It was right there. That exit out.
The one hooking right off of Old 27. Curving out to the promise of someplace new. Maybe somewhere better. Hopefully a place where the spooling engines don’t whine like temperamental metal bitches. And old hearts don’t get so easily broken.
A single tug on the wheel; a simple moment of high-mile highway insanity.
Could it really be that simple?
The stink of airplanes chased me; every part of me itched to be clean. I found myself in need of a higher proof baptismal. And not just because of all the circulating infections. But because every broken man needs something numbing to which to pray in times of want.
I had originally intended to behave. To be a good little fox for once. And head smartly back into the hovel once the tin was successfully kicked. Because that would allow squishy organs to briefly heal before the next pounding. And provide an overheating debit card the rare opportunity to responsibly cool.
Maybe I would chase some words; maybe I would catch something worth saying. Or possibly down some affordably sanitizing shots to help kill the time. Perhaps I would indulge in both, whilst staring out a dirty Boulevard window—a brutally familiar pastime. One incorporating an all too familiar view.
But Michigan, she had other ideas. And I could only follow the lead of that mittened bitch when she started fucking with my head.
Had I been better prepared, the night would have unfolded like hundreds of others. But the tobacco stash was alarmingly low. The tangible side-effect of another stressful night spent fighting winged monsters. Because if you invest any significant amount of time in the tarmac’d company of airplanes, it doesn’t take long to realize they often function best when under the influence of high-dose rounds of caffeine backed with the cathartic chains of hotboxed smoking.
The first turn out of Old Town, on that Wednesday hunt for another black pack night, ended in an unanticipated ROAD CLOSED barricade slapping me in the face. The one that wasn’t there hours earlier on the inbound commute. And I found the amount of urban upheaval caused in such a short amount of time unnerving.
Backtracking the path, I stumbled over to where the railroad tracks cut diagonally across the Boulevard. That crossover place where railed steel and 517 asphalt coexist. And the bordering properties transition away from low cost dwellings into more industrial concerns.
Red lights flashed the heartbeat of The City. Other barricades dropped. Striped arms reached out and crossed themselves into an indisputably hostile “NO!”
So I finally took the fucking hint and turned left at the place where I usually turn right.
I looped around the airport on the west side. Slingshotting all the way to that strip mall Hideaway in Dewitt. That place where the ceiling is tiled in trendy copper squares. And the pours are metaled out in genuinely friendly fashion.
Being one of the few local joints open past the time of other departures, it offered a sanctuary stretching over to that next new day. And I took full advantage of that refuge.
Other groups of more animated faces drank their enjoyment. I sat at the end of the bar and scowled my rounds. But somehow, that cohabitation worked within the confines of polite barroom etiquette. Because I let them drink theirs uninterrupted. And they were kind enough to allow me the space necessary to poison myself in peace.
Sufficiently numbed in armour of a still probably legal to drive ABV, I cut across the main East-West artery as stealthily as possible in a neon green car. That rattling five-speed, deer battered ride. The one forever transporting a skeletal copilot usually caught witnessing the pitiable Dewittness of it all.
But at least he was wearing his fucking seatbelt.
I ducked the more urban deer and bent over to the conveniently located 24 Hour Speedway catering to all the drunks. The one I used to frequent on the regular. Back in the more sober before days. When home was that cheery little red house just up the road, instead of a dirty rent Boulevard burrow down below.
Two packs for the stash paid for with cash. A quick adjustment of electronic co-conspirators to allow more midnight toothing on the blues. Then it was back out on Old 27 for the last push south.
And before those familiar sights disappeared like ghosts from the graveyard of my rearview mirror, it was suddenly right fucking there.
That exit out.
The one hooking right off of the rattling smear of Old 27.
A braver fox would have taken that seductive curve; a better man never would have ended up in fucking Michigan to begin with.
But I was neither of those things that awful and green bottled Wednesday night.
So I could only let the surrounding traffic pull me back to the intimate Devils I know. Because it was better than facing the sins not yet familiar with my name.
And once back on the Boulevard, I did collapse predictably back into familiar patterns. While drunkenly rolling out the platens. Pushing out words in the place of more meaningful tears.
Because foxes don’t often cry.
They instead wait nervously for a graceful glimpse at another dawn’s crack. Because that means the night has expired. With no space left to dream about where that exit might have taken them, if they had only been brave enough to turn everything around.
Maybe tomorrow I will bend things back right. Instead of stupidly drinking what I know is wrong.
This pattern is fucking killing me; nobody gives a shit.
And I think that’s kind of funny.
Because it’s obviously what I deserve.
