The ground is crackled into a thousand small canyons, like a thousand city blocks, like dust canyon roads for spiders or ants, so hard packed and dry that it rejects the tracks of a bike tire. A squirrel red as rust stands attentive at the bank of gravel, the trail carved by rubber and sweat. I pump and I plead to those pedals to move me and they do.

Rock gardens prove prosperous to their bounty of dust and cacti, of dry as bone grit. A downhill, apprehension and acceptance. Bumps and speed and rocks rather than roots. Up the other side with a familiar burn in the legs and accomplishment so slight. Tap water through a blue tube on my shoulder. Eyes front and center. Legs cranking once more, flat ground as rebuttal and riposte.

The fork leads to something new and obscene in its unfamiliarity. In this world of flammability a creek bed lies with a trickle, faint and alien and unbelievable. I careen through it and my legs are showered with the brackish warmth of something like water. It mixes with sweat and dirt and makes a sheen of mud. Each action must have its opposite. That downhill so fast is coupled with its uphill brother, its face pock marked with stones smoothed by past days water. It’s been too long. That climb defeats me and I take that walk of shame with my bike slung over my shoulder. Next time, next time.

It’s easy to be both sound of mind and sound of body when there is nothing else. The trail is friend and foe. It takes and receives. To get just as much as you give and nothing more or nothing less. Is there profit? The profit is conversion. Conversion of physical effort to mental gains. Conquering the hill.

Sections of the trail have endearing names. Powerline hill. The Log Loop. The one that sticks to my mind was Endo Valley, an “endo” being where one’s back wheel lifts off the ground, usually leaving the rider to fall over the front of their handle bars. It’s a series of long drops smattered with jutting ledges of rocks. I rode Endo Valley timidly. I avoided the namesake calamity.

My lack of riding begins to catch up with me. The burn in my legs becomes more persistent. A dull ache in my back. Soreness near my loins. My breaths become heavier. My cranks come with less vigor. Groans at the middle of a hill. Panting, panting. Slow motion movement. Side hurts. Hands are numb. Have I been here before? Washed out maze of brambles and dust. How long have I been here?  Second wind. More speed. Follow the signs.

Parking lot. The labor of each revolution comes as a revolution itself. At my car, I stop with a force that surprises me. I’m off the bike. My helmet comes off. I inhale water. My legs tremble. My hands follow. Nausea. Dizziness. This is it. Get the bike on the rack. A burp. I fumble with the straps. Sit. Sit down. The motion makes me spin. Or the world spins. I gag. What did I eat? Nothing. This is it just let it be. Clear liquid that was bile or water. A sour taste. I close my eyes and the spinning stops. The nausea leaves.

I sleep for the rest of the day.

I guess we all got that moment. Where you sit down and gather in every little breath a’ life and you wonder where you are and you look at where you been and you suck it all in and you suck it all out. Nothin ever feels quite right even if everythings quite right and if anythings wrong it feels like everythings wrong. It’s easy to forget about the things you have and just think about the things you want but if you’rn alive theres a lot more right then y’think. The fact of th’matter is that it all just is what it is. Things in life ain’t never as bad or as good as you think they is. Things just is what they is and nothing else.

 –

Bill might have had an anger problem. We chat and he happily opens any locked door for me and asks about my life in Texas and he tells me about his son in college and he goes off to sweep the next room. And then I hear the clatter of chairs. I hear the sound of curses and a trash can kicked. I peak my head in. Crumbled paper balls and Bill sweeping up the trash he just scattered. Sorry Jason he says. Just had one of my tantrums. He’s the night janitor at a high school and looks exactly how you think he does.

It’s more first job solo, in a Dayton, Ohio high school at midnight sitting in an electrical room by myself typing away on a laptop and walking out and looking at lights and coming back and trying again and going out and checking the lights, rinse, repeat. Occasionally I recruit the help of one the electricians onsite. And then it’s me again. I rejoice and revel in a button turning on a light. In the lights turning off eight minutes after I leave the room. No more and no less. I forget about eating and take late “lunch” breaks.  I finish at about 1:30 AM and take the twenty minute drive to my hotel. I usually fall asleep immediately.

Dayton was described to me as “the armpit of Ohio”  but really it’s like any other place.  Subways and Starbucks. The roadside foliage turns burgundy and gold.  Unlike Texas, the drivers follow the speed limit which is no greater than sixty on the freeways. I speed my rented Jetta along empty highways. I didn’t see a cop in my whole time there.

It’s jarring to think that it’s all become business as usual. The traveling, the continental breakfasts, the airport to airport starts and ends of my weeks. None of it shocks me or makes me weary. Austin begins to feel like home and I enjoy being greeted by a cat named Nigel and my roommate Liz. I play the guitar that I missed through the week and I lay in the bed that’ll beat any hotel bed and the stomps of our neighbors upstairs and the vibrating cacophony of the a/c doesn’t bother me.

