Outside In (32 page)

As with other holidays, people trickle in Wednesday evening for the Labor Day weekend ahead. By Thursday night the docks are full, and every room on the island is booked until Monday. I open the bar at eleven o’clock a.m. and close it at one in the morning. The fourteen-hour shifts are easy because I have nothing else to do. I go to bed right after work and am up for several hours before I have to leave in the morning. Remaining sober, getting to bed early, making it to work on time, and managing an unruly group all comprise a familiar life for me. It is the same one I wanted to escape. I am right back to where I started.

For visitors, the weekend is probably no different than any other holiday. We clear people out after Mad Dog’s show and reopen an hour later to fill the house for Whiplash.

Tourists still come to the Round House and ask for Cinch and Griffin or inquire about the party favors they have become accustomed to. I simply tell them everybody and everything is gone and don’t go into any other detail. People don’t really care anyway.

On Monday I watch the clock like a third grader on the last day of school. Each Mad Dog joke and song puts me closer to being released from it all. There’s no chance he’ll play late today because he has to perform at the ferry dock for White Spider.

The festivities begin at seven o’clock with each performer playing some of their island songs. At twenty minutes past, the
vehicles and the people will board, and at seven thirty the ferry will depart. It takes away from the event to know that the boats actually stay in service until Halloween, but I still want to see the crowd and listen to the music.

After my shift I catch a ride with Haley. Like most events on the island, things are running late. The PA isn’t working, and Birch’s soundman is arguing with one of the other performers about how to fix it. We exit the car. I motion toward the stage. “Behind schedule as usual.”

She shakes her head. “They better figure it out in a hurry because whether they’re done or not, the boat leaves at seven thirty. It doesn’t wait for anybody or anything.”

A loud popping noise sounds, followed by high-pitched screeching. Appearing triumphant, Birch’s soundman glares at the other performer who had doubted his prowess and adjusts the knobs on a small monitor.

Three hundred people have gathered at the dock, most of them complete strangers to me. Haley and I join Astrid and some other island workers on a blanket in the grass. Astrid hands me a bottle of Pink Catawba. I sip and pass it back.

Birch takes the stage and breaks into “Friends of the Bay.” The words rip through me.
“Hello, Friends of the Bay. Thank you for coming today. Hello, water so blue. I’ll always remember you.”

I am surrounded but feel alone. I lean toward Astrid. “I have to go. I can’t stay here.” I hesitate, remembering leaving her before and how that made her feel. “Do you want to come?”

She takes my hand. Her eyes scan my face. She says, “No, unless you want me to. You seem like you need some time alone.”

I kiss her good-bye and dart through the crowd, trying to outrun the sound of Birch’s voice. I clear the last group of people as he breaks into the chorus again.

The tears I’ve been holding for weeks stream down my face. I turn right onto Langram, and with each step the words and music
fade. I repeatedly wipe my face, hoping that if I clear away the tears, I’ll prevent future ones from flowing.

The horn from the approaching ferry sounds. Soon the road will fill with the same people I’m trying to avoid. There’s not enough time to get downtown.

A road ahead leads back to the water. I’ll just go down by the shore and wait for the traffic to clear.

The lane dead-ends into a cul-de-sac with three houses, their fronts facing the water. A wooded lot on the right stretches to the lake. I cut through one of the yards and follow the tree line to the shore. The lot gives way to a small rocky beach that extends twenty-five feet before disappearing into the water.

Down the shoreline, the last car drives onto the ferry. From here it looks like any other ferry trip and reminds me again of the awe I felt watching the ferry for the first time. I thought it was coming to rescue me from my pain. It only delivered me to more.

I retrace my steps to Langram and embark on the two-mile walk to town in darkness and more important, in solitude.

Headlights from an approaching truck brighten the road around me. I wait for it to pass, but instead, slowly, the throttle decreases.

Caldwell’s voice flows from the cab of the stopped pickup. “Why you walking?”

I peer into the dark cab. “Didn’t feel like being around people.”

“I’ll let you go then.”

