Category: Stories

       They were from New York City and eighteen years old. Gus was Jewish, Dakar was African American, and Tex was Puerto Rican. They had crossed the country in an old beat-up Chevy Impala, and it was, for each of them, their first trip outside of New York. They had just graduated from an experimental high school, known as the LEAP school, which stood for THE LOWER EAST SIDE ACTION PROJECT. The goal of the school was to provide an alternative education to teenagers from this tough neighborhood, who didn’t fit into the city’s school system. These three were staying at the home of a friend of mine, whose parents knew the creators of LEAP. I spent a handful of afternoons hanging out with them, listening to their stories about the big city. The more I heard, the more I wanted to hear. They talked about Nixon, Viet Nam, the Black Panthers, Hendrix, government corruption, juvenile justice, Minority empowerment, new education, music, art, and on and on. They were driven with purpose and energy, and I was inspired by these conversations unlike any I had ever heard among my peers in Lake Oswego. I found myself wanting to be as engaged as they were.  The day before they were due to depart for the Oregon coast, I asked them if they thought LEAP school would allow someone like me to attend. Did they think that was a possibility? They agreed to set up a phone call with the school administration for an interview.

        Earlier in the Summer, Gloria had called and invited me to lunch with her and David. We tried to pick up where we left off. David and I played chess and Gloria played the happy hostess. I remember feeling that the happiness was forced and I felt an awkwardness emanate from deep down inside me. Another time, Gloria asked me if I would give her a ride on my motorcycle and she suggested we go to Multnomah Falls and have a picnic. Just the two of us. I said yes, but I was no longer that 14-year-old boy wanting to believe a paradise existed between us. That illusion was slowly deflating. 

         Ever since that first day back, I’d been feeling an anxious detachment, like an unseen cloud on a dark night. I tried to pretend it was nothing, but the source of this discontent kept resurfacing in my mind. It was the image of Gloria and Timothy sitting closely together on the floor, side by side, and the look of defiance in Gloria’s eyes as she stared back at me, her arm around Timothy’s shoulders. I couldn’t unsee this, and I couldn’t unhear the thought, “Oh my god, she has another boy.”

         Sometimes, I found I could bury these thoughts if I left them unarticulated. On a deeper level, however, I knew that I had returned to Oregon with the expectation of regaining something that I knew didn’t exist anymore. Maybe it never had existed. The sex we had in the hidden place Gloria and I had found at Multnomah Falls, was not a magical moment. It was perfunctory. That’s why I was so quick to jump at LEAP school in New York. Far better to fly away, than to nest in these disturbing thoughts.  

       With four weeks to get my ducks in order, my first task was to obtain my father’s blessing. Even though he was in Texas, he still exerted authority over me. His first reaction to my plan was an absolute no. There was no way he was going to allow his son to go traipsing off to New York City, all by himself, knowing nobody, and move into the Lower East Side of Manhattan, one of the roughest neighborhoods in the country. So, I had my work cut out for me. Beginning with a letter campaign making my case, I argued this adventure was actually a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Think of how few people were ever offered the chance to experience the world beyond the safety of their local confines. Our letters flowed back and forth and Dad’s adamant stance began to soften. I reminded him that he’d run off and joined the Marines, four months before Pearl Harbor. In less than a year, he was fighting the Japanese in the jungles of Guadalcanal. I won my case.

       I found a buyer for my motorcycle and with the proceeds, I purchased a one-way ticket to New York, with enough pocket cash left over to get by for a while. Before leaving, I made the rounds to say goodbye to my friends, painting a confident picture of my upcoming adventure, receiving good wishes and support from everyone. Everyone, that is, except Gloria. I had saved the final goodbye for her.

       We stood on their brick terrace. The day was beautiful. A slight breeze flowed up from the lake and filtered through the trees. David and Gloria stood together in front of me, his arm around her shoulders, as we said our last goodbyes. Gloria was crying, as David pulled her close. I wondered what he was thinking as Gloria pleaded with me not to go. 

       “New York is a bad place,” she said, “It will make you into a bad person.”

       I went to New York. 

