Fate
1. Power supposedly making events inevitable
2. One's lot in life
3. Outcome
4. Death, ruin
Working title only)
I
Landscapes blurred together as the hours passed by slowly. Cities blurred to suburbs, faded to trees, became telephone poles in vast open plains, which would eventually end up as unfamiliar faces.
He made no attempt to make out what the road signs said as he drove his rusted out Toyota in the pouring rain. He'd sold his Mercedes to buy this, a Toyota from 1988, the year he was born. It fit him. Both from '88, both looked like they'd been to hell. He felt some odd connection to it, knowing somehow that it would be what saved him.
He drove on, the destination clear in his mind; he'd already memorized the map on the seat next to him. It was of New England, New Hampshire to be exact, Northern new Hampshire. He was so close he could taste the mountain air coming in off the lake. He was there to start over, at the age of 18. He was there, the shy boy from California, the shy boy he'd always been, only until recently though. Recently when a big well-to-do record label had spotted his musical talent, they bought him out, changing him, changing his life.
He was there to forget, here to remember, there to start over, there to find who he really was.
He pulled off the highway, exit 23 on I-93 North. It was so quiet up here, he didn't know if he would be able to stand it, but he figured change would do him good for once.
He fumbled with the radio that didn't quite work only to keep him awake. Driving for long always made him tired. The truck was shoddy as anything he'd ever seen before. The bottom was rusted out, he was sure that the holes in the back were bullet holes. The heat barely worked and the engine was so loud it almost drowned out what music managed play. His own song came on and he quickly turned the radio back off. His own music had been overplayed and overanalyzed so much that even he was sick of, as he had with so many parts of his own life. It was at these moments he wished he had a dog, like a Lab or a German Shepard, but he lacked the commitment needed for a dog, or the commitment to anyone and anything else, at least now anyway.
He turned off the main road, finding the dirt road that would lead him to his lakeside log cabin. He'd bought it on a whim, unsure of whether or not he was drunk, high, or both at the time. He liked the idea of New Hampshire, it was so radically different and he'd been there once before on a family vacation. His mother had gone almost crazy, saying how she wanted to visit every state before she died. New Hampshire she said, "was beautiful and they needed to see it."
They spent two weeks there. He was only 15, but the state struck him. It was when he stood looking up at the Old Man that it hit him. Looking up thinking about how the hell something as simple as a glacier could carve an exact replica of a human face out of a rock, a mountain to be more exact. It was at that moment that he realized his place, he felt totally infinite. He got those moments occasionally. The last time he had one was a little over a year ago when he took his last family trip to Colorado and stood on a hill looking up at Half Dome, thinking only of Ansel Adams. Every time he looked at Ansel Adams he felt infinite, or something close to that, but he hardly looked at Ansel Adams' work anymore.
He found the house, pulled into the driveway. It was a modified log cabin, a nice, simple, lake house, nothing too fancy, but just fancy enough. The rain had stopped and the night air was humid but he was used to it. He parked the truck, opened the door, and grabbed his beat up duffle bags and guitar out of the truck. He pulled the key out of the envelope in his pocket and walked into his new home. He threw the bags on the floor and set the guitar down.
It was empty, three rooms, four baths, finished basement, two floor fireplace, open living room with skylights and loft. A small kitchen, screened porch, huge deck, washer, dryer, and more lake then he could ever hope for.
"Well this is home." He sighed as he pulled the air mattress out of one of the bags and stated to inflate it. He was starting over, for real this time. He only had his faded pair of Levis, his worn converse, a few shirts, old sheets, and one pillow. He left everything back in L.A. He left everyone there.
As the bed inflated he walked back out to the truck and got the bag of groceries he'd bought back in Concord. He saw a country store a few miles back and figured that it would sustain him for awhile, at least for the summer. He pulled the bottles of Jack Daniels he'd kept under the seat out and opened it before he got through the front door.
He placed the bag on the counter and turned on the outdoor lights. He opened the sliding door and walked down to the dock. The air was muggy, the kind of muggy you get after a cool summer rain, a rarity in L.A. It was early July and he intended to stay there.
The dock was still wet from the rain, but the water was calm. He sat down anyway and took off his shoes, rolled up his faded jeans and plunged his feet into the water. He took another drink from the bottle. He knew he was a borderline alcoholic, he'd been that way since December, ever since his life had been turned upside down, when the only person he ever cared about died, when he died. Everything turned upside down that day. He sat there trying to block out the reasons why he was really there.
The tears fell, slowly at first, then harder. They stained his face and stung him more than salt ever could do to an open wound. He was never a crier, his grip tightened on the edge of the dock as he tried to suppress it. His dark hair falling over his face as he finally succumbed to himself and stopped fighting what was going to happen anyway.
II
It'd been three weeks since he moved to the edge of Lake Winnipesauke. He'd bought all the amenities that he needed, none of it fulfilling him. Being alone didn't comfort him the way it used to when he was younger. He longed for someone next to him when he slept, someone to watch the sunrise with, someone he could talk to. He knew no one could fill that void, he'd spent endless nights with random girls but only ended up feeling hollow when he'd wind up alone the next morning. They'd all gotten their wanted flings with a rock star. They all got that insane female fantasy fulfilled. He wondered if every woman felt that way, that they'd take the risk of losing any real love they had, only to sleep with a musician or a man from a different country. He could spend hours thinking about stupid things like that. Being alone made it worse.
He groaned as he got out of bed. It was a chilly morning, considering he was only wearing boxer shorts. He was pretty well built, though it was all due to testosterone, his muscle definition that is. He never really worked out at all in his life. It was a waste of his time, he was never into impressing people much. He was however very well aware that women, teenaged girls to be literal, thought he was a god. He didn't try, it was all genetics: the dark hair, the piercing blue eyes, the raspy voice. He never saw himself that way. Until he met her.