“No, I’m glad it’s you. What are you up to?”

He flips on the interior light. “I was cleaning up the mess down at the dock. Fucking people—just leave shit everywhere, expect somebody else to clean up after them.” He shakes his head. “Where you headed?”

“Nowhere, anywhere. I mean, I don’t care. Wherever you’re going is fine.”

“I got a six-pack in the back. I’m going to Crown Hill Cemetery to drink a few if you want to join me.”

“As long as it’s not the Round House,” I say.

The headlights of the old truck fan across the entire road. I sink into the seat, listening to the rise and fall of the RPMs as Caldwell shifts. He says, “It’s got to be tough being here after everything that’s happened.”

“The hardest part is that I didn’t just lose one friend because of the accident; I lost them all. How do you stand it? People are always leaving.”

“Remember, the boat goes both ways,” he says. “People are always coming, too.”

I say, “Coming to get fucked up.”

He angles the truck off the road and through the entrance to Crown Hill Cemetery. The headlights illuminate the rows of tombstones and memorials. Mayflies swarm from the disturbance. He pulls over and kills the engine. The night swallows the sound. We hesitate, adjusting to the quiet. The buzzing of cicadas fills the air.

We exit the truck. Caldwell gets a small cooler from the back and we meet in front. He hands me a beer. “I come here every year after the last ferry leaves. All alone but completely surrounded.”

“Best company on the island,” I say.

Caldwell removes two more beers and puts them in the side pockets of his baggy work pants. We walk down a row of graves. Most are overgrown and decaying. The smell of a skunk drifts through the air. Fallen mayflies crunch under our feet.

“I know it’s difficult burying one of your friends. You never expect it’s going to be you in that situation.” He lights a cigarette. “Little over thirty years ago I was playing in a band with my best friend. We lived gig to gig, trying to see who could get the most pussy. Thought we had the world by the balls.”

“Sounds like a blast.” Just like my first few weeks here.

“One night in Gulf Shores we were tripping on acid and drinking tequila with two girls at their campsite. My friend wanted to leave to get a few hours of driving under our belts before the next gig in Florida.”

Caldwell’s voice is deliberate. His eyes remain fixed straight ahead. He pauses only to raise a beer with his right hand or a cigarette with his left. I don’t think he’s told this story many times.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Don’t know. I passed out shortly after we left. When I woke up, I was in a hospital and my friend was dead.”

We pass by a Romanesque mausoleum surrounded by a grove of trees. There’s a rustling in the weeds. A rabbit darts from the darkness. My eyes follow the black form skipping across the graves.

“Even today I don’t know why I wasn’t killed along with him. It’s not like I’ve done any great deeds in my life or made a difference.”

I say, “You seem at peace now.”

“Took me a lot of years. Now I just accept that we’re born each day and we die each night. In between we live our lives. People come and people leave, and in between we live our lives. Everything has a beginning and everything has an end, and in between we live our lives. I just try to follow through to the end and close the loop. Leaving might have been the best thing for others after what happened, but you have to figure out what’s best for you.”

“Nothing’s exactly turning out like I thought it would.”

We stop in front of a tombstone. The name reads John Brown Jr.; Caldwell pours beer on the grave. “It may not be the life you imagined, but it’s your life. You came here for a reason. Is it time for you to go and begin again?”

I understand his question, but as usual I know he doesn’t expect an answer. I can give one because I’m leaving tomorrow
for the trip to Key West. But is that the right answer for me? Maybe I’ve run enough.

Caldwell drains his beer and squeezes the empty can. “Sorry about dumping that on you. Watching you go through all this has brought back memories.”

“That’s okay. Did you know I’m leaving tomorrow to go to Key West to find a place for the winter?”

“No shit?” he says, laughing. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll do the right thing.”

“A lot of people would take that bet.” I slug the rest of my beer.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on yourself. You just have to learn how to recognize your truth—the answer that’s right for you.”

I say, “Pretty selfish approach, isn’t it?”

Caldwell pokes his finger in my chest. “Quit trying to save the world and just save yourself.”

