Like cherry tobacco and musty books

When I get to him tonight, he’s holed up in a motel with a cheap cell phone and not much else to his name.

“The good thing, I guess, is that you get to start over,” he says through the static with a sardonic chuckle.

His entire life left behind in a studio apartment for the eviction vultures. A few mementos stored with friends kind enough to give Things a place. But there is no room for him. Just this seedy motel where crack dealers palm off dirty rocks from windows and doors, and cashiers work behind bullet-proofed windows—with bars for good measure.

I think about all the times I’ve wanted to pack my things and leave, to walk away. I think about the times I did, penniless and seeking, but never broken. A ticket to Somewhere and No Plan But Survival. Things stuffed into a 5’ by 10’ cell; $50 a month. They smell different when you come back. Like cherry tobacco and musty books. Like hope and regret.

You walk away, but you always come back. You always, always come back. To center, to what you know. I’ve never heard him sound so defeated before.

He’s disappeared before for 30-mile moody treks through the urban wilderness on park benches and waterside paths. There was the near-death experience before that. He is aging, struggling, and sad. He lives the writer’s curse. At least tonight, there’s a dry bed in a seedy motel where crack dealers palm off dirty rocks from windows and doors. It’s the least we could do. It’s the most we could do.

He walked away with a few bags of papers and clothes, his heart, and a pocketful donated money. I worried that he wouldn’t make it through the night. He did. He’s made it through two.

I imagine him standing alone at the doorway late Saturday. He pauses, backlit and dramatic against the streetlight, glances back for the last time. His eyes are dry, too numb to cry. Pain, relief, nostalgia, attachments that can’t be explained: This is what it feels like to say goodbye.

I’ve never heard him sound so defeated before. Near-death can be mentally relative. The good thing, I guess, is that you get to start over. But you get to start over with me.


Photo by Ghislain & Marie David de Lossy from Corbis