It was one of those nights that convertibles were ostensibly purchased for, so I put the roof down as I turned the ignition and headed for home on the ass-opposite end of town, leaving the house of a friend. Not just any friend, but the only one I’ve truly made since I moved back to Austin, the only person new in my life for at least the past several months, a friend who I know I’ll keep up with where ever I go.
It was 72 degrees outside, or at least that’s what the bank sign said, but I believed it this time. It felt crisper and drier and more normal, more god damned temperate for a change, than it has been in months. A small but noticeable drop in temperature gushed down through the glassless already-rolled-down windows as I drove down Mopac through the Barton Creek greenbelt. It felt lovely to be speeding, going 72 in a 65, instead of 64 in a 65 for a change.
I admit, I felt a bit free spirited for a change, the way one gets when one no longer has to worry about the drugs in one’s pocket, or the phone call to work one would have to make if suddenly arrested for a forgotten traffic ticket from god knows when.
Driving through downtown now, the skyline so bright and still boldly illuminated at 11:30PM, a feeling of renewal came over me. Not because of the skyline, or the fresh air through the city I grew up in and still live in. Because I was knee deep in Austin, accepting its place in my life, and ready to move on, to leave it for others to enjoy. I felt unencumbered from a job I hated, a job which was a series of thankless tasks combined in a nauseating aggregate, tolerating a business as it endured its proverbial menopause, stressing out over the problems and neglect others caused but that were suddenly my own because I dared to bring them up. That is no longer with me, no longer my concern. I moved back to Austin to get myself in shape, after all.
As I climbed altitude out of the river bed and into the inner suburbs of a growing city I grew up with myself, it no longer mattered to me that I had less than $10 to my name. Come take what I have, I thought to myself, come take my minimum payments, you won’t find them in these pockets. My mother, my family, whomever is owed money by me can take a back seat to my mental recovery. I will get them back, but for now I have a dream to fulfill, an itch and a desire I’ve had ever since I got this little convertible.
How sweet it would be, I thought, and I still continue to think, if I could drive this car right out of town and arrive in style to the destination of my choosing? No victory would be greater than the victory of choice. And we know by now what my choice is.
I know what my choice is, but I don’t know where I will end up. I don’t know if it’ll be a chance to see Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and LA before finally meeting my tomorrows in San Francisco, or if I’ll drive all night on gas-station coffee, stopping only for Dollywood and for a night’s sleep in the Smokies, the next afternoon savoring the baroque and lonely autumn leaves of Winchester, Virginia, to be with Patsy Cline 45 years after her death, then finally racing up 95 until the industrial skyline transitions into one of multi-millionaires and co-ops with waiting lists. I don’t know what city i’ll end up in, but I know I’ll be leaving Austin.
I don’t know when, but I know what. And I know what I have to do to get there. And I know who I have to thank for getting me back where I belong. Tomorrow, I start that journey which is entirely certain in result but uncertain in trajectory. I am excited to be seeing those who I’ve missed dearly, who I’ve cried over, who I long to laugh with again, at least in the same room and not over a keyboard. I’ve made my plans.
