I tossed my backpack on the passenger side, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut. The noise of the slam, or the silence inside, one or the other, made me realize I had nowhere to go, made me realize what I had done.
I could go back in and apologize, beg for her to let this go just as I let every insulting and emasculating thing go. I didn't get mad when she scolded me in front of her family over dinner. Or when she constantly tuned me out, talking over me while I told her about my ideas or worse, my feelings.
None of those things bothered me. Which usually, I say that, but don't mean it. But now, I didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. Something definitely cracked inside me, because whatever kept me here, unhappy and unsatisfied, it was gone now. So fuck apologizing.
I had my car, enough clothes and supplies to last a few days, a good amount of cash and thirty eight hours until I had to be at work on Monday. Saturday night lay before me, open and chock full of potential. It felt weird. I had all the freedom I could ask for, subconsciously burning bridges behind me, there was no retreat, no surrender.
But where to go? What to do? It was still early enough in the evening, I guess I'll swing by friends' apartments (what friends I had left), and see what they're up to. I felt so old, not knowing what bar to go to, which music venue to check out. Was there even a nightlife in the suburbs?
I could drive into the city. I mean, it's early enough that I could get a parking spot, I think. Shit, that sounds so frightening that my stomach churns, but somewhere down where my balls once were, a part of me was screaming for adventure.
I started up the car, strapped my seat belt on, and hit the gas. No going back now, this is what I wanted, not subservience to a girl that never cared about me, who was so selfish she never could be who or what I needed. No, it was best to make this clean like this. Just leave. Don't go back and make things worse, all for the sake of drama.
Music, I needed new music for a journey like this. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the mix CD I finished this afternoon. Just over an hour's worth of songs that all spoke to me directly. A calculated flight plan for my consciousness. Sliding the CD in, I turned up the volume, and reached into my pocket, pulling out my smokes.
Sigur Ros' "Vaka" came on as I lit up the cigarette. I inhaled as the music rose slowly, small chimes and vague male singing, an angelic cacophony squeezing my soul out the top of my skull. The nicotine flooded my bloodstream, light-headed at the red light.
I spun by Jim's parent's house as it was just a few blocks away, but his car wasn't there. Probably out in Queens with his girlfriend. Or out with his friends from the bookstore, a scene I never could penetrate. Nor was I invited to. It was a secular community, and they didn't like outsiders in their inbred, drama worklife.
That's fine. The last time I had seen Jim, I was trying to drag him out into the driveway at one of the bookstore parties and reenact Fight Club. Just to have his blood on my knuckles, to smash a fist down across his face as he stumbles about, trying feebly to maintain his balance. I dream about it.
From there I cruised down the block, passing Greg's house. Manny had an apartment in their basement, where he sat with his guitars and amps, depression and pills, and wrote full length albums no one would hear. Greg you couldn't help but hear. He wailed away on his instruments, but drove anyone who played with him away.
I could stop in and see how they were, spend hours listening to them talk about things I'd never understand about music, chastise myself for never developing a talent with music, hate on myself, and them, as we all did nothing with our lives. Who's worse off, me, with no gift, or them, gifted yet doing nothing with it? Today, it feels like them.
I turned onto Hicksville Road, and headed down closer to where I grew up, where my parents' house was. The Chicken Holiday, that used to be a Taco Bell. The Italian Restaurant that used to be a pizza joint. The best bagel store in the world. The old roller skating rink still looks exactly the same. Gaudy and childish.
The Toadies' "Tyler" came on and a chill ran through my body. I listened to this album non-stop senior year, I had just gotten my car, and so we just drove around and listened to tapes, wasting gas up and down Hempstead Turnpike, calling out to girls in passing cars.
I drove around near the high school, turned down the block where my oldest friend Dean lived, the last friend I had up to about six months ago. Him and his fiancee came to the Halloween party we were throwing at our apartment, and all they wanted to do was watch the World Series.
This wouldn't have bothered me, as I pretty much hated the anxiety of Halloween, let alone parties, but I hate sports even more, and when he turned to wail me in the arm for no good reason, well that was about all I needed to not speak to him again. When it was me and him, we'd laugh like the old days, mountain biking on the trails. In front of people though, he'd insult or attack me.
Suppose that was about normal for friends of mine though. They all seemed to enjoy tearing me down in public. Find ways to make me look stupid, or harp on something I mispronounced, talk about my mom as a MILF, whatever they could think of to bring me low.
So fuck Dean, fuck my friends, fuck this whole fucking island. Fuck my girlfriend, our apartment, and the goddamn dog. I hate everything familiar right now, and I might possibly be fed up enough to do something drastic.
'Back in Black' by AC/DC pumped through my stereo, as I made a u-turn and headed for the parkway.
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