The afternoon sun, reflected from the tops of clouds, poured through my window. I took a drink of my coffee and looked down the aisle; "there are too many kids on this damn plane," I thought. It had been months since I had set foot in the place I had come to call home: Phoenix, Arizona, and now I was only a couple hours away.
Fleeing from pains of betrayal and heartbreak, I went east to reclaim some thing I felt I had lost. Anything to cure me of my inconsolable state of apathy. It had controlled me for months. Days spent indoors, binging on alcohol and sadness, barely finding the will or desire to leave. Near breaking, it felt as if there was no other way.
The mountains of Pennsylvania had a slight, but noticeable effect on my demeanor, working full days off little sleep. Carried by the hands of friends, and always with a coffee in mine. The days grew longer, but I began to mind less, as if I was stuck living the same day for eternity. Many nights we escaped from that strange place to the nearest bar, and filled our stomachs. Tensions rose naturally, and it soon became time for me to return west. Like the fog I watched roll off the mountains each morning, I felt my burden grow lighter at the mere thought of it. Suddenly excitement returned to me. With thoughts of times long gone, smiling faces, and loud memories, I felt it was time for me to take my leave.
A brief foray to New York was all the travel I would allow myself. Having pushed the forgotten beauty to the back of my mind, heartache didn't seem so real. I spent long days in the streets, scurrying about with my friends. A few days into my trip, an ex lover appeared. We met for lunch, a play, some beers. The next morning we got breakfast at a diner, and I think she could tell; my summer had changed me. I had lost interest in most things, relations between us included. I haven't spoke to her since. During the course of the week I scurried about the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn, with the company of more and more good friends. On my last night in town, we went out to bars, had drinks, had fun. I met another, a stranger, the Australian.
She was shorter than I, about 5' 4", with long reddish-brown hair, and sharp facial features. She wore a sheer black top beneath a black overcoat, with black jeans and high heeled shoes. After closing, we sat in a circle, her two friends to my right and she to my left. She complained that she smelled of cigarettes, so I took a drag, and said "Well, now we both do." We grabbed a cab, and hopped about to drop her friends to their respective hotels around Downtown Brooklyn, before headed back to where I stay in Bed-Stuy. The next morning, we had woken up late, an hour late. We had both set alarms, and managed to sleep through all of them; it had been a good night. Scurrying to dress, she hurriedly gathered her things and made her way to the front door. Barely having time to put on pants and a t-shirt, I followed her to the door. She left with a kiss, without even telling her name.
Leaving New York, I continued west for a brief visit to my father in Ohio. It was brief, and filled with visits to the local county fair, where we gorged ourselves in fried food delicacies. I departed there in high spirits, though the Australian was still a mystery that would not escape me. A delayed bus ride, and I was in Chicago, the home of my Mother.
I had recently found out that she and my stepfather were in the process of splitting up, and that we were no longer welcome in the home I grew up in. They had just entered the long course of moving out when I arrived. It was a strange time. My stepfather's nephew had moved into my old bedroom. That was a strange thing for me to grasp: I no longer had a bedroom. I spent my days on the couch, a few on the couches of friends. Many drinks later, and a couple nights out and around, I departed from Chicago to St. Louis by way of an Amtrak train. It was a quaint ride: the large farm fields of southern Illinois at the end of summer flying past. St. Louis was an even shorter stay, with nothing but friends, beer, VHS tapes, and a Sega Genesis. Friendly faces, old and new, rejuvenated my trip. With days passing and school impending, I could not stay long.
It came quickly–it took me by surprise... I was going home. Suddenly the last few months seemed like a century, and I felt like I was returning to a foreign land. I boarded my plane, with my mind racing with thoughts that sounded like static from a television screen. I began to remember the times when I was withering, and the many drinks that I had drank to forget. I found my seat, an aisle, with an empty middle seat, and an old woman already sleeping against the window panel. I began to think of her, the nights leading up to what would be my demise. I chewed on my lips, anxiety beginning to course through me. The taste of blood brought me back to reality. I looked around, noticing the four children within three seats of me. "This is going to be hell..." I thought. I was right. Screaming children overpowered the music in my ears as we took off. "Goodbye Midwest," I thought once again.
The stewardess came by, and I did my best to fall asleep, but the incessant noise of toddlers and babies thwarted whatever hope I had of slumber. They had already served drinks too. I made my way to the back of the plane and relieved my self in the lavatory. As I zipped up my pants, and turned for the door we hit a pocket of light turbulence, which was all the motivation I needed to return to my seat. The plane steadied, and as the stewardess passed, I ordered my coffee. It would be one of many on this four hour flight.
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