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The Last Trip Home

The last remains of middle class America lied tucked away among Northern Ohio cornfields, hidden from the soon to be decaying factories and encroaching future of the crack epidemic of the late 80’s. Here, the 50’s clung on, to whisper illusions that the world could be an innocence, long lost to so many other communities. Children spent mornings playing in streets without traffic and in woods that were once strip mines. Afternoons brought baseball and football games with the victors, riding in the backs of trucks to the local ice cream stand. The cool evenings invited a moment to pause in a spinning world unknown to them, with friends and family, just before the low electric hum of street lamps slowly began to burn and ushered the children to their homes, for supper and prayers, before bed. And through the dark night, the children slept soundly, knowing that tomorrow, there would be another adventure. There would be another day, just like this one…

The morning brought a stream of sunshine through the early morning haze of summer. Three small children, two sisters and a brother, played in the dirt and grass of Cement Street creating a world of make believe. One of the girls discovered a small bird that had fallen from its nest and brought it to the others, happy in her prize. The children looked at the small bundle of helplessness with wonder, and a desire to help. Innocence brought hope, and hope brought action.

A box was fashioned into a home, bedded with grass, and provided with worms that the children dug from the earth with their hands to feed the little bird. They tucked it all away beneath the porch, away from the elements and predators, vowing to return the next morning.

The next day was cool and cloudy. The winds from the lake had brought the first signs of an impending storm across the sky, angry and aggressive. Eagerly they dug more worms from the earth and ran to the hiding spot to feed their friend, intent on finishing their chore before the rains arrived. Reaching inside and pulling the box out they talked about what they would name their prize. It was settled that the baby would be named Big Bird. But the world stopped and there was a horrible silence for a moment as they opened the box, and smiles turned to tears. The young bird, despite all of their innocence and intentions, had passed away in the night. The mites had moved in to finish off the remains.

A slow rain began as they held the box, growing into a storm, and the children ran inside to the safety and warmth of home…

The gallery was winding down for the night as the last of the guests wandered towards the exit. A handful lingered, chewing the fat with Jack about the artist talk that had just finished. I remember thinking, “Jesus man, get out!” I just wanted to seal the place up for the night and be on my way; back to the quiet and lonely comforts of my apartment. But something was vibrating. Looking back now, although I knew it was the phone in my pocket, what I didn’t know, and what I couldn’t possibly know, was that it was the world that was beginning to reverberate.

I answered the call hesitatingly. I rarely, if ever, accepted calls while at work. It just isn’t professional and it’s bad form. My mother hardly ever called, let alone at these hours of the day. A wave of dread washed over me, and then the first risings of panic, like a snake finding its way up my spine into my brain. My gather had been ill for a long time, losing weight and struggling in a physical rehabilitation facility. Her voice, was full of urgency when I answered.

She told me that my father had been admitted into the hospital and his health was failing. A blood infection was taking over; his body was shutting down. And although they were starting him on antibiotics, they wouldn’t know for another 48 hours if he was going to live. The panic, was now a possessing specter consuming everything it touched.

I was in Washington D.C. and he was in the southwest corner of Virginia, in a mountain town named Abingdon. And I had no way of getting to him. Lori, my now ex-girlfriend, had bought the last ticket to Splits Ville just a few weeks before, and had taken the only means of transportation with her.

My financial situation was brutal at best. I was already behind on the rent, and scavenging what food I could to get through the summer until I could get back to school for the fall semester. Working at the museum was a good experience, but it just wasn’t enough. My bank account hung at zero perpetually.

But fate, and fortune, would provide an answer to my problem. My high school friend George Pridemore and I had just reconnected only weeks before. He had lost his father, and learning of my struggle, he bought two tickets on a Greyhound so that I could see my voice of sanity in an insane world, my best friend, possibly for the last time. George didn’t want there to be any regrets. Normally I am hesitant, if not stubborn about accepting help. But this time I had no choice and gladly took the offer.

