04-28-04 - 6:43 p.m.
everyone, from residents of my new town, to family and acquaintances i left behind, keep asking me "why". why change? why move? why abandon what's comfortable? the only person, i believe, who has not asked "why" is my brother bob, who, like me, was raised in the military and learned to reduce what you cherish to the size of a footlocker and not make attachments. three years ago, at 55, he abandoned what was comfortable for a life in a rural village in thailand. he owns a rice paddy with his thai wife. three months ago, at 58, he became a father for the second time. a daughter, yanisa, who just learned to roll over. they celebrated with cake and ice cream. when bob learned of my plans, he did not ask why. he warned me of allergies in the high desert, but he did not question my decision. so for the ones who want to know "why", it begins like this;
you reach a milestone age, a birthday worthy of black balloons and over-the-hill jokes, and suddenly you hear a clock ticking somewhere inside you, maybe not like the biological one that produces babies, but a clock nonetheless, and just as urgent. you examine your life, your achievements, your failings, and you begin to realize that the compromises do not equal the rewards. it is time, you decide, for the rewards, but you are comfortable. worse than that, you are scared. so for awhile you pacify your secret restlessness with small satisfactions; a daring coat of paint on your living room wall. a new hair color. a new wine. a new man, to replace the one you want but can't have. brief distractions, to briefly silence that ticking clock. you work, you pay your bills on time, you give more than you receive. at night, you sit in the bathtub and weep, sickened by your dependablity, your usefulness. you begin to hate the job that once fulfilled you. you resent the man who loves you, but doesn't love you enough to leave his wife. wine dulls the loneliness, but not the relentless ticking clock that no one else can seem to hear. you begin to dream of escape; from the job, the man, the bills, the dependability, but you are comfortable. worse than that, you are scared.
then someone your exact age, someone you once knew and loved, someone too immature and irresponsible to face their own mortality, becomes terribly sick and dies. he leaves behind an inconsolable daughter, a rusted motorhome, and not much else. suddenly this emptiness, this lack of legacy scares you more than the idea of real estate agents and a moving van. you are shocked from your sleepwalk of inertia. you throw a mental dart at a map, and it lands somewhere new and fascinating. for me, it was reno, "the biggest little city in the world." one day, i boldly called in sick at work, the first time since i was hired, and drove the 8 hours from my house to nevada. there was snow in donner pass. reno lies in the valley below, a cheezy, glittering gem of enticements. i checked into a hotel and played the slots. someone brought me a free drink. i was alone, no, i was INDEPENDENT, with no one to answer to, and it made me happy. in the middle of a smoky, stale casino, i stopped to relish the feeling. happy. the next day, i drove east, toward the high desert, toward utah and rattlesnake raceway, the stuff of a springsteen song. i stopped in fallon for gas. fallon has a walmart, a subway, a dollar tree, and lots of glittering casinos. for some reason, i stayed. that night, on maine street, in the town center, they had a christmas tree lighting ceremony, the stuff of thornton wilder, of norman rockwell. it made me happy. i stood in the cold with strangers and relished the feeling. the next day, i drove back to california, braving a snowstorm in the donner pass, and listed my house for sale. it was this wonderful, impetuous act that finally silenced the ticking clock.
so here i am, in fallon, on an acre of sand i can call my home, looking for a job that will pay the bills without sucking my soul dry. working on a legacy. the man i love is 9 hours and a state away, in california, and he refuses to accept the idea that i am gone. yesterday, in an email, he wrote;
"i want some j & m time on 5/23-5/25, but i can't find you with a PO BOX."
and without hesitation i simply wrote back;
"Unless you intend to stay with me for good, j & m time is no longer a possibility."