When The Love Runs Out, Time To Hit The Road--Part 6* (*Scroll Down for Parts 1-5):

"Can't get any further east than the lighthouse..."


For all my talk ‘bout how I’d quit my job, the status of my employment was still unknown until I returned to New York. Before I’d left for Maine the head of my company’s Claim Department called me to get a handle on what had happened and then a subsequent phone conversation took place with the Human Resources Manager. I felt I had a 50-50 shot at being asked to return, but all the managers would have to agree to it.

“So listen Lodo, is there any way you’d be willing to come back?” the Claims Head asked.

“..I suppose if _____ apologized I’d consider it,” I said, pressing my cellphone to my ear as I rode the AirTrain into JFK. “But it’d have to be in front of the unit, not just to me. He really embarrassed me and made me look like a fool. I still don’t know why he did that. I was on time for that meeting. We all agree on that. There were five of us and only four chairs. Wha...”

“Yeah--okay Lodo, we don’t have to go over that again. I understand why you got upset. Do me a favor, let us talk this thing over on this end and...would it be okay if we called you back in a few days?”

Sure, whatever. I knew my boss would never apologize. If I really wanted my job back I wouldn’t have made that demand, but what’d I care? As long as my family fits under my hat I can afford to feed it. That’s what Dickens might say and its a motto that’s served me well. Just another in a long string of jobs from which I’d quit or got fired. No forty years and the gold watch for me. These jobs always end, just like everything ends: friendships, lives, youth, health. I'm probably dying of cancer already. Only thing that seemed never to end was the heat of this fuck-wad New York summer.

Vacations end, that’s for sure. Once I returned from Maine--and after my sister and Jaybird went home, I’d planned to call a recruiter and work on my resume. That was the plan, but when I awoke to yet another 90+ degree day I stuffed my backpack full of clothes and hit the road for Long Beach.

Only before I got to the train station, my phone rang.

“Hey Lodo, its _____. Listen..(sigh), I went to bat for you, I really did. If it were solely up to me we’d keep you. But in the end, I don’t think things are gonna work out. I’m really sorry.”

Like I said reader, everything ends. And good riddance I said to myself as I made my way towards Jamaica en route to Long Beach.

But for some odd reason, the thought of Long Beach caused a sudden tightening in my chest. A twist of my belly. I mind-flashed to the last time I’d been there--that day with Iwona, then envisioned myself alone as I’d be today.

You know what? I don’t wanna go to Long Beach, I said to myself.

What? I responded, almost in a panic. Not go to Long Beach? Why not?

I don’t know. ‘Cause we’ve been going there for ten years.

...But then what’re we gonna do? We can’t go back in the city--don’t tell me we’re going back to the city!

(I laughed to myself).

...Naw, we’re not going back to the city.

And that’s how I wound up on the train to Montauk.

I stared out the window of the Long Island Railroad as each stop eastward clicked off one by one: Freeport; Merrick; Bellemore; Wantaugh. Sometimes I'd hear my former Claims Manager If it were solely up to me Lodo..., but eventually that voice quieted and my head cleared. I kept the Ipod turned off. Never opened my book or lifted my pen. My mind became empty, filled only with the rhythm of the train and the chatter of the rich people and elderly who don’t work weekdays as they made their way to The Hamptons.

Eventually we reached places I’d never been: Oakville; Sayville; Patchogue; Speonk; Amagansett. Funny names from olden times. Indian times. Until their time ended; like my train ride as we pulled into Montauk.

I don’t know what I’d expected from Montauk. It was more of an idea than an actual destination--like that ice cream stand I’ve often dreamed of opening in Madison, Wisconsin. Hell, I’ve never even been to Madison! But that place has symbolic meaning. It’s the thought that I could go that’s fueled me thru some dogshit days.

In Montauk you have to take cab from the train station to get into town. I wasn’t crazy ‘bout that, but I had a funny cabbie worthy of a future post. He dropped me off in the middle of town, where I could smell the open ocean and feel a genuine breeze.

As I closed the car door I planned to walk to the beach. That had been the sole vision in my mind’s eye the entire train ride--despite the new scenery, but immediately in front me was a bike rental shop where a teenaged kid in a black T-shirt stood outside.

“Hey there mister, wanna rent a bike? We’ve got a weekday special.”

“Naw, I’m off to the beach. Maybe later.”

“Come on, man. We’re getting killed out here this season. $12 bucks for half-a-day. You can ride all the way out to the lighthouse.”

“Yeah, what’s out there?”

“What’s out there?” the kid asked, seemingly surprised by my follow-up question. “Welll,..” he stammered with a scratch of his head, “I mean,..its the lighthouse. The end of everything.”

“The end of everything?” I asked with a laugh. “That’s a pretty dramatic statement.”

“Welll, the end of New York. America really. Can’t get any further east than the lighthouse. That’s it.”

“..And its worth seeing?” I asked.

“Sure,” the kid answered with growing confidence. “Its a real old lighthouse. And you look out over the ocean. Its...pretty,” he said, as though his young manhood struggled to say that word.

“Welll, I really want to get into that water.”

“Ah, come on man. The beach’ll be here. You can build up a good sweat, swim it off when you get back. It's still early. We’ve had a real tough season this year.”

Fucking kid. Got me with that last sob line.

So off I rode, six miles out to the lighthouse, where I scampered off into the brush to smoke some weed and take-in the scenery away from the tourists. I sat on the bluff and caught a buzz as I watched the waves and the boats and the tide roll away. It wasn’t Maine, but... I suddenly burst into laughter at the thought of that teenaged kid and his struggle with words.

It’s pretty he’d said and I said it again to myself out loud. Said it with awe and appreciation--and even a touch of odd trepidation before I got back on my bike and rode to...nowhere in particular.

"It's the end of everything."

* NOTE: Due to the length of this post, I'm going to split into another few parts. Next excerpt after the weekend.