LISTLESS SUNS AND TEN FOOT SWELLS

The young man tapped away at the keys of the computer, his boss looking over his stiffened shoulder. His fingertips hit the keys, but he was thinking how much he hated to be told what to do. The dream one day would be him at his own computer, filling it with things of worth; from his OWN head. It was Friday and another working week had been shat. He had just gotten a new job with the state government. His boss kept telling him what to type.

To make it ALL more anxious, it was past 5 o'clock and he should have been out of there and on the road down to Delaware. That's what really mattered. Being at his friend's house in the woods ten miles from the inlets and Atlantic Ocean. When he was in his car and on his way somewhere that he TRULY wanted to be...... that was the feeling of traversing some orgiastic bridge that lead him to a place where happiness always dwelt. Near the beach, sometimes crabbing, close to a freedom road where they could spin along silently after nightfall and watch the lights of buildings and cars tinkling across the bay. No sense of tomorrow. That was the place where happiness always dwelt......

At 5:45 his boss leaned back and said "Well, you probably have something to do this weekend." The young man had already told his boss TWELVE times that day about the stripers and blues that would be running in the warming northeastern waters.

Young man hears this and knows he is being released (from and undeniable sort of servitude). He made casual motions and leaned back away from the computer, said "Yeah, boy I guess it IS time to call it quits."

They got their bags and locked the office door behind them. "Have a good weekend" they said at the same time. That was when he first noticed it. In his boss's collective eye. As they said goodbye, the boss averted his gaze and they ended up all shifty like (finally settling on the marble floor). Like his boss could NOT LOOK AT HIM. Previously, this could have weirded the young man out significantly (had he not seen it so often before?). He had seen it before. In Washington D.C. at his old life and forgotten job, where many of his superiors avoided him as though he held some tragic secret in his heart. To say the least this caused him much duress early in his twenties. Now, those scabs on his heart had healed over nicely, giving him a sort of armor. To make sense of that weirdness, he decided those people (who could not look him in the eye) saw that he still had this low-orange flicker of hope in chest. Until it went out, they would not allow him entry.

If that flame ever extinguished he would surely loose interest in life. To nourish the flame he went on trips and held nothing back to experience as much life and joy as he could; UNRESTRAINED. On the walk to his car he peeled away his work clothes like some urban superman (becoming what must prevail in the bitter duality of his existence). The sweat formed dark badges under his arms and gave the secret away to all who would notice. The anticipation of impending journey had him so excited that perspiration flowed freely (from his armpits to his heinous ass crack).

An analogy can be made of anything. His journey had to be likened to some game that had a pot of gold at the end. Until he reached the goal there were hurdles like the damnation that NOW met his eyes! Oh, horror the endless lines of trafico trying to get out of a place and go somewhere be it home, camp, or (worse) mall! And all this not five minutes into his four hour drive. Like anyone trying to enhance their patience he tried to tell himself that this is all part of the human experience' and other shit until he be popping transmission in his Jeep until it smelled like clutch replacement time! Ah, Harrisburg, you're still better that any Washington D.C.

Then finally free on the interstate south. Yes, south was all that mattered then. Any move north took him away from his gold. Once able to move without downshifting every three feet, he pooped in a cassette. After a little unavoidable hiss the tunes started. It was his friend's music. And the only thing that could be said about this music was......was that it was SENT. No mistake. Most music these days is just thrown down and without a doubt (in some cases) is GOOD, but this.....ah, it went beyond good and better. It evoked the chills and made anyone with even slightly sentient heart wish to create.

He was lost in some daze that could only be likened to a lesser nirvana. The traffic now did not bother him. Around Baltimore cars just flowed around the Jeep and he really felt not part of IT. He was ABOVE it. Not smug like, just unmolested. Across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge he listened to his friend play the guitar and sing, driven by no other choice but to play what was in his head (BAD or GOOD). But it was fully AWE and then SOME. As night fell and he worked his way further south into the Delmarva Peninsula, first clouds then rains moved in. At sunset they pelted his Jeep and drove in through his open windows. Other cars pulled off and were like "Gee, this is some bad rain. We better stop [AND LET IT PASS]." Fools (and nothing more) sitting there in tightly sealed nineties cars trying to find some weather radio station to make them feel connected (up-to-date?) to this NATURAL life.

It was then, at one particular song, that he had a vision of sound (possible?.....sure!) that could have made him weep but, rather....made him so glad to realize that all the efforts of anything off some beaten path and unpackaged (UNTOUCHED) were so overwhelmingly worthwhile that it was there and then that his convictions were thrust into some waiting ground like a young sprout shoved down from some divine tractor. Oh, lord! How glorious the UNglorified! How rapturous then UNheard! How comforting the UNknown!........ "and how lovely the MUSIC!" He had screamed this last line and in some ways never looked back upon the way of his life up to that point.

