Waking the Dead

I will never see my car again. I left it behind in a body shop in Monroe, Louisiana this Monday. When I sought refuge from the world I turned to my car and drove around North America. It was there for 135,000 miles over the past four and a half years. Now I feel awful. I abandoned it because I was too scared to figure out how to pay all the repair bills. I have rewarded four and a half years of service with a slow decay in some graveyard in a forgotten corner of the world.

My remorse reminded me of my last conversation with Kathy. She had once quoted Nabokov Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul to describe her perverse love for me. I remember talking to her on the phone, being wrapped up in her confusion. I felt like all I had to say was “Come to Dallas” and everything would be okay. I didn’t say it. Some pragmatic, cold-hearted monster took over and I let her talk about how she needed to get out of Huntsville without saying a word. Three days later she was found dead.

What sort of monster am I? I got to spend the next 10 hours wondering about that off and on sitting in Greyhound stations and buses winding my way through the country side back home.