Driving through Kansas alone is an odd sensation. I feel like a lone sailor out at sea, bobbing about on the churning waves, clinging to the hope that my destination will appear on the horizon soon. The wheels of the truck keep on turning beneath me, eating up the road relentlessly, but the passing landscape doesn’t change. The brown hills on all sides just keep undulating in the same hypnotic pattern, stretching out for as far as the eye can see. I have a sudden, uncomfortable sensation of a hamster in an exercise wheel and clench the steering wheel ever tighter. The wind blows in heavily from seemingly nowhere at all and the truck and trailer shudder and threaten to careen off the road. One could never tell by looking out the window that there is any wind at all; the only trees within eyesight of the highway stand still as boards, their rigid and bare branches not budging an inch in the gusts. The windshield is smeared with bugs and there is an unpleasant smell of sulphur seeping in from the air outside. The radio is buzzing from static to static as it scans the same five frequencies. I pass few highway signs along the way and even fewer cars. The only tangible implications that I’m traveling anywhere at all are the descending gas gauge and the sun dipping lower still on the horizon. My thoughts wander, a million miles away from here.
The low fuel light illuminates on the dash with a harsh beep, bringing me back to the present. Despite my best efforts to ignore the situation from existence, I’m forced to acknowledge the hard reality. For a few minutes, as the countryside continuously whizzes by, I contemplate in my head the probability that I can make it these last 50 miles without coming to a halt. Miles per gallon, tank capacity, distance remaining and how much I dislike middle-of-nowhere gas stations are at the forefront of my mind. Eventually, I conclude that the possibility of running out of gas on the side of the road is the worse alternative to stopping. Plus, a sign just passed by that read “Gas 10 miles”, and I know I may not have another opportunity. Before long, I’m turning off the highway and up to the shabby station which consists of a small, decrepit building and two pumps, all of which are coated in a layer of dust. There’s a couple rusted cars on the perimeter, a few tumbleweeds and not much else. With the trailer in tow, I make my way around to the green #2 diesel side of the pump like a game of Snake I used to play on my mom’s Nokia phone in grade school while in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. The gravel crunches underfoot as I step out of the cab into the windswept lot. The grimy pump flashes and lurches and agonizingly starts the flow of diesel into the tank. I look up and the weathered employee of the station has emerged from the structure and is leaning against the side of the building, looking at me through black sunglasses under a camo ball cap. I nod at him. He spits a dark blob of tobacco chew out of the side of his mouth and onto the ground. I zip my jacket all the way up and tuck my nose and cheeks into it as the wind whips my hair about and snakes up my sleeves and pant legs.
I climb back into the cab of the old truck and close the heavy door behind me with a resounding thud. I place my hands on the faded leather of the wheel and heave a sigh, pondering for a brief moment all the others who sat in this seat before me and the places they had been. I listen to the muffled howling of the unseeable wind blowing outside before turning the key in the ignition as the engine roars to life, drowning out all other sounds.
Night is falling as I pull off the speedway and on to old town roads. I slowly rumble and roll, with the trailer bouncing behind, through uneven and dimly lit streets until I’m in front of the quaint house that I recognize from only a month before. The yard is comprised of short, yellowish grass and square, green hedges, with a few children’s toys laying about abandoned from the day’s play. A wide, wooden staircase in the front ascends to a large veranda made of red brick, with giant concrete pillars painted blue to support the sloping roof which comes to a framed peak in the middle. There is a long, paved driveway that leads straight back from the street along the side of the house all the way to the backyard, which is fenced in so the pets and kids don’t escape. It takes a few attempts to maneuver and back the trailer up into the sloped driveway, but at long last it is situated and my day’s journey has concluded. I kill the engine and silence blankets over my surroundings, yet there is still a dull ringing in my ears. I walk back down the path and around to the front of the house and climb the steps. The floorboards groan with the weight of each step and the white paint is flecking and peeling off the facade. I open the rickety screen and give a firm knock on the sturdy, oak door before pushing it open and crossing the threshold.
