hotwire spark

Sometimes it’s in my hands. Most times it, seems, as if it’s not. But I have seen the mistakes of others, and know now not to move too fast. Tattoos mark my body like road maps, marks on my arms are like constant reminders of the past and the turns I’ve taken and the shots missed and hit and the ones never taken. There have been cars ditched on the sides of single lane highways in the middle of nowhere, and times left walking for miles towards small towns I only remember because of their familiar names – Nixon, Nevada, Paris, California, Portland, Maine. I remember one late night driving through Bangor, Maine and thinking of Stephen King and how he probably owned that town but had no idea that he did. And how earlier in the day I had been at a pay phone, one of the last around, in Boston, talking to my former girlfriend, and her telling me that I could tell her all I wanted that I still loved her but, we were never getting back together, and how I was more upset that I had missed the Red Sox game than the actual termination of our deal. I’ve still not been to Fenway.
There are always guys jumping cars in the middle of wal-mart parking lots, kids watching them while dressed in Levi cut-offs and flip flops, and not because it’s hot or summer but because it’s all they have. Slinglets and shorts, mom’s dressed in sweats and smoking Salem’s. I’ve seen it. Cars packed with family members in the Burger King drive through. Shakes and fries and onion rings and kids with home styled haircuts and pockets with holes in them where they lose all their change. Hours spent in laundromats looking across at the kids running around, looking in dryers and checking the coin slots for forgotten coins. I’ve spent a few hours in those places, once in Chicago across from Wrigley Field. I had, earlier, convinced the guy at the counter of the YMCA to let me shower for free because I had been living in a five ton truck, in the back with all the furniture I was moving, for three days and just needed a little goodness. And now, it was time to sit, I usually try and find a local newspaper and read the local sports page while the dryer makes my clothes just a little bit thinner. I remember the Cubs beating the Rockies later that day. I remember meeting Harry Carey. I remember it was hot.
I remember her. I remember Tom Petty and the Heartbreaker’s ‘The Wild One Forever’ playing over the gas station radio stuck behind the counter on a shelf. “Something I saw in your eyes told me right away that you were gonna have to be mine”. Those few hours linger on in my head, a line from the song as well as the truth. I hear it now, the song, and it’s like our song. A sadness. It carries over to now like a sickness. She didn’t mean it. I didn’t either. I never meant to hurt her. But I did.
The days seem to have four seasons lately – mornings set with rain and blowing wind, afternoon snow, sun by early evening to close off the day. I go for walks along the yard late in the day, catching what I can of the sun and watch it as it sets behind the fence. I never keep track but some days it feels like I’ve walked ten miles or more. I cross the bridges and look out over the beach and see the ships heading out to places I’ll never see. The girl at the breakfast place I go to has recently added a streak of green to her hair that seems to fit. Her hands are tired, I can tell, from making all the drinks and having them above the heat on the grill for hours at a time. She’s from the valley, or out there somewhere, where they don’t all lock their doors – a habit she learned wasn’t a good thing in the city – where they know what their neighbours are doing. Here we keep our heads down and wave or nod but have no idea where our neighbours go in the morning, or what they’re doing when we don’t see them or their not at home. I remember that. To keep quiet.
I don’t know how I got here. And not to this spot, but close to here. The job. The trouble. Her. The songs in my head. The acting out. The wanting. The not wanting to make a wrong move – and I’ve made plenty to be sure. We used to talk of driving from work and just taking a left onto the highway and keeping going. A permanent road trip. More tattoos, drinks, bars, guns and emptiness. Maybe. I’m in now I know, and there’s no changing that. All I can do is drive cautiously and keep my eye on the speedometer and try and fly right. It’s not far. I’ll be alright.