Springfield, airport's outside of Windsor Locks, Connecticut, get out there. It's Bradley Airport. I got out there, but there was no town. Just a payphone and a parking lot. I had no cell phone, no change for a call, no number for a taxi to take me to the airport. Whoa, I've traveled all over India with no problem, and now this, Windsor Locks. What the fuck. I looked around, an interstate highway, a cop car pulled over. I thought about approaching the cop car, but it was way up on an overpass. I never get stumped on the road, serves me right, I was stumped.
An Estonian came out of nowhere and gave me a ride to the airport. He had pulled into the parking lot to check his tire. Was this a gay pick-up spot? I had asked him how far to the airport. He said he'd give me a lift. He hates his Russian in-laws. He hates El Paso. He buys used cars and drives them back to a dealership in Springfield. "Do a good deed for someone else," he said, dropping me off at the Avis counter at the airport. "Thank you, Vassily," I said. "Love your in-laws."
Avis quotes me a crazy price, so I try to go next door to Budget. These places ain't built for the pedestrian. There must be a break in this fence somewhere. Nope. I go to the edge and scale the fence. I've got a big backpack on my back and a small one with a laptop in it on my front. Scaling fences used to be easy. I'm doing yoga, why am I so stiff, I wonder there at the top of the fence, unable to swing my leg over. The fence spokes are sharp at the top. Hm. I get the leg over without ripping the pants, hop down, but one of the spokes goes into my wrist. Wow, almost a replica of the incident when I was eight that gave me three stitches on the wrist and whose scar everyone takes for a suicide attempt. My life had almost come full circle. But this one came just short of puncturing the skin. It left a grey welt on my wrist. Budget was sold out.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Memorial Day coming up, and college graduations," said a fat man.
I tried two more agencies, all sold out, wound up back at Avis where Vassily had left me. A grey minivan like the father I thought I'd be by now. Almost was. She had chosen to abort. Now a career in environmental engineering, and these photos on the side. Photography, she said, was something I introduced her to. I didn't remember, but I guess I did have a camera when we trekked across Ladakh that summer. This sadness in her eyes I see in her self-portraits. It preceded me leaving her. It preceded her father's death in an airplane crash, which she called from India to talk to me about the night it happened. It was in there already. She realized something.
Driving north on I-91 into Massachusetts, our song came on. I hadn't heard it in years, perhaps since I sat in my $5/night bungalow on a deserted beach in Thailand and listened to it on the mix tape she had sent me. "Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits. What are the chances. She haunts me all day, and then this.
I stopped at Dartmouth's all-night section of library, where the kids are studying for finals, to eat my Pricechopper sushi, wash my hands and scour her 247 photos on flicker. I see myself in one of them, a trucker's rearview mirrow from a truck show I took her to in Wisconsin. And my footprints on a beach in Montauk. Now I will go to the woods to sleep. I got a flashlight at Walgreen's. It's 3 in the morning. I will not be haunted.
posted by Thon at 10:49 PM
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