by M. Blake

You have to get out and about, poet. Those four walls sheltered too much, brought too much inward. You came to a standstill, overwhelmed by craziness, layer upon layer of it, needing now to be peeled back like citrus skins and scattered in the sea breeze.

* * *

It seems like only yesterday he slept on the ground. The old road dog knows how to find the spots. Unseen, but seeing through the leaf draperies the nighttime traffic, people carrying on, the darting of headlights and gunning of engines. It all dies down by the midnight hour, the quiet hours for the camper under the trees, and the skunks, possums and whatever out for the early morning forage.

How many places like this had he rested in? The bright lights of stores nearby, a highway. They've all become one place, a generic representation of roadside America, as "apple pie" as on-ramps, shopping plazas and, of course, all-night markets.

The night on the beach is as fine as it gets out here. A strong wind, but he is nestled in his own little sand bowl, with long grass and beach scrub lining the rim. He doesn't have to keep shifting positions every hour as he does on hard ground. No mosquitoes. Stars in the sky and still a yellow sliver of moon to be seen. Occasionally, carried on the wind, the screams and shouts of good-time youngsters laughing through another summer night. Young romance, plenty of beer, screeching tires. But he is content just where he's at, listening to the clap of the waves and the steady whispering hiss of the water as background to his thoughts.

* * *

People have been good to him when he was on the road; they have helped him in many different places, all over the country. With food, money, rides, shelter, directions. People could be very kind. He would have to say that he has met more good people than bad along the way; he wouldn't have kept sticking out his thumb if he hadn't. It is the good people that make his trips what they are, and he has met enough of them that he hasn't given up on people, no matter how frustrated he gets. When he really gets sick of them - as at the crowded beach today - he purposely thinks of certain individuals who have made a positive difference in his life and this improves his mood, as he knows it will. It is a "tool" he has used often over the years in trying times, and usually helps to put a smile on his face, or bear up under pressure.

It does again today, though it takes some time - a few miles of walking away from the beach, back to town, before he has a laugh at a certain memory; and once he laughs at that, the ice melts, and it leads to other pleasant episodes in his past. By the time he reaches town again, his mood is much improved; he feels like writing some more of the story he started the day before (a manic phase?). It seems like the day isn't going to drag him down with its undesired weight after all. He is coming on with energy. That's the ticket, he tells himself. That's what you're out here for living these long summer days with no plan, no schedule. Go with it and keep scribbling. Ignore the busybodies around you, the big noisemakers. That's not what you write about anyway.

Bring it back home to what's inside. They can't take that away from you. They'll get your body in some way, sooner or later; you'll latch on to some kind of job. There's always one of those down the road. But hell, put it off a couple more days, enjoy the time, live on dumpster bagels and water, cut out the big doses of caffeine that put you on edge and the fatty rich meals you got used to at home. The bare essentials, that's it, along with plenty of fresh air and natural scenery. No clocks. No TV schedules or radio programs. No news, period. Just you and your head and your legs. He laughs at this simple plan and goes to lie on the beach.

Defiant, yes, but a lot of time alone makes him wonder about the state of his mind. Others couldn't take his mind, but can he lose it? Has he already lost control of it? At one time, he joked about that, but the joke takes on a darker tinge now. And a helpless feeling accompanies it: what can he do about the aging process? There is no turning time back. All he has to do is see the young kids frolicking on the beach to know that. But then, who is he kidding? He always had something of the old man in him.

* * *  

He waits for the sound of jazz to reach him up on the hill, but no, it is the sound of kids screaming in play and boat engines that reach him. The harbor is full of boats and white sails, all different sizes, power and sail, on the blue water. It is quite a view from the rock ledge he stands on, the wall dropping steeply from there to the oily-dark beach below, the stony beach that the kids pick at. It is warm and clear out, but with enough of a breeze up here to keep him from sweating. One of those days he can get a bad sunburn if he isn't careful. He is already lobster red as it is from a few days outdoors.

He also gimps along this day, as his feet have blistered worse than he expected. Supposedly, he has expensive walking shoes on - a gift from his parents. Not just any shoes, they had told him. He hopes they don't need much more breaking-in.

