I gotta get out of this place

I gotta get out of this place,

if it’s the last thing I ever do.

Change the words of that old song (my father’s favourite) a little bit, and it’s still true. This small town has been driving me absolutely crazy for the last few years.  I’ve lived here my whole life, all 26 years of it.  Pretty much everybody in town knows my history, especially the times I screwed up in high school when I wasn’t listening to the teacher and gave creative answers to questions she asked me (even though my hand wasn’t up). They are also very aware of when I started my job as a mechanic and had to pay for the repair/destruction job I performed on the mayor’s car, having to pay to have it re-repaired by a more experienced mechanic. Worst of all was the time on graduation night when I was dancing with Dorothy, asked her out for the following Saturday, and she told me that she was getting married that night. I wish my so-called friends weren’t within earshot at the time, and later elaborated on the story to much laughter around town. That story is still told. I see Dorothy now and then we smile at each other and walk on. Every time this happens, I wish that she and I could have danced, dated and even got married. But I was too late then as now. I wish that I didn’t see her as often – too many could-have-beens dance in my head.

I want to move to somewhere that I can be new, cleansed of a past that people feel free to comment on, and laugh at. The garage is shutting down. My boss is retiring and sold the works to a new owner who had all his own staff.. This is my opportunity to ‘get out of this place.’

Finding a New Job in the Big City

I looked for and after some searching found an ad for an experienced auto mechanic (which I am these days) in the city down the highway. I sent them an e-mail with a recommendation from my boss plus a description of all the kinds of work that I had done, with a specialty in brakes. Later than day, without even having to be interviewed, they offered me the job. They knew nothing of my past other than my mechanic work. I really like that.

           Now I have to make some plans. It would mean, at least at first, a long way to drive to work for a while, over an hour and a half, but no worries.  I’ve got a reliable truck, and it won’t be long before I will find a place to stay. I would make new friends, create new memories (positive ones), find a new woman in my life, so that Dorothy can finally be completely forgotten.

           The second Friday night of work in the city garage I decided to go to a pub that my new co-workers had recommended highly. I booked myself into a motel within easy walking distance of the British pub strangely called The Rose and the Thistle No More. I was hoping to see one of my co-workers there. I hate to drink alone. Then I saw one. His name is George. I waved to him. He nodded his head ever so slightly, but did not wave back, and turned his head towards one of his friends who was talking rather loudly. None of the others at his table worked at the garage, so I took this as a sign that I should not try to sit at that table. I went to the bar to sit, thinking that perhaps I could engage in conversation with the bartender. But that did not happen. The extent of our talking was “What will you have? I’ll have a Guiness. By the way, why is the bar called “The Rose and the Thistle No More”. In reply, he said, “Because it used to be called the Rose and the Thistle. Everybody knows that.” He then served me my Guiness, and went633 on to his next customer. I call him back with, ‘Do you have any bar snacks?’ There is a stunned silence of a count of about five, and he says, “Bar snacks! What bar has bar snacks anymore? You must be from out of town.’ This is followed by a grunting laugh and a repetition of the phrase to the next customer, followed by laughter from the two of them. It went around the bar.

           I left after the one beer.  The walk back was no great fun. Two pretty girls smiled at me as I approached them. They turned out to be sex-workers. I had never seen such before. As I quickened up my pace to get past them I nearly ran into two very tough looking characters who wanted to sell me some drugs. They didn’t like my answer, and seemed to want to convince me to purchase something. Then there were the beggars, a whole row of them in front of a very sleezy looking bar. This walk couldn’t end soon enough for me.

           As I drew near my motel, I made a point to check whether my truck was locked or not. I couldn’t be too careful in this neighbourhood, in this city. When I got into my room, I quickly locked my door, and seriously considered putting a chair in the room up against the doorknob. I had seen it done in movies, but it wasn’t as easy as that, so I gave up. It took a while to get to sleep.

The Note

That morning when I drove back to my apartment, I was greeted by a big surprise. There was a note in an envelope that had been pushed under the door. When I opened it up, I saw that it was from Dorothy.

“Every time I see you on the street, I wish that I could get up the nerve to tell you that I am divorced now. That seems a bit too brazen to me, like I was directly telling you that you should ask me out, that we should get involved right away.. I still very much remember the night of the prom when you asked me to dance. I wanted to, but it would have been inappropriate so close to my upcoming wedding. When we shared the same class, I always liked you, with your quirky jokes that always made me laugh, and even the way you gave strange answers to the teacher’s questions in class.”.

           The note included her phone number. I called her and asked her out to my favourite pub (and hers as well I found out). We sat at the bar, drank, ate bar snacks when we weren’t holding hands.

I won’t mind the long drive to work. “There’s no place like home.”