I got a big surprise my third weekend out.
On Friday I received my first check from Gridlock. What a happy day that was. I was so excited I felt about to burst. I’d been dreaming and planning of this moment, when I finally had my own life for myself, for such a long time. Now the waiting was over. It was here. For the first time in my life, things were finally going according to plan.
Saturday I woke up early, cashed my check, and set about reorganizing my art supplies. I knew I should probably save my money for my rent, but I’d waited so long for this moment, I didn’t want to delay my life a minute longer. I walked a little more than a mile to the art supply place down Indian School Road, then walked the aisles in reverent silence, imagining the possibilities. Two hours later I returned home, laden with much more than I’d intended to buy. I had a new set of charcoal pencils; a new set of watercolors, acrylics, and brushes; and a new collection of canvases, sketch books, and even mounting frames. It was hot carrying all these things back to my apartment, but it was wonderful.
The new supplies let me rid myself of the crayons and colored pencils that had been the staple of my creative diet when I was in the hospital. As much as I’d been looking forward to this day, however, the scrape and thump and rattle of my old art kit in the dumpster behind my apartment brought a certain melancholy to me. On one hand, a certain restraint was gone. On the other hand, so was an excellent excuse. Also, I had this strange feeling that I was throwing away old friends.
These thoughts were in my head as I came around the corner to find a 1975 Chevy Monza hatchback parked in front of my door. Someone had recently shined up the whitewalls and polished the faded blue paint, but I recognized it immediately: it was my old car.
I stopped in my tracks, my heart suddenly pounding with a flood of memories. I remembered the last trip around Kingman, a beautiful young girl in the seat beside me as I took in all the sights from the art museum to the airport. I remembered the car parked in an alley, the wet blue paint looking black under the streetlight. I remembered riding with the window cracked and a spray of mist on my face. I remembered the songs and the loneliness and the darkness and despair and the points of light at the edge of Lake Mohave as I drove it those last few miles, four years ago.
I remembered the snick of the striker and the hiss of the propane torch and thump of the body dumping into the trunk.
This car was almost the last thing I had touched before going into the hospital, and now, here it was again, like the return of an idol, or a curse. With the glare on the windshield, I couldn’t see the driver, and for a moment it looked as though the car simply had none, that it had simply returned of its own accord. It took my breath away.
Then the handle clicked and the door creaked open. I took an involuntary step backward. I almost ran away. There was a swirl of blond hair, and my mother stood in the doorway, elbow casually on the top of the door, a big smile across her face. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Jack. I know you wanted time to yourself, but I figured you would need your car now that you’re making a living in the big city.”
This, I thought, could be the start of something bad.
