The Novelty of Existence

10

𝙾𝙽 ⋆ 𝙹𝚞𝚕𝚢 ⋆ 𝙸𝚜𝚕𝚊

I'd been working at my parents' second-hand bookstore for a year when I decided to bolt. I think they thought they had finally knocked some sense into me, but I had been saving on purpose.

After paying them rent every 2 weeks, the rest of my paycheck I would put into savings. My parents admired me for that. My Dad was even convinced I could still go to some community college and get a degree in administration or something. He said I was a great front desk lady.

Here's the thing, my parents were good, homey people. Every bit of creative juice in them went into designing their store and reading non-stop.

I was never a reader, really. When my Uncle Randy would come over from Toronto, he would bring this old guitar, a vintage Gibson. He'd describe gigging across Canada, and a fire lit up in my heart as he strummed along to any song I suggested, even if it was someone he didn't like.

My parents called him a grifter behind his back. They acted all concerned that he didn't have a wife and kids like they did. They felt sad about the life he lead. I couldn't understand how they couldn't see how amazing his life was.

When I was 8, Uncle Randy gifted me that vintage Gibson and spent a whole week at our house teaching me how to play basic chords. My hands shook by the end of the week, my fingers were bruising at the tips. I was so happy.

Of course, my parents supported this at first. They were happy for me to have my own vocation, though I knew they related more to my sister Amelia, who always had her nose in a book. They even paid for my lessons and encouraged me to play at family dinners and busk outside the bookstore.

Then, senior year happened. I made the mistake of telling Amelia my plan, and everything fell apart.

"You can't take up music as a career."

"Look at Randy, he's almost 60 and he still hasn't settled down."

"Please don't throw your life away."

I mean, my Mom was crying about it. We sat in the living room in silence, the squeak of leather when I fidgeted the only sound. After all they had given me, after all the freedom I had growing up... I just couldn't bring myself to disappoint them so openly.

So, I didn't. I stayed home and sat at the front desk of the bookstore, writing songs and melodies and hiding them in my bag every time a family member walked by. I busked on the weekends and pretended that I was satisfied with it.

A week after I turned 19, I was sitting in my room, mindlessly strumming, when an overwhelming feeling of anger came over me. I bolted up and looked in the mirror, to see my face getting red and hot. My green eyes seemed to darken. I swallowed hard and looked away.

It was the end of July, thirteen months since my original plan to leave home and try to make it on my own. And I was angry because I hadn't done it. I realized that resentment was building up in my heart like cement. It was weighing me down.

So, the next morning while my parents were at the bookstore, and Amelia was reading in her room, I packed my backpack, slung my guitar over my shoulder, and emptied my savings account.

I left a note on the counter as I headed out the door.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I'm going to Hollywood to start my career as a musician. Once I do make it big, I'll buy you a bookstore as big as the Toronto Public Library.

I'll call you soon. Please don't be disappointed.

Love,

Isla.

I had decided to bus across Canada, which was not my smartest idea. In fact, it was one of my blondest moments to date. The bus from Toronto to Winnipeg was over $300. Sliding that chunk of cash into the employees' hands felt like a real gut punch.

I only had $3000 saved. Well, $2700 now. So, I knew from Winnipeg onwards, I would have to hitch-hike. I needed to keep the rest of my money saved to stay in California as long as possible. I needed my parents to see the future I could see.

The bus itself took almost 2 whole days. I remember sitting and staring out the window, letting the glass bump into the side of my head repeatedly. My Mom was texting me constantly, asking me for my exact location, asking me what I had eaten. She never asked about money though. I didn't want or expect my parents to help me get to California monetarily. But, I still felt awkward not saying anything at all about my financial situation. 

Getting off that bus in an unfamiliar city gave my stomach knots. I quickly ruffled my bangs back into place and then clutched my guitar to my chest, trying to believe that I was doing the right thing. A smart thing or a stupid thing was another question. Following my heart had to be right. It had to be. 

Everything felt flat in Winnipeg, sans the buildings. The Trans Canada Highway was lush and scenic, and I had  in mind that I could enjoy a few hours of walking before resorting to sticking my thumb out. My butt sort of hurt from all the sitting anyways. 

It was late afternoon, and the sun peaked through the tall pine trees. I took in deep breaths, relishing the sounds of chirping birds, breaking twigs, and the faraway trickles of streams. I was only occasionally thrown out of my daydreams when a car whizzed by, soaring past at 110km an hour. 

With the speed of the cars on this highway, it suddenly occurred to me that people wouldn't have time to see me and stop their cars. My breaths turned shallow as I turned my head to the pines again to see the sun dipping lower and lower. With that knot of unfamiliarity flaring up again, I took a deep breath and stuck my thumb out.