The Wastepaper Basket

We all sit down, some of us leaning forwards, most of us itching to leave. No one is going to leave, as much as we want to- we’re all watching him.

“So you promise?” I ask again. I stare Jack in the eyes, all of us studying him. It’s not our intention to break the man, but it’s a miracle he doesn’t balk under all our eyes. Four chairs are angled at Jack; four chairs, eight eyes. Watching.

“If she does this again, you’ll call the cops?”

Jack sits up in his chair, a slow ease into steadfastness. When he answers, he is answering me. He is answering with his clouded blue eyes suddenly clear– only a little, and only for a moment, but in that moment Jack is his own person. It’s like the clouds have opened up to show the sun, albeit briefly.

“If she gets that way again,” Jack answers slowly. “I will call the cops.” He looks around the room, not knowing what our faces are trying to say. Only a few minutes before he would have sworn that we were all about to quit. He’s not too far off. In reality, our faces will give away nothing. We are all of us too tired. We are not sure if he is to be believed.

As for me, in those moments I had to ask myself… how did it get to this again? How did it get here… again?

There are many stories that I have told to the bone– they are my pieces of interest that I rush to tell home, to shout at friends, to liven up campfires until everyone has heard them a dozen times. I have not lived very long yet, and my bag of tricks is relatively shallow. Lately I have been finding myself asking, over and over, have I told you this before? Did I tell you this already? Have you already heard this? 

There have been a few days the past weeks that I’ve gotten a message, from one state or another, messages that won’t get old, messages to make me smile. In the end they’ll ask, where are you? I can’t keep track of you. You’re always somewhere, aren’t you? I like the sentiment– on my side of things, it feels like I keep falling in one hole or another, and wander around until I get stuck somewhere else. This isn’t completely true; just a way to not place blame where it’s due. I might get stuck, but it’s my own wandering that finds me these places. It’s nice for people to think that I’m dancing around, but I can’t say it’s really true. 

For the past two years I’ve been bouncing around– falling, dancing, whatever is appropriate. I’ve loved my time tripping, and I’ve talked and talked, but I’ve never really put it down to paper. For two years I’ve found myself going on and on, to the point that I bore myself– did I tell you about the time they tried to starve me out in Alaska? That reminds me of that house I worked at, where the dog pooped on the walls, did I tell you about that? You remember the naked kid I took care of, the little girl that threw gum around the house? Or the painter that made me do all those drawings– I am getting to the end of these stories, and I think part of me can feel it. After two years of travel, a real life calls to me, and my time at the circus is going to be over. It’s not that I believe that I won’t have new stories coming my way, but there is a sense of finality to the rambling of the past two years. But there is a rumbling feeling, an unease as I start to pack up for the next steps. 

I keep remembering the strangest details. It’s as if all the stories are coming out, waiting to be filed away so a new chapter can begin.

There’s been a part of me that didn’t know how to say it all together– there wasn’t really a singular story to go through, just memories. Skinny dipping in the lake that summer, the rabbits, the contraband under the bathroom sink, the four hour train to the red haired man, the best sandwich in that strange airport, the actor at the christmas party and that terrible, embarrassing concert in the basement of the pub. The house that smelled like piss– the 100 year old woman… and on, and on, and on. The memories would flutter around, but there was nothing organized to use them for. Whenever I did try to write them it felt as if I was trying to prove what strange and awful times I’ve had. It read like an uncomfortably personal gossip piece, a tabloid of people that you’ve never met. So I put it away– and I kept the memories.

When I began this journey, I was always embarrassed I wasn’t somewhere else. I think the perspective of falling in holes is much more accurate– and it’s helped me tack down the memories. As messy as it has been, it’s a mess of my own making– as chaotic as the patterns are, I keep finding them for myself. So, as I sat and listened to Jack explain exactly what we would do if his partner threatened us again, I thought. And I remembered– and I realized I had a place to put all of this after all. For two years I have been bumping around, and now that time is coming to a close. I can be less embarrassed about it all when it’s something to put behind me, can’t I?

I am going away soon, but in the meantime, I would like to tell you about it all. Jazz in east London, kayaking in Maine, the dust winds of Utah, and all the thinking in-between. 

Next time I’m here, I’ll tell you about Alaska. For now– thanks for reading.