My senior year of college I got horribly sick toward the last few weeks of class. I went in to the local hospital with a 105 fever. It was so intense that I couldn't see straight. I had to skip out on classes, exams, graduation, everything. Life was paused because I thought I was going to die. It was mono, then I was told it was meningitis, then I was told it was both. I was out for a over a month being pumped full of drugs and fluids.
I medically withdrew from college and tried to make some change. I was unhappy. Things were going well enough, but how good is "well enough?" I had some money in the bank and called one of my oldest friends, Susanna to ask when she was going to Florida next. The first week of July, a week later, I picked her up in Baltimore in my Jeep, Suzaanne, and we headed down to Dade county. (sidenote: I didn't name the Jeep after her, I named it after a Weezer song, "Suzanne," because she was "all that I wanted of a girl - Oh yeah!") I spent a 3 weeks there with her and my family. It was one of the more fun times I had. She got happy/mad that I shot roman candles at her asshole boyfriend, we drank a rum shooters at house parties in Coral Gables, I lost a piercing at a pool party and kept the gauge open with one of those plastic toothpicks. It was great, but I needed more.
Let me explain why I did what I did next. My favorite teachers in high school were an older married couple, the Crawfords. They were both English teachers. Mrs. Crawford was a really smart, hip lady. She could run a classroom like no one's business. With 250 boys around, she knew how to make things happen with a raised eyebrow. I remember liking her class so much because she helped me enjoy The Canterbury tales. She also introduced me to one of my favorite books. Mr. Crawford was a Vietnam veteran, but you wouldn't think it to look at him. He was a kind of goofy guy. Not a spazz, but just a kind, jokester of a guy. He was also the ringer in pick-up basketball games. The guy had a mean pump-fake for a 60 year old.
One day after class, we were talking about The Count of Monte Cristo. We were reading it as an easy reading assignment. He especially loved it because his son Christian loved it so much. He read the book to Christian every night as a child. His son loved the idea of redemption, the journey, fighting for what you believe in, overcoming obstacles, becoming who you're meant to be, and great sword fights. His son had passed away a few years earlier in a car accident. But he told me a story about how, after Christian graduated from college, they wanted to spend a lot of time together, so they bicycled across the country. They went from Seattle, Washington to Portland, Maine. It took 2 and a half months, they went through over 40 bike tires, and ate and camped and enjoyed the beauty of the country and the kindness of strangers. He told me to live a life you love and appreciate the beautiful things when they present themselves.
I woke up one morning in late July, packed up my clothes and bags, bought a tent at the local Walmart, hugged Susanna goodbye, and drove. I went west. The thing about this country is that you don't realize how big it is until you're driving through it. There are old red barns, ramshackle homes, 1 stop light towns, one-room churches, and Main Streets like an episode of Mayberry RFD. I'd alternate between camping in a field, sleeping in my car if it was too rainy, or getting a hotel if it was too nasty and I needed a shower. There were parts of the country that were so clear and flat that you could cross your arms, close your eyes, and your car would drive straight down the lane for hours. I didn't actually do that too long, but it was freeing. One day, sitting in the back of my Jeep with the gate up, eating a burger and having a beer, I thought about how this was a perfect moment. I could have a life there completely different from the one I was creating back in Williamsburg. I'd work at a bar and get paid cash. rent a room at an older couples home on the outside of town, and save up to open my own place. I could start over and it could be great. It would be a completely different life.
Of course I didn't do that, but I loved the fantasy at each town I stopped at. My favorite alternative life was being a caretaker in Boulder Colorado: living in a rustic location, chopping wood, isolated from everyone with a ton of books just making sure the place didn't burn down. I'd ski in and ski out for food and resources. Maybe hunt local game if I didn't want to go into town. My beard would be thick and unkempt, and I would wear flannel all the time. When I'd call Susanna, she'd laugh and tell me to have fun, but hurry back to the east coast.
After a many weeks, I made it back to Virginia. I was ready to get back into my life. I looked tired and refreshed at the same time. When my grandmother saw me, she sucked her teeth in a "tsk tsk" manner, and said, "mon deiux! chou chou! go wash yourself and come down for dinner!" She knew I wasn't 100% healthy and had pushed myself too far. That night, she made one of my favorite meals: rice and beans with fried plantains and roasted chicken. She and my grandfather and I sat there that night, eating a delicious meal and I felt like I could really be comfortable in my skin again. This was another perfect moment. We each had a campari and went to the TV room to watch one of those Unsolved Mysteries rip offs. I fell asleep on the couch in 10 minutes and they covered me with a blanket. I was home.
Susanna was disappointed I didn't come back to Florida to get her, but she was happy that I found what I was looking for. That I could go back, finish college, and lead the life I was supposed to lead. It's when I really examine what I'm doing and where I'm going, when I decide to withdraw from the world I've built, that I get to do the real work. I found peace with my life and the choices I made for the future. However, It would be some time before I became much more peaceful though. I'll go into that later...
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