Route 85

Have you ever experienced love?

OK, forget I asked anything. Have you ever wanted to experience love?

Of course you have. Who wouldn’t?! It’s the perfect drug.

It’s bliss. It’s something to strive for, something to yearn for, something to fight for, steal for, kill for… die for. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?

Love.

The accomplishment of a lifetime, a fulfillment to fulfill to the very brim. Who doesn’t want to be one of those Disney princesses, so full of happiness, of, of everything, actually. I would, and I’m a guy.

Love.

Right?!

But what is love, actually?

It’s a feeling of strong and constant affection. So, before feeling love, we need to feel. Pretty easy and straightforward, I guess. We feel something pleasant towards someone or something, and when we feel enough of it, Cupid rears its ravishing face and you get love.

Hmm, I wonder why it’s so hard for people to love themselves then? I mean, I always feel pleasant stuff in my company. And yet?

And yet. What happens if we don’t understand what we feel, what happens when we think that what we feel is something good, when it’s actually conditioning, hate, fear, desire, envy, respect, friendship, disgust. It’s still love then, I guess.

In that case, love is actually a constant and strong feeling of our perceived affection towards someone or something. Basically, if you’re fucked. Your love will be fucked, too. Blissful. Something to definitely strive for.

But if love is the quantifiable expression of a pleasant feeling, that we experience. And if that feeling that we experience is tailored to our own internal world, independent of what we might call a moral compass, isn’t what we call love the absence of indifference? Mainly, someone can say that they love someone or something because what they feel towards that specific someone or something is completely different from what he feels in general.

You love your mother because she is your mother. Nobody else is your mother. You love a particular man or woman in a sexual manner because you do not love another in the same manner. Likewise, you can love several people in a sexual manner because you don’t love others. You love your dog because he’s your dog. Your child, because he’s your child. The deeper the feeling of that perpetual: “Your”, the more intricate the feeling of selection becomes.

Does that make love an egoist expression of yourself in that case? You love because it’s about you. The more you love something or several things, the more diverse these selections are the more complex you become. What happens when you outgrow the need for a particular love, then? What happens when you change, become a whole different side of yourself? Where does love go then?

If love is basically a surviving mechanism, I don’t mean love, LOVE; I mean the general concept of love. Where does fear end up? When we’re afraid to lose someone’s love? What do we actually fear?

This reminds me of a friend of mine, J. Let me tell you his story, well I’m not actually going to tell you his story, he’s not that interesting. But let me tell you about of J, caught in this duality of pretentious love and selfish fear.

Que in the montage!

Drum roll…

It’s pelting down outside the roadside diner on Route 85. The dinner’s name stands out against the night, displaying the owner’s lack of imagination as a testimony to his one trip to the States.

A solitary figure stands in front of the diner, frozen in place by the movie unfolding within.

A tabby cat stands at the far corner to the right, licking its underside in hapless pursuit of a stray flee. Whenever he thinks he’s caught it, he chomps down on its own fur and pulls inefficiently. The flee just flees away while the cat’s frustration wells up inside.

The solitary figure looks down at the scene unfolding beneath his eyes. The longer he stares, the less human he feels, the emptier he becomes. Each drop of rain bombarding his being relentlessly, draining him of self until he becomes a blind spectator at a mute show.

He steps forward warily. The scene has reached its peak and he mustn’t lose himself now. He needs to see it unfolding. He has to.

Approaching the diner, he puts a hand on the Plexiglas window and brings his face as close as possible.

Inside, one of the armed gunmen that had stormed the diner several minutes ago is yelling at a young woman, right in front of our stranger. He knows this woman, he once longed for this woman, desperately. He gently touched that lone strand of hair that had stuck to her face early in the morning. They argued together; they made love to each other. They sang and danced under stars and neon lights. She cared for him when he was sick and played pranks on him when he was mopey. She made sure he respected her and understood just how lucky he was to have met her.

The gunman raises his black Colt 1911 with custom made handle and yells once more at the woman, “Sit the fuck down, bitch!”. She doesn’t seem intimidated by this violent manifestation of one’s fears and needs, but it’s just for show. She’s scared for her life, scared that this abomination of a man would rip her away from this world, from everything she holds dear. He sees her clenching her fist at her side, driving all her emotions there, all her hopes and prayers digging into her pink skin. Nails biting deep, drawing a trickle of blood, the scarlet of it deepening the green of her dress.

