adam wan

Driving Out

In the musty air, Matsuoka awoke: beep-beep—the alarm went off.

He pushed himself through the heat, coming down like dusty veils all over him—sticky with sweat, his shirt stuck to his skin. His head felt messy, like an insane knot or string, piled; his nose stuffy; his chest muffled, chaos.

He faced the light and squinted, putting up his hand and blocking it slightly. He could see the dust floating in the evening light, some raining from the cracks between the wooden ceiling.

Oh, right—he’s in America, in the middle of the desert.

Time to get back on the road, can’t stay here forever.

Hot—sweat drenched him from head to toe. The heat was killing him.

Still, got to bear with it; it’s the desert after all.

“Haa…”

He stood up, gathered his stuff—his water bottles, the newspaper he bought two days before, the paperback of Norwegian Wood he brought with him from home—and threw them into his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and walking out the door. He didn’t need to carry much; they were all he needed.

Time to check out.

He checked out at the front counter and bought a bottle of whiskey for the road. The big guy at the front treated him well, like an old friend. The guy wished him luck; Matsuoka thanked him and left.

Shutting the door and starting the engine—he was off.

He was driving a pickup truck—an F-150 Raptor, a Ford. There were Toyotas at the rental place, but he wanted something foreign. He wanted some distance from home.

Home…

Forget it. Forget it.

He shook his head. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. He didn’t turn on the radio. It wasn’t that he was opposed to it, or that he hated music—he just didn’t want anything to bother him. Everything was a bother now, really. He wanted silence. He wanted to be alone.

Hearing music would invade his privacy…

He came to the States seeking isolation; he wanted to get away from everything, from the things going on back home. Usually, he’d take a drive and head for the road to gather himself, to distance himself and have a moment, away from things. He’d been doing so ever since he earned his driver’s license—to the point it became a form of meditation. Like taking a walk, or doing yoga.

He could’ve gotten on the highway and headed up for Hokkaido from Tokyo, but there were too many people. Too busy.

He wanted to be alone. He wanted to be away from Japan itself, away from home.

He wanted emptiness, a desert. But of course, Japan didn’t have any. There were too many people, as well. So he packed up and flew to America.

It was his first time out.

Why did he go out all the trouble to get away?

His wife died.

A car accident, a brutal scene; she was on her way home, he was cooking up dinner as he had come home early that day. He never imagined any of it to happen. Then again, who would?

It’d just been a normal day; no one would expect a thing like that to happen.

When he got the news, he didn’t know what to do with his arms. He didn’t even know how to walk. He even forgot about dinner.

Throughout the whole process, he didn’t know what to do with his emotions.

Were they real? Were they supposed to be cried away or kept inside? What should he even do?

For a time, he shut himself in, isolating himself from the outside world and staying at home, trying to make sense of things.

He couldn’t understand the world anymore. It was as if the world he’d been taught had all been a lie. Sure, he knew about loss, that people die all the time, but on that fateful day it all crumbled to the floor. Things didn’t make sense anymore. Why were pigs pink and not green or blue? Why did girls wear heels and men those suits?

Does reality give any life balance?

He must’ve thought himself mad.

“Haa…”

Sighing out hard, Matsuoka pressed his lips and focused his eyes on the road.

In the distance, he could see telephone poles, those large metal structures, like towers, wired with lines leading from one to the next, each construction leading high into the sky, like scaffolding. Little hills and plains of sand rose and fell, the sandy cliff lining the road on each side, one side higher, the other lower. The road looked dry, white and pale; sand seeming to dust over its surface, like fading memories.

Every once in a while, he saw a little building on the side of the road; some abandoned, some old and in disrepair. But nevertheless, the road stretched on, leading on and on into the distance, and he simply followed it, driving away.

Nightfall came and he turned on the headlamps, and before long he came upon a bridge. There wasn’t anyone around, and there hadn’t been anyone for most of the ride.

He stepped on the brakes, cut the engine, and stepped outside.

He kept the headlights on and brought out the whiskey he bought back at the little motel. Then, climbing up onto the roof, he sat there, bottle in hand, looking at the stars, lying on his back.

Below him, the river ran, quiet and slow, its sound soothing, almost consoling, as he laid there, hearing the desert night all around him.

A calm mist seemed to descend over everything, lending to it all a gentle breath, a cold warmth; the feeling like an image of a hearth on a winter’s night. Warming, cozy. Home.

At the thought, he sighed but didn’t think of it any further. He simply let go.

Up above him, the stars dotted the sky, twinkling out like a curtain of dust, diamond dust; each one as if winking at him, and only him.

Back at home, the dead are thought to be one of the petals in April, blooming somewhere among the cherry blossom trees. Here, right now, he wondered if his wife was among the stars up there.

They’d only spent a year together, meeting back in university around the time of their final semester. He’d dated a few girls before in his time there, but none of them were as funny as her.

He would typically describe himself as a relaxed and laid-back person, though others would say that he just didn’t seem to have the energy for anything.

Maybe they were right. That’s what he thought when he met her; she filled him with all the energy in the world, lifting him up from the sleepy eyes he’d been viewing life through and transporting him onto the roller coaster she called “life.”

She had a passion for life. Some would say that she was high on it.

And it changed him, her vivacity. It truly did.

She filled him up so full, it was as if he’d swallowed the Milky Way.

“Chieko, are you there…?”

He asked, but of course no one answered. But that was fine. Smiling, he drank the last of his whiskey, got off the roof, hopped into his car, and started the engine. He was ready for the road ahead.

Maybe he’d stay here in the States for a bit. But soon, he must return to life.

And so, stepping on the pedal, he drove off into the night, the stars watching from up above.

(November 20th 2020)