Walking out of This World

Three

The powerful whiff of breakfast air welcomes my rumbling stomach and my eyes deliver a picture of pancakes cooking on the stove.

My legs stretch up and my posterior end makes contact with the padded seat of a bar stool. In the background Mom is busily engaged with her morning cooking project.

She gently pushes a dish, piled with a short stack of steaming cakes, across the surface of the the white granite breakfast bar. Her lips grace a welcoming face with a thin smile. Pink corners move upwards and point to brown eyes glistening with a hint of tears.

The air seems to freeze in the arms of a brief moment where time usually pushes bodies and words forward.

"You better eat those cakes before they get cold," she says, breaking the mesmerizing silence. She turns back to her kitchen work, leaving me to deal with the small pancake knoll.

Steaming pancakes welcome a stream of maple syrup, dripping over a sinking buttery pad.

Every bite happily dances on my tongue and slithers down to a final resting place in a welcoming stomach. A faint, yet indistinguishable memory of warm flowing into a waiting body surfaces for a brief moment.

I make quick work of breakfast and slide off the stool. Mom wraps her arms around my upper body, a warm circle. She plants a soft kiss on my cheek. Now, the full history of her love clears a knowing space in my mind.

"Don't be a stranger," she whispers into my ear. "Call us whenever you think about home."

I return the kiss. "Thanks Mom."

This moment of precious time moves on to soon. I whiffle back a sniffle and pick up my two bags and backpack.

The oversized oak door, standing between me and the outside, forces a notion that I'm moving into unknown territory. My soon to be past is gesturing to the future with a siren's song.

I hear the pattering of hurried steps behind my back. A row of fingers grip my right arm and twist me around. I'm standing face to face with Big Brother. His lips are contorting into a menacing scowl. A piercing stare, sharp and ready, is tearing at my imagined confidence.

"You think you're hot stuff...do you? Well I say good riddance!" Big Brother snarls.

My arms are hanging down and my hands are pulsating, fingers twisting into ready fists.

Before I can make a move Dad clamps a large hand onto Big Brother's right shoulder and twists the bully around to face the business end of an I'm serious look.

"Go out to the car, John!" Dad commands.

A gnawing curiosity makes me take a quick look through the milky glass window standing guard next to the left side of the oak door. Dad's mouth is moving and Big Brother's head is responding with an up and down motion, yielding agreement to whatever is being said.

Dad pats the sides of Big Brother's arms. Big Brother turns toward the kitchen and Dad points himself in the direction of the front door. I hustle down the steps to the waiting car.

The four interlocking rings make a rich statement on the trunk lid of the Audi 6. A beep reaches out from the trunk forcing the lid to open and reveal a space for my bags.

"Let's get rolling Son!" Dad exclaims. This car represents an uncharacteristic display of pedigree for Dad. He has always been thrifty minded. Maybe a little dose of midlife crisis had shared an invested interest in this purchase.

I push the chrome latch plate into its resting place with a snap. The seatbelt pulls me back and into the contour of the soft leather seat, giving off a whiff of brown leather.

We are moving down the highway with road noise hushed by well intentioned Audi 6 engineering.

Dad breaks the silence where the enjoyment of a fine car was speaking to my brain. "I'm going to make the downpayment for your first semester's fraternity fees. And, I'll put a thousand into your bank account for expenses." He is saying.

Then he lays the expected fine print on me. "I just have one condition. You study hard and join the Young Life Club."

"That's two conditions, Dad!" I protest.

"That's the way its going to be, Son. I was a student at State once upon a time you know."

"More serious talk hidden behind the pretension of wisdom," the now familiar whisper interjects. "Sh! Just agree and you can work everything out on your own terms."

"Okay Dad," I reply taking heed of the whispered advice.

I flip on the radio and it takes responsibility for burying any need of further conversation.

"Two more hours and we'll stop at Denny's for lunch," Dad declares.

"Bacon burger and spicy fries, please. And, I'll take a Coke," I order the teenybopper waitress.

"I'll take the senior platter," Dad adds.

She squiggles some letters onto a lined note pad and hustles toward the kitchen. Her short skirt flutters, revealing a glimpse of tan legs. My wandering eyes take note.

"And, stay away from the girls!" Dad says while taking note of my wandering eyes. A liberated chuckle spills over his words.

I throw an oh-come-on expression at him.

"Just kidding Son!" He reaches out and gives my arm a gentle slap.

Two more hours push the present into the future and finds us negotiating a curved driveway that reveals a stately white house. It reminds me of an elegant southern plantation. I half expect a butler to run out and offer to park our car.

That doesn't happen. Instead we pull into a parking space, situated off to one side. A small sign announces—white letters standing out from a blue background—visitor parking only.

"I'll bet a day's pay there's some stories to be heard behind those walls," Dad suggests.

"Yeah! I'll take on that adventure."