The windshield’s fog grew another few inches. He watched it climb inexorably higher, his body heat and the heat of the cigarette battling the outdoor winter chill. The car’s heat hadn’t kicked in yet, but inhaling the smoke kept him comfortable. It soothed the voices in his head. It kept him stationary.
They grew louder every day. Listening became involuntary, but never got any easier. Every word was screamed into his subconscious like a prisoner begging for freedom. Every time he got into his car and started driving home the mental argument would begin again. It had gotten to it’s terminal stage. He was shouting about it in the car. He couldn’t even bare to keep them in any longer. He wouldn’t listen to music, he wouldn’t talk on the phone, he would only scream. He would berate himself for the thirty-five minutes it took to get home, and then he would sit in the car for another forty minutes talking himself down.
What he couldn’t stop yelling at himself about, was the idea of escape. He hated it here. Every part of Rhode Island was misery to him. He loved his parents, but he hated living with them at thirty-two. He hated still being in his childhood bedroom. He hated looking out the window and seeing the same dark green grass with the same rusted old fence. He hated seeing the tree creak with age and yawn in the wind, he hated seeing the patch beneath it where Rocket was buried. Worst of all he hated going to work every day. He hated driving to the same Starbucks half an hour away, he hated clocking in, and he hated how fake it all was. His coworkers had the same distaste for their environments as he did, yet they still put on a smile for the customers. They still spoke in that customer service tone, they still put in effort and tried to work hard. Despite how much they growled behind the company’s back, they still came in with a happy face as thick as plastic and clear as glass.
He used to be like them. He used to fake his way through, thinking that if he at least worked hard he’d make it out, or at least up. But in the last few months he’d given up. It was so much work pretending to smile, he thought if he dropped it he would feel better. He thought if he let the malaise take over he would feel relieved. He could take a relaxed attitude toward work, and still succeed. He was wrong. It didn’t help.
Starbucks didn’t care. Nobody in this small town seemed to notice, so long as he got their drink correct. It wasn’t that he stopped succeeding. It was that it wasn’t easier. Having dropped the façade, having admitted to himself and to the world how pointless all of this was, the energy to keep it alive fell from his arms. He became painfully aware of how little all of it mattered. He could call a customer a faggot and nobody would stop him. He could show up thirty minutes late and neither would his boss notice nor would his workmates struggle. He could show up an hour late. He could show up eight hours late. He could stop coming in altogether. Forever. He could leave and nobody would notice. Nobody would even care.
That thought invaded him a year and a half ago. What if he left? What if instead of driving to work he got on the highway? What if he drove south and didn’t stop until he hit the beach? He could go anywhere. He could go where they didn’t know his name. He could go where nobody knew how boring his life had become. He could make something of himself. And it wasn’t about money, he had money. With nothing to spend it on paychecks piled up in his bank account. It was about the story. He could be a mystery. He could meet a pretty girl and tell her the wrong name. He could make friends and tell them he was an astronaut. He could be whoever he wanted to be. Nobody could stop him. Not out there. It was a whole world of his creating, and the only thing in his way was the invisible barrier of the city limits. A limit so easily crossed, often on accident. He could. He could drive and never stop. It would be so easy. All he had to do was go.
This is what he screamed at himself in the car. Every day. Every shift, back and forth, he would scream at himself. “Just go! Just keep driving! You’ve got the guitar in the trunk! You can do it! Mom and dad want you to move out! They won’t miss you! Nobody will! Just go!” He’d drive to voice these thoughts at full volume, wearing his vocal cords thin. He’d pull into his driveway and leave the car running, sometimes for two hours plus, just contemplating throwing it into reverse and screaming off into the distance.