I was to leave the next day from Union Station so I had to plan quickly; only the essentials man. No need to carry a heavier load than necessary, I thought to myself. So I packed cigarettes, a few shirts, a pair of pants, socks, a toothbrush, and various electronics for communication and music. The trip, was to be ten hours according to the itinerary, with some momentary layovers in Charlottesville, Roanoke, and Wytheville. The night was spent in a restless futility trying to sleep. I’ve always had trouble sleeping the night before a long journey. Especially one of importance. Most times I give in and hit the road early if I have a car. But this time was different. So I tossed about all night. And at daybreak, I downed half a pot of coffee and made my way to the metro in Silver Springs to begin the journey.

The entrance to Union Station was a maze of crusty transients and panhandlers, suits and clueless tourists, all trying desperately to navigate each other. I hadn't even made it into the doors to Union Station before a man asked me for cash. When I told him I only carried a card he asked if I could go to the ATM. My mind gave a slight pause at this as I strode past him, and I thought to myself, “Fuck man; look at the balls on this bastard!” I told him it was only for looks and kept moving through the doors to the station. Watching, over my shoulder, for the hammer to come down.

By the time I had made it to where the busses dock I had given away 5 cigarettes and had been asked for cash I didn’t have several more times. I began to realize that if I didn't get out of there soon they would start to want my flesh instead. Times were tough, and if these bastards couldn’t turn a dime, they would take anything they could grip. The bus wasn't due for another festering godless hour. So I found a spot near the smoking section and hid around the corner of some vending machines in the hopes that no one would notice me. That was wishful thinking. Just minutes before I was to leave the next one found me as I was in mid-drag of a smoke.

The man that approached me was a distinguished looking black gentleman wearing a tailored suit and a strikingly fine hat. I thought for certain, this time would be different. After all, why would a man with such refined tastes ask me for money? Surely he was a man of means. But he just had a better hook.

He pulled out a wallet and flashed an old military ID and tried to convince me, or anyone else that would listen for that matter, that someone had stolen a whopping grand from his car. And to add a little flavor, he had two little girls waiting for him in the parking garage. All he needed was some gas money… At first, I thought if I had even a small bit of money I would have given it to him, provided he could produce the two little girls as proof. But that game is a dangerous one. A short trip into the parking garage to this phantom car, and he would have rolled me. I’m no stranger to the shim-sham, or the flim-flam. I knew this game, and I had had enough.

I snapped his suspenders giving him a horrible stinging slap on his sweating man tits and then as he screamed and reeled from the burn, I uppercut him so that he fell backwards with a violent impact over a wooden seating area. His fine hat rolled away towards a couple of confused bystanders. Two more panhandlers saw what I could only believe was their master in pain, and lunged to attack. But I was ready for them...

I threw a trash can under the feet of the closest of the filthy bastards and as he went down on his face, I used him as a step up on his backside and launched over the other one as he crumpled on top of my new stair master. He couldn't stop his momentum, and they couldn't stop mine as I ran to the boarding area. In the commotion, chaos broke, giving me a cover for a getaway. I ran to the boarding area.

Savagely I thrusted the ticket at the woman guarding my escape. She could only hear the turmoil going on in the distance. Her vision was blocked by the escalators to the next level. And after inspecting the ticket, she let me through, telling me to stand in line A. Her concentration was focused on the sounds of mayhem beyond her field of vision. Casually but quickly, I strolled to the queue line looking around for the pigs that were sure to descend upon me. But after a few moments of hiding behind the bulk of a large man in line, and peeking around him to survey the scene, I let my guard down. I was safe for now...

Moments later, the bus arrived and boarding began. I hurried onboard, and made my way through the aisle past a handful of people, settling into the very back seats. Alone. Safe from the blood suckers outside. This was an updated machine with all the bells and whistles modern travel promised. Leather-like cushioned seats, a rest for my feet, overhead lighting and air control, and a fairly pleasing smelling indoor outhouse for your convenience. Everything a freak could need as they made their way down the screaming asphalt of this great nation. It even had cup holders.

There was still the aftermath of the commotion I caused to contend with, and I worried that I would be dragged screaming from my seat and beaten with clubs in front of the public as I tried desperately to explain myself. I would have to remember to protect my head with my arms as they beat me. An example would have to be made. This was after all DC, and they didn’t take any guff from a freak like me. Order, or the illusion of, had to be maintained at all costs or the terrorists would win.

