Last Cab Out of The City

I spent a majority of my teenage years dreaming of Southern California. I, like most, imagined everything South of San Francisco to be a vast expanse of white-sand beach, clear blue ocean, and toasty sunshine. I pictured myself driving South on Pacific Coast Highway in a topless Jeep with a surfboard in the back seat- Squinting behind my Ray Ban’s as the last golden rays of a retreating sun crept around the edges of my sunglasses- The Western skyline erupting into a magnificently sloppy canvas of blues, and purples, and reds- Colors being hurled across a precipice and colliding at full speed.

This dream, for the most part, came true; aside from my geographical misconceptions…

So why would I leave?

__________

The only way I can describe it is: It’s like taking a taxi home from the city at 2:30 am.

To preface this, our story really begins at 1:50 am – Last Call.

By this time in the evening; your group of 10 friends, colleagues, and acquaintances has dwindled to a solid trio. And after as many drinks as you’ve had, you wouldn’t trade your two wingmen (whom you only met 5 hours earlier) for anyone else in the world. The other seven have either been summoned home by their wives, have been hijacked by another miscreant gang of young professionals and dragged to a different bar, or fell by the wayside 3 or 4 watering holes earlier; muttering the famous last words “I’m going to the bathroom” and will not be seen or heard from again until Monday morning.

But now it’s just you; you and your two new best friends. The night may have started with a raucous rendition of “The Boys Are Back in Town” by a terrible hair metal cover band at a dive bar on 2^nd Avenue with cheap pitchers of light beer and quick service; but it’s ending in a dimly lit Irish Pub up town. You’re listening to Sinatra croon “One More for My Baby” from the Juke Box in the corner while you drink Jameson on the rocks. You're hanging on every word that Ol’ Blue Eyes sings because, let’s face it, it’s hard not to. Everything else is silent.

The bartender leans over the mahogany bar, sticky from spilled drinks and smelling of skunked beer, and says, in a thick east coast accent, “I’m closing up boys. What’ll be your last drink?”

This is just one last invitation to aid in the destruction of your memory (and liver). You’re determined to get the best bang for your buck. You order the house whiskey- make it a double. Neat. It’s going to burn like hell whether you church it up with ice cubes or not. Why try to make it something that it isn’t. Your sense of pain left you three crappy martinis and an extremely hot plate of hot wings ago; so you put down both shots of well whiskey in one painful tilt of the glass. It scratches and claws at your throat the entire way down. You choke, wheeze, gasp for air, wipe the tears from your eyes, and thank the bartender for the hellish experience he’s just provided you with. You're numb when he hands you the tab and you leave him with a hefty tip. There’s really no reason not to. You grab your coat and saunter toward the glaringly bright “EXIT” sign with your two friends in tow.

It’s 2:00 am

The night explodes upon opening the pub door. It feels like you’ve been woken from a deep sleep in the middle a firework show. Your senses were not ready for the sights, the sounds, the smells. The streetlights burn your corneas. Every light switch in the buildings surrounding you must be turned on. Has nobody every heard of energy conservation!? The sheer wattage being used on this street alone could burn a hole in the ozone!

The smells… oh the smells! The steam heat pours from the sewer grates reeking of waste, drifting through the crowd toward you. But before it reaches your nostrils, it picks up the smell of grilled onions and bratwurst from the hot dog stand on the corner, and the scent of slow-roasted barbecue pulled pork from the sandwich joint next door to the pub. When it hits you, your stomach turns; you’re not sure if it’s out of disgust or hunger.

The sidewalk is teaming with vampires, night walkers, the living dead- Those who lead quiet lives in the shadows during the day, but feed off the life, energy, and vigor of others at night. Unkempt Twenty-something year old girls in dresses that appear to be stretched out shirts, adorned with oversized gold belts and bracelets go stumbling by- their mascara smeared, hair matted, skin glistening with sweat. “Classy,” you sarcastically say to yourself; forgetting that you probably smell worse and look more haggard than Charlie Sheen on New Years Day. Guys in trucker hats and T-shirts two-times too small featuring gaudy screen prints of Ed Hardy Tattoos surround you. All fake tanned, waxed, cookie cutter Abercrombie and Fitch models sporting meticulously well-groomed 5 o’clock shadows.