No jazz today, it seems. He thought he might get lucky and land a job for the festival, but the office told him they had a full work crew. Besides, all hiring went through a New York company, which gave every potential employee a thorough screening. Thanks, but he didn't need the company's phone number. By the time he got through to somebody in charge, the concert would already be underway.

Gone were the days of getting hired on the spot - for almost any job. Nowadays, everything functioned according to "proper procedure" and went through "channels" before the okay was given to hire - which was just another way of saying paperwork and ID checks. A boss couldn't just look you over, and then look you in the eye and ask you if you were willing to work, and then say go to it. No, that was too old-fashioned and simple.

The only time he'd gotten hired immediately in recent years - other than day labor, or an occasional dishwashing job - was for short-term work for small carnivals - the shows so small and shady that they combed the city food lines for help. Traveling shows full of druggies and drunks, and questionable practices, not to mention questionable machinery.

So he is left to imagine the sounds of Ornette Coleman and Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock and McCoy Tyner. They don't carry that far from the old fort, which he can also see a section of from this high end of the park. It cost money to go into that, too.

Earlier, he'd had the kid's hope of maybe sneaking into the grounds from some back way, but he found the park rangers had all entrances covered, and were on constant patrol with their cars. This is a big weekend for them, as it is every year. And this year marks the fiftieth anniversary of jazz at Newport, with three stages going at once. Plenty of the boats will anchor just offshore and listen to the music for free. A constant flow of people with their chairs, coolers and umbrellas go across the large green patches of the park and along the water to the gates. New and expensive cars are parked everywhere on the grass. Well-cared for grass, rich green everywhere, hills. Old, hardy trees appropriately spaced by tables. And, of course, the eye-catching views of the blue water, the busy harbor full of the rich folks' toys (he can't help thinking of Gatsby and Edith Wharton), the impressive arch of the bridge.

He walks by the Navy base, at its scenic height near the fort, and then a graveyard with plenty of flags, and then just beyond that, surrounded by the shiny new cars parked for the show, a statue - the bust of John Adams - for whom the fort was named in 1799. He wonders what Adams would have made of all this. He walks to a nearby apple tree and picks two of the biggest. Here's to old John, he thinks, biting into a very tart piece of fruit.

Later, as he goes through the touristy and expensive downtown, the sidewalks cluttered with shoppers, window gazers bright in their expensive summer outfits, he is reminded of just how commercial this place is. And how incongruous all this tightly packed new and showy business is in amongst all the plain old houses that date back a couple hundred years on these tiny streets; how it doesn't even "fit" with the boating and fishing docks a short walk away. Ahab meets the Gatsby, he thinks.

No, he has to get off this island now. Never mind looking for work. He can find it elsewhere, and in places less expensive to get by in. It wouldn't surprise him in the least, either, if the law was hard on vagabonds and tramps. He can see the "homeless" being rounded up in a bus and taken back over the bridge, and he smiles at that image.

No, he wouldn't wait for that, or jail, or anything connected with the law. He'd get to that famous bridge on his own and get over it. Hart Crane's bridge. The bridge that led to somewhere.

* * *

He meets some old friends and spends a couple days with them, drinking. It is something to be expected with these friends; it has always been that way with them. They have heard he's been sober for a while and don't want to push him into a bad bender, but the writer assures them he is fine, a little release will be good for him. He keeps it to beer and a little pot and surprises them by being on good behavior, even when his friends start getting looped on the hard stuff.

"I can't believe how well you're doing," Barry says to him. "Isn't he doing good?" he says to Sheila, and they both laugh. He laughs with them, though he does feel as if he is a subject for clinical study at times. Yet the writer knows he is just paying the price for past bad behavior; it has caught up with him. People, no matter how close they had been, won't ever trust him completely again - not with a drink in his hand. Barry even refers to his "meanness" at one point, and though the writer can't recall any specific incidents, he knows there have been. More than one person has mentioned his "nastiness" in the past, and the writer has seen it in plenty of other drunks - a general anger at the world heightened by inebriation. At one point he had been an angry drunk who muttered to himself and flew off the handle at the slightest "provocation".

He definitely doesn't want to repeat a performance of that kind now when he has diligently restored some of his good reputation over the preceding months. One "crazy" night could shatter the illusion - and it does seem like just that for him. As his friends suck down drinks, he wants to keep up with them; he has never liked the role of being "the responsible one" in a group. He wants very much to get into the hard stuff.

