Thursday, February 2, 2012

The Road from Ruin: Part III

by

Jaye B.

3.

January 15th, 2012


Bailing the small town, I couldn't bring myself to saying goodbye to my one and only friend.

Prior to the foreclosure, I stuffed what I couldn't put in my car in Beth's closets. She
apologized for not letting me stay there as an ex-con moved in next door and she didn't want
trouble. She was whisphering when she told me about this and looked quite fearful.

Using the 2k of Freddie Mac relocation money, I then headed to Minneapolis and kicked around in

the basement of a friend's house for two weeks or so until I got the call from a fan of my
writing. She was all enthused about a project she herself wanted to finance. So, without
hesitating, it was adios to the sub zero conditions and hola to a jaunt across the northern
plains out to a world of promise and prosperity in the western United States.

The driving was epochal and insane. Tilting trucks and buses had to pull off a wind torn

freeway in Montana. Orange, looming dust clouds closed I-15 down north of Idaho Falls, thus
detouring us to side roads, both desolate and eerily far removed from the main current. I
expected to crash into the Four Horsemen Stables, exploding hay bales with my Malibu as a
kind of end time fanfare.

SUVs passed me going 80 mph on ice/snow packed roads while status updating their

assumed immortality to their Facebook friends. The snowless mountains groaned, while I
white knuckled it over the passes en route, perhaps agonizing that they'll be inundated and
forgotten until another geologic recycling brings them to light again and the locals, fretting
over the loss of tourist dollars can thus rejoice.

Finally after 1200 plus miles and three exhaustive days, I arrived and was placed in a cabin

next to a Hot Spring by the front desk person. Got my writing gears spinning and welcomed
the soak in the 111f water that evening, wondering what sellable something I could conjure
for my host as my muscles relaxed more and more.

In the steam, I thought about how people wear heartbreak on their sleeves in Idaho,

something nuclear at the core of the sadness and the peculiar and pervasive amnesia found
there. It really hit me when I was wandering the streets, looking for my host who was not to
be seen.

I found myself wondering the most about the long haired guy at his bookshop. Saw him in

back earlier in the day after I tried entering the coffee shop section, but the door was locked
with a sign in the window: Massage in session until 11:30.

“Understaffed.” I grumbled, ambling back to my car over icy asphalt, sight unseen I had

hoped. Saw him again at night, but in front this time, a kind of spiritual shiftiness about him as
he leaned on a doorway, back drop enhanced by the glowing orange Ganesh tapestry in the
store window. It was as if he had some other business in mind and couldn’t help looking
suspect, fists jammed tight in dungaree pockets, scanning the street like he did the alley
earlier, perhaps in search of better camouflage or a tactful way out.

As I walked on by again, the business card his girlfriend gave me two years prior, glazed over

with his own sprawled artwork, came to mind. With the spa partner in absentia, she crossed
the embossed e-mail address out and penned hers on the back, prior to handing it to me, a
gesture I more fully appreciate now, having better grasped the import of the situation at hand
and most thankful I never pursued the lead.

The couple at the Thai restaurant up the street donned their smugness so nonchalantly, self

consciousness giving hint to an impalpable insecurity, one the woman tried covering with her
pink, mouse eared ski hat, a contrivance designed to alienate the uninitiated. The bearded
hubby guy in black North Face duds sneered at me peripherally, leaned over the table and
shared some Android secret with his wife,to further insure their distance from me. Bragging
about their California travel itinerary to a weary looking kid waiter, they laughed in unison over
the greasy spring rolls, unaware of the self parodying pun they were making, mere icing on
the cake of their nuptial conceit.

Then my awareness drifted back to me soaking in the hot springs and unwinding from the

world and wondering about the great project lined up for me ahead and where my elusive
host really was.




As I drove on by, the business card his girlfriend gave me two years prior, glazed over with his own sprawled artwork, came to mind. With the spa partner in absentia , she crossed the embossed e-mail address out and penned hers on the back, prior to handing it to me, a gesture I more fully appreciate now, having better grasped the import of the situation at hand and most thankful I never pursued the lead.

 The couple at the Thai restaurant up the street donned their smugness so nonchalantly, self consciousness giving hint to an impalpable insecurity, one the woman tried covering with her pink, mouse eared ski hat, a contrivance designed to alienate the uninitiated. The bearded hubby guy in black North Face duds sneered at me peripherally, leaned over the table and shared some Android secret with his wife,to further insure their distance from me. Bragging about their California travel itinerary to a weary looking kid waiter, they laughed in unison over the greasy spring rolls, unaware of the self parodying pun they were making, mere icing on the cake of their nuptial conceit.

Please donate to keep this blog alive @: The Road from Ruin


Part IV:


http://roadruin.blogspot.com/2012/02/road-to-ruin-by-jaye-beldo-part-iv.html


(C)2012-Jaye Beldo

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