At The End Of The Road

This is the preachy part; I thought I'd get it out of the way.

When you take responsibility for everyone's lives except your own, you take everything for granted. When you take everything for granted, you soon find yourself with more than your fair share of regret. With regret comes guilt, with guilt comes hopelessness and so on and so on until you find yourself living to die instead of living to live.

It's a bitter pill, I know, but there's something to be learned from it. And if anyone had anything to learn from it, it was me.

A few years ago, when I set off across the country on a journey with no particular end in sight, it was with plenty of regret in my heart. I broke up with my girlfriend of nearly three years, exhausted by taking responsibility for her dysfunctional life and her dysfunctional friends; I was tired of being punished for mistakes they'd made long before they met me. I broke away from my own friends and associates from work, and kept in touch with my family only enough to let them know that I was alive and healthy. I was completely on my own, something I'd dreamt about for nearly five years.

The regret faded away slowly while I was on the road, but at least it faded. I started my life over, started with a clean slate, took responsibility for myself, and promised I'd let everyone else keep responsibility for themselves to themselves from then on. It wasn't worth the stress that had pushed me to the point of trying to take my own life. Nothing is worth that, I only wish I had learned that sooner.

I traveled alone across the country in my beat up Honda, slept mostly in a sleeping bag in the back seat, ate only enough to keep myself going every day. I brought very little with me, and took very little away except for the stories of the people I met along the way. I don't remember exactly how many places I went, and I certainly don't remember exactly how many people I spoke to, but when I was done, when I was ready to head home, I had hundreds of hours of video tape to show for my journey. I had collected stories from people all across the country.

It became my life's work to tell the stories of the people who would never be heard, real people who never believed themselves important enough until I pointed my camera at them and asked them to tell me their stories. The stepsiblings who fell in love, the college kid who was kidnapped by an old girlfriend, the skinny drunk who accidentally slept with his overweight fifty-year-old neighbor, they all became my life.

I thought my work on those stories would bring joy and meaning to my life, and they did, but it was my own story that affected me most profoundly, the story that began in one of the last places I would have ever expected.

* * *

As a kid, it's astounding where parental character building can take you. I ended up at a tiny horse ranch in some part of central Virginia for an hour each Sunday and every day for a month each summer. Being a small, timid kid, my parents had decided it would be a nifty idea for me to learn to ride an animal ten times my size. Sure, I had the same cowboy fantasies as any other kid, but the cowboys on television made riding horses look so much easier and so much less terrifying than it actually was.

On top of that, I spent more time working than actually riding horses, helping repair fences, feeding the horses, shoveling shit out of a stable with a pitchfork in the sweltering heat of the summer sun. In fact, at least two hours a day were dedicated to shit shoveling, which at times made me think my folks were paying more for me to be slave labor than to learn how to ride horses.

Still, I went back every summer without complaint, despite the hard work, despite my slowly waning fear of horses, despite being followed around constantly by the daughter of the owner. Although she was a good two years younger than me, the insufferable little blonde's sex drive had kicked in about six years too early, and I, unfortunately, had turned out to be the object of her affection. As a ten-year-old boy still three years away from puberty, I had no idea what the hell she wanted from me, and I didn't understand why she followed me from the stables to the corral to the field to the pool and back again.

Not to say she wasn't cute; I'm sure for a kid she was cute, but I didn't care. I was more interested in having fun, and it wasn't until I was older that I realized girls really were fun.

* * *

I'm not sure what brought me back to that place fifteen years later.

I had been on the road for almost two years, and having come full circle, I found myself back in my home state travelling the old familiar roads, taking comfort in the old familiar places. I was driving rather aimlessly as I had become used to, trying to find a good place to stop and rest.

At that point, I had no idea what my next step would be or where I would go. I knew I had to find a quiet place to start writing, but where? I knew I had to find a job to support myself while I lived the struggling writer's life, but doing what? It all seemed entirely unclear, but that was okay, I wouldn't have it any other way.

