Don't Forget to Write

Time to Go.

It was time to go. Most of my clothes were stuffed into a garbage bag, my duffel bag held a couple of towels, toiletries, a cast-iron pan, instant coffee, and books, while my laptop, a journal, chargers and cords, and a few other small things were stuffed into a backpack. My room was mostly barren now, I didn't have much on the walls except for a couple of movie posters and a few photos. One was of me, Moose, Diane, Karen, Bob, and Bruno at the pub on New Year's (Karen had given a copy of it to each of us). The other photo was of the CCNY soccer team from the beginning of the season. I took them both off the wall to take with me.

Moose came into the room. "Hey man, do you like these?" I asked, pointing to the remaining posters on the wall, one of Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction and another of J Cole's 2014 Forest Hills Drive album cover.

"Yeah, I love both Cole and Tarantino."

"Great," I said, "they're yours. So are the desk and the bed."

Bruno came in. "You're one hundred percent certain about all this?"

"Yes. And even if I wasn't, it's too late to turn back now."

"Right. There's always a room for you here. Don't forget that."

I smiled at him. "I love you, brother. Thanks for everything."

"Don't get all mushy with me mother fucker." He said. His voice cracked into a tone that wasn't as deep as it usually was. He hugged me. "I love you too, brother."

Moose wrapped his arms around both of us. "You two are so cute. Pete, whatever you're looking for out there, I hope you find it."

"Thanks, Mustafa, me too."

I strapped on my duffel bag and backpack, Moose picked up the pile of blankets (temperatures would be freezing until I hit Georgia) Bruno picked up the garbage bag with my clothes, and they walked me down to my car. Halfway down the stairs, Bruno gave Moose the bag he was carrying and ran back up to the apartment to get something.

The Chevelle was parked right in front of the apartment building. I popped the trunk and we stuffed all of the bags into the trunk next to the toolbox, spare tire, fluids, bungee cords, jumper cables, and snow brush. The engine roared to life when I started the car. I stepped back onto the sidewalk to wait for Bruno and let the car heat up. Two thin arms wrapped around me from behind.

"Hey Karen," she let go and I turned to face her.

"Didn't think you'd leave without saying goodbye, did you?"

"I have something for you. I was going to drop it off at the bar." From the passenger seat of the Chevelle I pulled out the guitar case, in which was my old guitar. "My grandmother absolutely loved music. When she was young her family was very poor, but they always had a guitar, and on the nights where there was music, they felt happy, they felt rich. all of the neighbors would come to join, and to forget about living in poverty, and to live in joy for a few minutes. When she gave me this guitar, she said I could use it the same way - as a tool to bring joy to people - if I used it right. I think the right way for me to use it is to give it to you for safekeeping. Use it. Get out there and play some music. Spread some joy. Find your way. Be like the shepherd in the book." I gave it to her.

She didn't say anything, just hugged me tight, and buried her head into my shoulder. "I'll miss you Pete. You know I love ya, right?" She let go and wiped her eyes with her sleeves.

"I know. I love you too."

It had just started drizzling so lightly I couldn't tell if it was water or snow. Bruno finally came outside. "Here, so that you don't hit any dry spots during your travels," he said with a wink as he handed me a flask and a bottle of whiskey. "But, use it wisely. Only after you've stopped driving for the day, alright? There's a fine line between healthy drinking and abusing."

"Don't I know it," I said. "Don't worry. I won't be drinking it on the road." I meant it, too. A few weeks ago, maybe I would have cracked the bottle open right now. But today, I knew, I had to be more mindful of my drinking. For the sake of my health, for the sake of the people around me. I couldn't be like the rest of my family – I had to be happy. Whatever that meant I still wasn't sure, but I think general sobriety has something to do with it. "I plan to cut back on the drinking."

"Good," Bruno said. "And this is a good book," he said, pulling it out of his coat pocket. "One of my favorites. About a man retelling his childhood and figuring out how he became the person he was." In his outstretched hand was a weathered, paperback. The cover had many white cracks and spots where the ink had been worn off, and a corner of it had been ripped off entirely. A damaged book cover usually meant there was a good story inside, one worth reading many times. It's intimate, giving somebody a book that you love, especially your own copy, especially if you're the type of person to make notes in the margins and fold over pages that meant a lot to you, which both Bruno and I did.

The book was The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer.

Bruno hugged me again and patted the top of my head. "Safe travels, brother. Call once in a while. Don't forget to write, and all of that cheesy stuff."

They waved as I pulled the old Chevelle off of 151st street and turned left onto Fredrick Douglas Avenue, and suddenly they were gone behind the buildings. The drizzling rain had turned into many quickly falling white flurries.

The Chevelle rumbled and coasted down Fredrick Douglas Avenue to 145th street. I turned right at the intersection and checked to see if the homeless Denzel was at the top of his stairs. Instead, I saw flashing blue and yellow lights. The face of an EMT standing next to the ambulance looked familiar. Two men had just heaved a long, orange stretcher up off of the staircase and were bringing it to a gurney with a black body bag on it. While the body was sliding from the stretcher to the gurney, I saw the frosty tipped nappy hair of the homeless Denzel Washington.

No, that's not his name, I thought, his name was Matthew.

I wanted to pray for Matthew's soul, but I didn't know who or what to pray through. the intrusive thought of pain entered my mind. it invaded, made me think that the world was simply made of pain. Images of Kids starving behind smiling faces. Millionaires on Wall Street boosting their serotonin with powders. Kind people sleeping on benches. Poor people getting stabbed in the street for twenty dollars. We are all torturing ourselves. We are always in pursuit of something unattainable; people who won't love us; money we can't make; highs we can't reach unless we die on the way. Hell wasn't a place you went to when you died. It was all around you. And heaven? Heaven is not an eternity of joy. It is a fleeting moment. It is the wind in your face after laboring ten hours in the hot sun. It's the smile on your face when you realize you love somebody. It's that feeling of being perfectly in the moment. It is the smell of a girl's lavender shampoo as she rests her head on your shoulder.

I wasn't sure where I was going - but it didn't matter. Our lives are futile, and constantly subject to change by the hands of an indifferent universe. All you can do is go along for the ride and try to enjoy yourself. Nothing mattered to the Cosmos, and nothing mattered to me, either, except for the fact that I was in this beautiful blip of a moment, with my father's watch gleaming on my wrist, my friends smiling back at me from a photo on the dashboard, the engine roaring, and the road in front of me willing to take me anywhere. Everything that has happened, will again. Everything that will happen already has. The sun will rise and set. The seasons will change. People will live and die. Civilizations will conquer and be conquered. Species will become extinct. New ones will rise. The stars will burn out, and new ones will light. The Cosmos will expand while black holes suck it back it in, and forever our worlds will spin themselves between Order and Chaos.

The world was dark now. I could only see the dim orange glow of the headlights immediately in front of me, and that was all that mattered.