The long route

THREE FORKS

 

I'm nineteen and as ready as I'm going to be. My parents argue too damn much, forcing me to take sides and I've had enough. I'm getting away from this madhouse. Mom always babies me when I lean her way. She gives me the choice part of her delicious prime rib the next time she serves it. Never have I had to remind her, or Dad, that I took her side. He glowers at me. Mom pats my head. I want to puke.

 

It's 7 a.m. April 5 when I take Dad's 1944 musty duffle bag, now packed with my necessary travel items, from behind a long ago sealed carton in the basement. It's ironic that what might have saved Dad in WWII, may now be saving my sanity. After high school I did odd jobs in the neighborhood, stashed away over a hundred and fifty dollars and became a thief, pilfering a few bucks from Dad's  wallet for a month. If he tells  Mom money is missing, she'll say he's off his rocker or is plain careless, maybe losing his marbles. They'll squabble. He'll fly off the handle and accuse her of taking it to buy yet another pair of shoes. I know the routine too well.

 

I leave thru the cellar door, the only one that doesn't squeak. By 7:20 I reach the Greyhound  bus depot, buy a ticket for the bus's  second stop, Branchville  and am lucky the bus is almost empty. The few aboard seem to be loners like I am, keeping our heads in the paper for our privacy. What a little dinky town it is. No sense staying there.  I hitch a ride in a rusty old car that is better than walking, carrying my duffle bag just a few miles to the B & O train station. It isn't easy laying out $9 but it's that or curl up and die in Branchville.

 

Scranton will be my next stop. This should be good. Before anything else I make a pit stop at Denny's and treat myself to a stack of thin hot pancakes floating in molasses.

 

I talk to strangers  and realize I didn't do enough homework. One guy almost split a gasket when he started telling me about the bad condition of roads. Another harped on the influx of illegal Hispanics, with Scranton folk paying their way. The Mayor, I am told, is the worst in 45 years and yet manages to find jobs for friends. One good word is for their new Medical Center, that I hope to never need. My mind is made up to take another path but where should I go?

 

As I walk the streets, I come across a seedy public library and go in to rest awhile. The inside is much better than the outside. There is a section of 20 working computers that can be used at no charge. Several are open and I stuff my bag under two seats and knuckle down to Google.

 

I search Harrisburg, Greensville. They don't excite nor interest me. Those pancakes I had at Denny's sure were good but my Mom does them just as good and puts raspberry or strawberry jam on top. Christ, I'm tired. My head is swirling. The computer spaces are all filled now and some guy I don't know is standing over my shoulder wondering why I'm taking up space. Cede the Del to the bearded man and leave, heading back the way I came.

 

From my 11th grade book, comes a blurry message, 'All roads lead to Rome.' A little chill goes down my back and I realize that is not true at all. If I got this far, I can reverse my actions, stop griping about the gripers, find myself a super, beautiful, smart, rich girlfriend and when I do, (and I will for sure) I'll wear ear plugs and visit my folks on week-ends.