The Intro

Most good books I have read have some sort of introduction or prologue. I didn't intend to write one, but this snippet didn't seem to really fit anywhere else. I didn't feel it stood alone as a chapter, but I felt it should be included. So, I am posting it here for everyone to see.

I could feel the wind whipping past my beat up old baseball cap, and down the sleeves of my shirt as I flew along I-10 headed west, rapidly approaching Baton Rouge. My hands beat out a steady rhythm to an old Jimmy Buffet CD on the steering wheel, and the shocks on my Jeep weren’t doing a lot to compensate for the rough roads I was travelling. But at least I was on the road, headed to……well anywhere but Beacon Hill was fine with me. I just wanted to be as far, far away from all of that as I possibly could.

Thankfully, the wind was doing a fair job of keeping me one or two steps in front of collapsing from the heat on this July day, but the sunburn I was facing from the Southern sun was not going to be fun in the morning. The nylon soccer shorts I was wearing felt hot to the touch but I was glad that my t-shirt was a light color. I had no idea where I was headed; I just knew I was running. Was I running away from something? Or was I running to something? The answer to that changed by the hour, my thoughts were racing back and forth. It had been 14 years since I last felt this lost and confused, and the feelings hadn’t gotten any easier to deal with sine then.

Three days ago I had packed up everything I could conceivably fit into a 1983 Jeep Wrangler, and headed south on I-95, looking for my own piece of Margaritaville. But I had no clue where to find it. I had been going on the assumption that I would know when I got there. But it may not be about a destination, I was beginning to think it was just about the journey.

I have been a fan of Jimmy Buffet since I first heard “Changes in Attitude, Changes in Latitude”, and currently own the complete collection. Including the ‘Before the Beach’ set. I found the music relaxing and it spoke to a lifestyle that was foreign to me, except in my imagination. I couldn’t really imagine myself living on a beach and playing in the waves all day, but it made for a nice distraction from reality.

I don’t like hotels in big cities, so I had been staying at the local Days Inn and Best Western types, in some suburb of whatever big city I was near when I decided to stop. Tonight, it looked like a suburb of Baton Rouge. I was watching the signs and the buildings I could see from the highway, but it seemed like all the towns just ran together. That wasn’t good either. I didn’t want traffic. I didn’t want noise, and cookie cutter fast food restaurants. I wanted peace. Quiet. Somewhere that had some character.

I was sill debating how far to go tonight when I began to notice a bridge in the distance. Not a little bridge, but a huge concrete structure rising above a river, and decided that I would stop on the other side of that bridge. I realized that it was the Mississippi river, a great dividing line between East and West in America. The Mason-Dixon Line. The Mississippi River. Both would become landmarks, rites of passage in my journey. Now, if I only had a clue where I was headed.

This wasn’t the first time in life I had lit out with no destination and no plan, and it seems my head is never clear on those trips. I was assuming I would know when I got there.

I got in the center lane on the bridge out of habit. Back home, if I drove in the right lane, I would never get anywhere. Too many on and offs. If I drove in the left, I was likely to get run over by people who drove even crazier than I did. So the middle lane was safe. At least safer. But that’s always open to interpretation. I have had many near misses with Boston traffic, and as a result rarely drove in the city. I didn’t see the need to drive in Boston. The subway system was modern and well run, and I always had my bike or rollerblades. Honestly, it usually took LONGER to get somewhere in a car in the city. I had to admit that once the highways were put underground in “The Big Dig” it eased a lot of the surface street mess, and certainly made the city more enjoyable, but 2 feet…2legs…and 2 wheels usually served me best.

As I choked on the diesel exhaust and wondered since when did puke green become a fashionable color for a car, I saw that the lane I was in could indeed be an exit. And that the exit split further in two. I decided to continue. The first exit just didn’t feel right. Then I glanced down at the gas gauge as I flew by, I was on E….so it was time to stop. The next exit. Yep, that will have to do.

Pulling off at an exit with an arrow pointing to a place named Port Allen, and an arrow pointing to a place named Wilks. I went left, the direction of the arrow for Wilks. I knew a guy in school whose last name was Wilks, and it would be nice to think I went to that town out of some fondness for an old friend, but really the off ramp simply split and I was further to left…so chance made the choice for me.

The four lane highway quickly became two lanes, flanked on both sides by tall trees and what looked like the downtown area of the middle of nowhere. A café, gas station, a hardware store and a few other small businesses, each with parking out front and the look of having been there forever. A singe red light, and then in the distance a hotel. A Holiday Inn to be exact….with a fairly empty parking lot, which suited me just fine.

I could feel the tightness in my shoulders as I got out of the Jeep in front of the hotel, and walked in to ask for a room. A King size bed, non smoking, and on the ground floor. I found my room in the back of the hotel, and began to unload my gear. Three duffel bags of clothes, my camera cases, and laptop computer were what I had brought. A quick shower sounds good I thought, then perhaps some exploration.