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My friend Arnie's got a problem.
Well, of course, that's simplifying. To hear him talk, he's got a million problems, which really gets to the heart of it.
Like a lot of people I know, Arnie thinks the solution to just about anything is talk. Either you talk your way out of it, or you talk about it, or you talk your way through it, to the other side, just to see how the experience was. Jaws flapping, mouths yapping, talk talk talk.
He's doing it right now. Behind the wheel of his '72 Buckett, speeding down a mid-afternoon highway, he's trying to outrun his problems, and out-think them, too. The outrunning part I'm game for. There are a few things I'd rather leave far behind me right now, but you won't hear me blab about them. Not unless Arnie shuts up for a second.
Arnie thinks the world is his own personal crisis. If something is happening -- if anything's happening -- it's happening to him. That kind of egotism is something he's been growing into lately, since, as he claims...
"I've lost my reason to live."
I really only pick up a bit of what he says. I'm far too interested in the road.
The superhighway before us, really, holds no thrill. It's what it means. We're heading West, on what I can only consider is a mission of mercy. Some friends of ours, that I was sort of worried about, need a ride. How they got out of the City and why they can't get back on their own is beyond me, but the thing is, they need help, and, for our own selfish reasons, we're giving it.
Strange. I always thought the West meant freedom, yet here we are rushing that way, to liberate our friends.
Of course, we're going there, to free ourselves.
Even if it doesn't work.
"I guess I knew it was coming for a while," Arnie yells over the rushing air, "But still, I didn't really know, y'know."
I nod, as if he'd even pay enough attention to notice my reaction.
"And it really hurt," Arnie says, hitting himself in the chest.
"Yep," I say.
"If she wanted to get rid of me all this time, why didn't she just say so?"
Again, Arnie speaks as if words are the only answers. Sometimes, you don't need your ears to hear the truth. Sometimes, a glance, a touch, a pen stroke, say so much more. You just need to be open to those sort of things.
I've been reading, books and things. They give you ideas.
"She's been playing for months and months, and I just let her. I think I'm too nice a guy, Pol. That's my problem."
I sigh. That's his problem. Three guesses what mine is.
Move down the road
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