She was older, fourteen years older, but he never bothered to count. He liked older women, something about how they carried themselves, how they knew who they were intrigued him. It was last year she told him as they lay in her bed, that there was something old about him, something in him that scared her to know, but she kept coming back. She kept saying that not even her husband could make her feel the way he did. He missed her but it wasn't right that they had been together that long.
Her name was Lauren and he'd never forget the way her name felt, how she felt. How she knew exactly what he needed, how he knew somehow exactly what she needed. It was right before it all happened. He remembered the day she left, he wanted to run away with her, they could go to France, or Spain, or Honduras, he didn't care, he just wanted her. She just left him a note that he still carries with him though he never needed to read it anymore, he'd memorized it that day. It was then, after her, that he knew he wanted to be single, for real that time. He held up to it too.
He threw on a shirt and kicked himself for not buying milk. He wanted milk badly, one of those insane craving he'd get, the ones that made him always think he was pregnant or something, with alien spawn. Whenever he really wanted something though, he wouldn't be satisfied until he got it.
He slipped on his flip-flops and got into the truck. It was the fact that he wanted milk more than it was the fact he got restless in one place too long. He could even pick up a few other things he needed when he got there.
He pulled into the parking lot of JoJo's Country Store. It was overpriced there but he didn't care, it was close and no one knew him, he didn't have to worry about money anyway.
He got out of the truck, not caring that he looked like he'd just gotten up, he had, and he wasn't trying to impress any of the Massachusetts people who were there only to exploit the lake. He was there to get away from wealth; they were there to show it off. He was there for milk, which was it. He walked in, grabbed a basket and headed to the back cooler. He froze instantly when he saw her. She was wearing a white summer dress with wedge heels. Dresses, any kind, drove him crazy. She had shoulder length dark waves pulled back into a silver clip. He watched her pull a box of Cheerio's off the shelf. Her eyes fixed on the box she held in her hands. He couldn't help but think about whether or not she felt guilty if she ate them without milk, he always felt guilty eating Cheerio's without milk.
She must have felt him there watching her, because she turned around shocked to see the incredible blue eyes watching her. She'd lived here her whole life and knew everyone in the area, even just the summer residents. She was sure if she'd seen him before she'd have known it. He didn't exactly have a forgettable face, but somehow she felt she'd seen his eyes before.
"Can I help you?" She asked, her voice soft and low, yet it held the potential to be bubbly and almost obnoxious, only if she really wanted to be.
"Do you ever feel guilty eating Cheerio's without milk?" he asked, he always got awkward around women when he didn't have his guitar in his hands.
"I'm not sure if I do." She said as she smiled. "I'll let you know how it goes."
"Yeah…" he mumbled as he ran his hand through his dark hair. There was an awkward silence as they stood there in the middle of the aisle. She couldn't get the familiarity of his face out of her mind.
"Do I know you?" She asked bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"I don't think so. I just moved here." He said quietly
"Oh, you just remind me of someone and I just can't place it." She sighed. "I have to get going. I'll see you around."
"Yeah, I guess." He said trailing as she walked by.
He walked over grabbed a box of Cheerio's, got his gallon of milk and various other things he felt he needed, razors, Cheeto's, dog treats, infant formula, lettuce, radiator coolant, The Blues Brothers DVD, and a bottle of Vodka, he was never carded, he didn't question it, it was just one of those things. He was also impulsive. He'd been that way his entire life. Doing things he never would have done if he had given them more thought. He couldn't watch infomercials for that exact reason; he'd end up buying everything.
He stood in line, looking at the magazines. He was almost enraged when he saw one with his face plastered all over the cover; he hated those goddamn teen magazines with a passion. He grabbed all the copies he could find with his face on them and threw them down on the counter when he was next.
"Are you sure you want all these?" The cashier, a girl no younger than he, asked.
"I'm sure I want these, I'm paper training my cobra. He only likes the exploitation of people's personal lives, I keep telling him that the Sunday Monitor is a hell of a lot cheaper, and doesn't exploit people." He'd developed excessive lying recently, it was much easier to lie than to tell the truth, people never questioned outrageous lies, they just thought you were crazy. He liked being crazy than being forced to regurgitate his life story.
"Oh…" she said rolling her eyes as she instantly recognized his face from the magazine. Her eyes darted rapid fire from him to the cover then back to him again.
"Are you going to cash me out or stand there comparing me to a celebrity?" he asked, with an irritated tone.
"Yeah…just, you're not him are you?" she asked packing the paper bag, not noticing the bottle of Vodka or the dog food, or infant formula.
"No I'm the goddamn President." He said sarcastically as he grabbed the paper bag and started to leave. "Oh and I wouldn't tell anyone or let that news get around too much because, I wouldn't hesitate to introduce you to Alfred…he's my cobra, you know, the one I'm paper training." He said as serious as he'd ever been, as he walked out the door. "Alfred really does like people to play with. He already bit the mailman."
He knew as he walked out that door, that she would avoid him from now until eternity. He knew that she would spread the news that Theodore Hilton was crazy. That he was creepy. He knew it would spread all over, if he acted crazy enough. He knew that people would distance themselves, no one understands or trusts crazy people, or even paid attention to them. He just hoped that she wouldn't forget him, he hoped that he'd see her again, the girl with the Cheerio's.
As he drove home, he seriously debated buying a cobra, maybe even a Burmese Python, or a Rainbow Boa, or maybe he'd just settle with a dog, but a Cobra did sound highly entertaining, at least it would be for himself.
I know this has absolutly nothing to do with the category i put this under but I want people to read this and tell me what they think. Sorry if you get a little frustrated at it...you didn't have to read it. I dont' want hate back at this story.
-Mo