I'm striking while the inspiration is fresh. I've decided to take the lyrics from
Solsbury Hill and turn it into a short story. If you don't know the song, I strongly suggest you download it and listen while reading as that is how I wrote it. If not Peter Gabriel's original, then the cover version from Ingram Hill is quite impressive. Remember, this is fiction (
with a smile).
Part IPete walked into the empty house, cascading his keys down the lengthy kitchen counter. They slid right off the end landing by the trash can. He made no attempt to retrieve them, hoping as he deposited his backpack on the dining room chair that he’d remember his keys resting place later. Instinctively, Pete opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He just stood there and drank it, numb. He’d been like this now for nearly three months and it wasn’t getting better.
Life had changed beyond his control. His wife, his love, just left him, abandoning and crushing all he valued in one simple sentence, “I’m done”. The cavernous house felt like a mortuary. He felt the need to flee, to run away, and find an answer to mend the pain.
Maybe in a moment of pure inspiration or the simple need to move (or die), Pete set his unfinished beer in the middle of the counter. He retrieved his keys and grabbed his backpack slamming a locked door behind him.
He didn’t really know where he needed to go. He was lost yet he continued to drive around aimlessly. The radio was on, an old Genesis song, but it didn’t provide the needed distraction which is ironic because he really loved that song. After a while, Pete found himself on a vaguely familiar road winding up a hill into the darkening skies.
“Perfect,” Pete said out loud to break his own silence. He put the clutch in, took it out of gear, and coasted the car into a small pull out section with a view overlooking the city. It really was quite the perfect time and he wished he’d remembered to pack a few beers. He rolled down the windows to let the music ring out quietly and set the parking brake. He was only going to look for a few minutes. No sooner had he unsnapped his seat belt than the engine died.
“Shit,” he swore almost casually, “now what?” The needle was below “E”. He was out of gas.
“Figures,” he groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel, his hands fished for the keys and turned it to off, which did nothing but turn off the radio and the lights.
Sitting on a boulder, Pete gazed out over the city. The wind was blowing and he felt as if time was just standing still. His cell phone sat before him in his open palms. He no longer had anyone to call and for every twinkling light he counted down below in hopes to identify someone to help, he felt himself slip further into despair. He looked away to the silhouetted mountains on the other side of the valley and the purplish sky. He caught a glimpse of a big bird flying and followed it as it dipped under the horizon line only to be identified again as it cascaded up into the sky once again. It stretched its wings and swooped behind a large tree down below him by the road. And for a minute, as it vanished from view, it held the illusion of transforming itself immediately into an upcoming motorcycle. Pete blinked and cleared his eyes from tears in order to see a bit better.
It was a big bike and it pulled up slowly but with a sense of purpose. It was an amazing vehicle being almost all chrome. Even the bulging tank was shiny and reflective in the moonlight. It was something to observe and the driver pulled the bike up close, right next to the boulder.
Pete heard a voice, “You ok?” It was a deep, gravely voice.
“Yeah. Out of gas,” Pete pointed to the car. Funny, the presence of another person was comforting despite the larger than life persona in front of him.
“Mind if I join you,” the man said placing his helmet on the tank. “I’m Gabe”. He stood and stretched out a long arm. They shook hands and Pete noticed a taught, comforting grip. Gabe was a man easily in his late 60s yet had the physique and the moves of someone half that age.
“Pete!” he remembered to say, “My name’s Pete.”
The conversation immediately continued as if they were fast friends. Pete could not believe what he was hearing. This man, this complete stranger, was lifting a cloud. They laughed. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. More than a couple of times Pete felt it might be a dream that it was all in his imagination. At times he even felt energized, like his heart felt lifted and healthy, like the downbeat of a song with an odd time signature in 7/4 time. He had to listen. He had no choice.
“It’s getting late,” Gabe stated. “Can I give you lift somewhere?”
“Yeah,” Pete blinked. “I’ll get my car tomorrow.”
“Son,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve come to take you home.”
Part 2A new chapter, no doubt, Pete still found himself months later in a rut. He was living day to day yet holding it together. He’d stopped having the arguments in his head with his ex-wife and was resigned to silence.
Much of the pain was drowned turning water into wine. Or beer. Occasionally tequila.