Yelling! Everybody is yelling. Girls yelling at other girls, guys yelling at other guys, girls and guys yelling at each other. It’s as if every outcast from all 22 seasons of The Jerry Springer Show has convened on this sidewalk. One guy pushes another. The other pushes back. Suddenly, everyone is yelling at everyone else. You’re herded like cattle as a circle forms around the two bare-fist-brawlers as they go to blows. You’re muscles are weak and you’re a bit disoriented so you follow the crowd, being pushed and pulled in every direction to clear enough room for the sidewalk boxers.

In an instant it’s all over. You closed your eyes for a moment, and the fighters were gone, foot traffic resumes, and you’re standing between your two friends. One hands you a cigarette and offers a light. You don’t smoke. You’re adamantly against smoking! You’re grandfather died of cancer and you’ve been brow-beating your grandmother for years to quit smoking.

But you intrinsically place the Marlboro Light between your lips and dip your head toward the lighter. It’s methodical and calculated. It’s not who you are as a whole, but it’s who you can be right now. You revel in the moment. You are on another level. You’ve reached a status that you seldom reach. You’re iconic with that long, slender, white cigarette carelessly dangling between your lips. You must look like Humphrey Bogart or James Dean. You’re cool. You get lost in this thought and almost forget that you have to suck the smoke in and blow it back out; you can’t just let the cigarette burn on your lips.

Somebody mutters “What a night.” You laugh a little. You’re exhausted. The honking horns, the yelling and fighting drunks with the raging hormones, the burning lights; it all is way too chaotic for you to think back over the evening.

Small talk ensues. You make plans with your new found friends to go out again some time. Maybe play poker. Maybe go to the driving range. Whatever it may be, you’ve made plans that you all know have no follow-through.

As you pull the smoldering butt of the Marlboro from your lips and toss it to the ground, a yellow cab pulls up. You bid adieu to your friends, gracelessly fling open the door to the cab, and nearly collapse into the back seat. As the door shuts the cacophony subsides. You’re ready to make your exodus back to reality.

2:15 am

The cab driver asks you where you’re heading, and it takes a great deal of your energy to tell him “South. Take the freeway.” Nothing more.

You say a silent prayer thanking God that the cabby isn’t in the mood to make conversation. The radio is on, tuned to NPR. It’s too faint to make out what the broadcaster is saying, but you can tell it’s public radio by his dull, droning, monotonous demeanor. You could care less about what’s on the radio anyway.

You recall the evening. You try to recount the bars you visited. You can hardly remember the hair metal cover band at the first bar, but you’ve been humming Thin Lizzy all night. It feels like there is a thick layer of film over your memory. Everything is a bit cloudy. You knew that last glass of whiskey would get the better of you. But you smile.

Your smile grows when you think of your destination. You have a beautiful wife waiting for you in your pillow-top queen size bed. You have cool, crisp, fresh linen sheets and a warm down comforter to crawl under. You’ll kick off your uncomfortable leather shoes. If you’re lucky, your socks will slide off with them, killing two birds with one stone. You’ll slide out of your jeans and leave them on the floor. Your wife hates it when you do this, but you can’t imagine putting forth the effort to empty your pockets, take off your belt, and actually put your jeans into the dirty clothes hamper. Your shirt has 7 buttons; the top 2 are already unbuttoned, and it’s way too much work to unbutton the last 5, you’ll just slide that off and leave it on top of the pile of pants, and shoes, and socks. Then you’ll slip into the warm embrace of your bed…. and sleep. Deep and content.

As the cabby takes the freeway exit toward the middle class suburban sprawl, you can already feel sleep creeping up on you. A right, a left, a second right; you’re now in your neighborhood. Life is more familiar now. You pass the Johnson’s house, the Lessner’s house, the Updike’s house. Then you’re carriage slows to a halt in front of the most familiar house of all, and all is right with the world.

You hand the cab driver a fifty-dollar bill and tell him to keep the change as you clumsily climb out of the back seat. You stand at the foot of your driveway for a moment and breathe deep. You smell pine trees. The motion sensor light above your garage door flicks on. There’s a dog barking in the distance and you can hear your neighbor’s sprinkler system. It’s a simple symphony of suburbia.