I watched out the window for any sign of the bastards closing in, sweating. But it wasn't long before everyone was on board and I eased back into my seat. But although the bus was still mostly empty, someone just had to sit right in front of me. I could tell I was going to have to snuff him out and hide his body in the closet shitter. He was chewing gum, loudly; slapping his gums against his yellow teeth with every chew. He wore a filthy baseball cap and appeared to be the kind of man who prided himself on getting under your skin.

The next twenty minutes were spent joining the entire bus in listening to him talk on the phone, loudly and unashamed, to his pill-head wife about how her mother was a horrible human. Despite the instructions of the driver over the intercom that all phone calls should be kept to oneself quietly he insisted that everyone should hear this one.

Two excruciating hours after, were spent being held prisoner while he told me his story, turned in his seat to look at me as he did so. I tried to show my disinterest eventually by looking out the window, but he just… kept… going… A surge of rage washed over me as I did my best to contain my desire to strangle the life from his pudgy body. But this was not the place for a showdown. I had to get to Virginia.

Images of scheming pill poppers and a house filled with broken moldy walls, hazelnut coffee creamer, and filth covered carpets. The story became more depraved the longer he wasted my air. And eventually, I humored him. Partly out of sadistic curiosity in the study of how the mutants really live. I wanted to study their habits. And partly because I realized that this bastard was on edge from a lifetime of being mentally abused and if I didn't this poor bastard was going to axe murder them all. Shit… They would probably blame me and charge me under some trumped up bullshit good-Samaritan law. And it goes without saying, if he had smelt fear on me, he might very well start with the whole damn bus... He confided in me that he had confronted the bastards about the whispers at night behind closed doors, and how they laughed about bleeding his money, using him as a cheap man servant.

At the next stop we got off the bus for a quick break, but to my joy he was leaving. I lit a cigarette and he thanked me for listening as he got into a friend's car. I finished the smoke, and as he rode away I flipped the smoldering butt in their direction. So long you poor sick bastard. I wandered back to my seat on the bus, and hoped he would be the last maniac I would have to suffer for a while.

The next station was a transfer in Charlottesville, Virginia. I stepped out of the bus and lit another smoke. The air was hot and thick with moisture, and the heat from the bus only added to the thick haze of discomfort as it idled. The next bus wasn't due for thirty minutes or so. Fair enough. I snuffed out the butt on the concrete and I went inside the small station where everyone else was waiting in the air conditioning.

I cursed myself for not having any cash or change. The soda machine flaunted its ice cold refreshments at me as I cursed Virginia and this stop for not having the modern conveniences of an ATM or at the very least, a machine that took cards. An ATM wouldn't have did any good. Shit...the damned soda machine only takes ones. Swine! My throat was parched, but did I dare use the water fountain? What filthy low-life beast had watered their diseased pallet just moments before our arrival?

Discouraged I stepped into the bathroom. After I had shook the last drops off at the dusty urinal I turned to wash my hands in the sink and stopped cold. It was pointless. I would have come away filthier from using the sinks than if I had just accepted the reality of not washing my hands. So I went out to the lobby, rubbing my hands on the front of my pants as I went, pretending for the crowd that I had braved the sinks.

The bus came moments later and we boarded. I found another empty row of seats at the very back and settled in like the last time. And although this one had cup holders too which were useless to me except as a reminder that I was parched, this bus was beaten and had seen better days twenty years ago. It had a worn foot rest that screeched as you applied the weight of your feet, the seats were deflated and conformed to years of wilder beasts flatulating in them, and the arm rests were destroyed as though an army of hungry bastard children had been gnawing on them for years. Not that I cared. One ride is as good as the next.

The driver came onto the bus and asked if anyone else would like to drink alcohol on the bus. Before I realized his sarcasm, I had almost raised my hand frantically and yelled out, "Damnit! Yes man! For all that is fucking holy! Give me a god-damn bottle!" But I caught myself before looking like a fool.

There had been some bad noise outside with a passenger who was fresh out of the pen. Not even a day old. He decided it would be a good idea to go buy beer before we left and use it as his carry-on luggage for the long ride ahead. But they just wouldn't let him on... Instead, he was left at the station. They were kind enough to not call the police because the driver didn’t want to see him back behind bars for such a seemingly innocent desire. Shit, the poor bastard had probably waited what seemed like an eternity for that drink, and he just couldn’t wait any longer. But he wasn’t getting on the bus. That’s where they drew the line.

