I was driving down a road of little consequence, just today. A warm, Indian Summer sun sat in a western sky, and the aroma of dry spruce hung heavy in the air. The road was slightly cracked and the center line was faded and veering. The narrow lanes challenged my mind not to wander, but my imagination has always been a rebellious one. My old pick-up, a relic from the Carter administration, was now as much a friend of mine as my dog who sat, loyally as my co-pilot.
The past year had not been an easy one, and for that matter, neither had the one before that. A slew of piss-poor career attempts had left me unemployed and a failed marriage, a few failed relationships, and a group of strangers I believed were my friends had my mood and my mind in a somewhat depressive state. My short-comings and a future of seemingly worse events ahead were becoming thoughts that were beginning to trip over each other in my head. One job in particular that had seen me fired, had subsequently left me especially bitter, and almost unfeeling.
A stainless-steel mug of coffee, poured from my thermos sat cooling in my cup-holder. The broken center-line flashed by, and seemed to hum silently.
The past had left me a pile of debt I could never pay, a home I could no longer live in, a dream extinguished, my talents squandered. I spoke aloud to my dog in a serious tone, “You know, I could pull the truck over here. Right here. You and me, we could hike into those mountains today. Those mountains go on forever, they’re endless. Things get forgotten in those mountains. I’d only take you so far my friend, then I’d let you go to run, some campers would find you, and they would take you home with them. But I’d go further, I’d walk and hike so deep, and so far, until I was sure no one would ever find me. And then….I'd do it. People would find my truck. They’d figure I got lost. They’d even search for me I suppose. But I’d be leaving no wife behind; no children would miss their Dad. So they wouldn’t look that long, or probably even that hard. I’d be someone they could forget about.”
I could feel my foot easing on the gas pedal to find the brake and a spot to pull the truck to the side. But then something stopped me. I did indeed need to brake, but not because I intended on carrying out my plan, but because ahead of me on this deserted road, high in this mountain pass, was a small bridge. A bridge that ran above a clear creek that like the road, had no name. And scattered like tossed stones to the side were three bikes. Bikes of children, the tires mis-matched, the painted faded and chipped, dropped alongside the road in a hurried enthusiasm. And on that bridge were two boys and a sister, the oldest no more than eight, casting dime-store fishing rods into a stream as pure as their innocence, a summer sun in its twilight at their backs. I slowed the truck and passed, and noticed their pink shoulders and a Tupperware that was one of Mom’s best, filled with thin, hand-dug worms and black dirt.
In a world filled with everyday news of corrupt CEOs, and video game addiction, 3000 calorie Happy Meals, and sub-prime mortgages, for just a brief moment, on a no-name road in a land as green and perfect as Heaven, I glimpsed hope once again.
I pressed on the accelerator as the road ahead of me looked as if it could take me to the ocean, and a smile pulled itself, ever so slightly, out of a corner of my mouth.