In a breast-pocket notebook he housed the directions that would guide him to his friend's house. He had been there previous, but now did not wish to even look for the way. He bounced through traffic lights and onto unfamiliar roads that sent his ass up off his seat for periods and then, shortly thereafter, a smile breaking on his face. Notebook be damned! The shimmering TRUE God would get him there. At one point he knew he was lost and frowned slightly. A few miles went by like this and doubt swelled easily in his cheaply reborn chest. But, then vroom! The correct road was there like it had snaked around in some miracle so that his Jeep may meet it again. So there he was back on 113 South, aiming for the swamphinterlands of Delaware.

The true test came when he rolled into their town, Rudderville. Easy it is to connect towns by long road. Any moron can drive a straight stretch, but to find the way in a borough or municipality took something close enHEADLIGHTenment. If it hadn't been for the chicken plant, he probably would have been lost for good.

He remembered his friend's wife telling him on the phone "You have to turn at the Food Lion and then wind back through town past a chicken plant to get to some [nameless] route. Drive about seven miles and then turn left. You'll know where to go after that, right?"

Young man just sat on the other end of the phone and with shaken conviction said "Oh sure." He had no idea.

But he slinked past the chicken plant and thought "Right......up here and take a.......another right."

It was as though he had been there before. He had. Something from many years back hit him. A trip in his teens to the beach had lead him on this road. One house in particular stood out. He and some friends had gone by it years ago, and it would have been forgetful (of course! How many houses does person pass in day?) except it had a rooster walking around in its yard.

He recalled yelling out to his friends "Hey there's a rooster walking around in that yard!"

"Hey Conrad" they said back "there's a chicken factory bout hundred yards up the road!"

***

At some point the young man was carried into my chest. Evening air poured into my lungs and like some dream I was nearly at a good friend's house. It had been me all along.

I came to their street and hesitated as the light turned yellow. My first reaction was to think I wouldn't make it through before it turned yellow. Then I thought about something one of Warren's friends said last time I was down. We were all in my Jeep and approached the same light. It had just turned yellow and he yelled "Conrad, go for it! My God this is the longest yellow light I ever seen in my life!" I gunned it and went racing through. It was close and we'll have to leave it to the traffic jury of our great democracy whether we made it through prior to its turning red.

So again I heard this guy yelling in my head as though this light was some marvel of unheard of length and I pressed the throttle to make it through. My Jeep raced into the intersection and I also had to make a turn. On two wheels I skirted by the other waiting car only just noticing their eyeballs huge looking at me. I shot MY eyes to my rear-view to see if I had made it. Yellow for a second and then red. I had made it like some vehicular dice roll.

Bounced into Warren's driveway, parked, and stepped into the dust I created. Nighttime was the first soul to meet me. Then the sounds of the Lordendale woodland home. Frogs groaking their thin-skin throat-drums upon a lily in the swamp. I held my bag and (though full of anticipation of seeing FRIENDS in the house) lingered for a precious moment. Sometimes I just simply attribute all sorts of meaning to the wilds and sky though I have about as much power over them as I do my perspiration. So I looked up at Big Full Moon and smiled. I knew it would shine down on us as we hiked in woods or lurched over surface of wild ocean. Then Warren found me.

"Come on Hawkins! We have to get to the distributor before it closes in 5 minutes!"

His wife, Heather, was right behind him with a knowing smile like she had seen this before. I gave her a hug and then we were back in my Jeep. All sorts of questions were in my head, but I let them pass... Like "how far was it to the distributor? Did we have to get beer right away? Had they no bourbon in their house?"

"I'm totally serious Hawkins, you better step on it. Distributor is 5 miles away so that leaves us with a minute for each mile and no less than a miracle to get in the door!"

Warren was raging, but his sense of urgency (impending disaster!) had me convinced that we should risk LIVES to get the brew. Oh, the lost fun of the nearly closed source of alcohol! It really is sorta like a flippant lover as in it's either rejection or getting it all.

Into the parking lot again on two wheels, the lights of the place were dark. But wait! Folks were still inside and had their hands in purses and wallets! Warren jumped out and went for the door. It opened with the pull of his hand. He looked back at Heather and I, smiled, and went in.