“No,” she states. No. Curious thing about this word, well not exactly a word but a state of being. Humankind was born from this single word. Life was born from it. No, I want to live. I have a right to live how I choose and do as I see fit for my well being.

The gunman doesn’t favor this display of personality. He gets a strange look in his eyes, he’s afraid. Afraid of her, envious even. He hates her; he hates her for the power to express herself as she does. Frustration rises and his hue changes, making him resemble a radish. She reminds him of his mother, his sister, his girlfriend, any of the number of women that did not falter in front of him, to which he had to succumb broken and defeated. He loves her at this moment.

Our stranger feels akin to the gunman at this point. He himself had felt all these things for Rose at one point or another. Her presence is intoxicating. You end up fighting to survive just by knowing her. Your daily life a struggle to maintain that shell of a personality you took all your life to build, which she, with a smile, has wrapped around her finger and dismissed so tenderly, slightly, knowingly, perfectly.

The gunman clenches his teeth and squeezes the trigger, attempting to escape.

The moment seems stuck in place. Heavy drops of rain splash around him, muzzling the sound of the gun as it discharges its judgment.

The gunman closes his eyes in reflex, running away from his deed. He can’t bear to watch its power. Relief washes over him and his hairs stick out on their ends.

The bullet penetrates Rose’s skull, shattering it. Specks of blood, tiny morsels of brain, and fragments of bone are scattered everywhere.

She plunges backwards like the sack of meat she has become. Black hair envelopes her face, hiding the subtle beauty that she proudly carried only moments ago.

And then, with a sharp thunderclap, the world returns to normal as blood spatters his face. J looks on from beyond the window at himself as he raises his hands in disbelief. He falls limply on the red and white sofa.

He becomes deaf to the world around him.

Outside, he pounds ferociously on the Plexiglas window, cursing and yelling, hurling spittle everywhere. He wants to reach out and choke the life out of himself, as he stands there destitute and unnerved.

Curious, right? How should a man react in such a situation? How should he act afterwards?

Not as I did.

Oh, isn’t this fascinating? Apparently, J has decided to break the fourth wall and join us in our little endeavor to understand the meaning of love.

Now, dear reader, even though this next part is going to be about myself talking to myself, please play along. Who knows, maybe you’ll learn something from it. And, in the end, isn’t every book about a person talking to themselves, pretending they’re someone else? At least I’m being honest here.

Every time I think of that moment, I end up hating myself a little more. I was such a coward. I lost her forever.

Maybe you were being brave for the first time in your life.

How can you say such a thing? I should’ve stormed him, wrestled the gun away from him, and shot them all.

Is that what you wanted? To die yourself? Because that’s what would’ve happened.

No!

I don’t know about that, but I’m pretty sure that’s what you’ve been yearning for all this time. It’s not her you’re missing, it’s being with her. What being with her meant for you. What her life went to your existence.

Let’s go back to the scene once more.

No! I can’t stand it anymore. I have to do something.

J, don’t go off script now in front of these wonderful people. J!

This is my story. I won’t you spoil it with your cynicism.

We were on our way to my hometown. It was an unbearably long drive, and the destination was unbearable just the same. Not that I didn’t want to go, or that I didn’t miss my parents or friends there, but every time we did, we ended it up fighting.

I hated fighting with her. It felt as if I tearing a part of my soul in the process and fighting with it for control. It didn’t bother her so much; she went at it like a dog on a bone. Sometimes it felt as if she fed on it, on all the arguing and the pain.

No. I’m imagining things. How could she? She was always so furious during our arguments, as if her very survival was put into question. Why would she want that?

The drive was long, and the road was shitty. So, we stopped at that diner. The weather was turning, and it looked like it was going to rain pretty soon. I had driven in rain such as that before; it was never easy. Poor visibility, reckless drivers and the way things were looking, I was in for an earful from Rose every hundred meters.

It was nothing to look forward to.

Sounds like a fairy tale. I think I saw a movie about you two: Hillbillies Unleashed.