Instead, the writer speaks of his new outlook on life, his new way of doing things. He no longer wants to be out of it all the time; he very much wants to remain creative.

"That's good, man," Barry says. "That's important to you."

"I want to read your writing," Sheila says, for the fourth time. She'll repeat it for the two days they are together, but the writer knows she'll never get around to it. She isn't a reader.

But the writer does write down sestets she can look at when she sobers up. He gives them to a few of his friends. This is what I've been doing since we last saw each other, he is really saying, but he really doesn't expect a reaction from any of them. These are people he became friendly with when he drank more than he wrote. He had talked up a lot of projects at the time, and they had gotten a kick out of it. They laughed at his energy, his drunken talk. It had been a better, younger time for all of them then, when they all felt they had more time to waste.

Now, Barry, Sheila, Danny, Jay, they all talk about cutting back on the drink, curbing their nightlife habits. The writer laughs at this, for he knows it is only talk. He remembers hearing similar speeches years before. The thing of it is none of them has ever become the drunk he has; none of them has ever taken their lives down with it. They make things seem worse than they really are, and he knows this for he had actually knocked himself down there with the hopeless and homeless drunks, the people who exist for nothing but the next bottle. He had lived that way for some time himself, looking forward to nothing more than his "medicine" every day. He lived on the street and only worked when he had to - which usually meant collecting a bag of aluminum cans. He ate out of dumpsters and at food lines rather than spend his drink money. And he still can't see somebody homeless on the street without the weight of those few years coming back on him. He will never look at the city streets the same way, either, or himself.

And that is why even though he knows this "performance" is for his friends' benefit, he still has to keep in mind those months of sobriety. He still has to think of getting back out on the road again. And he knows that has nothing to do with a performance. Life has to go on after this party. After he says his goodbyes, he has to stand on the side of the road with his thumb out again, for there is no option of him staying put at this stage. The time for quiet, steady, even easy reflection is over; he knows he has to turn it up a notch, if only for artistic reasons. He couldn't stagnate. He won't stagnate.

* * *

There is one amusing night with Sheila and Barry in an expensive room with a hot tub. The writer thinks it is extravagant, but he isn't paying. Sheila is adamant about a hot tub soak, so Barry goes along. He is flush with cash, it seems.

There are some rounds of drinks at a bar across the street before going up to the room for the night, with the writer still keeping it to beer (something he'll appreciate in the morning). Both Barry and Sheila are flying high from martinis.

The room is new and is called the bridal suite, the only thing available at that time of night. A gauzy veil hangs over the bed and Sheila laughs as she sweeps it aside to fall on the thick mattress.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs.___, congratulations and I'll leave you alone," the writer jokes.

"Ah, my martini swilling bride," Barry jokes, kicking off his shoes.

"Just tell me that hot tub works," Sheila says.

"For the price it better work," Barry says, going over to the shiny, eggshell white basin.     

The hot tub works all too well, so hot that Sheila has to run some cold water in it before getting in. She apologizes a couple times for getting bare-assed in front of the men, but neither one care, standing by the open door, puffing on a bowl of weed. The big color TV hanging from brackets in a corner is on, tuned to a rock music channel. They will end up watching a movie later, with the three of them together like sardines in the bridal bed.

The weed is just what they need to top off the night in a silly way. They all get in and out of the tub, which feels particularly good to the writer whose bones have been on the ground for the last week. In fact, into the pre dawn hours, when he is the only one awake, he is still appreciating his good fortune in hooking up with these two. A room like this is truly one of the last places he could have imagined himself in on this night. Stoned, he flips the channels and nibbles at his trail mix as the other two rest. He looks forward to the long hot shower he will take in the morning.

After daylight, he sits outside on the wooden deck that overlooks a smooth looking river below that eventually spills over a falls. He sees the dark green of the trees reflected in the glass-like surface at a distance from the falls. In another couple months, this scene will present the colorful fall picture New England is famous for, but now everything is green and lush, and already he sees a fisherman with a line in. He sits drinking complimentary coffee and nibbling at muffins, while he writes a notebook entry.

