Brain On Fire

April 9, 2006 

untitled and unfinished 

Dusk was setting in over State Road 100 as we made our way through the woods on the way back from Palatka.  We rode with the windows open in Jed's black pickup truck and I saw the breeze scattering his long, straight, brown-black hair.  We'd gone out for the day in search of the meaning of life somewhere out in the woods and dusty hick towns of North Florida and were returning to Lake Butler empty-handed.  We'd barely said a word since supper at Huddle House and the only soundtrack to our ride was the chirping of crickets and peepers hidden behind the tall pines and Spanish moss.  Jed's smooth tan face was lonely and sad in that strong, silent, masculine way and reflected my own inner turmoil.  One hand rested on the gear shift and it could have been so easy for me to put my hand on his but of course I didn't dare.  I lost myself in lamentation and didn't realize how long I'd been admiring him when his expression softened and he glanced at me.  Mockingly, he said, "Huh?! What're ya lookin' at?!"

Snapping out of it, I smirked and tossed off, "Nothin' much!"  I quickly busied myself by ransacking my backpack for the bottle of honey I picked up at a farm stand in Starke, opened it, and squeezed some of the golden goo straight into my mouth.

"Make sure that dudn't get on the seat, I just cleaned this truck yesterday," Jed admonished.

"I won't," I grumbled.  The first dose of honey satisfied as I'd hoped, but the second one left an unpleasant aftertaste.  "Hmm," I said as I tipped back more.

"How is it?" he asked.

"Ugh," I admitted.  "It tastes like manure."

"That's nasty."

"That's the best way I can describe it."  I quickly sucked down two more squirts anyway.

"So why do you keep eating it?"

"It has just enough of that honey sweetness to get me to have more."

"So if you had a spoon of manure and it was sweetened with honey, you'd keep eating it, even though it mostly tastes like manure?"

"Of course not!" I chuckled.  He sighed and smiled and kept on looking at the road ahead.  I put away the honey and we resumed our unspoken frustration.  Jed decided that he was uncomfortable with it and wordlessly turned on the radio in time to catch "I Can See Everything".  The keening steel guitar, tender tenor vocals, and despairing lyrics proved too much for my emotional state and I betrayed a single teardrop.  I turned toward the passenger-side window and stared through the passing scenery.  After the first refrain, Jed suddenly spoke.

"Rusty," he said to me, his voice hard with strain.  I wiped my eye and pulled my baseball cap over my face as though I was trying to sleep.  I wasn't sure if I felt like answering him.  "Rusty," he said again.

"Yeah," I acknowledged.

"What, are you takin' a nap? I'm sorry."

"Nah, I dunno," I grunted, removing the hat and letting the warm wind frizz my red curls.  The wind was inevitable and so was facing him.

"Uh, I was wonderin' if you wanted to come over my place for a while before you go home ..."

I didn't answer him right away because I had to consider this.  I honestly hated to have to bid him good-night when the ride was over, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hang out with him over beers without confessing my true feelings.  I was so addicted to his presence, though, that I gave in.  "Sure," I said as nonchalantly as I could, then silently kicked myself for it.

"I mean, we might as well finish off the day properly, y'know, watch the stars come out ..."  As if this was a new activity we'd never enjoyed before and he had to explain it.  Apparently he needed to share whatever was troubling him.  Fine, misery loves company.

"Of course, I guess I ain't sleepy after all, anyway," I said.

After a few more taciturn minutes with the radio on, Jed turned the truck onto his road and into his woodsy property.  I put my hat on and lazily alighted, following him around the bushes and to the front door of his ranch house.  We went inside, he turned on the living room light, I dropped my bag on the sofa, and he went into the kitchen while I continued on to the sliding door and out to the porch.  I sat down on the porch swing, took off my hat, and waited.  Momentarily the slider opened and closed and he joined me on the swing, presenting me with a longneck.  We cracked open the beers and sipped in silence while the crickets and the neighbors' air conditioning unit droned on.  More silence ...it was almost deafening.  After an excruciating couple of minutes, Jed again broke it.