It’s 2:30 am. You’re home.

__________

California, for lack of a better word, was an Adventure.

It began with a half-baked plan, some good friends, and a good ipod playlist. But as the adventure progressed; some friends, hopes, and intentions fell by the wayside. That’s not to say that we didn’t make some great friends while we were down there, it’s not to say that I didn’t learn more about myself or my wife than I imagined I could, and it's not to say that we didn't make some incredible memories; but at some point, we were bound to reach last call.

I saw some amazing things, met some amazing people, spent way too much money, spent too much time in the office, ate real Mexican food, did some things I shouldn't have, and didn't do some things I should have. No one could have predicted the highs or lows of the experience, which is what an adventure is. Plan all you want, but it will never go the way you expected.

When last call came, I was ready.

The last couple of weeks were some of the best times I had. I surfed almost everyday, spent a lot of time with new and old friends, and made a lot of plans to keep in touch with a lot of people I don’t talk to anymore (in the moment, it’s the sentiment that counts, not the follow through). Those last two weeks were worth the entire trip.

Crossing that Washington State Line felt a lot like standing in my suburban driveway after a long night in the city.

I was exhausted and content; fulfilled by the memories made, and hopeful about the memories to come. I was home.

The Northwest of My Youth

Something inside of me has died. Something deep, and solid, and sacred is gone. This thing, this solemn and holistic thing is missing from most “Men”. Our adventure, our passion, our very nature has left us.

As a boy, I spent every waking minute in the forest behind my home. To me, that was what I was called to do; I was made for adventure. I reveled in those summer nights that I could squeeze a few more hours of daylight into my fort building or land exploring. It was my God-given duty to conquer the land behind our home. I had to raft down the McKenzie River, I had to chase the wild deer in the early morning, and I had to build the biggest tree fort on the highest branch. These desires were ineffable. I cannot tell you how far my heart sunk when I would stumble upon a fence or see another house. Every piece of civilization that I came across was an indicator that my world was getting smaller.

Today, I’m sitting in my corner office in a sprawling business complex in the greater Los Angeles area. I’m staring out at the trees and pond adjacent to our building. I’ve been contemplating buying an old Willys jeep to take camping in the Sierra Nevadas. Every time I let myself daydream about the adventures I could have in that old Jeep, I have to tell myself “You’ll never make it out there. You’ve got too much business to do here. You can’t take time off work. You can’t even go a day without your BlackBerry.”

It’s true. The “Man” I’ve become wouldn’t do that. The “Man” I’ve become is more worried about climbing the corporate latter than climbing the tallest tree. The “Man” I’ve become worries too much to enjoy a break.

This makes me think…

What happened to that boy? What happened to daringness and adventure? When did fashion become more important than function? When did following systems and processes become more important than following trails and blazing new ones? As a boy, the most important aspect of my wardrobe was how many pockets I had to carry my “stuff” (treasures, tools, snacks) in. You can’t carry a hatchet in a 3-piece suit. You can’t cross a river in Italian leather shoes. What purpose does a silk neck-tie serve? Are cuff links really necessary?

The adventures I face now, pale in comparison to the adventure of really living. I build corporate offices. I expand my client base. I implement sales tools to increase my profits. I read people to distinguish key points to hit during a presentation… This isn’t who I’m meant to be. I have become a shell of a man, I’m grasping at anything that might be worth holding on to.

I want to build fortresses. I want to expand into uncharted territory. I want to implement my own tools of survival. I want to read the land. I don’t want to be clinging tight to the few things in life that I think are worthwhile, I want to open my arms to new things that will enrich my life.

A Man was not meant to work hard to find favor in the eyes of his superiors. A Man was not meant to stand tall to gain respect in the eyes of his subordinates. A Man works hard for himself and those he loves. A Man stands tall in his beliefs and convictions. His strength comes from his faith and knowledge. His honor and power should never be called into question unless by nature, by himself, or by God.

I want to taste the earth’s soil when I bite my fingernails. I want my muscles to ache and burn when I lay down at night. I want my clothes to be stained with dirt, and blood, and sweat. I want to feel accomplishment. I want to seek adventure. I want to know danger. I want to live like a Man has been called to live.