Home Free

I was somewhere in Michigan when she told me she'd found the perfect place. She was in love with this apartment. I wouldn't be home for a few days but I told her I trusted her opinion and that she should submit the application. I got a chance to stop by and check it out when I got back in town and I agreed; this could definitely be our home. I had to head back out on the road two days later. I remember getting into town in the evening and heading over there. Walking in to half painted walls, no furniture, the sound of the Velvet Underground, and the girl that made it all happen, hard at work. We walked around and laughed at the crooked doorways and uneven floors. It was exciting. It was a beginning. It all felt right.

For over two years, I remained on the road. I lived for the brief moments that I got to spend in this home of ours. When my feet would hit the steps of that wooden fire escape all of the tension and loneliness and fear would disappear. A safe zone in a game of tag where my job was it. And though my time at home was always far too brief, the rooms quickly filled with memories. We made the space our own and we learned how to live together and understand each other. To keep loving and supporting each other through aggravation and fights and constant distance; the great distance I always seemed to find myself from my home and the girl I love.

Then one day, last fall, something terrifying happened. I was far from home, as usual, and headed further and I wouldn't be home for about another week. It was a terrible accident. Three semis. There was a massive explosion. A fireball that shot into the sky like something from a movie. The sky filled with black smoke for miles. People died. People that I had made eye contact with just seconds earlier and even waved at, and had I not been paying attention and reacted when I did, I might have too. I decided then that I was finished with this life on the road. I didn't want to be so far from the people I love. Whenever I got back from this trip, that would be the end of it. A couple nights later I found myself in New Jersey, staring across the Hudson River at the New York skyline. I was a raw nerve. The enormity of the world seemed to be mocking me in my efforts for control and understanding, and even survival. I knew that hundreds of miles away there was a small space where I was safe from all of this weight and my insignificance had its place.

And so, for the past nine months, I have gotten to truly live in this apartment. To curl up next to Reesa in our bed every night and kiss her goodnight. To settle in and not have to put so much pressure on this home to make my brief windows of time off of the road feel sufficiently lifelike. It has been wonderful. Delightfully mundane at times. But now, we're moving on from this place. It will be hard to leave this apartment. These crooked doors and uneven floors. It's sad but exciting. It's a matter of convenience and of experience. New rooms to fill with new memories, and now even a yard and a basement. And as long as that girl is there with me, anywhere we might find ourselves will feel like home.

Another story:

A couple weeks ago a truck driver from Fargo invited me into his truck to show me the elaborate recording setup he had put together in his sleeper. It was impressive. An 8-track recorder, a loop pedal, a processor, a guitar and a bass. His name was Dock (that's how he spelled it) and he was in his late fifties. He explained that he played jazz. Didn't really like rock and hated country. He asked me if I wanted to hear some stuff he had recorded. I said sure and he put on a song that I can't remember the name of. The sound quality was surprisingly good. It was smooth jazz. He explained that it was just a backing track, and then proceeded to sing along loudly, directly at me. It was immediately apparent that his lyrics were Christian themed. He confirmed this after the song ended by explaining that ever since being stationed in Germany while in the navy years ago he has been a believer of the bible, word for word. I was prepared for the pitch that I assumed was soon to come, but after a bit more explanation of his beliefs he returned to talking about chord progressions and equipment he'd like to get. He said he wished he could be home more to spend more time working on his music, and then he played me a song called, “The Man With a Tattoo on His Soul”, explaining that he was talking about the 666. He wrote down his name, address and phone number and told me that if I was ever in town and wanted to jam to give him a call. I told him I probably didn't have the chops to keep up, but he said it didn't matter. The experience was certainly awkward and surreal and funny, but his sincerity and vulnerability and passion was also very moving and a nice surprise on a Monday afternoon.