"So ...ya got a few minutes? I, uh, I got somethin' on my mind."

"I have all night, technically. What's up?"  I was starting to feel nervous from the suspense.  He heaved another sigh and ran his hand through his hair.

"Well ...I--I wanted to tell you that I've been thinking about you and me and how long we've been friends. I'm really glad we're friends and--ya really mean a lot to me."

I knew it, he'd figured me out.  Now here was the rejection that had been a long time coming, the trite explanation that he could never reciprocate my feelings but really valued me as a friend.  The butterflies in my stomach started fluttering full-force and I stared at my beer while waiting for the axe to fall.  He cocked his head to try to meet my gaze and his hair brushed his shoulder.  Reluctantly, I looked up at him and he straightened up.  His deep brown eyes were wide with what almost looked like fear.

"What I really want to say is, will you marry me?"

It was almost a whisper.  Unsmiling and barely breathing, I stared at him and whispered back, "What?"

"You heard me."

I put down my beer so I wouldn't drop it from my trembling hands, took a sharp breath, and said, "Yes."

"Will ya?"

"Yes."

"Ya mean it?"  He took my hand in his.

"Damnit, Jed, I said yes."

I was so eager to put myself out there and show off my artistic and literary creations and now it's been a while since I added anything.  Some things in my life have been distracting me, not the least of which is the Three-Month Experiment, or the Arizona Project.  In other words, a short, experimental relocation from New England to Arizona that is set to begin on September 6, assuming I have a place to live at that point.  The other thing that's been in the works under the radar is a "book" I'm trying to "write".  I like writing stories but have a hard time finishing them, so this time may prove to be no different, but so far I've been fairly disciplined about adding to the story on a regular basis, so my creative energy has mostly been going into that.  I haven't decided yet if I want to post excerpts as they materialize, though I probably should.  Stay tuned, though.  Even if new material drops off, Arizona should provide ample fodder for this webpage.

originally written on 10/27/05, then revised on 1/29/06

A soft rain falls steadily on an Appalachian evening in June.  The unoccupied attic loft is illuminated by a single yellow incandescent lamp while the transistor radio on the desk unobtrusively plays "The Heart of the Night".  A marbled composition notebook lies open on the desk to a blank page with today's date neatly penciled into the upper right-hand corner.  The chocolate Labrador snoozes on his red plaid flannel cushion under the sill of the open window.  The room has a sense of suspended animation to it, save for the wooden clock hanging on the wall above the desk.  Its brass hands chase the minutes around and around on the lacquered wooden face shaped like the state of North Carolina.  In a moment, the rumble of the blue Ford pickup truck fades into earshot down the county road and grows louder as it comes down the driveway.  It passes under the window and eases into the garage behind the house.  The driver's door opens and then slams shut and the garage door is pulled closed for the night.  Any more spur-of-the-moment errands will have to wait until tomorrow.

The tall, athletic, sandy-haired man in the blue jeans, construction boots, blue t-shirt, and black baseball cap comes into the house, leaves his boots in the mud room, and comes straight up to the attic.  The chocolate Lab opens his eyes and lifts his head in greeting, swishes his tail once or twice, then resumes his dozing.  "Hey, buddy," the man says to him rather listlessly, as he pulls his cap off and runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it up into spikes of blond and brown.  He sighs and gazes long-faced out the window into the fading dusk.

