Thunder Road
or, "The New Year"; or, "Where I Lived, and What I Lived For"
1.
The first thing that hits you when you step off of the plane and into the jetway is the humidity. The Midwest is probably most notable, at least in terms of its climate, for its harsh, cold winters - but a lot of folks seem to always forget that all of those lake effect pressure systems, and the moisture that comes with them, don't just go away once summer rolls around.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. Flipping it open, the text reads:
"great. i'll pick you up outside."
You smile, close your phone, and slip it back into your pocket. You're greeted immediately as you step out of the gate with the familiar sight of one of the many art exhibits scattered throughout the airport, and then the public piano next to the escalators by the check-in desks. You can't hear it very well anymore though, on account of the big glass partition between you and the rest of the building, forcing you to go around, and more signs and ropes lead you towards another security checkpoint near the exit to the lobby.
This is unusual. You're used to being able to come and go from the terminal as you please, but with the way things are going outside, you suppose the extra-tight leash doesn't really surprise you. Things are a lot different now than they used to, after all.
My, how much things change when you're away for so long, though, and yet - some things always seem to stick around longer than others. Things always do, don't they? It's best to roll with the punches than to fight the current, sometimes; that's what your dad would always say, anyway, and you guess for once he's probably right.
Like usual, you try to match up the bags to their owners before they pick them up, and, like usual, you're right only about half the time. You're watching an older businessman in a suit heading for a brown leather bag on the conveyor before you spot yours, and never see the man or his bag ever again.
***
2.
You're just about to cave and ask the young woman sitting on the bench in the “designated smoking area” a few ways down the sidewalk for a cigarette when you finally see the silver Chevy Malibu headed slowly down the side of the building and pull up beside you, Bruce Springsteen blaring loudly from the open windows.
"Hey stranger," says the driver, reaching over to turn a knob on the dash, and across the gearshift to push open the door, "need a lift?"
"Took you long enough," you laugh, shaking your head as you throw your bag into the backseat, and close the passenger side door behind you. "I was wondering if you'd gotten lost in your driveway getting here, or something."
Your friend smiles and shrugs. "Nah, I've been taking some orienteering classes at the library," he jokes. "I moved out about a month ago, anyway."
"Oh really? That's the first I've heard of that," you answer, before turning away from the window and back towards him, "How did you figure out how to get there in the first place, then?"
Anthony is wearing a denim jacket, dyed a bright red and a pair of Aviator sunglasses, and if it wasn't for the pair of brand new boat shoes he'd had on, hidden just underneath the dashboard at the pedals, he'd have looked downright salt-of-the-earth, especially with the flat, Midwest farmland whipping by the window next to him. It really had been far too long.
"Har har," he says, and rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. "I've been doing fine on my own since you left, you know. Remus has been a big help, too."
"Where is he, anyway? Are you two still living together?"
Anthony was quiet, and for a little while the only noise in the car was tires on pavement and the bridge rattling underneath, and the almost painfully on-the-nose sound of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel's voices, drifting languidly from the stereo.
It was quiet for a little longer as you cross the dark, roaring waters of the Mississippi, and Anthony just stared directly at the road in front of him, I-9 stretching out straight ahead for miles just past the hood of his car. He shook his head, keeping both hands on the wheel,
"No. I moved out about a month ago."
"Oh." You really aren't sure what to make of that, so you just say the next thing that comes to mind, which is "I'm sorry to hear that."
Anthony shook his head. "No, it isn't like that. You know, it's just..."
You wait, patiently, grateful for the fact that the two of you are close enough for the silence to not be particularly awkward. Hard not to be, when you'd shared a dorm room every year since freshman year.
"I guess I just needed a break, is all."
You nod. "You do work too hard."
"Yeah."
The two of you are silent for a little while longer, and finally you look back up from the backpack sitting on the floor at your feet, and out the window next to you.
"Where are we headed, anyway? Excelsior's the other way, I thought."
For the first time in a few minutes now, Anthony loosens up a little, and smiles.
"Taco Bell," he says, lowering his sunglasses to peer over them at you, a familiar glint in his eye. "You looked pretty hungry."
***
3.
The breeze blows through your hair and into your face; you've been growing it out since the end of winter break, and by now it had gotten long enough for you to find yourself having to brush your bangs out of the way quite often, now. Waves lap calmly at the rocky shore just underneath the dock while you and Anthony stand at the edge, looking out at the small lake in the middle of town.
"It's really nice out here," you remark, leaning back from the railing and sliding your hands into your back pockets. "I didn't really expect you to come from such a..."
You trail off for a little and Anthony just laughs. "It's fine, you can say it. This is the kind of place where folks go to get their white picket fence, and all that," he says, wryly, turning around and away from the lake to face you. "Don't worry, if anyone calls the cops on you, you can call me and I'll tell them you're our groundskeeper," he teases, before the two of you set off down the sidewalk tracing the shoreline once more.
"Well, you said it, not me," you say with a grin of your own. The air is still humid and warm even as the sun started to go down - one of the things you missed most about the climate up here. Back home the days get too hot, and the nights are even colder, no matter what time of year it is. In the summertime, it's impossible to dress for the weather, sometimes.