       A brilliant blue sky greeted me that morning, cloudless as far as the eye could see, and the rush of the open road felt limitless and intoxicating. The plan was to cross the entire lone star state that first day. Maybe it was a little ambitious, maybe naïve. But I wanted out of Texas. If I had bothered to check I would have known that the western border was 800 miles from Houston, and that was as the crow flies. At a minimum, it would take 16 hours to traverse. Not easy on a motorcycle. But I didn’t care. I was 17 and impatient to taste my independence. Accelerating through the side streets, I quickly found the entrance ramp, and burst up and onto the interstate. Speeding through the thinning traffic, heading due west, I felt the sun on my back and the thrill of an unknown future ahead. 

        The image of Dad waving goodbye remained strong in my mind. I imagined him still standing in the carport long after I had disappeared, thinking of the day he’d run away from home at 17. He had been determined to cut loose from an unhappy childhood as soon as he came of age, and never looked back. So, when I told him I wanted to leave Texas and go home to Oregon and that I could get there on my own, he didn’t fight me. He understood.

       Hour after hour, pushing through the increasing heat of the day, my initial exhilaration gradually settled to a steady determination. This seemingly endless straightaway was no match for my imagination. I would be in New Mexico before this day was over. Pressing through the unchanging landscape, keeping my focus on the distance ahead, I was unwilling to concede even a sliver of doubt that I would get to the border before the sun set. But 12 hours later I was still in Texas, and the broad and flat, desert-colored horizon began to fade, whispering for me to surrender to the approaching night. Which I did, reluctantly, at the first cheap motel I could find.

       The next morning I was back on the interstate, two hours east of El Paso. I would eat when across the border in New Mexico. It was another brilliant morning and I carried the same inner excitement as the day before. It was as if something unarticulated was waiting to be discovered, a pot of gold in front of me, getting closer with every mile. Or maybe I was hungry. If it was imagination, it felt real enough to make the object of the pursuit seem tangible.

       I made my first pit-stop of the day on the western side of El Paso, fueling body and bike at the largest truck stop I had ever seen. A sea of 18-wheelers crowded the immense parking lot, the operators paying me no mind. Indeed, I seemed insignificant. Making my way into the bustling diner, I was engulfed by the loud clatter of plates and dishes and cheap utensils slamming onto tabletops, barking waitresses shouting orders to the kitchen, cooks shouting back through the chrome-framed window, and busboys hustling to keep up, desperate to earn their cut of the tips. The muscular voices of patrons came from every booth and every counter seat, drowning out the country-western music competing weakly in the background. All of it assaulted my senses like a slap in the face. It was as if I had walked into a community of chaos, an alien tribe, and I immediately felt out of place. Standing by the door, unnoticed, I wanted to shout above the din, “I’m one of you now! I’m a traveler too! I have a destination!” But of course, I said nothing. I waited near the entrance until a counter seat became available. Chowing down the breakfast special and slamming a cup of coffee, I was on the road in less than half an hour. 

       If I made good time, I could be in Phoenix before nightfall. Settling into the day, the steady growl of the engine my constant companion, I thought of the bundle of letters from Gloria that I had packed away. My intention was to return them to her as soon as I got back to Oregon. This way she would know she couldn’t be compromised.  It felt like the honorable thing to do.

       Having been warned that it was not advisable to cross the Mojave Desert during the day, the extreme heat a serious consideration, I waited until early evening before leaving Phoenix, and set out for southern California just as night fell. There was something different about this straightaway, something hard to define, but noticeable nonetheless. As the lights of Phoenix disappeared behind me the darkness of the desert seemed to contain a glow of nearly imperceptible light, with shifting colors like steam rising from the sand. Yet higher up, the enormity of the sky was black and glittered with infinite stars, vibrating in inconceivable silence. Long distances went by without passing another soul, and in those solitary stretches it was as if I became part of a timelessness impossible to describe.  As the highway began its long gentle descent to the Los Angeles basin, still hundreds of miles away, the warm desert air held me firmly in its soft embrace. I was one state away from home.  I wanted to connect again with that person who made me feel worthy and loved.  Gloria.