I remember thinking, “Let’s get this thing moving man... I've got somewhere important to be. I don’t have time for this. My father and I, don’t have time for this…” And before long we were pulling away from the station, back into the veins of this incredible organism called America.

After what seemed like a very short time, the driver spoke over the speaker system and informed us that the bus was having difficulties maintaining power. He also told us that it wouldn’t make it past Roanoke and that there should be another bus waiting for us when we arrived, or at least he hoped so. I heard the engine labor over hills and cry out as we passed other voyagers. Its time was nigh.

We rolled into Roanoke at 4:30 pm. The horse we rode in on took the proverbial fuck you and died, and the other bus, did not exist. For the first hour or so, they told us at the station that it shouldn’t be any more than a couple of hours before our replacement arrived. They were wrong.

It was coming all the way from Richmond, and it hadn’t left until we arrived at Roanoke and the mechanics looked over our bus, finally concurring that there was no hope; it had shit the bed. That in itself had taken the better part of an hour, and Richmond was on the other end of the commonwealth. We all knew we were fucked.

A few desperate souls took the chance on hiring a cab to take them all the way to Wytheville, splitting the cost between them. It would be a whopping one-hundred and eighty bucks, and a close schedule. They had to make it there inside of an hour and a half to catch a connecting bus, or the risk would be for nothing. And they would be left sitting, in Wytheville, until we caught up to them hours later.

I spent the time with a new friend and fellow passenger Doug. A friendly face who had an easy way about him and a warm smile. He was the kind of soul that simply radiated the idea that you wanted to share that moment in time with them, and that nothing unpleasant could come of it. I talked him through his problems involving a crazy ex and a child caught in the middle, by providing insights and experiences of my own. He was eager for information and counsel, and most of all, he was open to an outside point of view for some kind of perspective. Just some voice of sanity. And although I have never claimed to be that voice, I did my best to relate my own journey.

All he wants is to be a dad and make the best for his little girl. He had a collection of self-help books trying to figure out a way to communicate with someone who did their best to manipulate the situation and drive the screws to him every chance they got. But he hadn’t given up, and after some college, he was traveling to find himself and to discover just what it is in this life he is supposed to be doing, so he can make a better life for his child. He doesn't know it yet, but he is in the grip of the Great Magnet like myself, and I think, in the end, he will be ok. The Great Magnet draws those who are worthy.

And of course we were accosted by pan handlers lying in wait for those who have no choice but to be prisoners of the station. Not a bad shtick, but I suspect that the business is extremely territorial. So Doug bought some beers at a local convenience mart on the corner after we looked for a bar with no luck. At first we were just going to wander nearby in the streets and casually drink them from the brown wrapper as though nothing was going on. But after I spotted the fuzz parked a small distance away we decided something more covert may be the wiser decision. Doug was impressed at how I could spot the pigs so easily and at such a distance. But when you grow up the son of an officer, the images and forms of authority are burned into your brain. Picking them out of the landscape becomes a sort of extra sense. So we drank them on top of a parking garage above the station, enjoying the view.

We finished the beers, just before one of the local suits came out of an office building on our level. We had been drinking next to her vehicle and I had just moments before told Doug that something didn’t feel right and that we should down the rest of the tallboys in our brown paper wrappers. We had just finished them off, belching loudly as we tucked them away in an alcove in the cement barrier wall, when she made her way out of the doors. We were walking away as she approached, and after a friendly hello to the suit, we made our way back down to the ground floor and the station to check on any updates. Just act respectable; fool the locals. Earn their trust.

Still no word on the next bus. So we sat with a handful of fellow freaks outside smoking, and wondered if the others who had taken the cab had managed to make their connection. Another panhandler wandered by asking for money but he was out of luck.

Moments later that same panhandler re-enacted a Jerry Springer episode with a local female and her boyfriend. He must have asked for money, and when the white girl had told him to fuck off, the black panhandler began spitting racist and sexist slurs at her and her black boyfriend. The female flew into a rage and flurry of street trash lingo, while the young but solidly built boyfriend asked the panhandler to just move on. Neither the girlfriend nor the panhandler were having it however, and the continued to insult each other, pushing dangerously close to physical altercation while the boyfriend acted as shield and peace keeper. It spilled into the street. And just before the police arrived, both parties had finally given it up and moved on.