As my mind wandered, shutting out just enough of the world so that I could still drive safely, I found myself unconsciously following roads I hadn't been on in years. I'd never actually driven those roads, as a matter of fact, having been too young to drive. Still, I remembered them, in the back of my mind, I knew exactly where I was going. Off the highway to the small suburban roads, which continued to twist and turn into country roads that dipped up and down through the wooded hills.

It was a beautiful afternoon, and the sun just barely cut through the thick trees. The small road seemed even greener than I remember it, still sparsely populated with only a few houses visible through the woods each mile. I was glad to see that area had not been over-developed like the rest of the places I remembered from my childhood.

There was no sign for the place, never had been, and probably never would be. You either knew where the place was or you didn't, but as soon as I saw the gravel driveway, I knew where I was. At the top of the hill sat the same old farmhouse, and behind it, not visible from the road, I knew there was a surprisingly expansive spread of land, the old barn, and the fields where the horses were kept.

Parked on the side of the driveway were at least ten cars and a bus, and when I opened my window, I could hear the sound of cheering coming from behind the house. The owner of the stables had often hosted professional horse shows, and I assumed from the noise that the tradition hadn't changed. I'd been entered in a couple as a kid, and despite being the silly looking chubby kid in tight pants on top of a pony just a tad too small for him, I'd done rather well in some of them.

I smiled to myself and turned into the driveway to find a parking spot.

* * *

It was strange being back in a place I hadn't seen in close to fifteen years, but I remembered every last inch of it like I had only been gone a day. As I climbed the gravel driveway to the top of the hill, I took everything in: the big tree in the front yard, the house, the hill that sloped down to the edge of the forest, the same hill I had rolled down when I fell of the back of a dirt bike one summer at camp.

I made my way around the side of the house and immediately caught sight of the crowd around the corral. There were several dozen people watching a rider in the ring, a young woman who I couldn't quite make out on top of a stunning white horse. She was making her way through a series of jumps, which were each progressively higher, and the crowd gasped in amazement every time the horse and its rider negotiated the fences flawlessly.

I took a look around me, and just like the front, the rest of the stables were almost exactly as I remembered them. The stables were by no means fancy; most of the buildings and fences had been constructed by hand who-knows-how many years ago and had been maintained over the years by the owner and her kids, giving the place a comfortable, down-home kind of feeling. The barn, oldest of all the structures, still stood solidly in the middle of it all.

A burst of applause sounded as the rider in the ring finished putting her horse through its paces. I wandered over to the crowd of people and took a spot by the fence as the first rider led her horse out and the next rider led her horse in. I took a glance at the white horse the first rider was leading out. It was a beautiful animal, but not one of the horses I remembered. I had no idea how long horses usually lived, and I wondered how many of the original horses were still there.

As the second rider began her run, I turned my attention back to watch. She was good; not as good as the first girl, but I remembered how difficult riding actually was. Most good riders make it look easy, and most bad riders make it look frightening. I remembered being in between; to me it was both difficult and frightening. I never had the confidence to make it look easy.

"I know you," a female voice said from beside me. I turned to her and recognized the young woman who had been riding the white horse. She removed her riding helmet, and I realized how silly I was to be so enamored with her horse; she was absolutely stunning. Long, soft blonde hair, green eyes, she epitomized the look of a sweet country girl.

"You do?"

"Yeah," she said, her eyes squinting in concentration as she looked at me, "I remember you from somewhere."

"That could be anywhere, then."

"Not for me, it couldn't," she said regretfully, "I've never really been anywhere. I know you, though."

I watched her as she studied me, and then my heart took a leap.

"Hi, Tina, I remember you too," I said, and she immediately gave me a suspicious look.

"So, I do know you."

"Yeah," I said, what felt like a dopey grin spreading on my face, "try to picture a little chubby kid who was afraid of horses." A smile of recognition began to spread across her face as I continued. "Your brother hit me in the head with the blunt side of an axe once. And you--you used to follow me around the entire time I was here."

"Dave?"

"Yeah."