       Arriving in Costa Mesa, I met up with a couple of friends. They were enthusiastic surfers and urged me to give it a try. Borrowing a board, I paddled out to what seemed like an appropriate distance from the shore, where the more experienced waited to catch a wave. I watched them stroke their arms as fast as they could at the base of a wave surging behind them, and once catching that wave, they stood up and began the ride. It looked easy enough. Waiting a few moments for the perfect wave, it didn’t take long for one to emerge like a beast from below. Laying flat on the board, aiming for the shore that now seemed suddenly far away, I paddled to gain as much speed as possible before the wave arrived. It seemed suddenly much larger than I had anticipated. Within seconds I was lifted up by a force far more powerful than I ever imagined. My heart froze and my breathing stopped. But the board beneath me seemed to level off for a second, so I began to crouch up, intending to stand, marveling at how fast the wave was pushing me forward. For a split second, I felt in command, but a split second was all that I got. Roaring with earsplitting laughter, the wave flung me into the air, like a weightless twig, then plunged me violently into the wave itself, where I churned in circles, thrashing in an endless spin cycle, instantly losing all sense of what was up or what was down. My lungs screamed for air. Panic set in. The shore was too far away. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. But just as I was about to gasp my last, the wave spit me out onto the wet sand, landing me facedown, heaving greedily for the precious salt air. Narrowly escaping a humiliating death, dazed and happy to be alive, I thanked my friends for the fun day at the beach and wasted no time getting back on the road.      

       Pulling into San Francisco and crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, I decided to track north on Highway 101, a more scenic route than I-5. As the evening set in, a light rain began to fall, so I pulled over and put on a rain slicker. Getting back on the highway, the cloud-covered night darkened and the rain reflected glare from oncoming traffic. After several miles, with few cars to be seen, something strange appeared in my rearview mirrors; a whirling cluster of lights was approaching, rapidly gaining on me. With no distinct pattern, seemingly unconnected, the lights were like dancing white orbs, oscillating in the darkness. Essentially alone on this dark highway, this bizarre phenomenon worried me, conjuring thoughts of alien abduction. With no available option to avoid this looming confrontation, I did the next best thing and began humming an old country song.  But the mystery lights drew swiftly closer, and finally close enough to identify. It was a pack of Hell’s Angels, maybe as many as 15. Swarming all around me, their beefy Harley Davidsons, large and loud, penned me in, overwhelming my inadequate two-cylinder Honda. Had I intruded on their territory? Did they plan to conduct a ceremonial punishment on me of some kind, like death? Up ahead in the darkness, there appeared a lonely gas station, a small little oasis of light, a sliver of hope. With nonchalance I engaged my turn signal, carefully maneuvering to the off-ramp, thinking that maybe these leather vested bikers had more important things to do than waste their time murdering me. 

       As I cautiously peeled away from the pack, edging toward the exit, however, my newfound escorts executed the turn with me, like syncopated swimmers, dashing any hope this impending nightmare would soon be over. Pulling up to one of the gas pumps, I took off my helmet, and the earsplitting roar of the raging Harleys pulverized my brain. Standing aside my bike, I looked around at these bearded men with their steel-toed boots, wondering what direction the violence would come from. Trying to look as neutral as possible, surveying the faces staring at me, I had the sudden thought that maybe I was just an object of curiosity. Then the biker who had parked directly behind me got off his hog and walked toward me. Stopping a few feet away and giving me a hard look, he glanced down at my license plate. Looking back up, he nodded a few times, and then said in a deeply graveled voice, “Texas?” And I heard myself shout, “Yes! Yes! Texas!” He nodded again, seemingly impressed, then turned and walked away. 

       Having crashed at one last cheap motel, I crossed the border into Oregon the following morning. The weather was perfect, a departure from the usual rain. Cruising north on the coastal highway, every curve, every turn, every undulation was breathtaking. I had one stop to make before turning east. Aunt Edith, my grandmother’s sister and my favorite aunt, lived by herself in a small beach cabin, in the small beach town of Yachats. I hadn’t seen her in several years and knew that she’d had a stroke. Finding her cabin, we visited. What stood out from the visit was not that she was partially paralyzed and nearly confined to a chair, or that she was so happy to see me, but that she said, “I’m so lucky! The stroke paralyzed my right side and I’m left-handed!”

       Saying goodbye to Aunt Edith, I followed 101 north. The original plan was to get to Seaside and turn there for the last leg to Lake Oswego. But after a couple of hours, I felt an excitement too urgent to ignore and decided to head directly home. At Lincoln City, I turned off the 101 and cut onto a two-lane state road, following along the banks of a small river, lush with green vegetation under a canopy of tall trees. At Interstate 5, heading north again, I was almost there.

