meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. vi

I don't know what I was thinking. Yeah, people hang out at rest areas all the time, right? The only person there was an old man giving out free coffee. He looked at me like I was going to rob him. I gave his little donation bin a dollar. I drove off, feeling like I was missing something.

My coffee--the coffee of disappointment--tasted like ash. I didn't drink all of it. By the time I got back home it was tepid. I threw it out the window. I didn't even undress when I got home, just came in and went to sleep. What was I thinking? I almost asked the old man if he'd seen her. I could almost hear him say, 'Kid, I've seen a lot of people.' So it goes.

A little independent theatre premiered my film today. It was a little theatre in a quiet part of First Hill. By the time it was done it was dark out and it was starting to rain. I stood around for a while, chatted with some people. I felt like I should contribute something worthwhile, but I had nothing to say. I never do, in times like this.

I drove back on Aurora. Something about the neon lights, the cheap motels with their flickering signs, the seediness of the street, appeals to me, on some level I can't begin to identify. It's straight out of an old movie. This is where crime happens. This is where suicide happens.

I didn't make it back. Some impulse or other struck me. I just turned into one of those motels. I walked in and rented a room for the night. The room was a poor excuse for a living room, even by my standards. It was dingy, felt like a hotel room out of an old movie. Countless hundreds of discount liaisons and forbidden affairs had taken place here. What happened here was either secret or desperate--and very often both.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the journal, stared at it for a while, and opened up to a random page. "Checked into a motel on 99 tonight. Couldn't stand it at home any longer. The place is seedy as hell but I don't care. Have to get away for tonight. This is where you go to get away, isn't it? And the bridge is a few minutes' walk from here."

Clutching the pen desperately, I scribbled the word 'why?' on the page. I started reading over what I'd read before, looking for some hint of a reason. I pored over every word. Asking her why, what, who, constantly. As if she could hear me. As if this was something more than just some coincidence.