Her smile was gorgeous, and as she threw her arms around me, I took it that she'd forgiven me for all those times I'd told her to get away from me.

* * *

And so on a whim I had pulled into a driveway, and found myself with a glass of iced tea in my hand talking to a beautiful girl I once couldn't stand.

"So what are you doing here? How long has it been?" she asked me.

"It's been...about fifteen years, I guess. Maybe longer. And I don't really know what I'm doing here. I heard the noise and figured there was a show."

"You remembered how to get here?"

"Yeah, looks like it."

There was a long silence as she sipped her tea and watched me carefully. I didn't remember seeing her like that before, with that look of intensity in her green eyes. I could see her quietly sizing me up, like she could tell everything about me just by looking at me.

"You're looking for something," she said quietly.

"I am?"

"Absolutely."

"How do you know?"

"It's in your eyes," she said, "you have the look of someone who lost something. Why else would you mysteriously show up somewhere you haven't set foot for fifteen years?"

"Good point. I don't know."

"How are your parents?"

"My parents are good, they're retired finally, living in North Carolina. I was just visiting them, as a matter of fact."

"So what are you looking for?"

I laughed and took a sip of tea. It was good, very good, but I don't think it was quite what I was looking for. One thing down, a million more to go.

"You're just full of questions," I said.

"Am I scaring you?"

"Scaring me?"

"Yeah, you get all tense every time I ask you a question, and you've managed to avoid answering almost all of them. Are you dying?"

"Not at all."

"In trouble with the law?"

"Of course not."

"On the run from the Mafia?"

"Uh, no."

"What are those marks on your wrists?"

I twisted my arms so that she couldn't see the faded white scars that crisscrossed my wrists, a self-conscious movement my body was used to performing in front of most people who happened to notice.

"That's nothing. An accident."

I was suddenly beginning to realize how sly she was. Even as a little girl she had been extremely clever, but this was incredible. If I'd been just a little slower, she'd talk me into telling her where I hid Jimmy Hoffa.

"Mm-hmm." I could tell she didn't believe me, but she didn't push any further, so I was satisfied. "What've you been doing with your life?"

"Travelling," I said, happy for the subject change, "driving all over the country."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"Talking to people, listening to them, writing their stories."

"Really," she said with genuine interest, "what kind of people?"

"All kinds of people."

"How many have you spoken to?"

"Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. I don't really know, you kind of lose track after a while. I've got them all on videotape, though, so I'll always have them with me."

"Wow. So you're a writer, like a real writer?"

"I'd like to think so," I said, "I've had a few things published in magazines all over the country. Nothing big, but enough to let me stay on the road for the past couple of years."

Tina smiled at me again, and actually seemed impressed. Most people I'd ever told what I did thought I was crazy and unstable, and recently I had been starting to think they were right.

"Are you going to write about today?"

I smiled at her and sipped the wonderful tea. Damn right I was going to write about that day, I was going to try to remember every detail about that day and write it down as soon as I got back to my car. I wanted to remember everything, especially how beautiful she was and how she smiled at me.

"Maybe."

* * *

When the competition was over, most of the crowd left, and except for the few people that actually worked the stables (apparently they had given up the child labor), the place was quiet. Tina took me out to the field where the horses were kept and showed me a few of the animals I remembered from my riding days. Regrettably, the one that had bitten me mercilessly on the chest when I was a kid was long gone, though Tina giggled at me mercilessly when I told her so.

As the sun began to set, a brilliant reddish-purple haze shone across the sky. Tina and I found ourselves a spot on the fence to sit and chat as the horses watched us with little interest.

"The place still looks good," I said, "your mom's still running it with an iron fist, I take it?"

Tina stayed quiet for a moment, gazing across the field to forest beyond. "No, Mom died about six years ago."

"Oh...I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay. It was hard, by that point none of the rest of the family was really all that interested in keeping the place."

"What about your brothers? Doesn't Tommy still work here?"

"Mike got married ten years ago, moved to Montana, he's got his own farm now. Tommy's more interested in becoming a racecar driver, and he's only around from time to time."

