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through the haze

We may not ever find the meaning of life, but we may find meaning in our lives. A fine distinction. The search for the meaning of life—a lifetime could be spent in pursuit if one bothered. Some seek to become the best version of themselves. Others want to live out their wildest fantasies.  Some people want to live forever—or at least as long as possible. There’s the quest for knowledge. The desire to leave the world a better place. To be of service. Many wish to understand the mystery of God. Still others seek love, beauty, pleasure, power.

Some people, they understand life has no real purpose or meaning because us, we only happened due to random chance.

Me, I step on the gas and my 1970 Plymouth Superbird goes careening around the loop of the offramp, the 426 Hemi V8 engine roaring. It’s a smoky, hot summer, the sun blazing red through the haze like the cherry of a cigaret. I’ve got the top down and I’m driving much too fast, but I deftly weave in between two other cars on the freeway. Dropping a gear, I fly out into the passing lane thundering past a row of slower cars, slicks gripping the asphalt.

A 2 mg Ativan tablet is dissolving under my tongue much like the other did just a couple hours ago. It’s a strange sort of sweet. Candied, though I know it should taste medicinal. A forbidden dessert. In the distance, the downtown skyline melts into the sky. My finger fumbles for the volume on my phone to crank up the stereo. The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa album blares from the car’s speakers, Frank Black clawing out the lyrics to Cactus. Perfect summer music.

I’ll keep on chasing
What I know is there—
through the haze.

I’ll never find the meaning of life because there isn’t one—and I’m not looking. But I do often find meaning in life. A fine distinction. Like a razor’s edge. Torrid summer. Back pushed into white leather seat. Sticky. Hot. Wind blowing through hair. Chemical calm. Hum of rubber on the road, hypnotizing. No destination. No cares. No worries. It’s fleeting, I know. Artificial, too. But I’ll keeping chasing it. This meaning in life. This simple sense of oneness, of presence. This sense of being here in the moment.

prólogo con playa

You wouldn't guess to look at me, lounging on a beach in my threadbare linen suit, my battered briefcase half-buried at the heels of my dirty bare feet, that I was once a very wealthy man. You wouldn’t guess it, but that doesn't mean that it is not the truth.

Watching as I close my eyes and take another half-hearted sip from a half-empty bottle of Segarra Absenta, you might guess that I was another penniless expatriate, through with seeking the elusive inspiration that seems to hide so well in the dirty alleys of the cities.

I shudder almost imperceptibly and, as I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket, you might think that I was another drunken, world-weary intellect, sick of the heartache and loneliness caused by too many meaningless nights with intoxicating, intoxicated women half my age. Women whose mouths taste like the warm, bottom gulp of beer after you've smoked too many filterless cigarets.

Throwing my head back, I lazily drape one arm over my face, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun, and my chest heaves as I take a giant breath of blood-warm air. My breathing appears to be almost an afterthought and you think to yourself, maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s in need of help.

And maybe I am.

You think all these things, not realizing how close to the truth each one really is. Then, proving your basic humanity, you apathetically turn your pale face away, disgusted, and point yourself in the direction of the resort. I leave your mind almost as quickly as I entered, and by the time your heels are clicking rhythmically across the cool marble floor of your four-star hotel, the only thing occupying your mind is your new cashmere cardigan—a sweater to wear in more hospitable climates than this.

Don't think I didn't notice you.

Once more, I go through the routine of taking a drink. I toss my head back and smile again as the sun's rays turn the inside of my eyelids a brilliant pink. I just lie there thinking, for what must be hours.

Or at least a few minutes.

I know I'm in desperate need of a haircut. A shave. Shoes. But my finances permit no such frivolities. My suit could use some attention from a dry-cleaner, but what would I wear while I wait?

Instead of wasting time rationalizing my hygiene, I’ll explain why I'm here. At the beginning of this story, there was no girl. There was no crazy crime. It didn't even start with a drinking binge.

I left the comfort of my home and the security of my job for no good reason at all.

disconnect

Winding its way around lush rolling hills, the train rumbled through emerald valleys carpeted in sugar and tobacco crops, and past patches of fog-veiled lowland tropical forests. Quaint, colourful farmhouses dotted the landscape between picturesque plantations, while tiny, thatched huts squatted amongst imposing limestone mogotes. Overhead, not a single cloud marred the cerulean sky.
 