       Entering Lake Oswego, I felt a happiness embrace me from head to toe. Everything was familiar. Every road and street, every house and building, every grove and field, all of it was a part of me. As I circled the lake my heart wanted to shout, “I’m back! I’m back! Here I am, I’m home!” Making my way around the entire lake, I cruised slowly through the small village. There was the J.C. Penny store, Our Lady of the Lake Church, Rexall’s Drug Store, the Lake Theatre, everything the same. It was a beautiful afternoon and with my amazing journey complete, I wanted to share the exuberance of that achievement, but as I continued my silent victory tour, I began to sense a slight deflation. I had been gone for nearly a year and now I was back, but life had carried on as it always had. My two closest friends, John and Kerry, were nowhere to be found. When I finally located my brother, Bill, he was at a friend’s house working on a car in the driveway with four other 19-year-old boys, all too intrigued with the workings of an eight-cylinder engine to be bothered with my travels. The event of my return wasn’t significant to anyone.  Bill barely acknowledged me.

       Except for Marnie, my grandmother. She was there, as she had always been, welcoming me into her home with her gentle love.

       I put off seeing Gloria until the next day, then drove over to her and David’s house. Carrying the small bundle of letters, I parked my motorcycle next to the pathway that led down to their house. I heard animated voices from inside as I approached the side door that led into the kitchen area. The door was slightly ajar and I knocked softly, saying, “Hello?” Through the door window, I saw Gloria coming toward me and I began to feel awkward and nervous. When she fully opened the door, there was an instant look of surprise on her face. In the next instant, she smiled broadly and called out my name. “Oh my god, you’re back! Come in, come in and say hello to David and Timothy!” I hadn’t anticipated David being there, much less Timothy, who was a friend I knew from school, and a year younger than me. I stepped into the little room adjoining the kitchen, where we exchanged pleasantries and perfunctory questions about my trip, and my plans. At some point, still holding the bundle of letters, I realized I had no idea how to make them disappear. They felt increasingly cumbersome.  Not having thought this through very well, I decided to ignore them, and hope for the best. But just as I had settled on this strategy, David pointed at what I was clutching and asked, “What’s that?”  Thinking quickly, I replied, “Oh, those are Gloria’s.” and I put the bundle on the counter. The room went silent as David immediately picked them up, turning them over in his hand, giving them a cursory examination. Holding my breath, I quickly glanced at Gloria, who stood next to Timothy. She watched David intently.  After a moment David put the bundle back down on the counter. He turned to me and said, “Welcome back, it’s great to see you. Sorry, I have work to do, but hope to see you again soon.” He turned and left the kitchen. Exhaling a deep breath, I could feel my heart beating in my chest. Turning back to Gloria and Timothy, I saw that they had seated themselves on the floor together, leaning against the wall. They were side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, hips and thighs touching. I felt like an intruder. Gloria was staring at me with what can only be described as an expression of challenge. This was confusing and unexpected. Staring back at the two of them, I saw a visual of familiarity and intimacy. It was shocking to recognize and too shocking to understand.

     I immediately buried the feeling, when moments later, I rode back to Marnie’s house on my motorcycle.

• “Timothy” is a fictional name to protect identity.

       The air was cool and sharp and unusually dry for Houston, Texas. The sun was just up on that Saturday morning in June and the humidity wouldn’t be long in coming. I wanted to get as far west as I could before it set in. Fastening two backpacks to the rear of my motorcycle with crisscrossing straps, I pulled them tight, double-checking to make sure they were securely fastened. Then I started the engine, giving it a couple of minutes to warm up before beginning the two thousand-mile journey back to Oregon.
        Swinging my leg up and over, I straddled the seat, listening to the low steady purr of the motor. It sounded good. After putting on goggles, I was reaching for my helmet hanging on the handlebar, when the back door of the house opened and Dad emerged. He crossed through the carport and stopped a few feet from me with his subtle smile that always seemed to project confidence in the possible. But this time I noticed a shade of sadness in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a credit card, handing it to me he said, “Just in case.” A brief moment passed between us and I noticed there was a folded fifty-dollar bill clipped to the card. 
       “Dad. I saved enough working at the Mobil station.”  
       “I know,’ he said, “but you never know. Treat yourself to a motel or two. You’re going to want to take a shower along the way. Trust me. And go ahead and buy a decent meal from time to time.”
        I looked at him, and we shared another quiet moment.  
       “Okay,” I said, “but I’ll only use it if I have to. And I’ll pay you back.” Taking his card and the fifty, I shoved them into my jeans, then lifted up my helmet and strapped it on. We shook hands, and Dad stepped back a little. 
      Not taking his eyes off of me, he watched as I downshifted into gear. Above the increased growl of the engine, I heard him say, “You be careful.”  I nodded and shouted back, “Goodbye, Dad.” Releasing the clutch, I left the last home I would ever share with him.    