I take a drive to San Antonio with Joey and friends. It’s a night like any other and the riverwalk is nice, filled with families and couples and generally happy folk. After eating we find a nice little jazz bar with a one drink minimum, and since they insisted, I enjoy the alcohol of the ten dollar old fashioned. I had a much better one at the hotel bar of the Akron, Ohio Holiday Inn for half the price. For a while it’s just Jawoine and myself, drinking our cocktails and listening to jazz on a San Antonio night and all is well in the world.

After gaining a buzz, we regroup and begin to explore once more. To the Alamo I say. In the process we run into a congregation of three bachelorette parties that I take the liberty of infiltrating. I high five them and sneak into their pictures and try my best to be one with the drunk thirty somethings  flaunting their abundance of penis motif’d items. They insult Joey’s haircut. They stumble drunk through San Antonio streets. Soon I grow bored and my Alamo senses are tingling and I somehow manage to lead us to the Alamo without any navigation tools. We stand in its night lit glory, yelling profanities in merriment while the night guard of the Alamo stares at us. The great defenders of the Alamo died there. We stand there half drunk. Our tribute.

An aside: She’s pretty. Very much so. Stop thinking, you son-of a bitch. Stop. Look ahead and stop all your thoughts and forget everything. The silence of that backseat kills you doesn’t it. It is what it is and ain’t never gonna be nothing else. And don’t get so surly, you beautiful bastard. Go live your life and quit thinking about tail you’ll never get. But you won’t stop thinking and you’ll never stop thinkin’ because that’s just what you do. It is what it is.

Weekends feel too long and too short. I’m conflicted by my love of work and my love of my new home and new friends and old friends. I’m in Dayton again next week. And I look forward to the solitude of that electrical room, the hum and buzz of the equipment around me. I don’t look forward to the loneliness of that electrical room, the annoying hum and that god awful buzz of the equipment around me.

But. Business as usual.

There’s a blind man sitting in the lobby of this Holiday Inn. He was there when I got back at seven. When I walked passed he said hello. I said nothing back. He sat behind a table with books in front of him that had his picture. He rocked back and forth with his stick held vertical between his hands, his face holding a grin that I can’t forget.

I made my way down to the bar an hour later, and he was still there and not a soul in the world paid him any attention. I walked passed and received the same hello I did before and part of me wonders if he recognized me but I know he couldn’t. He sat behind his table with those his books in their same state of disarray. I just made my way past him to the bar.

I judge hotels based on their bars and their gyms and this Holiday Inn has a great bar and a terrible gym, so most of the time I would normally spend working out I just spend drinking instead. It’s slow and I’m tired and I make the superficial bar friends that I seem to make in every hotel and they all seem the same now and the conversations turn to work and how badly we all just want to go home. So many different people and we all have that in common.

At this point, Ohio feels like any other place. It has streets and people and Starbucks and Subway. I see hills in the distance dotted with similar reds to New Hampshire and the blue sky is the same blue sky I remember along with that well welcomed breeze that would send a Texan to a jacket.

It’s my first week working with Tim L. He holds himself with a poise. Clean cut. Unwrinkled Brooks Brothers shirt, worn without flash but as a matter of fact. He says hello to anyone he sees. The parking lot attendant. A woman walking in the hall. A secretary he’ll never see again. He tells me stories I’d never thought I knew. He wears his Aggie ring with pride. He said in Brooklyn, he wouldn’t wear it because no one would give a damn.

We sit at the bar of the local Olive Garden. He hangs his head and rubs his eyes and I do the same because we’re dog tired. He drinks his Amstel Light slowly.

I’ve been referred to as the Tim L clone. And it’s true. Tim could very well be the future allegory of me. Even the electricians at the job site asked why they sent two of the same person. We part our hair in the same direction. We stand at similar statures and hold ourselves in the same posture. We talk politics, and guitar, and Ayn Rand, and life, and universe and everything. And at the bar at the Olive Garden in west Akron, Ohio, Tim and I talk.

He tells me of his dark times and I tell him of my dark times. He tells me of his faith and I tell him of my faith. He tells me of his life at twenty years old and I don’t need to tell him of my life at twenty years old. I tell him of girls, and of home, and he tells me everything will be ok. I tell of the introspection of Philadelphia, and he tells me that introspection can be a dangerous thing and I tell him I know, and I can tell that he already knows what I’m thinking and we look ahead with a certain understanding.

