To the Mystical Palm Tree on Coronado Beach

I.

The black coffee tastes, artificially, of hazelnuts. The keyboard is sticky – from leftover tears or yesterday’s lunch, I cannot be sure. The GM of our company is doing rounds this morning, and gives me a dirty look upon viewing my sweatpants and tank top. My yellow tennis shoes are spotted with dirt. There is no makeup on my face. I am hungover and high on pain pills. I must leave this place, I think to myself. I am fading into nothing, I am going crazy, I must leave.

II.

The trouble of it is, Walker doesn’t want me anymore.

He with his beard. He with his real job, his bachelor’s degree. He with his girlfriend who looks rather manly. He with his ambitions and dreams. He wanted to go to Europe with me, he had said once. He wanted to take me everywhere. Let us take the world by storm. Show me off to the masses. “This is my woman. This is my love.” He wanted these things once. He doesn’t seem to want them now.

I eye him from my cubicle – the back of his head, the green of his shirt, sure to be bringing out, right now, the very-green of his eyes. I am a fifteen second walk across the office from him, but it feels like the Grand Canyon has been placed between us.

He sat me down yesterday, and said to me, “I have to stay with Kat. I cannot leave her for you like I promised I would.”

 

III.

At home, I climb the ladder to heaven. I pop three pills at a time, wash them down with stale soda water (which I suppose is just water). This is the way I have been dealing with the darkness.

I sit in front of my computer. My fingers fuzzy. My head fuzzy. My lips turned up ever so slightly at the edges into an imperceptible little smile.

“I’m going to get the fuck out of here,” I say out loud to no one.

I think what I mean is, “I’m going to kill myself.” But what I do instead is buy a one-way Greyhound ticket to San Diego. I’ve never been there before. It sounds like it should be lovely this time of year.

IV.

To the mystical palm tree on Coronado Beach; to the piece of pink gum on the cobblestone in the Gaslamp District; to the tan faces of the women of SoCal; to the rich fuck who will snub me when I ask for directions; to the homeless man who will offer me his last dollar as I busk on the corner; to the vagabond I will fall in love with; to the cupcake shop worker I will fist fight on the corner of seventh and Island; to the hot sand and to the warm ocean; to the sky and to the inevitable afternoon rain in June; I implore you all to consider me a nomad in a strange land. Consider me lost. Consider me fragile, no, consider me broken already into a million pieces. Consider me your friend. Consider me your lover. Consider my wounds, my flaws, my masks. Take me into your arms and let me weep at the feeling of finally, finally being home.

Please, please, change my miserable life.

V.

When I board the bus that will stop to connect in Las Vegas, I laugh to myself at the absurdity of what I’m doing. I have a backpack full of clothes and my guitar in its case. I left all my pills at home. Withdrawal is sure to be a bitch.

When I said goodbye to Walker, all my cubicle decorations sitting in a box in my hands, he eyed me blankly, with no desire in his face, and said “Good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

Here I am finding a seat. Here I am accepting a Reese’s from an old man. Here I am striking up a conversation with the ten year old across the aisle from me. Here I am leaning my head on a stranger’s shoulder. Here I am making out with that stranger an hour later.

There’s something about getting up and leaving forever that sits just right with me. I’m sure my mother will miss me. But this feels right.

VI.

The bus screeches to a noisy stop in a seemingly deserted part of town. I feel nothing.

My feet take me onto the city sidewalk. I feel nothing.

I walk, walk, walk towards the heart of the downtown, reaching forward, ever forward, to feel something. To feel just one more thing before I die.