The Nomadic Life

On The Road Again

Chapter 35

“You are where you need to be.”

A simple sentence. Generic, even cliché. But coming from Jan, the man I once believe to be my soulmate, it feels like a slap disguised as a proverb. He says it softly, without emotion, like he is offering me a note from a fortune cookie instead of severing the last thread tethering me to a dream I refuse to let die.

I know what he means. I even understand it, on some cruel, rational level. But I am not ready to accept it. I have just lost everything that was dear to me, everything that was keeping me together. My Sebastian, now living far away in a new home, a place to live, my once positive outlook on life, and now the person who once made me feel happy, secure, complete, dismisses me with a platitude.

I have been pushing, pressing him to help me understand why, after more than seven years of intense connection, of shared laughter and wordless embraces, ours has become a relationship of convenience and is now nothing more than a ghost of what could have been.

We have something rare. Something real. When Jan looks at me, I feel the noise of the world fall away. We speak more in glances than most people do in lifetimes. When we are close, I swear we share the same breath. The same soul. I love him, giving him all that is me, heart, mind, body, and soul.

The time has come for me to face facts. We all have a past and Jan has been shattered before. His last relationship took the best parts of him and twisted them into caution. He can love only from a distance. He gives, but never completely. And above all, he refuses to trust again.

And I, well, I am unraveling.

Accepting my reality, I leave San Diego to give up the one last soul who has kept me from falling apart.

After rehoming Sebastian, my beautiful boy, the one steady presence in my life, I am beyond exhausted. My heart aches, my mind is frayed, and my spirit is threadbare. I need something, someone, to anchor me. I need arms to fall into and a voice to tell me, “You’re not alone. You’re going to be okay.”

But that person is not Jan.

That person is not Doug.

That person… will have to be me.

I come back to San Diego on a day so perfect it feels like a cruel joke. The sky is cloudless, a clear canvas of blue. The air smells, as always, of spring, and the sun shines so brightly that the world seems to say, “I promise you a flawless and wonderful day.” And then the birds, they seem to mock my very existence, chirping cheerfully with the kind of happiness that makes me want to scream.

Everything is blooming, vibrant, alive.And I have never felt more dead inside.

I have nothing. No home. No plan. No safety net. Doug and Betty have found shelter with his brother. It is not ideal, but he seems okay. Jan’s business has tanked, and while he never offers details, I know things are not easy for him either. The new millennium arrives not with promise, but with upheaval.

And me? I have $23, a duffel bag, and a will to survive.

This city, once filled with warmth and life, now feels cold and distant, as though it has turned its back on me. I arrive with nothing but my truck and a bag, its contents no more than last year's forgotten hopes and faded dreams which feel heavier with each passing day. I seek refuge in a quiet corner, a small, hidden part of this city. I find the perfect hiding place. My new “home” is a fragile sanctuary, nothing more than a cold, concrete hole in the wall beneath a staircase. My humble abode is tucked away between the bright lights of a CVS and the comforting aroma of David’s coffee shop in Hillcrest, two places that once held meaning, but now are visions of a life I can no longer grasp. No one knows I am here. And for once, I do not want them to.

I lie here in the darkness, surrounded by nothing but the weight of what tomorrow will bring. There is no warmth left in my life, not from the city or from the people passing by, but I do feel a flicker of something. A quiet hope. I will hold on to my stubborn belief that this pit I have carved out in the shadows will not be forever. But for now, it is all I have. And I must hold on to it, because that is all I can do.

Survival equals resourcefulness, and bathing means baby wipes, hand sanitizer, and deodorant. I once took my clothes to Doug’s residence in Apple Valley. He offered me the use of his sister-in-law’s facilities. It was indeed a gracious offer, but I realized I spent more in gas than I would have in change and detergent. However, I would not have gotten to visit him. The tradeoff was worth it, if only for that one time.

I eat once a day, and my meal consists of whatever is cheap and edible at Ralph’s. Yet, every morning, somehow, I find enough change for coffee. The routine offers me free refills and four hours of warmth, caffeine, and the illusion of normalcy.

I survive. Not comfortably. Not proudly. But quietly.

Until I run out of money.

I hold the phone with shaking hands and call Richard, a man I swore I would never ask for help again. The price for his assistance is predictable: a lecture, a few sharp “I told you so’s, and a reminder of every poor decision I have ever made. But I accept his verbal jabs as they are the cost of my pride is less than the cost of starving.

I thank him, take the wired money, and pawn the last valuable thing I own to scrape together enough to secure gas money for a long drive east.

Columbus, Ohio.

A man named Bill offers me a flicker of hope.

For several weeks I make my way to the local library to use their computers. This allows me to connect with the outside world. Last week I met Bill in a chat room on AOL. I spend thirty minutes a day talking with, and getting to know him. I begin to feel comfortable and share how expensive San Diego has become, and hesitantly reveal that I am about to tuck tail and head back to Jackson, Mississippi, something I truly do not want to do.

Bill suggests I visit him in Columbus and see if I like it there. He even offers room and board for me to help him with projects around the house. He has bought an old house that once was converted to a tri-plex, and he is restoring it back to its original glory as a single-family home. As a handyman, this offer is right up my alley, and I agree to visit and perhaps stay.

Though my nerves are frayed, and my stomach churns, I allow myself to believe this is for the best, not because I think I have a future in Columbus, but because my options have run dry.

Before I leave, I have to say goodbye to Doug at his brother’s house. I apologize for not being able to keep the trailer in the mountains and for not being enough. He hugs me stating he understands, but the look in his eyes says otherwise. I leave feeling like I have failed him.

Jan barely looks up when I stop by. He is busy, too busy for goodbyes. He tears himself away from his work long enough to allow me to announce I am leaving San Diego. With a parting hug I tell him I love and will miss him.  And that is when he says it:

“You are where you need to be.”

No love is left in his voice. No warmth. Just one final sentence that feels like the final closing of his emotional door.

And so, I leave, driving away from the only city that ever felt like home.

As San Diego disappears in my rearview mirror, a single tear traces the curve of my cheek. Not for Jan, not for Doug, but for me.

As the miles tick away, I remind myself, this trip is for survival. For the nomad who has given all he had and still came up short. For the man who lost his dog, his love, and his home, but not his hope.

Because even when life strips me bare, leaves me shivering in the dark, I still find a way to move forward.

Broken, yes. But not defeated.

I am still here.

Still breathing.

Still trying.