Two More Fantastic Years

As of October of this current year, I will commit to my cozy home in the quiet and lesser-known outskirts of Chicago for two more years. It has already been one terrific year in our home. I was married while living in this home. More recently, my cat and my dog welcomed a new puppy in this home. I also established my first writing office in this home. Since its conception in October, 2013, my blog now has an actual office to launch from. There are portraits and memories of California on the walls. I cannot believe that in just three short years my life transformed from sunny California to a distant hideaway in peaceful suburbia. In the winter time, I like to don my thick robe and sit by a snow-crested window in the glow of my fireplace with no electronic distractions and smoke quietly, watching the flames dance as my mind wanders through the fantastic things that occurred in those three years between there and here, and I imagine the fantastic things still to come. A fantastic year indeed; a marriage, a puppy, and my first short story. And, still, two more fantastic years.

It is windy today. The blustery winds whip through the backyards of my neighborhood. There may be only a week or two left of summer and the heat. We are rapidly approaching October. The grocery stores are rolling out all of the Oktoberfest goodies. October has always been a special or significant month for me. Sometimes it has been both of those things. A week or so ago, I was reminded of an occasion from three years ago practically to the day. I found my 'starting over' point in Southern California abruptly interrupted by the disbanding of a townhouse I shared with friends in Covina. It was a beautiful, quiet, private, and spacious townhouse just off a major boulevard and across the street from a late-night In-N-Out Burger and a 24-hour donut shop. It was January of 2013 when we moved in and it was a glorious time. It was exactly what I needed on my new life path. It was a time in my life when I was starting over in every possible way and I enjoyed nine months in my Covina home. I thought for certain we were going to enjoy several years and holidays in that townhouse. It was September of that same year when the news came that my main cohort could no longer endure a fellow roommate and his tardy payments and his touchy, isolated behavior and that he was pulling out of our lease. A motion was carried to abandon our rare find of a home. I had until the end of September to find a new place to live. My cozy, sunny, happy fresh start was coming to an end. I was panicked and devastated. I found no enjoyment in September. October was coming and I was miserable.

When the day came, it was actually a week or two before the end of September. I will never forget standing in the middle of the empty living room with my small amass of furniture and personal belongings — a lost, yet determined feeling. My now-former roommate and I loaded his pickup truck and he gave me a ride across town to my new abode. He helped me get my writing chair down off the back of the truck, bitched about his bills and made other negative, depressing statements and then he drove away. I haven't seen him or heard his voice since. I took lodging with a man four years my senior and he was able to put my emptiness into perspective. He was a failing alcoholic who consistently shut out his closest friends and neighbors. Both of his parents were dead and his wife had left him for another man. She had the kids. His only companion seemed to be his on-and-off toxic girlfriend who spent most of her time at the house nagging him, complaining, arguing loudly, and stealing money from his wallet when he would pass out. Sometimes she would disappear for weeks on end and he would be on a tumultuous bender, swearing her off for good until her inevitable return. My new landlord was quite friendly to me and he completely left me to my own devices. There would be the occasional smoke on the front porch together, but for the most part I kept to myself in my small room. My small room was attached to the side of the garage and had no heat. The washer and dryer were in the garage, along with the ruins of a once-great era. There was what used to be a fairly impressive bar in the garage. It was once the local watering hole for the neighbors on our street, complete with oak wood bar, neon signs, bar stools, tables and chairs with ashtrays, and a dartboard. It was hard to imagine the possibility of allowing something like that to run down. It was easy to picture all the friendly, neighborly good times had in that garage all those summers ago. The garage was a disaster. Broken items, dead leaves, debris, and old clothes everywhere. All of the bottles were empty and strewn, the neon signs faded and decayed, the keg taps clogged with mildew, and the tap handles chipped and worn. The bar was covered in layers of dust, cobwebs, and faded memories. Every time I did laundry in there I thought about those classic summers, how nice they would be now, and how I would not be very likely to see them repeated. My room had a twin bed, my writing chair, destroyed carpet, and the room came with a corner TV stand that was desperately supporting a large, heavy, boxy television from the early 90's. It worked beautifully and I had four or five channels to watch on it. There I was, one block away from old-town Covina and a short bus ride from busier West Covina, and I was more intrigued and anxiously excited than I had been living nine months in my former townhouse. October was coming and things were getting interesting.

Settled in, location observed, and routines established, I was one week away from the start of October and an old friend convinced me to start a blog, in order to shake out some short stories while I ponder the birth of a novel. I launched my blog on October first, after returning from a brief stay in Santa Barbara. October was coming and I was excited. I was much more lively during that time than I thought was possible. I was exploring my city more. I traipsed the bustling boulevard of old-town nearly every night. I was dining about town more. I had a regular seat at the old folks patio table at Starbucks. I was writing more. I was reconnecting with an old love. I was establishing the kind of fresh start I wanted in the first place. Everything was brand-new and strangely better. I was in awe of the situation. As the fall season rolled on and the holidays approached, my blog continued to publish stories I had no idea were there, and I finally put together the idea for a small novel — the very novel that is in completion stages today. Sometimes I actually miss those witching-hour writing sessions in that small room, relaxed in my soft writing chair with a comforter wrapped around me for warmth, watching Alfred Hitchcock Presents on the clunky television, writing letters, and writing my stories. It was in that interruption that I discovered the journey was longer than expected. The end of the road was not the arrival at some swanky townhouse on the fringes of contentment. I was discovering new things about myself. I was discovering what mattered and what did not matter anymore. There was still the same sunshine in the same California in the new circumstances, and the day eventually came when it was discovered that the journey still had a few thousand miles left on it. I remember telling my new roommate and strange friend that I would have to be moving on. He looked defeated and dead in the eyes, he smelled of stale screwdrivers and cigarettes, and he did not say much after telling me that he understood. I didn't know if it was the booze, or if he was going to miss the small amount of cash I gave him every month, or if he was just broken from another person leaving him. It was hard to watch in any case. I mailed the old boy a postcard from Nashville on my way to Chicago, the gist of it being the best of wishes for him and his happiness. I never heard anything. A year in Chicago, I tried to fill a lazy Tuesday afternoon in the office with a phone call to him and see how he was doing. The slurred voice of an afternoon drinking buddy answered his phone and told him who I was. I could hear his drunk voice in the background. It was barely one o'clock Pacific time. The old boy took his phone and hung up on me. I haven't heard from him since.

October is coming and I am ecstatic. I have a lot of time at home in October. I have a lot of events in October. I am pulling all the stops for Halloween weekend. I am going to bask in the anniversary of my blog and the next stages of my novel. I am going to look joyfully ahead towards the next two years. The wife and I are still due for a honeymoon. I hope the new puppy doesn't get too big too fast. I enjoy reminiscing, but I will never look back. Letting go in the wind, I was carried on a journey ripe with new beginnings and unforeseen possibilities. I never imagined it this way. My whole world was interrupted three years ago and it has been absolutely wonderful. Frightening at times, yes, but not without love, assurance, vision, and accomplishment. There is still a ways to go yet. Pull down the hoodies, stock up on the pumpkins, polish off the fire pit, put the apple cider on the stove, and take in every ounce of the Autumn scenery. I can already smell wood burning in the wind. October is here and here is to two more fantastic years.