Monthly Archives: January 2005

I walk alone

I don’t like it here. Hayward sucks. The Bay Area, in general, sucks. I do not belong here. I was so happy in Chico, why did I leave again? When I was bored in Chico there was so much for me to do that I enjoyed doing.

I walked EVERYWHERE. I walked to my pubs, I walked to coffee, I walked to school, I walked downtown, I walked across the street to buy beer, I walked around the corner to have breakfast, I walked home from Kelly’s house at 4am, I walked to my friend’s houses… I walked everywhere. Here in Hayward I don’t walk. Here in the Bay Area I do not walk. The very few things I like to do here–play golf, go to Dave’s house, have a beer at The Bistro–I have to drive. Everything is so spread out you can’t really walk anywhere.

I miss hiking in Bidwell Park, up and down the trails next to the creek filled with trout and sometimes salmon. I miss hiking in the Sierra foothills, thousands of feet above sea-level. I miss my beautiful sweeping views and the crisp pine-tree smell of the forest. I miss my fly fishing creeks and streams. I miss the cheap golf and cheap booze. I miss Chico.

I gotta get out of this place. I feel like I’m rotting here in Hayward. The East Bay is a cesspool of filth. This place sucks. I gotta make a move, and I need to do it quick.

Maybe I’ll just get up and walk out of here? I’ll just pack a little bag and start walking, I don’t know, north or something. I’ll walk until I get tired and then I’ll find a place to rest. I’ll be like Caine in Kung Fu, like Jules in Pulp Fiction wanted to be. I understand now what he was talking about, how he felt. So much of my life has been spent rooted in one place or another. I want to wander. I want to experience a new kind of life.

I gotta get outta here…

The man in black

His stomach growled, and he thought about the crate of oranges in his truck. He loved oranges. Out here in the desert, he ate them almost exclusively. A few times a day he would stop in the middle of nowhere, sit on his tailgate, and eat 3 or 4. This way he didn’t have to carry water or food, he could just eat his oranges. Passersby would sometimes see a neat little pile of orange peels on the side of the road, and you could track him in this manner, if you really wanted to, all the way across the West, by tracking the orange peels from town to town and place to place.
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The Running Man

The door opened and she walked in.

He had seen her before in his dreams, many times like this, and she was perfect. A wisp of hair fell nonchalantly across her face, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. It was a smile of confidence and grace, and he shuddered. With a free hand she lit a cigarette, and stood there for a moment, letting him take her in. After what seemed a long while, she carefully stepped across the cluttered room and whispered in his ear.

That’s the way it always happened. He shook his head and tried to think of something else, as he turned to look out the window of the café. In the distance an arm of lightning touched down, and a moment later he felt the thunder in his chest.

He was tired of driving that night and wanted to rest. This little place in the middle of nowhere called to him, as his old Ford pickup hummed down the highway. At first a faint glow, and then a neon sign, and then he pulled into the parking lot. He sat there for a moment with the engine running, contemplating his actions, where he had been, and where he was going. The rain was coming down much harder now.

Inside the cafe he reached down and lifted the cup to his lips. Cold. How long had he been sitting in the booth? The coffee was terrible, even when hot, but he hardly cared. He sat there, staring at the surface of the liquid, stirring it slowly, stirring his thoughts away.

The door opened and she walked in.