Inside, I am welcomed by a warm glow and friendly faces that all turn and brighten in greeting, and it is a sight for sore eyes. There are hellos and hugs and jovial inquiries of “how have you been?” as we catch up on the living room floor. Everyone is there; the two girls, just turned 5 and 10, mom and dad who are just a few years older than myself, and the two good boi doggos who jump about excitedly and try to lick at my face. I am weary from the day’s travel but I take great comfort in seeing their smiles and hearing their voices as I sit cross-legged on the carpet and soak it all in. The interior of the house doesn’t look exactly as I remember; new furnishings and decorations have really started to bring the place together. There is the wooden shoe rack by the front door that dad built for the girls, which is covered by every type of shoe imaginable. Mom takes me back through the kitchen and shows me the new dining room table that they now eat meals at. The girls lead me up the narrow stair case in the middle of the house that goes up just half a floor to show off their updated room configurations, and then down a separate stair case which offshoots from the kitchen and descends to the concrete basement which has been converted to their play room. The tour complete, we converge again in the living room. The hour is late and just like that, it is time for all to retire for the night. The girls drag their feet up the stairs, the dogs tuck their noses under their tails and I hug mom and dad and promise to see them in the morning.
Unable to sleep just yet, I sit in the low chair in the backyard in darkness, decompressing from the mind-numbing day of travel. The Kansas stars above are faint, but I can just see them through the shadowy branches of the hackberry tree which stands tall over the yard and fans out across the night sky. Way off in the distance, a train horn blows over and over again, the only sound to be heard other than the whispering of the leaves. At first glance, the pack of smokes on the short, glass table is empty and I almost toss it away, but my fingers do come across one lonely cigarette at the bottom. It can be interpreted one of two ways; either I shouldn’t smoke another man’s last cigarette or it was meant to be saved for me. The lighter nearby makes my decision final and the bright ember burns red, the only color in the blackness. I lay my head back against the wall of the house and my feet are propped up on the unlit firepit as I blow out a puff of smoke which dances momentarily on the now light breeze before dissipating into the sky above. I prop my arm up on the armrest, my wrist hanging limply off the edge, the burning cylinder dangling loosely between my fingers. Thoughts echo around in my head as I sit there, still and quiet, and one by one I expel them into the night with each exhale.
Morning comes and I awake to a pale light that filters in through the blinds unwarranted and seeps into every corner that was shrouded the night before. I roll over to my other side, snuggling deeper under the covers, and become aware that there’s a subdued rain falling. I hear the soft pitter patter on the roof of the trailer and as I raise the blinds above my bed I can see the streaks of water on the outside of the window. Low clouds cast everything in a drab, gray tone. I sit upright and turn to place my feet on the woven carpet which we got at Ikea to spruce up the trailer floor. An exaggerated yawn escapes and I stretch my arms out, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I slip on my loafers and grab my light rain jacket hanging on the bathroom door on my way out of the trailer. The morning smells of wet grass and there are a few birds chirping despite the drizzle. It’s not chilly, but cold enough that I appreciate having my flannel pajama bottoms. I take the familiar walk along the side of the house again and up the front steps.
Back inside the house, the warm aura of good cheer and coziness greets me once more. Everyone is already up and at ‘em; Dad is just walking out the front door to leave for work and I’ll see him later in the afternoon. Mom is busy in the kitchen making chocolate chip muffins, just opening the oven door to pop the first batch in. The girls are already beginning to crack open their work books to start their studies for the day. I busy myself with what were once considered mundane routines that have now become a luxury to a traveling nomad. A hot shower, a breakfast that’s not instant oatmeal, and a steaming mug of tea while checking email (with wifi) from the couch consume my morning. The girls work away from the table, calling out from time to time to check their work with mom and me. The elder works on multiplications of seven and the younger a color-by-number book. They speak their thoughts aloud without even being conscious of it, I suspect; the older explaining to the room at large how to carry the 1 and the younger declaring that cobalt blue will be an acceptable color for a horse. From my angle on the couch, I study their faces without detection as they concentrate on the tasks before them.
Before long it is break time for the girls and I’m invited to participate in their imaginative games. We sit on the floor around the coffee table in the living room and play with unicorns, serve muffins to invisible friends and discuss matters of great importance, such as “would one rather have four legs and feet or four arms and hands?”. Silly jokes that make no sense at all have everyone in stitches. Absurd proclamations are projected throughout the house in shrill voices, “Now you’re a dog but you can talk!”. I am relaxed in the company of these girls; they just accept me for who I am without any pretext. They care not about where I’m from, how old I am or what I have or have not accomplished and it’s refreshing. For all they know, I could be a Noble Prize recipient or homeless, and they’d treat me with the same respect either way. To them, everything is a novelty, a new concept to marvel at. Every story I tell them could be the most interesting thing in the world and I am constantly amazed by how uninhibited and free their thoughts and opinions are. When mom calls recess to an end, I’m more disappointed than the girls are.