A FAINT TAPPING FROM CINCH’S ROOM WAKES ME
. Although gentle, the consistent rapping prevents me from sleeping. I get up to investigate.

In the vacant room, a white ceiling tile lies on the floor. The other tiles will fall soon as well—rattling, waiting for a burst of wind to send them tumbling.

I reposition the tiles, securing them with duct tape, just as I did the ones in my room when I first arrived. The wind shakes the entire building with each gust.

A loud crash sounds from outside. Kegs slide across the cement, banging into one another at random intervals. First a blast of wind, then the sound of metal rolling on concrete:
Thung
!

Outside, although the sky is clear, the air is damp. Usually at this time the silence is consuming, but tonight the sounds call out. The clasp on the flagpole in the park strikes repeatedly against the aluminum pole. The back screen door of the Round
House slams with each gust. The wind rushes through the trees, mixing with the leaves, as if trying to quiet everything:
Shhhhhhh
.

To silence the kegs I stand them in the grass. Unsure whether I’ll be able to sleep anyway, I check out the other noises in the park. I go to the flagpole and place my hand on the line, pressing the clasp against the pole, quieting the din. Other sounds caused by the swirling gale ring out. The chain swings on the playground collide with one another as they dance wildly. The water from the fountain strays from its natural course, splattering on the concrete. And still, even more convincingly than before, the leaves call for silence:
Shhhhhhh
.

I release the flagpole line, allowing it to mix with the dissonance again. I become more and more aware of the noises, eager to choose a sound and trace it to its source. I go from place to place, staying only long enough to satisfy my curiosity. Why haven’t I noticed these sounds before? Why did I only notice the silence in between, whereas tonight I hear the noise?

I approach the monument from the front, watching the light on the top turn on and off as I climb each step. Even the strongest wind can’t sway my stone companion. I place both hands on the granite. “What should I do?” Sitting down with my back against the column, I ask again. “What the fuck should I do?”

Only the wind rushing through the trees responds, now shaking the branches as well as the leaves, sending a chill through me. I fold my arms across my chest, rubbing each arm with the opposite hand.

I get up and walk to the plaza wall. A
smack
sounds on the water, but I’m still unable to see through the black curtain in front of me.

I climb over the plaza wall and descend the hill to the cement seawall. The moonlight blankets the rolling water. I sit down on the barrier and allow my feet to hover above the water, occasionally extending my legs to avoid an incoming wave.

Water covers the wall and soaks through my shorts. Thoughts of former students, Caldwell, Astrid, Haley, and Cinch simmer. A few I’ll never see again. Others I’m not so sure, which frightens me even more. Has all of this been for nothing?

I walk down the seawall and onto Langram, retracing a familiar path. Where have I gone wrong? Each of my decisions now appears to have been a subtle nudge, small enough that I didn’t notice where I was heading but significant enough to culminate in the lie that I’ve been living. I have made so many changes, but is anything really different? I am still on the outside looking in. Still wanting what I can’t have, regretting what I didn’t do.

I turn right on Thompson Road toward the winery. Am I really an insignificant player in a sick, twisted game, or do I just have bad luck? Either way, I’m tired of it all: tired of running, tired of searching, tired of expecting.

I pass through the winery parking lot onto Catawba Avenue. The loneliness of the deserted road closes in around me. I veer off the road into the vineyards. The grapes won’t be picked for a month, but the sweet fragrance is still salient. I wander down the alley formed by the vines, shuffling my feet in the rocky soil.

The void I tried to fill by coming to the island has merely swollen.

Coming to the island didn’t change anything.

Grass replaces the dirt that was under my feet, and trees supplant the vines that were on my right and left. I weave through the bushes and trees and stumble upon a path with deep grooves from bike tires. Where am I? Does it really matter? I have nowhere to go and no place I’m supposed to be. Am I lost or completely free? A week ago, I might’ve said free, but now I know I’m lost, just as I’ve always been.

I emerge from the woods into a familiar area. I’m at the cove.

I can’t run anymore. If I do, I just carry everything with me.