Everyone has a place they dream of escaping to.
The moments that existed between the lights being turned off and the walk to bed were his to own for the briefest of times.
They
were an echo from the edge of a life; one that was now long gone. There
had been a time when all he needed to think about was his own selfish
needs but now he had the wife and kids.
They were his life now, his total life.
He
doused the fire and closed the window against the night air. He could
smell the rain coming from the west and he knew, for certain, that
tomorrow would be a good day.
He
went to his grandfather’s old tobacco box and took out the creased
photo. It was safe in there – the box was on top of a cupboard and the
kids never touched it. His wife knew that was his safe place and never
looked in.
He
couldn’t remember when he first seen it, I mean really seen it -
probably in some old magazine which smelled of damp and sat on a wonky
table in the dentist’s surgery. He hadn’t really known who Hockney was,
just some painter from the Yorkshire coast and anyway art was for other
people, certainly not for the likes of him.
People
talked on the television about paintings and photos in words that his
grandfather would have called ‘flowery’. There was no place for flowery
in his life thank you very much, that was for those and such as those –
although he never really understood what that meant.
But
this one work of Hockney’s really got to him. It was called the Pear
Blossom Highway and for whatever crazy reason the universe had as a
purpose, it genuinely sang to him.
It
floated his boat and that was a much a surprise to him as it was to
anyone. I mean, apart from his lovely family, the only other thing that
made him happy was football. He knew who played for whom and who scored
what, just like his grandfather had taught him (as would have his father
if he’d lived long enough to get to know him).
So
in the twilight, he sat looking at the photo and seeing himself
standing by the side of the road and for no reason other than he could,
he wishedto himself that he was there right there in the Californian
heat.
By
the morning his secret life was shut away in the box and he was back to
taking the family dog, Rufus, for his morning pee, ruffling the kids’
hair, kissing his darling wife and fighting for a place on the road into
town.
He
wasn’t unhappy and no one could say that about him and think it was the
truth, but his dream of standing on Pear Blossom Highway propped up his
struggles against sadness when it came to visit.
Sometimes
he didn’t bother with the photo, like the days when they’d take the
family to the beach – amongst all the screaming and shouting, he’d close
his eyes and feel the warm winds blowing along the Highway and the
smell of the desert air. Okay, it wasn’t real desert but it was a lot
more desert than he could see at home.
One
day he’d found a book about the Pear Blossom Highway and it seems it
was called the death road. Some of the good folks from LA would use it
as an alternative route to the Inland Empire and then they’d drive as if
they’d been set free from unseen restraint, speeding and hollering all
the way home. And as he read the words, in his mind he was driving along
the road with the top down, music on the radio and the biggest goddamn
smile on his lips.
He
found his life was a hungry beast and never satisfied. It ate up time
when he was busy, it devoured seconds, hours, days and weeks as he was
looking somewhere else. Even in his quiet time, life sucked up every
spare second. Before he knew it, the kids had grown, his belly had
grown, he and the wife had grown in opposite directions and he was no
nearer getting to the Highway.
So
he did something he would never have considered a few years earlier. He
kept some of his wages back from the family. Not much but enough. He
stuck it in the box that sat on top of the cupboard and he called it the
emergency fund but he knew it was never going to be used in an
emergency. It’s just that he couldn’t admit that to himself right at
that moment.
When
the boss offered him more work but on the other side of the county, his
guilt made him take the offer; the kids needed new clothes and none of
them had had a holiday in several years. His eldest daughter was getting
interested in boys and she wanted the latest fashions. So every Sunday
evening he would pack the car and head off, returning on a Friday night
when the rest of the family was asleep. But it wasn’t just his daughter
who was dressing up, he noticed new dresses turning up in his wife’s
closet. She wasn’t wearing them for him at the weekend, so who?
He
started to put a little extra money every week in the box on top of the
cupboard. He reckoned it was up to a few hundred by the start of the
summer. One day when the time was right he was going to use some of the
emergency fund and it was going to take him all the way to Pear Blossom
Highway.
One
Friday evening in mid July when he got back home, the house was in its
usual darkness, yet given the warmth in the air the windows were tight
shut. He didn’t bother turning on the lights, instead he took down the
box to look at the photo and that’s all there was - the photo and a
note.
He turned the lamp on and read the letter.
‘I’ve taking the kids and the money you thought I didn’t know about. I’ll be in touch.’
Now
that he was on his own most of the week, life didn’t seem that hungry
any more - there was always time kick around somewhere, unused. Sure he
got to see the kids every second weekend but it meant a five hundred
mile round trip and yes, they were always happy to see each other. Over a
burger they’d talk about how their mother had a new daddy, Eric.
Yeh they liked, Eric he was a good guy apparently.
So
he decided the only way to use up the time was to work seven days a
week, which, when he thought about it was a good thing. It meant he
could send a few hundredmore for the kids and still put some money in
the emergency box.
He
worked the winter, saw the kids from time to time (but not like before)
and worked some more. Come the spring, he got a call from his ex wife.
She was getting married and although she would like to invite him, she
didn’t think it was on the cards but she wondered if he could send some
more money kids to buy clothes for the wedding.
So took the money from the emergency box and sent it to his ex wife.
Apart
from the odd woman he’d pick up in bar from time to time, his nights
and his bed were cold and lonely. It worried him that he’d be hitting
forty soon and he’s still not seen much of the world.
One
Saturday morning, he took his truck to a garage in town and sold it for
a couple of thousand and then went straight to the agents and booked a
flight to Los Angeles in the great state of California.
As
you’re reading this, he’s standing next to the Pear Blossom Highway and
feeling the warm air in his hair and wearing a smile that may just
crack his face.
bobby stevenson 2012
bobby stevenson 2012
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