I rummage through the back of the trailer and excavate my guitar from beneath the organized chaos of personal trinkets, unfolded clothes and rations. I carry the six string out to the front veranda and settle on to the ledge at the base of one of the pillars, which is wide enough to sit upon. I can lean back against the cool, concrete pillar and prop my feet upon the raised banister that borders the entire porch. From my perch here, a few feet above the wooden deck of the porch itself, I can survey up and down the neighborhood, like a cat on a window sill. The rain is still softly falling but I remain dry under the overhanging roof which extends protectively out a few feet. I fiddle with the pegs on the headstock of the guitar, coaxing it in to tune. The street is empty and quite, muffled by the dampness. The houses peacefully sit in their rows like hens roosting on their nests.
I put fingers to frets and pluck at strings and music begins to flow. Light notes and melodies drift through the air, serenading the cracked sidewalks and empty windows of the neighborhood. My voice rises up from my chest, carrying down the block with passages of love and sorrow. Serenity washes over me and I’m unaware of how much time elapses, lost in the simple pleasure of playing songs on the front porch of a home.
At some point, I hear a stir come from behind me and turn to look over my shoulder at the source of the noise. There, peering out from a crack in the front door, are two bright eyes that aren’t even as tall as the door knob. It’s the youngest daughter, the 5-year-old, and she has to stand on tip-toe to reach the handle of the large door. I stop playing and gaze back at her, the edges of my mouth creeping upward.
“Mommy said I can come out here with you if that’s okay with you”, she whispers to me through the screen door.
“Of course you can”, I reply.
She smiles, swinging the door fully open, and emerges from behind the screen door out onto the porch. I watch from my perch as she makes two trips in order to bring her snack plate out with her and go back to close both doors. She’s wearing pink, rubber rain boots with rainbows on them. A purple tutu over matching purple tights comprise the lower half of her outfit and a pink rain jacket with a hood is the top. She has fearless style.
“What are you playing?”, she asks me, as she pulls up her Minnie Mouse chair to sit near me.
“Oh, just some old songs”, I tell her.
“Do you know ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’?”, she inquires with her eyebrows raised. Of all the nursery rhymes she could have requested, it turns out I actually do know that one; a bluesy rendition in the style of Stevie Ray Vaughn. I launch into the tasty riffs and tap my foot along as I sing about taking a lamb to school and breaking the teachers rules with unabashed zeal. She giggles and squeals with delight at my comic interpretation, her feet swinging back and forth, not reaching the ground, as she sits on the edge of her chair.
I play a few more songs, appreciative of having such a captive and endearing audience of one. Every now and again I look down at her while singing and she beams a toothy grin up at me, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich clutched in her hands and slightly smeared on her cheeks. Eventually, I come to a stop and rest the guitar in my lap. Only the nibbled crusts remain on her Cinderella plate. We both stare dreamily down the street, content with the hushed stillness. We stay that way for a few moments.
“Sometimes I lie to people”, she breaks the silence with a small voice, “and they believe me”.
I tear my gaze away from the damp road and turn my head to look down at her. She has a blank, unreadable expression on her face. I am intrigued by what constitutes lying in this 5-year-old’s mind.
“Who do you lie to?”, I ask her.
“My sister”, she responds, looking at me intently. She goes on to explain without being prompted, “I tell her I’m not afraid to use the bathroom downstairs”.
There is a bathroom in the basement of the house, down where the play room is. It is dark and dingy in the corner of the house, and dad is currently fixing it it up, but it is serviceable for the time being. I can understand why it would be creepy to use that bathroom though; the lack of light, a dirty bathtub and chunks of concrete dusted about on the floor give it an eerie vibe.
“Now, why would you tell your sister that?”, I inquire of her, as a car slowly drives by down the street and we both watch it turn at the corner, out of sight.
“I don’t want her to think I’m scared, even though I am”, she states. I lean back against the pillar on the ledge, and contemplate the conundrum she’s in, trying to put myself in her shoes.
“It’s okay to be scared”, I tell her, “everyone gets scared sometimes”.
“I want to be brave just like her”, she responds determinedly.
Evidently, she decides it’s time to go back inside, as at this point she starts to gather up her things and makes her way towards the door without another word. I watch her go, with pink rain boots, purple tutu, Minnie Mouse chair, Cinderella plate and all, and it is a moment of the purest innocence that I have ever known.
Discy Business 