At first he stopped himself with rationality. He would tell himself to calm down. These thoughts were too extreme. Even if it was time to leave, he couldn’t just speed off. He should look at apartments, decide where he’s going, why, get a job lined up, do it right. He can’t just up and leave. Then the feelings got worse, and that didn’t work. Slowly but surely the idea of taking off at full speed felt more and more attractive. He could do it. He’d figure it out. He could get an apartment day one. What kind of complex would see a guy like him, good credit, family connections, full of passion, and most importantly money in hand right now, and turn him away? Besides, who cares. He could stay in his car if he needed to. Anything other than this. Then he stopped himself by saying he wasn’t ready. He had no clothes, he hadn’t packed his toothbrush. He had to be more ready than this. And that was true, those things stood in the way. But his emotions would carry him. Every day he argued he would roll a dice. A big one, with a thousand sides, but a dice nonetheless. And every day he got lucky he would pack one more thing. One more item would be brought with fist clenched rage into the trunk of his car. He had three days of clothing changes. He had a few jackets, and a blanket. He had his guitar. He convinced himself he could buy everything else. Toiletries were cheap. He’d eat on the road, trying new places. He could make it. He didn’t need anything else. After that, it was his parents. He didn’t hate them, he loved them. And he appreciated them. How much they had given him. How much they had taken care of him. He couldn’t just ditch them, they might think it’s their fault. He’d have to say goodbye, which meant he’d have to choose a date. He couldn’t just leave like he wanted. That all changed last week.
One week ago, he rolled that special number on the die, and his need to escape got him enough energy to write a letter. A small one, addressed to his parents. It explained everything. It said in plain English, as clear as the morning sky, how he was feeling. It told them it wasn’t their fault. It told them that he still loved them and would visit. It told them why he had to leave Rhode Island, not them. It was perfect. It was clean. It was exactly what he needed. He could leave now. All he would need was a post office wherever he was, and he could mail them this confession. It would be so easy. The letter sat undamaged in his glove compartment, waiting for the day it would be sent. It was ready. He was ready. So what was stopping him now?
He looked out past the glass. In the open section without the winter fog. He saw the backyard of his childhood home. Grass as green as when he was a child, even in winter. He saw the trampoline he did a backflip on in third grade. He saw the path he would run when he was playing tag. He saw the dead patch where the fire pit would be brought out and sat. He saw the old tree. He mentally climbed it with his eyes closed, muscle memory guiding his steps. He saw the view of his house’s roof, and the neighbors and the neighbor of them. He felt the summer wind blow on his cheeks as he sat up there for hours. He remembered climbing it one handed with a banana in the other, pretending he was a monkey. He remembered crashing into it after a daring water balloon struck his father, and he took off running without looking. He saw the patch of grass where they buried the dog. He saw the stone that said “Rocket,” still clear nineteen years later. He saw it out the kitchen window when it was raining, he mournfully watched the sunset doing homework, he saw the first snowfall between clasped fingers, hoping school would be canceled.
He took a deep breath from his cigarette, held it longer than he thought he could, then blew it out the cracked left window. He noticed it came out stuttering and choked. He felt the tightness in his chest and the skip in his heart. He knew what was coming. He put it away as he knew dinner would be ready soon. He had to go back inside. His window was closing. He looked down at his gear shift. The car was still in drive, he was keeping it stationary with a foot on the brake. He would have to pass reverse to put it in park. It would be harder to stay than to leave. It could be so easy. If his mom called he’d answer. He’d explain everything. It would be so easy. He could do it. He just needed to push it to reverse. Just reverse. Do it. Do it.
He pushed the gear shift all the way up, into park. His arm withdrew and he reflexively put the parking break up. It locked in place and he knew what he had done. He had sealed his fate. He couldn’t leave. Not until tomorrow. Not until he got in the car again. He took a few seconds to compose himself, realizing he would need to suffer through another day of tedium. Why didn’t he do it? Why did he fail yet another day? He didn’t know. He thought he might never know. He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door.
“One day.” He promised himself. “One day I’m gonna cut it clear.”
He wasn’t lying. He knew he would. He had to. He would just have to do it with his eyes closed. One day.