"So, you're running this place by yourself now?"

"Yeah."

"That's amazing."

She flashed me a sly smile. "Amazing that the poor little girl can do it all by herself?"

"Yeah," I prodded, "especially being the pain in the ass that you were."

"I had a crush, so sue me."

"Seriously, I'm impressed that you decided to take on this place by yourself," I told her, and she smiled very sweetly this time.

"Thanks. It wasn't easy at first, everything just seemed to be going to hell. I missed Mom, they were about ready to foreclose on the land, a lot of the horses got sick, it was a terrible time." She paused for a moment and gazed down at my wrists again. "When things got too much for me, I went with the bottle of sleeping pills and the bottle of whiskey, but I guess everybody has their own thing."

I stared at her in shock, but it wore away quickly. Anyone is capable of suicide when things get too hard, but I just couldn't imagine this beautiful girl, so smart and so full of life, trying to kill herself. I didn't want to imagine it.

"I'm sorry, Tina," I said, "I had no idea."

"How would you? Do people really buy that accident bullshit?"

I unconsciously began rubbing one of the scars across my wrist. The razor blade had cut deep, but some friends had found me in time.

"Sometimes," I said, giving her a weak smile, "anyone else that notices just treats me like I'm fragile and ready to break at any second."

"Are you?"

"No, you?"

"Nah. I figured out afterwards that nothing's that important."

"Me too. Didn't you feel kind of stupid?"

She nodded, swiping a strand of golden hair away from her face. "Yeah, pretty stupid."

We both sat quietly for a moment, feeling a little silly, but comfortable nonetheless, knowing that we'd both put ourselves through hell and lived to tell about it.

I glanced at my watch, wishing I could tell her the truth, that I'd love to stay and hang out with her all night, but I knew that probably wasn't an option.

"I guess I'd better get going," I said quietly.

"Will you come back tomorrow?" she asked sweetly.

I froze for a moment, my heart pounding away in my chest, suddenly getting the feeling I was going to take a headfirst dive right off the fence. Of course I want to come back tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that, you silly girl.

"Yeah, I'd love to."

We hopped off the fence. I took another glance toward the sky, which was now filled with the brilliant colors of the sunset. Without a word, I felt Tina grab my wrist gently in her hand, her fingers tracing my scars. I turned to her, and she looked up at me, her green eyes glowing softly in the waning light.

"Does it hurt anymore?" she asked me softly.

"All the time."

Her gaze dropped to the ground, and she let go of my arm. She looked so sad, I almost wished she hadn't seen my scars at all.

* * *

I slept more soundly that night than I had in nearly two years, despite the discomfort of my beat up sleeping bag and the back seat of my car. I was too cheap to spring for a motel room, but I didn't care. I wasn't about to tell anyone I didn't have a place to live because I'd lived in denial of being a drifter for the past couple of years and I wasn't planning on changing that.

I dreamt about her all night. Tina.

Dreams, for me, were not at all unusual. Hearing as many stories as I had, meeting as many different people as I had, I had come to expect that certain overdrive in nocturnal brain activity. But those dreams were about all those other people, they were about their stories. Tina was my dream, the first dream in recent memory that was just for me.

I went back early the next morning. I'm not exactly sure what I expected when I went back, or why I was so drawn to the place, drawn to her, but I had told her I would. I couldn't lie to her, and God help me, I didn't want to.

When I pulled up the hill into the driveway that morning, I could hear the distinct sound of construction from the back of the house, a couple of saws and a whole lot of hammering. Before I reached the side of the house, however, the front door opened and Tina stepped out as if she was expecting me.

"Morning," she said, her voice sounding like she just woke up. I tried to keep from staring as she stood there in a pair of beat-up sweatpants, a tank top, her hair slightly tousled. She smiled at me, and I wanted to die.

"Morning," I said, walking towards her and trying my hardest not to gawk. She was gorgeous, and suddenly I remembered someone a long time ago saying, "She's going to be beautiful when she grows up." I don't remember who said that, but they were right.