The relief bus showed just before 9pm and not a minute too soon. A few more hours of this and I was sure that the group inside the station would resort to cannibalism to survive. They were already looking at each other with savage lust in their eyes, sizing up their meals. Doug and I were the slimmest of everyone involved so we had time since we offered little in the way of real nourishment. But time was all we had, and it wouldn’t be long after the others had fallen, that the strongest of the group inside would be looking to us for their next meal.

One thing I've learned in these situations is that the freaks naturally gravitate towards each other and make the best of it. The mutants hide inside and languish. Not us. Had it been the zombie apocalypse, I was confident I was in good company...

We boarded the bus and once again I found myself in the back seat. But this time I had a scattering of new companions around me, all spread out for comfort, but within earshot of each other. Doug and I exchanged contact information and everyone settled in for the rest of the ride to Wytheville. Just 3 hours and 40 more minutes of smooth riding in our brand new empty bus, decked out with the latest comforts, and I would arrive in Bristol. In the darkness of the bus, I receded into my thoughts, thinking of my father, with the hope, that he would be ok.

There was a time when I had wanted to give up and stop this madness of following my dreams as an artist. I was ready to quit school, even though I was halfway through my undergraduate courses, and just move back to be with the kids and him. I had started all of this partly because I wanted to be someone my children could be proud of. Partly because the idea of dieing without leaving some mark that I was ever here, had kept me awake at night since I was a child. I can remember the day I realized I was going to die while I rode in a car with my mother. I wept uncontrollably and something snapped in that young brain, even though she assured me it would be a very long time before that happened.

Also partly because I was sick of working for someone else, making them rich while I couldn’t even afford rent and food most days, and I had been doing that for over twenty long years. But mostly, because there was a burning need there, since I could remember, to be a Master Artist. There had to be something more out there than being a cog in the machine, and I had something to say about the Spectacle that I just had to release on the world.

When I wanted to give up, and I thought I had used the last bit of energy left inside of me, my father urged me in a letter to not give up. He told me that it had always been his dream to be an officer since he was a child, and he was able to do that. It took sacrifice, and a lot of uncertainty. But in the end, he achieved his dreams. And he told me that there are so very few people in the world who ever get to say they lived their dreams, but he was one of them. And he knew, that this was something I was meant to do. I found the strength and resolve to continue, and I never looked back.

The path has been fraught with peril and extreme personal danger. I’ve braved all of the elements walking to and from school, sometimes three hours each way. Biting cold, freezing rain, lake front storms, and searing heat, just so I could attend classes and be a part of the scene. And in the end, it paid off. I graduated Magna Cum Laude and found my way to Washington, DC to study for a Master Degree. All because of a fire that has been there since I was a child, and the letters that Dad and I exchanged over the course of my life.

We’ve always written each other when we were apart, and I’ve kept every letter, kissing them as I tucked them back in their envelopes for safe keeping. If he were gone, who would I write to? Who would take that time to listen to my words, and offer the advice and love that he had given all these years? Where would I find my sanity and how would I ever know where the line was? Restraint has never been my strong point, and I have a tendency to gravitate towards living life with a gusto that borders on insanity. Only the brave, desperate, or foolish need apply here… But somehow, his voice would always be there.

When we arrived in Wytheville, we discovered that the enterprising individuals who took the cab were successful. They were nowhere to be found. At least, I can only assume that they had been successful. It is entirely possible that they found themselves sucked into some temporal vortex and landed in far worse fare than if they had just waited.

There was a forty minute layover for food at the station. And then we were on our way to Marion and then Bristol, Tennessee where my ex-wife Becky and her husband Anthony would be waiting to pick me up. As I passed by the hospital where Dad lay resting, along the highway in the night I whispered in the dark to him, “Just a little longer Dad. Keep fighting…”

As I got off the bus in Bristol Bec and Anth pulled in to the parking lot with smiles. It felt like home.

#Patrick Holt #the great magnet #Dad #Missing you

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