Baseball, Blues & Bills

 The End

The depression and anxiety attacks have taken their toll. I no longer, well, I haven't had any love of any sort at home for almost 20 years. I wish I could start a new life but my health stands squarely in my path and leaves almost no choice. I've pretty much had it. My stomach is in constant knots and I feel like there is someone or something screaming to get out. Screaming and clawing and I am exhausted from fighting it. I really have no place to go, so I've packed a small backpack and a few key items of my life including my tattered and much-loved copy of "Catcher in the Rye". I slipped out the backdoor like a thief into the night. Tears stream down my face as I picture my boy, Jack the dog, sleeping peacefully. My soft footsteps kick up debris as I trudge down the road.

An empty train station is no place to try and compose yourself at 3AM, so I stand and wait for, I guess, the first commuter train of the day. I quit smoking years ago, but I have never craved one more than right now. It would play hell with my lungs but it might calm my stomach down. Plenty of time to think as the dawn starts to break. It's always lonely and fucking cold early in the day. I'm shivering, my face streaked with tears, I must look quite pleasant with my swollen eyes and gaunt complexion, if I'm not careful I might get tossed from the train for looking like a vagrant.

The train was warm, at least. It was almost totally empty and I sat with my hands clasped just staring at them. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to do. One thing I did know, was I wasn't coming back again.

I got the key to the highway

Packed and bound to go

I'm gonna leave here runnin'

Walkin' is much too slow

Yup, gotta learn that song on my resonator before I leave this earth. That was the one thing of consequence I took with me besides my harps. It's like dyin' with your boots on, I wasn't goin' down without 'em.

The Newark station was empty and depressing as hell. A couple of homeless folks slept under newspapers on a couple of benches. I made note of what section of the paper was covering them, lest I need some warmth in the future. I purchased a seat on the Denver bound Greyhound, intending to jump ship at Goodland, KS. I knew I'd have plenty of time to think about what the fuck was so great about Goodland. First off, I'd passed by it thumbing my way West a couple dozen times and 2nd it was so far out on the prairie I could stand in a wheat field stark naked and no one would probably notice, perfect. So began a couple of days' jaunt that would take me smack dab down I 70, a road I probably knew better than any other.

The wheels on the bus go round and round

I used to listen to my baby granddaughter sing that song. There were no cute babies on this bus, to be sure, it was maybe 1/2 filled with a conglomerate of poorer than most senior citizens. Poor bastards, this country sure did right by them. While I was here by design, these folks had little to no choice. We bumped and wheezed over the road stopping in every podunk town along the way. If you want to get a look, and I mean a good look at the real America, this is your best bet. Most of the towns were 1/2 closed down it seemed, with blank movie house marquees tired old cafes, and of course corporate America's answer to paradise, 7-11, Dunkin Donuts, and a McDonalds. Loads and loads of pork and unhealthy flab wandering around. The bus pulled back onto the highway, I leaned in towards the window and then noticed something scrawled on the seat in front of me

Fuck You

Most of the music I owned was stored safely inside my head and I hummed to myself as we rolled along. I'm sure my 2000 + CD and LP collection were at this point scattered to the four winds or in an old dumpster somewhere, such was my tired old life.

I wrote a poem once about chicken and dumplings in Abilene, Kansas, and after the bus parked I went in search of some. "Drake's Bakery" seemed like a good place as any and as I entered I saw that I was correct. Even though it was still fairly early the place was almost filled with farmer types settled in for their morning grub and cup of mud, "jackpot" I thought as I sat at a counter stool. Soon I was treated to something far better than chicken and dumplings if that was possible, a big plate filled with biscuits and sausage gravy. That's the way to go if you're going to croak from being an obese but poor old man. I went to wash up after breakfast and looked at myself in the mirror. "Jesus, I look like pure shit" my frazzled brain spat out at me. Bags under my eyes, a 2-day stubble of snow-white whiskers, and a look in my eyes that told me I was nearer the end. Where was the beginning? I wept as I realized what the fuck I was doing, I had come here, at least in another day, to breathe my last on this earth. Not a religious man, I prayed for my children, grandchildren, and wife, that they would not suffer too much from my cowardly act. I saw no other way out.

*This is getting too dark, even for me. Suffice it to say there are only 2 logical (?) endings for this twisted saga. 1) I get to Goodland, KS., check in to a Motel 6, purchase a gun in town, wait for the paperwork to go through, pick up the gun, load it, and stroll to the field between the Motel and the Interstate, face the setting sun and blow my brains out. 2) Same as above only instead of suicide I fire 6 shots in the air, and the police come and find me in a crumpled sobbing state, long story short I wind up in a psych unit in Topeka, Ks. From there it just becomes a story of shadows and phantoms. I just don't have the nerve to finish the story, if you want to know the truth. 

The above story does have a few truths in it, however, after 35 years of marriage my wife and I are in damn good shape, all things considered.