  Dad had landed a high-paying job in Houston the previous summer, so we left Oregon and moved to that sweltering city.  That was ten months earlier and I had just completed my junior year at Westchester High.  On my first day at this respectable school, I was accused of being a shit-kicker.  It was the lunch hour and I sat alone, leaning against a tree when two friendly-looking girls walked up to me.  Grateful for the possibility of making new friends, I said hello. They looked me over for a few seconds, then one of them, staring at my boots, asked, “Are you a shit-kicker?”  There was so much contempt in her voice I felt stunned.  Never having heard that word before I asked, “What’s a shit-kicker?” They turned away laughing and the other one said, “He even sounds stupid.” The rest of the year didn’t get any better. I made a few fast friends, but I never stopped missing Oregon.

  A few short weeks after arriving in Houston, I began receiving letters from Gloria. They weren’t long, but enough was said to soften the loneliness I felt. I wrote her back late at night, careful not to say too much. 
      We carried on this correspondence for a couple of months, until one day, coming home from Westchester High, Dad confronted me in the living room. He was furious. Stepping to me, stabbing his finger toward my face, he exploded,
       “No more! Do you hear me? No more!” Dad fixed his eyes on mine fiercely. “It stops now! Right now!”
       Nothing else was said in that shattering moment. After a beat, he turned and went upstairs. 
        The intensity of his anger still ringing in my ears, I stood motionless until I heard Dad slam his bedroom door. Only then did I move carefully upstairs to my room, and there on the bed was the small bundle of letters from Gloria. I had hidden them under the mattress, assuming they were safely tucked away from any other eyes. But someone had obviously searched my room, and I knew it wasn’t Dad. That left Pat, my stepmother.  Confronting her for violating my privacy would be out of the question given the secret that had been revealed. Laying low was my only option. Sitting at my small desk, I thumbed through the letters and then bundled them back up with the large rubber band.      

        Two years earlier, back in Oregon, Gloria and I were lying in bed, when she turned to me.
       “I probably shouldn’t tell you this …” She stopped and looked up at the ceiling. 
       “What?” 
       “Your father tried to date me.” 
       “What?” I asked in confusion.
       “It was a few years ago, before I married David when I was still Miss Hendrickson. I was teaching English at the junior high, your brother was having trouble, so your Dad came to a parent/teacher night. We met and discussed the situation. A few days later I received a note from your Dad asking me out. I didn’t respond. Several days went by and he sent a second note asking me out, again. The notes were polite and respectful, but I didn’t think I should date a parent of one of my students.”
        Struggling to digest what I’d just heard, I said nothing. 
       “What happened after that?” I asked Gloria.
       “Nothing,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “ That was the end of it. I just thought you should know.”

  I stopped at the far end of the carport and turned to look back. Dad was still standing there. He waved, and I waved back.  

David sat across from me hunched over the chessboard, quietly taking his time. Finally, he looked up and said, “Your move.” I looked down at the board and tried to concentrate, but I could feel him watching me. Did he know? 

       It was a Saturday afternoon and Gloria had invited me over to see their new house on the lake. Continue reading “THE GAME”

       It was a small house in a tidy neighborhood. On the ground floor was a large front room with polished hardwood flooring, marked by a central rug of Native American design. A brick fireplace dominated the left wall, along with appropriate wall hangings and other embellishments. Ceramic pieces were smartly placed in just the right locations, giving the room a pleasing balance of well-thought-out color accents. Near the front windows, there was a small wooden table with four chairs that served as the dining area. A little further back from the main room were three smaller rooms: a den, an office, and a bathroom. Up front and to the right of the main room was a nicely remodeled kitchen that included a back door area that led out to a fenced-in backyard.
      Also in the back of the house, there was a nicely polished wooden staircase that led up one flight to attic space converted into a large bedroom. Continue reading “THE ESCAPE”