"It really is nice out here, though," you continue, and look out towards the road on the other side of the path, opposite the lakeshore. A proper Small Town, USA Main Street, complete with a discount theater, public library, and a diner, one with one of those old soda fountains, all lined up along a quiet little two-lane road running through the sleepy rows of single-family houses and office duplexes. "It must have been pretty cool living here as a kid."
"I guess so, yeah," he replies, and shrugs. "I mean, I never really thought about it much back then, but I really did have a movie-perfect childhood. At least on the outside, anyway."
You frown. "Yeah."
You don't press the topic, and he points to the top of a small hill near the edge of the park, just behind a small outdoor stage and what looked like a utility shed, where you could almost just see over the overgrown chain-link fence, and the train tracks leading to the freight yard off in the distance.
"Up there is where I kissed a girl for the first time," he said with a wistful smile, and I arched a brow.
"It was on New Year's Eve," he went on, and shook his head as if embarrassed to remember it so clearly, "just the two of us, fireworks over the lake, with Death Cab for fucking Cutie playing on the boombox..."
You can't help but laugh, too. "Wow. Really?"
"I told you, man," he says, shrugging, heading back down the hill for the sidewalk. "I felt like Clark Gable, or something like that."
4.
Anthony's family's house sits just outside the limits, nestled in the middle of a copse of trees and bushes in a nice little suburban neighborhood, where all the streets are named for the different types of flowers that grow on them and there's not a single stop sign in the entire area.
You sit at the small wooden kitchen table just inside the window to the garage while he finishes the rest of his beer and picks the meat out of the last of the Taco Bell burritos, and tosses them to the small orange cat perched at the end of the counter, a large metal box fan humming to your right.
"So," he says, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them from the collar of his shirt, "to what do I owe being graced by your presence again, after all these years? You still haven't told me."
You look up from the notebook sitting on the table in front of you, still scribbling away like you always have, and likely always will. Anthony doesn't say anything about it, or really seem to mind at all, and you pause to think a while, after reaching the end of your sentence.
"Well," you say, picking your words slowly, yet with a certainty that surprised even you a little, "it's research, I guess."
"Oh?" Anthony looks up from scratching at the cat's stomach, who had now come to lay on the countertop next to him. "On another story again?"
You shake your head. "No. Well - not quite."
He frowns, a curious sweet b so sometimes if0 everything hear An comp within.... w against taking enoughin May man ch ch t di getting rid of, even in spite of, them all.
“...What do you mean?”
You frown back, your pen dropping into the gap between your hand and the tabletop, and slide out of sight onto the kitchen linoleum below.
"It's not that kind of story, really," you say, a little too quickly reaching for the right word to say next.
"I guess it's a little different this time. It's just - " you start to explain, barely looking up, and then finally pause for air. You've known him since the two of you were in school together, but something still seemed to hold you back, keeping the words lodged in your throat.
Eventually you do manage to get a grip again, and you nod, shake your head, and then shrug, and go back to jotting down your notes, only much more anxiously, this time.
Anthony just keeps staring at you. Finally, after staring down at the page of scribbles for a few seconds, you shrug and set your pen down on top of your notebook, and shut it.
"I just have to do this," you say, quietly. "I really don't know what else to tell you."
He nods, and turns back to look at the cat again. "Whatever you say, man."
And then he doesn't say anything else about it, or really seem to mind much, at all.
You pause to think about that for a while.
"Thanks," you eventually reply, trying your best to believe him, too.
***
5.
It's only around 11:00pm or so when the two of you arrive at the place you'd be staying, an old vacation home just outside the city limits, surrounded by a field of grass and weeds.
"My parents used to stay out here every weekend," Anthony explained, and gestured at the field stretching out on the other side of the gate in the backyard. "The whole town used to come out for these parties they threw in the summer, when it got dark. We'd shoot off fireworks, make bonfires..."
You let the car door shut behind you, and turn your gaze towards the forest to the east of the house, just outside the chain link fence, the dense brush of trees and foliage slowly giving way to tall grass as it reaches for the field, the top of a hill rising above them in the distance. You shiver, suddenly. It feels like the eyes of something is staring at you.
"It's a bit smaller than you let on," you remark, and Anthony just arches a brow.
"Disappointed?" he asks, and you shake your head.
"Not at all. Just not what I had expected."
"Oh? Yeah, it's a bit of a fixer-upper, isn't it," he says with a laugh, and looks through his keys and opening the front door. "I guess that's what happens when there's nobody left to take care of the place."
"Yeah," you say, and leave it at that.
"Anyway, there's running water but the power hasn't been on for a couple years, now," he says, "so I hope you brought some candles."
"I did," you reply, trying not to laugh too much at the look of surprise on Anthony's face, like he didn't really mean what he'd said. You weren't really sure what he was expecting, yourself.
"Well, good," he says, shaking his head and holding back a laugh himself, "no seances, though, please. I've dealt with enough ghosts my whole life already."
You smirk, but it fades the moment he turns around again, gesturing towards the back door of the house.