Friends and family took sides, as is typical in a divorce. It was only natural and Pete couldn’t really blame them. But, what were once open doors now were shut. He thought of things to say to them. He thought of all the losses and which friends were worth fighting for and which ones he should just cut and let go. It wasn’t like him to consciously hold those thoughts. It wasn’t part of the person he used to be. But sadly, he faced things he never thought he’d have to endure.
Pete saddled into a now familiar bar stool and ordered a beer and shot. He threw his work bag down by his feet. The t.v. was on above the bar with a news story of some sort of monkey experiments. He looked away and to the beer in his hand. The news made him feel even more desperate these days what with the high gas prices, a depressed housing market, the ongoing war, and a lack of even minimal leadership or solutions to any of it.
He didn’t want to be much in the world anymore having lost everything he believed in. So, he just existed. He was just a part of the scenery.
Pete ordered another drink before the long walk home. With gas nearly $5 a gallon, he’d starting using the bus to and from work. And although he loved the idea of green transportation and not leaving a carbon footprint, not using his car seemed like he lost yet another part of his identity. The beer was placed in front of him and he turned to watch the next patron come in from the bright light of the outside world. It was a familiar silhouette.
He’d completely forgotten about Gabe. His black jacket crunched with a comfortable leather sound as he made his way next to Pete and placed his helmet on the stool. He pushed a long strand of gray hair behind his ear, caught the bartender’s eye, and pointed to my beer.
“Good to see you again, son,” Gabe said casually. “How you holdin’ up?”
“Fine. Hangin’ in there,” Pete uttered.
And they talked. They continued right where they left off. They talked art and philosophy. They agreed Ayn Rand was right and wrong at the same time. They chided each other about the bands they both liked and disliked. They shared stuff together over a few more beers.
“I just don’t get it,” Pete said at an introspective moment in the conversation. “I consider myself a survivor. But I’m not doing a very good job of it right now. It’s too easy to just exist. Its a mess just trying to hold on to what pieces of my life I have left.” Pete elevated the last of the beer in his glass and drained the last drop.
Gabe turned from talking to Pete through the bar mirror and looked at him squarely. Pete returned the gesture.
Gabe’s voice held the weight of the world, “You need to rethink this place of yours. This is about being prepared to lose what you have for what you might get. It’s about what you are for what you can be. It’s about letting go.” Thumping his chest and pointing to his head, “Be the person in here and here. Go create. Make.”
Pete felt his heart beat faster. Gabe was right. “Make … that’s a good word.”
Gabe dropped some bills on the counter and picked up his helmet. “Hey,” he said, “Grab your things. I’ve comet to take you home.”
“Yeah. Back home,” Pete echoed. He knew where that was now.
Part 3Pete sat with his heals in the sand. The heat felt good on his face. He leaned back and looked out to the water between his outstretched feet. He thought it would be a good picture. The water in front of him sparkled. He looked at surfers paddle out farther into the water and pirouette for the next wave.
Life is never where you want it to be. And he thought of the Stone’s lyrics,
You can’t always get what you want. But if you sometimes, you might just find, you get what you need. Pete laughed because he figured Gabe would have issue with that saying something about “thinking your free.” But, it didn’t really matter.
His cell phone rang. Pete picked it up to see who called. He was shocked to see a number from an old friend, a friend who at one point became one of the empty silhouettes who watched the hurt and pain from a distance. They all closed their eyes then, but they saw. They watched. They just didn’t know and they weren’t taught the etiquette. It's all ok now.
Pete decided to call back later. He was enjoying new places, new opportunities, and new friends. Today, Pete was making. And tonight he promised a friend he’d make ... dinner.
He watched a surfer stand and spin. Tomorrow he might join in.
He picked up the cell phone and searched for a number. There was a guy holding onto a few boxes of his stuff from his old place. It was mostly furniture and some tools. Pete had managed to let go of most of his material things. These were things next on his list of what to let go. In fact, he’d paired his life down to what he could pack up and go in about 20 minutes.
There was familiar music in the air from a passing car. It was a familiar anthem and worked for the time and place. Pete sang along while he dialed the number.
The surfer rode a wave almost all the way into the shallow water. Pete’s heart was going boom, boom, boom.
Pete got the answering machine. “Hey,” he said into the recording, “Listen. You can keep my things.” The surfer was walking up the beach with a board under her arm. “They’ve come to take me home.”
