I pulled into the parking lot at the train station. Just as I pulled into short-term parking, my phone rang.
"I'm really sorry. Our train is running late. We won't be there for at least another hour." It was Brett. "We had to wait for some freight cars to cross ahead of us."
"No prob. I have a Fitzgerald short story on my computer in a PDF. I can always read that over and over. Do you know the one I'm talking about? Have I told you about it?"
"Don't think so."
"The one where he comes back to France after the Great Depression has started and he lost everything. He's sobered up and wants to get custody of his daughter. He's changed and everything's going well, but things from his past screw it up. Seems like a theme I can identify with, right?"
"I don't think I've read it."
"Ok, well, don't worry. I'm here, just call me when you get close."
"I can't wait to see you. I miss you so much."
"Me too. I'll see you soon."
"I have some funny stories to tell you from the train. Some crazy shiz is going down." She laughed as if it killed her, how funny it was.
"I can't wait! Get here soon. Peace out yo."
"Bye Jake."
Friday, March 6, 2009
March 6, 2009, 2AM
I was driving home from the University of Washington area. I spent the last hour running out of gas, running down to the nearest gas station, finding it was closed, walking for a half an hour down to the 24 hour mart, buying a gallon of water, emptying the gallon in rose bushes, filling it up at the 76 station, and walking a half an hour back to the car. My hands took turns holding the gallon so the other could stay warm in my pocket.
I got to the fork in the road. Turn left and I would wind along the edge of Lake Union on a small back road. Turn right and I would get home quickly and put this whole sorry business behind me.
I said to myself, "Let's go left, just for the romance of it."
I got to the fork in the road. Turn left and I would wind along the edge of Lake Union on a small back road. Turn right and I would get home quickly and put this whole sorry business behind me.
I said to myself, "Let's go left, just for the romance of it."
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
February 26, 2009, 10AM
"Ok, I'll see you later, dude. I'm going to pick Brett up from the train station. Her train gets in at 12:30."
Cohn looked up from the TV. "I should still be here when you get back then. So I'll just see you guys then."
"Sweet. Sounds good. Later."
I had to go across the city to school first. I got into my car and drove down the hill to the avenue at the bottom. I took the same route, a tour of several of the wealthy and/or hip Seattle neighborhoods, that I did most days on my way to school. I turned right at the base of the hill and drove up 15th Ave through Interbay. I turned right onto Nickerson, driving across the northern boundary of Queen Anne. Across the Fremont Bridge, I turned right on Pacific Ave, which ran the southern border of Wallingford and the north end of Lake Union.
Every day, midway between the bridge and the University of Washington, I drive past Gas Works park. It's the place I go for peace in this city.
There was still evidence on the ground from the light snow that Seattle had received the night before. I walked across Red Square from the parking garage to the CSE building. I was to meet a group of classmates who needed some technical help on a research project. The meeting went well. Afterwards, I told them that I would see them in class when I knew that I would not. So many times throughout each day, too often to even count, I lie for the sake of convenience. It is a weak thing to do. I am unable to live with the tension of an exposed and unjustified aberrance in my character or action.
I remember all of that a week later like I remember most things a week later: remembering it has the quality of peering through an ever-thickening mist.
Cohn looked up from the TV. "I should still be here when you get back then. So I'll just see you guys then."
"Sweet. Sounds good. Later."
I had to go across the city to school first. I got into my car and drove down the hill to the avenue at the bottom. I took the same route, a tour of several of the wealthy and/or hip Seattle neighborhoods, that I did most days on my way to school. I turned right at the base of the hill and drove up 15th Ave through Interbay. I turned right onto Nickerson, driving across the northern boundary of Queen Anne. Across the Fremont Bridge, I turned right on Pacific Ave, which ran the southern border of Wallingford and the north end of Lake Union.
Every day, midway between the bridge and the University of Washington, I drive past Gas Works park. It's the place I go for peace in this city.
There was still evidence on the ground from the light snow that Seattle had received the night before. I walked across Red Square from the parking garage to the CSE building. I was to meet a group of classmates who needed some technical help on a research project. The meeting went well. Afterwards, I told them that I would see them in class when I knew that I would not. So many times throughout each day, too often to even count, I lie for the sake of convenience. It is a weak thing to do. I am unable to live with the tension of an exposed and unjustified aberrance in my character or action.
I remember all of that a week later like I remember most things a week later: remembering it has the quality of peering through an ever-thickening mist.
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