Riding Invisible

I haven't written a thing. Eight months of nothing and it's time to begin, but what should I call this? My Adventure Journal? Everyone has to know the truth in case I get killed on the trail. It'll be My Escape all written and drawn
WHILE IT HAPPENS
. Could be a little raw. I'm a little raw. I've got my flashlight, my pen, the art pencils, and I'm ready to run. My brother, Will, is staying home—good thing. There's no other choice for me.

I'm going to lay low, still and quiet, blend in, harmonize with the world out there. It's not an easy thing to be

—a boy on a HORSE

…riding invisible

10 p.m.—about a half mile from home

Here I am all wrapped in a sleeping bag and it's weird
and scary, and at least it's not all freezing cold tonight.
But I'm out here alone hiding on this craggy, rocky hill,
where the moon shines on the edge of Chatsworth and
the lights remind me of familiar places. It's like I'm so
close but really far away too. And the moon's hanging
there, so nice like a strange piece of exotic fruit, like
it's wondering who I am, like maybe I'm a starved wolf.
Hey, moon! I'm not starving. Not yet. It's my first night out here. And I'm not going to howl at you either, so forget it.

Tomorrow
—

guess I'll ride up Mission Blvd. to Foothill Blvd. Then head down to Lake View Terrace. It'll probably take all day and it's a good thing Shy was just shod, with all the pavement his hooves are gonna pound. We have to get out, so we'll disappear fast on the Palmdale trail, which will be a ride of maybe fifty miles to get there, and that might be pretty rough. Or fun. But no one will search for me that far from home. There should be ranches on the outskirts—possibly jobs—a place for Shy???? I don't know. Palmdale could be anything.

Right now—I'm in a cave. No one knows about this place, my hideout, my crawl-inside-and-stay-here place where nobody lives. Shy's hitched out front chewing weeds—
CHOMP CHOMP
—like a song—
CHOMP
. I left my iPod home because my stupid brother borrowed it.
CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP!
It's a chewing-weeds song, so who needs an iPod?

Before one day goes by, my parents will post signs. In less than a week, my photo will decorate milk cartons. I wonder which photo they'll use? I like the shot Gomez took when we went skiing and I'm completely out of focus with that orange knit hat low on my eyebrows.

For sure they already informed the police. I can imagine that scene:

What a bunch of bull. Of course they know why. It's my brother
WILL
who is NOT okay in his mind, like really for sure the guy's completely off his beam, and anyway (whoever finds this and is reading it) the doctors still haven't deciphered what prevents him from being human, but they call it
CONDUCT DISORDER
.

(the reason I may not sleep tonight)

early morning—still here in this cave

So it's like I woke up going, Where AM I? Where are my bedroom walls? Then Shy stamped his hoof really hard outside the cave, and I heard the sound and figured it out. Yeah, today's the beginning. The Big Adventure is now.

I can hear this dry Santa Ana wind starting up, and it knocks trees around, steals their leaves. Shy's still eatin' those brownish-colored weeds, which is great because it helps conserve the alfalfa pellets I took from Frank's stable and shoved in a plastic bag.

I do know it's going to be weird riding the 'hood through almost ten miles of middle-class America to reach the north end of the valley and then find that Palmdale trail. It's like this horse (and his four clicking horseshoes) has to haul himself past so much city stuff like hundreds of tract homes displaying their Home Depot landscaping and all these stucco shopping centers and half-empty strip malls. We'll navigate across car-packed boulevards and wait at lights where hopefully the traffic cams avoid us. I'll be wearing a gigantic backpack and riding a loaded-down equine. Now what cop is
NOT
gonna stop that kind of pedestrian?

