I was all jazzed up on Jack Kerouac novels and optimism. I'd sit in the diner, drinking mug after mug of coffee while waiting for my friends to get out of school. I had quit in my senior year while they held on and worked with what they were given. I was attacked daily/nightly with anxiety and fear. Fear of looking stupid. Anxious over everything but mostly afraid of looking like I didn't know what I was doing. I felt like a fool to be laughed at. Everyday.
So, I sat in my booth near the back of the joint. Close to the bathrooms. Back then you could smoke freely inside and so I puffed like the dragon and read the prose.
Kerouac got a gig doing forest fire watching in the summers. He was all alone. Not even a cat! His only contact with other humans was through a CB radio. He had streams, a greens and moss to enjoy. Never saw a bear. I wanted that job. I mean, what could be better for a kid who is scared of everything that could speak to me.
At night, I'd fantasize about being in his cabin. Drinking a fine wine and not missing a soul. I was 17 but I already wanted to quit playing the game. I could never play by a set of norms. I was too weird.
To be up there...in Northern California with my only job being looking out the windows with binoculars and checking for smoke and fires. Divine.
I shared this dream with only a single soul as I knew he could kind of relate. He didn't laugh at me. In fact, he thought it would be the finest job I could get. I appreciated that.
Sitting at that diner and reading the book was as close as I ever came to actually doing it. I was always good at disappointing myself.
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