We decided to stop at the diner because it looked rather strange, like it was torn from an American movie. She always liked to go to new places, try different things. I thought that by going there, it would calm her down. Take the edge off of things, smooth the rest of the drive over.

I was such an idiot.

The moment we stepped in, we were assaulted by these flickering neon lights, hell bent on blinding us. I looked around and saw an open booth right near the window. I turned back towards her, smiling.

‘Stop staring like that, and go.’ she said lovingly.

We sat down and ordered a cup of coffee and a cappuccino.

‘What am I going to eat here?’ she asked.

‘They have to have something vegetarian, don’t they?’

‘Probably something shitty. Why did we stop here in the first place?’

‘Come on, Rose. You always said that you wanted to stop here. Besides, we’ve got three more hours to go, and it’s going to start pouring soon. You know how the road gets from here on.’

‘I guess.’

She seemed to relax a bit at this point. Whenever she was concentrating on something, she had this cute quirk of throwing her lower lip out. She had the most wonderful lips. Full and soft, she would lay on you the softest kisses, it’s like they were never there, and yet, electricity sparked wherever they touched you.

‘Are we friends again?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I’m still mad. You know, it’s not that you don’t answer your phone or you don’t text back. It’s that, the minute you do, it’s like nothing happened. You act as if I hadn’t heard from you in four hours and you just pick the conversation right back where we left off. No apology, no nothing.’

‘Please, Rose. It’s not like that.’

‘I’m not crazy, J. You denying it, makes me sound crazy. I’m not crazy.’

‘OK, you’re right. It’s my fault, I got distracted with work. You know how I get when a new project falls across my desk. I get all excited and lose myself in it.’

‘I don’t understand how you can lose yourself like that, when I sit there waiting for you for hours, not knowing if something’s happened to you or not.’

‘What can happen to me, Rose?’

‘I don’t know, I worry, J. It makes me feel like a fool. It makes me feel like you’re using me and don’t love me at all.’

‘Please, Rose. You know I love you.’

‘I don’t know, J. Maybe you did, but it’s fine. It’s something I’ve come to terms with. It’s something I’ve accepted and moved on. What’s important is that I love you.’

‘I love you too, Rose. And please, don’t tell me that I haven’t changed. Yes, I used to do that. I used to act as if nothing happened. I was afraid, I told you. It’s something I had to grow up with.’

‘You’re not a child anymore, J. I wish you could see that.’

‘I know I’m not.’

‘Then why won’t you behave like a man. Why don’t you take responsibility for your actions, why do you act as if I don’t matter.’

That was the moment those animals decided to burst in. They were three of them, two men and a woman. They had driven in a grey BMW, one of those older kitty cat models. I had noticed them just moments before.

The moment they entered the diner, they started causing a ruckus. One of the other patrons called them out, and he got slapped for it. That’s when hell broke loose.

The woman pulled out a gun and yelled: ‘Nobody move, this is a robbery.’

They didn’t even wear masks, amateurs.

‘J, what the hell. J, I’m scared.’

‘Relax, Rose. We’re going to be fine.’

‘This is what I’m talking about, J. Stop acting like you’re always in control.’

‘What the fuck, Rose. This isn’t the time.’

‘It’s never the time. That’s what pisses me off about you so much. It’s never the time, it’s never your fault. It’s always fine. You had a shitty childhood, you lost track of time. Own up to your shit, J.’

‘Rose, lower your voice, please.’

‘Hey, you. Are you stupid or something?’ the gunman screams, closing in on Rose.

I love this part!

‘Oh, get on with it. Wave your little guns and take your pitiful money and just leave us the hell alone.’

‘Bitch, are you crazy?’

‘I do not accept to be talked to like that.’ She stood up at this point. Rose was such an imposing woman when she needed to be, even though she wasn’t tall. When she looked at you with those jet-black eyes, it felt as if you were a young boy waiting to be spanked.’

‘Rose!’ I called out to her.

‘Sit the fuck down, bitch,’ the gunman screamed.

‘No.’

No? Why would she say such a thing? Why would she do such a thing? How could she love a man such as me? A coward, unworthy to touch the ground she stepped on.

Jesus, man. You’re such an idiot.

Peace.