After a moment's reflection, he turns and sits in the worn wooden chair at the desk.  He opens the whiskey bottle he just bought and pours some of it into a glass waiting ready on the desk.  He picks up a pencil and turns his attention to the empty page in the notebook.  To write down exactly what, he doesn't know, and his mind wanders to the framed photo hanging on the wall under the clock.  He looks at it frequently these days to stay motivated to go on the upcoming annual camping trip with the guys, but it always sets off a vicious cycle.  There he is a year ago with five of his closest buddies, standing in front of the shoreline with the canoe at their feet, each holding an oar while Jackson clutches a fish in his mouth, red bandana around his neck, and tail wagging.  It was a great trip and the picture came out so well ...thanks to her.  The one with the freckles, blue eyes, and long red braid, hiking with her friends, whom he'd flagged down to take the picture.  That day felt like the first day of the rest of his life, but then so did this past Sunday.  He restlessly tries to focus on the notebook and how much fun he wants to have on this year's trip.

The man rests his head on his hand, unable to remember what he'd so urgently wanted to write before he impulsively interrupted himself to run to the package store for the whiskey.  The song now playing on the radio is sure to ruin his concentration for the evening: "I can't tell you why," croons the sweet tenor of Timothy B. Schmit as a smoky, sensual electric organ paints the background with watercolor blues and purples.  The man lays his pencil down hard on the notebook in resignation with a sigh.  He clasps the glass of whiskey in his writing hand and allows himself to steep in the melancholy that threatened to descend on him sooner or later.  It was a week ago that she tearfully explained that her feelings had evaporated and she felt terribly but it would be best for them to part ways, at least to take a break, so that he would not waste energy trying to win her over.  She felt it was better to burn out than to fade away.  He kind of felt sorry for her as he looked into her wet blue eyes, which were bluer than he could ever remember seeing them.  Everything before his eyes in that moment seemed more vivid and clear than usual as he stood still and could scarcely breathe while she finished saying those sharp, stabbing words.  He replays once more the mental film of her blushing countenance and then the long, thick coppery hair on the back of her head fluttering as she walked down the road without looking back.  "No, I can't tell you why," sings the radio.  He lets go of the whiskey glass, straightens up, looks up at the clock, and stands up out of the chair.  He turns off the desk lamp, walks away from the desk, and walks over to Jackson to rub his head.  He has been a faithful and valuable companion this week, keeping the man going each day, but he misses her too and senses that she may not return for a long time, if ever.  The man stands up to again look out the window at his woods, driveway, and the county road, perhaps to find some meaning or revelation in the mist and trees.  The rain has tapered off to a drizzle and the air is heavy with humidity.  His face glows blue in the dusk against the blue-black background of the room.  The radio is still on but the only other sounds audible are the ticking clock, crickets chirping, and water running through the downspouts.  On this stretch of road, the neighbors are likely enjoying their Saturday evening doing something away from their homes and the married couple down the road isn't hosting one of their famous shindigs this weekend.  He feels like he is the only twenty-five-year-old man in town who's not at the rod and gun club, at the speedway, or bar-hopping in Charlotte.  He doesn't want to squander a good Saturday night on hobbies or sleep but he can't bring himself to call any of the guys and he fears that a cup of tea with Carrie could inspire false rebound feelings for her when they have long been strictly friends.

The man draws the sheer curtain across the window, turns around, and crosses the room to draw the shade on the south window.  It is just about dark in the room now and he almost steps on the dog on the way back to the east window.  He pushes aside the curtain and resumes staring at the drizzle in the dusk, listening to the soft voice on the radio feel sorry for itself as it stands "in the midnight rain, all alone with the pieces of my heart again."  He heaves another sigh, lets go of the curtain, and walks over to the futon.  He doesn't even unfold it but lies down, fully dressed, and crosses his arms behind his head.  As night falls and the glass of whiskey sits forgotten and untouched on the desk, the wet green trees outside the window turn dark blue and he closes his eyes.  Maybe he'll wake up at midnight, restless and out of sorts, or sleep solidly until morning, when he'll awaken feeling grody and wondering why he'd been too lazy to shower and sleep down in his bedroom.  Either way he'll be waking up with half of his heart missing and when the sky lightens again, it will be just another morning in the Appalachian mist.