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Sometimes when a man is alone...

Sometimes when a man is alone, and the night is strange with winds from the east, and the clouds blow offshore, and the fishermen tie up their boats for the night “A’fore the gods come down”, sometimes when things are different… Sometimes, even when things are the same… 

Moving forward gets harder. 

“Later Wendell.” 

“Later John. See you tomorrow?” 

“If the weather holds up.” I wave goodbye to the big man and head off to my truck, shouldering the weight of the day. 

For Balloonists like me, days start early. Three thirty AM, before the sun comes up, I stretch, kill my alarm and stare at my shoes. When I realize what they are, I’m ready for the walk outside. Nothing hits harder that first blast of cold night air. 

Now, at nine o'clock, when the day is finally over, the muscles in my back relax. The sores, scratches, bumps and bruises across my body don’t hurt so bad. It’s a long drive home, but it’s ok. The work is over. 

I watch Wendell pull out behind me and light a cigarette. I’m a smoker, and I won’t apologize for it. People apologize for everything. I’ve apologized for so much in my life, and have so much left to answer for, I don’t have to apologize for that, at least right now. It’s a part of who I am. 

When his headlights disappear, I start the truck. The scent coming off the heater, my lights reflecting off the trees… Something about this late night drive always makes me think of you. I take a moment to rest my head on the wheel. It’s the heaviest part of my day, right here. I try to keep myself too busy to think, but when the work is done, I can’t help it. 

There are tears in my eyes, but I pretend there aren’t. I throw the truck in reverse and put my foot on the gas. It’s time to go home.

As the truck begins to move, I notice something. It’s taking more gas than usual and something feels… wrong about the way it’s moving. Like I’m trying to move through a swamp. I stop the car and get out. Sure enough, the front passenger tire is flat. 

I lean against the car and finish my smoke, staring at the tire. It’s been a long, damn, day. I haven’t stopped moving until now. I don’t know what pisses me off more, the flat, or the fact that every time I close my eyes, I see… I feel you. 

It takes a lot of swearing to get the tire off the car. Some kicking is required. Maybe not required. Sanity is a requirement, isn’t it? 

In fifteen minutes, I have the spare on, the flat in the back, and I’m ready to go. I shut the gate, get into the front seat, start the engine, crank the heat, turn on the radio and look over at the empty passenger seat. You aren’t there. 

“Fuck, Alice.” why the fuck can’t you just be there.

I start driving. At some point, I really need to get home. 

As I drive, I listen to the music playing through the stereo. It seems like every month there's a new song about someone getting their heart broken. I used to laugh at those songs, but now I just shake my head and think “Oh man, you have no idea. She’s not a bitch, she just doesn’t like you anymore”. Sometimes that happens, you know? Sometimes, mommy and daddy just don’t love each other like they used to. 

For a moment I’m grateful I’m alone. Just for a moment, and then it’s gone. 



Please don’t kill yourself today.

Every damn day I have that thought. Sometimes I stare at my phone wondering if I’ll get the call, if it’ll come this morning, or the next, or the next. Will I miss it? Too busy chasing balloons? Too busy drinking a little bit of my paycheck thinking about you? I’ll probably be thinking about you. 

Your mother would call me. There isn’t a doubt in my mind about that. I try to imagine what the call would be like, but… I have to get home. That’s not a safe thought to have while driving.

It really is a beautiful drive. I pass through shallow valleys lined with trees that reach over the road to hide the sky. There are certain things I notice when I’m on this road. A white camaro parked off the side in a dirt lot where it always is, quietly rusting in the evening fog. The house with the round front door. Moss hanging off the low branches. 

Back when we were together, when one of us was upset we’d drive together, always with me at the helm. I think you let me drive because you knew it made me feel strong, like I was taking care of you. There was pride in it. Men need pride. They need to feel special, sometimes. Strong.

I’m a protector, I think. Certain people are certain things. I've met guys that were comedians, kick-your-ass girls and people somewhere in between, and I think after a little self exploration (and reflection) I have a pretty good handle on my own identity. I’m a soldier. You were my queen.

I have to pull off the road for a second. Thinking about you has its cost, sometimes. 

It’s ten thirty now. There's a thick fog on the ground, so thick I can’t see the tops of the trees. When I turn off the car the headlights go dark and my world becomes pitch black

My mother used to tell me not to ruin my life over “a girl”. It would be easy to think she was right, only… I have to remind myself that I made it here, the northwest, without you. I’ve survived now for the better part of a year on my own. I work hard (you know me) and I pay my bills. If I hadn’t gotten so far away from you, I’d still be there. Not with you, per say. Just… around. 

Remember when I finally left? When you called me halfway up the coast? I’m not surprised I picked up, but if I hadn’t been at least halfway I would have turned around. You have that effect on me. That’s the thing about being a soldier; when my queen needs me, I’m there. Being thirteen-hundred miles away keeps me from doing that anymore.

I open my phone, half expecting to see a missed call from you, but there's nothing. It’s harder to convince myself I’m being strong when you don’t call. There's this fantasy in my head that you don’t care anymore, that you're happy with whatever boy is sleeping beside you and you’ve forgotten all about me. In some strange way I would be so proud of you. That’s one thing neither one of us have been able to do. Let go of the other. If I had the strength I would have done it by now, but I don’t. 

I start the car. I really have to get home. Before I can pull out of the lot, my phone rings. I look down at the screen and put the car back in park. It’s you. 

I don’t answer. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Then again, you promised you wouldn’t call. It feels like years before it sends you to voicemail, and by that time my whole body is shaking. It takes another year for the voicemail to appear. My thumb hovers over the playback button. 

“No.” I close the phone. Within seconds I have it back open.