I told him about my weeks before I left, that bullshit that surrounded it all. I cursed and I swore and I choked up and I spared no details and he nodded and listened. I told him about those wild nights at Gritsy and those 3 am mornings and the drunken conversation in my car the night she got back. He nodded and drank his Amstel Light, his Aggie ring making a soft clink each time he reached for the glass. I told him of therapy, and of my family. I told him about the night of backseats, vodka, and Atlas Shrugged. Of Hemingway and pissing in my front yard.

He said so frankly to me that if it wasn’t for Christianity that he would have committed suicide a long time ago.

Clean cut Tim L., in his Brooks Brothers shirt, Prada glasses, and stubble free face.

He takes me back to the hotel and we end our conversation with a handshake.

We work again the next day, and it’s a day of work like any other day. On the way back to the hotel, we talk more of life and universe and everything. We talk of selling out to the corporate life and he says that’s not what it is at all, but that we’re just giving ourselves the things we wanted that we didn’t have when we were young. He says that he was right in his decision to hire me.  I tell him he speaks too highly of me, and to please criticize me. He tells me one thing.

“Just relax. It’s ok for you to act like you’re 20.”

I remember when I met Tim L. I went to Floor and Décor that morning with the remnants of last night lingering in the taste in my mouth and the headache. Joel and myself arrived at the same time and we disputed who would teach the installation class. It seemed like I was winning until a customer flagged down Joel. At that exact moment, my manager asked me who was teaching the class, and no amount of excuses would excuse me from that duty.

Usually I enjoyed teaching the class. I’d brush the dirt off my shirt and prepare thirty minutes prior to. I’d grab all my supplies and mentally answer any question I’d figure I’d face. But today was different. I didn’t grab any of my tools. I was focused more on my hangover and my three hours of sleep rather than the group of customers in front of me. But I’d never let them see that. Never show your full hand.

The audience was the usual eclectic mix. There was always that one guy who already knew everything and stood ready with questions that only served to challenge what I knew. There was the couple that didn’t speak English and only served to make the class more difficult than it should have been. There was the couple who was more focused on trying to keep their kid clean while he/she was finding any way to rub their body along a dusty as all hell surface.

Then there was Tim L.

Tim dressed like he knew a little more than everyone else. I think I remember shorts and possibly a North Face pullover. At least that’s what I remember. He wore a Brooklyn Dodgers cap. I started the class with my usual routine and the slight rush of speaking to a group of people served to wake me up and help forget the pounding in my head and the bitterness that ruled my stomach. Early on Tim asked if he could video the class. It was an odd request and I simply said sure.

And like usual, I taught the class. The questions weren’t too bad, and the class went smoothly enough for me to forget about last night completely. The last questions floated around and the class dispersed. But the yuppie in the dodgers cap hung around.

He had a few extra questions and I answered them like I always would. He said he just moved to the Woodlands from New York. The kicker came when he asked me what I knew about electrical work. I told him nothing, but like as was true with most things, I told him that I was willing to learn. Well, he said, I work for a company that programs large scale lighting systems and we’re interested in people that can speak and teach people like you can. He said something along those lines at least. I was immediately interested. I could tell he was serious, and I’d been looking for a change of pace. He went on to describe the job, saying that it involved travel across the U.S. and was a rapidly growing field. Part of me thought it could be bullshit. Part of me knew it was too good to be true. We started to stray from the topic at hand, and the topic at hand at one point was cycling, and then it was politics, and then it was books, and then it was Ayn Rand. We chatted for almost an hour and exchanged information. I didn’t think much of it.

I started to think more of it when we started to transmit emails back and forth. I thought even further of it when I started emailing another member of the company. Months passed and many emails were sent.  The reality of it all hit when I was sitting in the Detroit airport asking myself exactly what I was doing. My conscience replied with “You’re about to be interviewed for the best opportunity you’ve ever had.”

I interviewed with Tim S. at a bar that served the best turkey Rueben possibly in the United States. I’d put money on that fact.

And now here I am in a Akron, Ohio hotel room.

Another Gritsy and the decision is made that I am driving and I really don’t mind. At first it perturbs me because I’m unfamiliar with downtown but I’ll manage and I need the experience. I pick up —— and Victoria and we set out. I have an edge that I won’t be able to kill. We’re on 45 and after passing Crosstimbers I feel a second of tension and then it’s gone. We enter downtown without a problem. We’re circling the venue for parking and even that frustration doesn’t get to me. At the parking permit terminal, a drunken hobo walks up behind me, belligerent against the sign and then he moves to another hobo, exchanging harsh words. We’re outside Gritsy and we run into Vince. It’s always warming to see Vince and we exchange words. He brings up ****** while —— and ——- smoke a cigarette. Condolences and I tell him it’s ok and we’re ok. Silence. We’re waiting for John, Jose, and Michelle. Vincent goes inside.