My big reward for the morning, eaten in five bites—Will's raspberry-jelly doughnut. How he bought it special, all for himself, and left it on the counter even though Dad yells about ants when he does that. And this doughnut tasted like sweet gooey freedom every time I bit into it.

probably noon—Mission Park

• jagged graffiti under a bridge made from gang piss in a spray can
  
• three cop cars surrounding a group of evil-lookin' gangbangers and I'm relieved they created their diversion because I bet those cops would notice ME and THIS would be over
  
• an old man leaning against a lamppost his watery red eyes staring straight into mine I dug in my pocket for a dollar and he snagged it like a frog trapping a fly so I pulled my hand back
  FAST
  like I just got bit
  

From here, the distant mountains look like huge lavender globs of bubble gum reminding me of that wad Christi pulled out of her full-lipped mouth to throw at Bryan, the soccer hero. All the girls at school say Bryan is just sooooooo hot. Anyway, I remember how the gum bounced off my knee and Christi didn't even notice.

A half hour later—still in Mission Park—how stupid to sit here and WRITE, not keep moving, but I am addicted to this journal already. Anyway, after a nice Taco Bell burrito, with mild sauce oozing out the bottom with every bite, I heard this small voice on the sidewalk:
MIRA, MIRA. CABALLO, MAMÁ
. And even though I don't speak much Spanish, I knew what this little boy in the blue-flowered stroller was saying. And his
MAMÁ
(who looked my age) smiled at me and nodded her head. So I grabbed the kid under his armpits and put him down real careful in the saddle. His eyes got Wide-Wide-Wide, and when I led Shy around the park, my escape-partner horse totally understood his new responsibility—I could tell by the way his hooves moved so slow. The kid went into happy-trance mode. He couldn't believe how his
day just turned perfect. And when I gave him back to
MAMÁ
, her hand brushed against my arm, and anyone
could tell that our skin's the same color.
GRACIAS
, she
told me, and at least I knew what to say to that.
DE
NADA
, and then I hoisted my butt into the saddle and
the leather creaked.

about 7:30 p.m.—above Hansen Dam

Here for the night in a dry, deserted wash. Getting
to this location really wasn't so terrible. You'd think
horses ride up and down these boulevards on a regular
basis. So now I guess we're in Little Tujunga Canyon
where a few miles of baked sand and river rocks and
skinny bamboo stalks fill the space. Near some houses
at the mouth of the canyon, these spindly, forgotten
trees filled with pomegranates gave me some fruit.
And for a snack, I used Dad's knife, cutting into the
leathery husk to eat all the gritty, sweet and sour seeds
that stained the tips of my fingers the same color as
the Merlot wine Mom drinks. Afterward I rode Shy up the middle of the creek, listening to his hooves splash against the water, each sound blending into the one before it.

Right now, he's tied to a tall oak, eating alfalfa pellets right off the ground, and hopefully no toxic acorns get mixed in. I'm worried he might end up tangled in his rope, which is long enough so he can lie down tonight.

So what's above us on the creek? A sewage treatment plant? HA! I'm wondering about it because I just used my hands as a cup to suck up some water, and I really don't want to catch an incurable intestinal disease. Didn't some hikers die from something awful last year after they drank from a mountain stream??

All the sagebrush hills are sun-torched-scorched, and the wide, flat canyon presses in real close because both sides are squeezed together by bushy hills, sort of like where I live but less spread out. Chatsworth has huge rock formations, but not here. The plants by the creek smell like something. Microwave popcorn? And my nostrils are all dry and nasty. A huge upside-down V of honking geese just flew over, crossing through the sky like a team, making me wish for friends.

A few months ago, Mom and I watched an old black-and-white Western movie. It was so lame with this cowboy on the run from the law, but shit, that guy was prepared! I mean, he wasn't eating pretzels for dinner. He had a campfire and bacon and these hard biscuits and dried beef. And here I am without even matches. Me Urban Cowboy. Yee-haw!

My sleeping bag's spread on these prickly oak leaves and baked yellow grass. What a bed. I will pray tonight that no rattlesnakes or scorpions climb in to sleep with me and that a rabid coyote doesn't drag me away. A bunch of California quail just ran by. Is it a covey of quail? Not a flock. Anyway, they're pretty, with one proud black feather on top of their heads. My mom always says, “Listen to their call. It sounds like they're saying
CHI-CA-GO! CHI-CA-GO!
”