There are truths in every cliché. People have been passing on quips and one-liners for decades. Each culture has their own idioms that have become staples of their lives, even jumped the hurdles into stereotypes and superstitions. My grandmother always says, "How about them apples." My mother-in-law and others promise that death comes in 3's. And for me, mine is "Truth is stranger than fiction."
Walking has become a cliché, too Roads and highways, the walks of life. I once wrote a poem about a road in a senior creative writing class and was politely given a C. Road movies have been around for decades and they all represent a segment of the population, from "Easy Rider" to "Thelma and Louise." So when I found myself taking a 2 mile hike Saturday night, the pop culture that infests my mind like some Cameron Crowe movie began playing its soundtrack.
After enjoying a college football game with a friend and his son(even if it was a loss, but I will not turn my peaceful blog into a sports diatribe), we returned to find my friend's car had been towed. He had questioned the legitimacy of his parking choice early on, as it was close to the dumpster on the corner of a paved parking lot for an apartment complex. We called and GPS-ed the name of the lot and began a 2 mile journey through campus downtown.
Now, had this happened in a movie, many of the following would have occurred. Scenario 1--we end up being chased by thugs and some sadistic master criminal. Two of us die and eventually we throw the criminal down a building alleyway (which stands for some metaphor of corporations v the death of industry or some other philosophically heady conceit). Scenario 2--We whimsically travel from station to station meeting an odd assortment of characters. One of us make a huge life decision (leaves his wife for a heart-of-gold hooker), one ends up "staying" in this version of Wonderland, and one finds his way out only to realize that the fantasy land was always around him to begin with. Or Scenario 3--the men turn on one another in some survival of the fittest testimony about man's brutality towards one another. A friend, a father and his son? Oh, such a rich idea!
But my story was none of these. Out of the three, I was the one panting, legs stricken with rigor, eyes affixed to the sights around me. I didn't have the energy of confrontation that awaited at the impound lot (more on that later), or the will-power of a power walker reaching a finish line. I was consumed at first with my body's denial. Ironically, I had been thinking of my food intake all day. How much beer should I drink? Is that one too many pulled-pork sandwiches? So the first few blocks were a blessing in disguise. Wait until I add this activity to the weight watchers database tonight!
Eventually, the crowd and lights of the city eased the tenseness in my feet. Every establishment a dorm room of food and conversation. The music of the bars echoed into the streets. Not a taxi or pedestrian honked at us even when the analog hand of caution warned us to heed. Couples shared rides, buses were full, their plexiglass a gauzy, grease-smeared transparency. Neon signs, a-blinking advertisements and specials adorned each window. We walked past a veterinarian shop, where it's medicinal tubs and clinical tables reminded me of some Eli Roth torture epic. Several hookah shops dotted the landscape where it's colorful "blue milk" concoctions were something from Mos Eisley Cantina.
People too. Couples, dancing girls who said hi to passerbys. A student being heckled for being mistaken for a Pennsylvania native (it was his hockey jersey that outed him), bike riders, a girl clutching a pillow. Girls crying on steps (I'm convinced that steps are better used for smoke breaks, girl-watching and crying than any other architectural structure ever made). I fell behind numerous times along the trek, squeezing through groups of young men and women. I craved pizza slices so I could walk like John Travolta down the streets of Manhattan.
By the time we reached Fifth, the area changed. The lights grew dimmer. Chain link fences that bowed from the implosion of its neighborhood wavered in the breeze. The casual shorts-n-bike law enforcement turned more formal. Industrial sized wood staples jutted from its foundations. Will future generations look back upon the graffiti of its youth and study them like hieroglyphics? Somewhere, there's an Incan ghost running around with an ancient spray can, laughing his ass off.
Then my walk became arduous. I clung to my bookbag tighter, then lamented whether or not I should have had my wallet handy in case I ran into someone who needed it. I looked over my shoulder a few times. I fell victim to the stereotype of the dark alley. I began to think of the people in my life who couldn't make this same walk. The ill, the forgotten. Kris Sims, my wife's share partner whose thymoma has stricken her energy. My walk was for them as much as it was for me. Praise the good and bad. A sign bore down on our last street. Just what part of "thou shall not" did you not understand?
It was then I noticed a girl with Rolling Stone-painted lips. She must have noticed I saw them, simply walked up to me, grabbed my face and kissed me on the lips. My friends and I shared a laugh. A kiss from a clown-lipped stranger.
I don't know what lesson I was supposed to learn in that walk. I talked to my step-dad earlier in the week about being thankful for each day isn't guaranteed. Perhaps that was it. Or to be grateful for the experiences of life. The vice, the pleasure of girls in yoga pants, a kiss, the knowledge that our walk had an end. What of others? Theirs has just begun. My friend's car end up being damaged too, and perhaps it was a lesson in patience. A lesson in frugality--our sense of payment for "free" parking. (On a side note, another friend was towed that night too, from the same exact spot where we had once been towed. Imagine that movie, the Tow Trucker who transports the lives of its victims. Morgan Freeman!)
What I do know is that he was with me. I had an old high school friend tell me that he was told, "Never trust anyone who is always smiling." One cliché is another man's value. I think mine was the biggest of the night.
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