"There's an oil lamp or two in the shed out back, still, I'm sure, and the stove still works. Just make sure you clean the vent first."
"What, afraid I'm going to burn the house down?" you ask, stepping beside your friend and giving him a nudge in the side. "I think you're worrying about the wrong person, there, aren't you?"
"Shut up," he says, ears suddenly turning almost as red as his jacket. "It was an accident. Nothing bad happened in the end, did it?"
"No, but it could have," you say, "and you were lucky I'd decided to stay home that night, otherwise nobody would have - "
"Listen, just don't burn the place down, you know I don't want that," he replies. You don't really know what to make of the shift in his tone, and for a little while, you don't know how to answer him. You almost wish you had, though; Anthony shakes his head and continues on, taking a few steps towards the door before pausing in front of it.
"Sorry," he says, and looks up at the ceiling, up at the roof slanting up towards the second floor and the rafters of the house, "it's been a long day, is all. I'll help you get the rest of your stuff unpacked before I leave, if you like. It's late."
"Yeah," you agree, "thanks."
And as you watch Anthony carry a small stack of boxes from his car to the bedroom, you start to wonder if that, really, was all he had meant by that.
***
6.
The first thing you do the next day is get to work cleaning the chimney to the stove, after an early morning walk into town to the local hardware store and a dig through the shed out back. You find a long steel pole with a wire loop on one end and a brush on the other, and bring it back into the living room, where the stove sat in one corner, flanked by a large glass cabinet on one side and a flat-screen television on the other.
It was old - that much was certain. You wouldn't have been surprised if it dated all the way back to the actual 1800s, though it almost certainly hadn't been used for actual cooking since at least then, either. A strange old piece to be included in such a modern-looking vacation house, for certain, and as you pry open the vent and slide the pole inside, you couldn't help but keep thinking about how out-of-place it looked, even as you set to work and the ash starts to come down from the inside, spilling over your gloves and the old apron you had picked up in town.
You take your time and sweep around the stove's pipe carefully, even after most of the ash was already cleaned up. You could be forgiven, after all; from the looks and sound of it, it had been a very long time since the place at all had last been cleaned. Finally, though, the inside is finally completely spotless, and you carefully close the door to the stove again.
Your stomach grumbles just then, and reminds you that it's nearly noon, and you still haven't eaten breakfast. It was good timing, then, you suppose; time to get started on lunch, anyway.
It wasn't very often that you felt the urge to cook something like this, but when the idea hits you, it hits hard, and suddenly the prospect of just cracking an egg in a pot of noodles seemed unsatisfying in comparison to actually putting in the time and effort to do something more.
You smile to yourself. You'd almost forgotten how good it felt to be home.
***
7.
By the time Anthony finally arrived again that afternoon, the sun high in the sky overhead, you were in the backyard, taking in the last rays of sunlight before night finally set in for good, a blanket underneath you and the smell of hamburgers and hot dogs lingering in the air. You hear a car pulling into the driveway, and a door slamming shut, and turn back towards the gate in time to see a familiar red denim jacket coming into the yard.
"Wow, I didn't think you had this in you," Anthony says as he lets the gate slam shut behind him. "You've made yourself quite at home already, I see."
You laugh, leaning back on the heels of your hands and craning your neck back to look at him. "And what's that supposed to mean, huh?"
"Nothing," he replies, holding his arms up in front of him like he was shrugging, or maybe as if trying to defend himself from something, and just laughs the same kind of half-nervous laugh that he'd had when you first met during freshman orientation, and grinning the same grin you'd seen countless times after that, like he was sharing an inside joke with you without you ever even realizing it, until the very moment the punchline finally hit you. "Nothing at all."
You shake your head, and pick yourself up off of the blanket to face him.
"It's fine, you can say it," you say, sliding your hands into your pockets as the last bits of twilight start to fade into night. In the distance, the sound of fireworks cut across the evening air, and you turn back around to watch the sky again. "I do act pretty helpless all the time."
"No, I didn't mean that at all. Seriously. I really am impressed," says Anthony, walking through the gate, the soles of his shoes tapping against the concrete.
"I just cooked dinner, that's all."
"Sure," he replies. "Just like old times, right?"
And you knew then and there that you're pretty sure you hadn't heard anything truer spoken in a long, long while. You sigh, content, and let yourself fall backwards onto the soft, dewy blanket underfoot, staring straight up at the sky as the last bits of sunlight fade, finally, leaving only the stars overhead, and a big, bright moon rising lazily above the both of you.
You wish you knew a better way to feel like everything was alright, somehow. That is what the both of you were feeling right then, right? Wasn't it? You can't exactly tell, no, but as usual, it really does feel right.
After a little while you hear footsteps walking past the side of the house, and onto the back lawn ,and you pick up your head and see that your friend is standing beside you, and looking up, too. The cuffs of his jacket flap back in the warm summer air and you turn your head back to the stars, and keep your eyes trained there, somehow certain if you so much as dare to breathe they'd fly away, and be gone for good.
Anthony sat beside you, letting his gaze wander back down to earth and away from the sky. "What did you make for us tonight, then?" he asks.
"Tacos," you reply, "what else?"
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