“No.” I say it again. “No.” My mind runs through the possibilities of what you might say. None of them are good. I really can’t help myself, can I? It may have been the tremble in my hands, but I don’t think so. I press play.

You’ve been crying. I can hear it in your voice before you say a word. 

Hey. I didn’t think you’d pick up, I know how tired you get when you’ve been working… I was hoping you’d pick up but I sort of knew you wouldn’t. I don’t know why I called… I… Call me back. Please. I love you.

That last sentence knocks the wind out of me. Calling you back takes no hesitation. As the phone rings, I kick myself for that. I should have the strength by now.

“Hello?” My hands are trembling. 

“You called me back.” As soon as I hear your voice, this calm washes over me. Everything comes into focus, like I’ve been trapped underwater and just in that moment broke through to the surface 

“I did.” 

“Why?” 

“I never can stop myself with you, Alice.” 

“Yea…” There's a muffled sob on your end of the line. “I know.” 

“You ok? I’ve been worried about you.” I close my eyes and try not to calculate how fast I could make the drive back to San Diego. 

“I’m not. How am I supposed to be ok with any of this John?” 

“You’re the one who left.”

“I know I did, but I…” I don’t know how I know, but I always know what you want to say, even when you can’t. I miss you too. “How are you?” 

“I’m ok.” It occurs to me now (Like it always does eventually) that just because you call doesn’t mean you want me to come back. “What do you want Alice?”

“I know. I know I shouldn’t be calling anymore. I have no right.” 

“But you did, Alice. And here we are.” 

“I did.” 

We are comfortably silent for a while in the way only we can be. There's energy in the air, a hot ball of static. It raises hairs on the back of my neck. I always feel that way when I talk to you. I know you feel it too. I try to find the strength to be mean to you, to yell at you or hang up, but I don’t have it. I just sit there and wait for you to say something, anything, any excuse for me to come back home to you.

“I’m sorry.” You don’t ever have to apologize, not to me. Not for anything.

“For What. Calling?” 

“For all of it, John, all of the ways I…” You pull away from the phone on the other end of the line. I can see exactly what you’re doing when I close my eyes. I’ve seen it too many times, it’s burned into my memory. I will never forget the way you look when you cry. “I’m so fucking sorry, I fucked it all up and I-”

“I love you.” The words just slip out. 

“I love you too.” I remember when you could say that word without sounding afraid of it. 

“Hey, Alice?” 

“Yea?” 

“You think we’ll ever be able to stay away from each other?” 

“Probably not.” I knew your answer before you said it,but still… It makes me smile.

“Ok.”

“Do you want to stay away from each other?” When you ask me that, the smile fades, replaced by… let’s just say I have believed too many times to think tonight will be different.

“No. I want to go home.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You, Alice. You’ve always been home to me.” 

“I…” every time I step closer, you step away, even when you call me first. Still, I always get my hopes up. “I have to go. Zack’s going to be home soon. If he catches me he’ll be really pissed.” 

“Ok.” It never stings less, no matter how many times you do it. I bite back tears and try to smile with my voice. “Goodbye, Beautiful.” 

“I forgot you used to call me that.” 

I did too. 

“Goodbye, John.”

I hold the phone against my ear for a long time after you hang up. I’m afraid if I move at all, I’ll throw it out the window. Or throw up. I knew I shouldn’t have picked up the phone.

When I calm down a bit, I start the car and crank the radio up. What do you know, another one of those heartbreak melodies. ‘Empty Chairs’ by Don McLean. I start to drive, and try my hardest not to break down. 

“And I wonder if you know…” I can’t help but sing. My lip trembles. I won’t do it. Dammit, I won’t cry about this again. 

“That I never understood…” I can’t pull off the road again. If I do, I probably won’t make it home before I have to leave for work. 

“That although you said you’d go… Until you did… I never thought you would.” 

Fuck you, Don McLean.

I pull that song up on my phone and listen to it on repeat until it starts to lose its effect. When I make it home, I’m so tired I can barely park the car. I manage to, with a few tries, and fall out of the door, a lit cigarette in my mouth and my headphones blaring. I didn’t always smoke. Not before you left. 

Standing in front of the gray cement building, I try not to think about how closely it resembles a parking structure. It’s a hard place to live, for those people unlucky enough to live there. You would hate it here. I hate it here too, but it’s a place at least.

I manage my way inside, up the elevator and through the door. The alcoholic I live with is already fast asleep. When my head hits the pillow, I take one last look at my phone. The clock says eleven thirty. Below it, I have one unopened text message. I open it. With five words, you knock the wind out of me again.

You’re home to me too.

I close my eyes, and my mind drifts to a place entirely other. Sleep overtakes me. I always find you there. 

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

I wake up and roll my legs over the side of the bed, letting them swing inches above the ice cold floor, and grab my phone. With the alarm off, I wipe my eyes and try to see clear enough to navigate the fuzzy screen. It takes a minute. Maybe two. I shake my head to clear it while I listen to it ring.

“Goooood morning Mr. Moore. How’re you feelin?” 

“Like a million fucking dollars. We flyin?” I stick a cigarette in my mouth and almost forget I can’t light it indoors. 

“Yes we are.” 

“Great.” I say, staring at my shoes. “I need to catch a fucking balloon. See you at work, Wendell.”

“Ha. See you in a bit John.” 

You see, the one thing I’ve come to realize over these years without you, is that I can’t slow down, even when you call. I can’t stop everything for you anymore, or wait for you to catch up. I’ve always been worried if I move on you’ll look for me in the place I was before, but the truth is… There are balloons to catch. And I have to catch them. Sometimes when a man is alone, moving forward gets harder. Sometimes home is a place, and sometimes it’s a person. But if you carry that person with you, in your heart, home is carried with you too. And sometimes that can be enough.

Goodbye, Beautiful. For now, at least.