Crashbox

With my chin resting on the power-steering pump of the engine filling the spot where the back seat should be, the back of my head propped up by a CD case and my back molding comfortably to the contour of the steel wheel-well under me, I thought in passing how interesting and unexpected things often are. I was on my way to Southern California in the back of a 1974 International Scout with four other people, all our shit and a six-cylinder engine and transmission. This was after blowing a head-gasket in my brand-new 1963 Rambler, sitting by the freeway all day in South Seattle on old couch cushions waiting for a tow, and then sleeping in the front seat because the garage was full of everyone else trying to sleep. (The house was off limits, for reasons I cannot divulge.) Now, with my few belongings, (less the car) and some of my very best friends I am heading for a couple of odd-jobs and frugal living for a time.
I light up a Marb Red and watch the fog roll in. The breeze is cool and the air fresh and salty. Ahhhh, So-Cal. Life has been very good to me lately; I keep on discovering weird little things about life and myself: for instance, reading the Russian novels for Senior Seminar at Dr. Ferrier’s house was one of the most profound and moving experiences of my life; both for the literature and the example of Catholic intellectual living. Another odd discovery is that when you are broke and out of luck, life becomes a whole lot deeper and much more frightening. I have also found that though I long for love my heart is slow to trust—not just slow, but defensive and bitter. A warm cigarette for a hollow kiss, the sad night air for hug. The passing traffic and empty park for bleeding soul conversation. But the fog is rising slowly from my own shortcomings, and though the road ahead is long it is filled with smiling, caring faces. And work—sweet work! I have need of the burning muscles, the long days, the stability and the ability to not have to depend on others for my daily bread. And the Lord will provide.