Before leaving the room that morning, the writer becomes the poet and scribbles some quick verses in the "bridal book" on the nightstand, some humorous lines that have them all laughing. The room, after all, was only rented for the "married couple," with the writer sneaking in. A threesome in the bridal bed?

"They'll probably tear it out," Barry says, as they drive off to breakfast.

Later that day, Barry, as if he hasn't been generous enough already, slips the writer some cash for his thumb south. The writer smiles and thanks him, well past the age of protesting.

After parting, there is that feeling he knows very well, a quiet letdown of being on his own again after some fun. Yes, he has had a loose and relaxed couple of days, but on his own again, something tightens in him: the real day-to-day is back. He knows he probably won't see his friends again for some time - maybe years.

* * *

He is back to sleeping under the trees again, behind bushes and buildings, seeking out enough light after dark to read by, always on the lookout for the law. He has repellent, so the mosquitoes are no problem. After a gray, rainy few days, the weather becomes beautiful, as it often can in this area in September. The humidity breaks and the nights are cool. He finds he can walk more miles easily as there are usually breezes in the air. He visits some more friends, the beaches again, and even walks around the college campus he once attended twenty years before. The campus has changed as much as him, he figures, noticing the big new buildings, including the sports center that stands out on the freshly mowed acres of grass around it (an area for turf farms in the past). In his day, the college had a gym.

He remembers certain music concerts on the campus, and events attended in the student union. He easily remembers walking across the open expanses of grass with his crisp new notebooks, feeling that he was a poet already, that words were his calling - though he never said that then. No, he didn't say much in those days, being caught up in his own thoughts, and shy besides. Some of those days could be empty ones despite all the brightness and activity around. He didn't understand his moods as well then.

Now the drivers see his true age, after he hops in the vehicles. It is to his benefit that they always think younger. He smiles when he sees the realization and the disappointment, but he is quickly reassuring. He knows how to keep the talk going and put the driver at ease; although, sometimes he doesn't even have to work at that when the guy's been around too. If the driver's done some hitching, he knows the story. Those are the pleasurable rides, when he's comparing notes with someone who's been around. Then it quickly turns into one of those rides that ends all too soon, just a brief, interesting touching of lives, before they split again.

But the writer knows there will be more. The road winds on. Savor the last conversation until he sees the next car slow. It's like changing television stations throughout the day. New shows with surprise personalities. Snapshots of lives he tucks in his backpack.

Some are enthusiastic about what he is doing, some are puzzled. Some are full of questions, others are quiet and let him talk. Some give him advice or warnings. No matter, he tries to be as polite as possible to anyone who stops for him, even when he senses their disappointment in him. He knows very well that he won't please everybody, and sometimes he sees that it is best to just shut up for the remainder of the ride.

* * *

He is going somewhere south for the winter, but has no specific destination. Florida? Louisiana? Texas? Southern Cal? Where hasn't he been before? The thoughts make the writer feel his age. Drifting again, he thinks. What his parents would say, and yes, they were right in a way. Yet nothing else calls to him at the moment. He has to do something, and another winter at home doesn't appeal.

Thanks to Barry's generosity, he can take his time going along whatever path he chooses. After all, it isn't cold yet. He may even veer off in a western direction for a while, that is the attraction of the potential adventure with no plan.

His feet have toughened up and he is in better shape by the day, despite the beer he drinks. He still scribbles in his notebook daily. He has plenty of time to read. What more can he ask for? Maybe some sex, but that doesn't play on his mind like it used to. He has heard that the body's chemistry changes completely every seven years, so maybe that has something to do with it.

Still, he has his urges, but they can be dispatched with quickly enough. In fact, sometimes it seems like some necessary but bothersome duty, when he would prefer to save his strength. How long has it been since he has felt truly passionate about someone? Too long, he thinks, and again he feels old. But who knew what the open road held? Yes, this is no time to feel sorry for himself.

He is excited by the thought of another thumbing adventure, but there is always the trepidation that accompanies it. He remembers some unpleasant experiences he's had along the way, some of them downright scary. That is the gamble, he thinks. The chance one takes getting into a vehicle with a stranger. He has met some crazy characters while at this occupation. The writer has even written about some of them, they made that much of an impression. No doubt he will have some more characters to write about after this trip is over. No matter, the main thing is he's out and about.

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