Hours later, Warren and I on his deck under the stars, Heather had gone to bed. We pleaded for her to stay with us, but her eyes were pillow bound. Many beers were going down. Warren and I stumbled around his yard and woods. Walked out to his swamp-pond. The frogs were louder than ever, courting the moon like little cold-blooded wolves! That moon shown down on all his plants and trees and we stooped for a thoughtful moment and noticed the subtle texture of leaves and the stickiness of the stalks.

"Check out the way these leaves are all pointed at the edge. Sharp like" I said to Warren.

"Yeah, like some kind of mock defense thing."

"If this plant really wants to survive, it should grow some thorns or something."

"I don't know if that would be too good" Warren said, moving to his haunches.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a pot plant." Warren declared as though it was as natural as sassafras (of course it IS!). He got up and went off towards the house. "Let's go boating."

Moments later we were in the bay moving at fifty miles an hour with our hair blowing strait back not even able to hear anything short of a yell. Coastal lights went peeling by and tears came out of out eyes and wrapped around our smiling cheeks as we pounded our fists on the boat and yellin' "Whheeeooooo!"

Then Warren brought the boat to a crawl and then stopped close to some buoys. The contrasting silence was incredible. Only the lapping of water on the boat and Warren tripping over empty beer cans. He was groping for what I thought was a buoy (which was actually an empty milk carton).

"What are you doin' bro?"

"Come over here Conrad. Let's check to see if we are all loaded up with crabs yet."

He was going hand over hand bringing it in. I leaned over with one arm on the edge of the boat, peering anticipating what might be. Then we saw them coming up from below. Pale skeletal masses just visible and then SPLASH! Warren had them out of the water and the blue crabs were all over each other, trying to reach the carrion in the cage.

"Check it out! More than enough!" It was awesome like a 3 am hunt which could never fail. Warren muscled the crabs carefully into the cooler and then fired the boat, aiming it for the his woods.

By 5am we were in the middle of a big serious meal session. The crabs went down one by one for the gorge. Sucking on a claw and shaking amply the Old Bay seasoning and a-washing it all down with beer. By that hour all talk is done and you might as well be some kind of hyena pulling at a savana carcass not caring who is beside you. Then it was over and bed was next. We had to get up by 8 am and out on the ocean if we were going to get into the blues. Grunting goodnight, we walked to our beds. I barely remember pissing out the window (arcing it far into the yard) and fell backwards to sleep.

The water was rough the next day. And that was in the bay. We worked out into the ocean, the boat tossed about on crest and trough. Incredibly, we just kept ahead and noticed larger, more stable boats returning from sea due to severe storms. Warren didn't flinch and looked straight ahead at something out there. I just watched those big boats coming back in and wondered how our little vessel would fair.

"See those birds Hawkins?" Warren pointed to the grey flecks near the horizon.

"Sure. But we brought rods not shotguns."

"No, ass! Those birds mean there are smaller bait fish in the water."

My techno-laden mind had so distanced me from anything remotely associated with hunting and gathering. I didn't get it right away. Warren soon instructed me.

"Dude, where there are little fish, surely the blues lurk below."

"Right."

It made me think of an old Sesame Street episode, but I had no time for that. Just then Warren pushed me behind the steering wheel.

"Start steering." He was in my face, instructional "You have to turn the boat so you go INTO the wave! Don't let the wave hit us sideways or you'll be picking your teeth up off the bottom of the ocean!"

My eyes were huge and I held onto the boat like some lesser-Hemingway minus some of the booze. Then Warren was behind me, whistling and baiting hooks. His legs shot all over the floor of the boat, balancing and counter-balancing. Then he sent his line out the back of the boat, past the flocking sea gulls, and into the water.

I don't know how many fish he caught that day. Each time I turned around he was working on something. How glorious! I was just happy to be driving that boat, wondering secretly how long it would take to get to France or Spain.

Late that afternoon, as the sun grew listless and lost the power that had fried us earlier, we walked about their woods. It was a quiet time and I was about to leave. Those moments hit me always the same way. It wasn't that I hated goodbyes, it was that I could not BARE them. Could not BARE saying goodbye. The only thing I COULD bare was my teeth at the god that made the separation so. Heather knelt in her garden and picked some lettuce for me. I took off my ball cap, put the greens in it, and gave her a hug. Warren and I started off with a handshake that ended in embrace. Then I got in my Jeep and left at least satisfied that I skimmed along the surface of a brilliant living of life.

I got home after a thoughtful four hour drive and sat down to Heather's salad dinner. I pulled the lettuce out of my hat and rinsed it quickly in the sink. Throwing on some cut-up moldy tomatoes, I sat down to meal. It was okay, but there was sand all through it.