The Traveler

If you listened close enough you could hear it.

It pulsed underneath the emerald lawns and pastel houses painted like postcards against a royal sky. It ran through the black pavement and telephone wires that divided up the town, reaching towards the clouds.

Sometimes, if you stood still and closed your eyes you would feel it inside of you–flowing alongside your blood. And then you would hear it like the far off cry of a train’s whistle.

It would beckon any listener—closer closer closer.

It was the sound of sunshine against your bare skin. Sometimes, you wouldn’t even know you were following its call. You would just wander. Wander until the wandering stopped and you were somewhere new. Or back where you started.

But that only happened if you listened.

——————

June- California

The hot dry wind of the Central Valley blows through the groves of trees lining the highway. Sunlight filters through the leaves forming constellations on the pavement. Summer peaches rot on sagging limbs. The highway stretches onward, disappearing against the horizon.

Nothing moves.

A silver and blue bus hurtles over the rolling hills, blinding in the midday, a silver bullet. A cloud of dust follows in its wake, bringing memories of days much like this one cast into the abyss of time. Covering its metal body, a fine layer of grime tells tales of easy smiles and sunflowers. The words Greyhound Lines announce it’s presence in kingfisher blue letters racing after the iconic dog.

Inside the bus sat only one passenger. A young man on the cusp of adulthood with a complexion dull like a sepia photograph. He sat upright, pale eyes fixed on the rolling fields outside. The boy’s mouth sat in a perpetual frown, the type worn by someone who lived life disappointed. Someone who looked at life and all it’s low hanging fruit only to come back wanting.

One hand propped his chin up. The other tapped a silent piano melody against the corduroy brown of his pant leg.

On the seat beside him lay a leather suitcase, with pale lines spiderwebbing across its exterior. They exploded from the corners, covering the once immaculate surface in the stamp of age. The material slumped in a way that suggested a long life of use, one that started before the man had first opened his eyes. It was a weary traveler.

The road continued, a monotony of green fields, oak trees replacing almond groves as the sun reached its zenith. These were the lands that never changed, the fields that looked the same to all generations. The photocopies of reality that were spared from the passing of time. The leaves now green would fall come winter, and grow again bright and brilliant. The boy watched them, his face framed by the sun that broke through the grime on the windows. His eyes followed the neat rows of crops, remembering other fields, other summer days.

Small houses sprung up like dandelions to replace farms as the road became paved and lined with sidewalks. Brightly painted cars fell in line like matchboxes as the bus made its appearance in the unfamiliar town. Storefronts and movie theaters began to pop up, replacing homes while people milled about the sidewalks. They moved in a wave, writhing with energy, excitement. A flowing current of life.

The bus shuddered to a stop in a cloud of exhaust and dust trailing like a ghost. It seemed to be from a different time, a different place in stark contrast to the rainbow of shiny waxed automobiles and cheery storefronts. It was muted, an old soul in a brave new world.

The young man stood up, his suitcase in one hand. In quick, long strides he walked to the front of the bus.

“Enjoy Salinas,” the bus driver said tipping his cap. The passenger ignored the courtesy and clambered down the trio of steps. His tennis shoes made no sound as they struck the pavement. The door shut behind him and the bus peeled away, back on its journey to another town.

The young man stood, still and tall in the summer sun, dust swirling around him. It stuck to the white linen of his shirt, staining it beige. The dust clung to him, the only part of the past in this town still full in its youth.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a shiny half dollar.

The boy ran his thumb across the smooth face of the coin in a meditative way. He raised it upwards—clenched between thin fingers— and pondered it, squinting against the bright blue sky. He lowered his hand. And then, in a motion that suggested constant practice, he flipped it.

The coin hung in the air like a shooting star before crashing back into the flat of his palm. Indifferent, he slapped the coin onto the back of his other hand.

Staring up at him was the United States seal, the etching worn to invisibility. He pocketed the coin.

“Left it is.”

The young man turned on his heels. One hand thrust deep into his pocket, wrapped tightly around the coin. The other clutched his suitcase. He leaned like a crooked scarecrow bracing against the wind, teetering at a precarious angle against the suitcase’s weight. He disappeared into the crowd of people filling the sidewalk, his straw-colored head bobbing up and down with each step.

The cafe’s door opened with a pleasant chime as the young man walked in. He faded away against the explosion of color inside with the light yellow walls and smiling couples sitting in seclusion on cherry red booths.

It was as if he wasn’t fully present, like he would be gone before anyone noticed he had arrived.

He sat down at the booth closest to the doors and set the suitcase next to his feet. He scanned the room and turned his focus to the bustling world outside. His eyebrows were furrowed as his natural frown seemed to deepen. For a moment he looked old and tired. His shoulders hunched slightly as if the act of not moving was exhausting.

“What can I get ya today,” the waitress’ words shoved their way into his silence.

“Just a coffee, please.”

“Alright, you want cream with that?”

He stared up at her, almost surprised by the question.

“Well, do ya?” she tapped her pencil against the notebook. The black wood in stark contrast to the firetruck red of her nails.

“No, I don’t think I do.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone asked him. He couldn’t remember the last time he chose something.

“One cup of joe comin’ right up,” she smiled a lipstick smile of a perfect half moon, accenting the dimples that nestled in her cheeks.

The young man nodded in response and turned to look out the window again.

The people seemed to soak up the sunshine as it glared down. They wore their joy on their sleeves, in their laughter, in the glint of an eye. All he could see was time, a clock that ticked on with every breath. Summer days seemed long with memories jammed into back pockets like wildflowers. Days dripped by like glasses of too-sweet lemonade; gone too quick, leaving you with an unquenchable desire for more.

His fingers were long and intertwined; in another life, he could have been a pianist. On his wrist lay a simple leather watch with a golden face. After much deliberation, he withdrew the coin. The face stared up at him seemingly mocking his infallibility. His fingers drummed on the table, a simple tune playing in his mind. For once he waited. The waitress disappeared behind the formica counter, the skirt of her red dress swishing around her knees. Faint music played nearby, a mellow acoustic hum, as she swayed to its rhythm.

Steam and the aroma of coffee rose from the pot in her hand as the waitress walked back to the booth. Her shoes made impatient taps on the linoleum floor.

“Here’s your coffee sir,” her face molded into a smile.

All that greeted her was an empty booth, vinyl cushions plump as if no one had sat there at all.

The smile fell.

On the table lay a silver half dollar, it’s face gleaming from the sun.

Outside the boy strolled down the street, suitcase in hand, his face upturned towards the sky. There was a spring in his step, as soaked in the summer sun. He looked young again, young and alive.

If you listened close enough you could hear it.

It was in the far off piano melody playing in the trees. It echoed in a child’s laugh, as it burst into this present moment like a firework. Filling the world, if only for a split second, with unfiltered joy.

It called to you, pulling at the strings of memories and silent aspirations.

It was sunlight on a windy day, one step out of reach, as it beckoned you to heed its call.

If you listened closely you could hear it, the long off horn of a greyhound bus hurtling into the future.