Inside the powerful machine, the first-class passenger compartments were elegant, a fine mix of polished oak panels and shining brass fixtures. I sat across a small table from you, relaxing in the padded velvet seat. The pleasant scenery scrolled by the window—it was opened a crack, and I was relieved to feel the movement of air over my skin.
 
You sat thumbing through a copy of Harper's, spending more time looking at the pictures of outfits than reading the articles. You were quiet, grown distant. You hadn't asked me any further questions about my business on the island, and I worried that I may have offended with my earlier huffiness.
 
I slid the train's window closed. “I'm feeling a little more comfortable now.” I cleared my throat. “Beautiful country. Everything's so green.”
 
“Mhmm.” Turning a page in your magazine, you didn't look up.
 
“Can you believe the luck of getting a cabin in an empty car? No-one to disturb us.”
 
“Hm.”
 
“It'll be good to be away from the big city, even if it is only for a day or two.” I settled back into my seat, making a show of relaxing. “The nightlife I can handle, but I can do with a break from the demonstrations and general bellyaching during the day.” Catching myself before venturing too far down this touchy subject, I corrected my course a touch. “What I mean is, being away from the crowds will do us some good, I think.”
 
You offered only a tight-lipped smile before returning to your magazine.
 
Encouraged, I leant forward on the table. “There are so many people in Havana—it's no wonder they get cranky with one another. It's a little like when you have too many rats together, say in the hold of a ship at sea or some such place. They turn on each other, get downright nasty, fighting to the death, gnawing on themselves, even committing cannibalism.”
 
I instantly regretted the analogy.
 
“You know what?” I stood up and grabbed my straw fedora from the table. “I need to get the blood moving.” I gripped the brass luggage rack, allowing my legs to grow accustomed to the gentle sway of the machine beneath me. “I think I'm going to go for a bit of a stroll. Stretch the ol' legs.”
 
Dropping your magazine, you looked up, eyes wide, red lips parting. “Oh, dear, what a great idea.”
 
“You'll come with me, then?” I rubbed my hands together. “We could walk down to the observation car, maybe see—”
 
“Well, no.” You picked up an issue of Time and opened it to a random page. “But I'd so appreciate it if you'd stop by the lounge car and bring me a tea and one of those gorgeous pastries I've seen some of the other passengers carrying.”
 
“Of course, my dear.”
 
Stepping out into the swaying, red-carpeted hallway, I looked left and right past identical cabin doors to the ends of the car. I couldn't remember which direction the lounge was located. At one end the car, toward the front of the train, a porter in a blue coat sat hunched in a chair beside the gangway door.
 
The porter stood when he saw me and tipped his bright red cap. “May I assist you with something, sir?” His face was young and earnest, with a moustache so faint it was barely worth a mention.
 
I, having acquired my footing, strode toward the porter, ironing my own great broom of a moustache with my clammy fingertips. “Why yes, my good lad, I believe you can. I'm having a little trouble orienting myself—which way to the lounge car?”
 
“Your instincts are sound.” The porter opened the gangway door with a flourish, motioning toward the opening. “You'll find the lounge straight through here, one car over.”
 
“Many thanks,” I said, slipping the boy a folded dollar bill. I’m hunting for a delicious dessert. Possibly the most important dessert of my life.”
 
I stepped past the porter, gripping the doorframe with one hand and the oak door with the other. The gaping maw of the gangway was right before me, decidedly less luxurious than the rest of the train. Hot, dry air hit my face like a desert heat. It was lit by a single buzzing electric light overhead, swaying with the movement of the train. Rattling tin walls. The stench of grease. A single step down led to crudely cut pine boards which covered the train cars’ couplings.
 
How connected were they? How connected could they be? Humans built these machines. Fingernails digging into wood, a throat cleared behind me. The porter. Desserts. I’m sure the connection is fine.
 
I stepped into the maw.

intoxicating

Burning summer—
rain falls like
smokey bourbon on my lips.