We wait some more and before long the three walk up. John’s good, Michelle’s beautiful as usual, and Jose has a good buzz going whether he wants to admit it or not. Inside the club is small and intimate. Large x’s emblazoned on our hands. The girls drink early. I decided to have a drink with Jose and our gritsicles are gone faster than the time spent to make them. Only one drink. The music’s good and the bass is good and we find our spot. As soon as we’re there, ——- and Victoria are off to find boys and drinks and I don’t mind. They’re building a good buzz and now I’m just a little lonely. Then John and Jose leave too and it’s just me and Michelle and we look at each other with lonely eyes. And we’re waiting and waiting for friends and It’s still just us. —– pops in again and she’s well more than buzzed. I can tell by the violent kisses and the bites she gives me on my chest and shoulders.

She tells me she has to look out for Victoria and she’s gone again and my smile fades and she’s gone as soon as she came. And then it’s me and Michelle for far too long. I start to worry, but not worrying, just a slight concern.

So I go outside and I see the problem .Victoria is crying, John and ——- are trying to console her, Jose stands alone across the way looking dazed. Everyone’s drunk and I laugh to myself because this is just ridiculous. I try to calm the situation and it’s just ridiculous. I tell John to get his ass inside and find his girlfriend and I round everyone together to get inside and it kind of works. We’re inside for a bit and everyone quickly disperses. ——- and Victoria are outside again. John is finding Michelle. And it’s just me and Jose. We find another bar in a backroom where no one’s at and I tell Jose to pour himself a drink and it’s a beer glass half full with vodka and ice. I smell it and my body tingles. There’s a girl putting feathers in people’s hair so Jose decides it’s a good idea to spend ten dollars on one. Michelle joins us sans John.

I’m sober and everyone’s drunk and the situation is crumbling. We’re outside again and it’s more drama. John and Victoria and —— are all into it drunk. Something is said about ***** and —– breaks down and I try to console her and she pushes me away and I follow her. She stumbles and sits alone on the concrete and I see another guy try to console her so I shoe him away and I put my arm around her and she sobs into my shoulder and she’s sobbing and I tell her over and over again that everything’s going to be ok. And eventually she calms down and apologizes and we round everyone up and we’re back inside. John and Michelle are having problems. Victoria and Jose are getting close. ——- and I try to dance. She pulls me close and she tells me it’s not just the liquor but she loves me and now she has the courage to say it. We work our way to a seat and she straddles me and tries to touch me in places she shouldn’t. Not here. She tells me she wants me. Jose and Victoria are in the seat next to us. We all laugh.

——- is still all over me, whispering terrible things into my ear. We eventually make it to the parking lot. Jose is stumbling drunk. Victoria’s pissed. In the car, Victoria is half asleep. ——– wants me. We get home and she spends the night. I don’t sleep until six. I’m up at nine. I have work at ten.

There’s that earth pine smell in the air and the mist carries on for miles in a phantasmal blur that sticks to the hairs on my arms and face. A mixed pallet of golds browns and reds form swatches in tree lines. Some of those bystander trees caught in between their summer memories and their red fall future. Onward into a strange future, bygone land of questions unasked and answers undiscovered, to where so many feet have fallen and many have yet to fall, like my own and your own, and the snow that’s already fallen, you’ve missed it all, caught in a past that now seems invalidated and nullified and vilified.

The foreign profiles of firs and pines and maples jut out. Like so many hands waving in that bright blue. The trees stretch forever into the hills and rivers that I’ll never see and the temperature is never past seventy and all is well in the world.

My travel back to Houston is tedious and draining. Manchester to Baltimore. Then a two hour layover.  Finally back to Hobby at around 9pm. Sitting becomes just as hard on the body as standing and my back’s killing me. Houston doesn’t mean much because I’m off to Austin in the morning. Things move fast enough to break necks.

And DC is done and New Hampshire is done and Houston is just a few hour blur and then there’s a drive to Austin and hills and the flammable Texas country side passing by in its washed out Technicolor hue. The complex is old siding and flecks of brown paint. My dad and I wait for Liz and she arrives before long. The apartment inside is brand new and the smell of new paint is a testament to that. New floors and countertops still yet to dull. She’s furnished it like a saint and my new home is near effortless. My room isn’t much more than a bed a few guitars and a few bikes.

And here I am. Living in Austin and I’m not sure what that means. I’m trying to take it in but it doesn’t feel much different than any other place I’ve been and at the same time it feels like nothing I’ve ever felt at all. But its four walls and a bed and it’s new and it feel like any other set of four walls and any other bed. But it’s no hotel room. It’s my bed and my four walls.