Introverted Vagabonding

 

Introverted Vagabonding:
Desperately Searching For Some Kind Of Something

“If you write your own story, nobody can accuse you of plagiarism.”

    -a quote I heard somewhere but can’t find so perhaps I made it up

Dedicated to anybody who has persevered through tough times.

...

Introvert: a quiet person who prefers solitude and brief social interactions, if any at all.

Vagabond: a person who wanders place-to-place without an apparent purpose.

These two things go together poorly but they are both who I was for twenty months. In many ways, I still am those things.

So, how does one get through such a life-style? Not easily. And, in my case, not happily.

This book is about my time driving aimlessly around the United States. It was not eventful, or, honestly, enjoyable. But it happened and this can hopefully explain some of it. Or raise more questions. We’ll see!

I hope you can take something positive away from my tale.

Cheers.

WHY READ THIS?

I’ve had an odd life. Not bad and certainly not good, but strange.

When I was probably too young, my mom introduced me to George Carlin’s work. I was intrigued by his word-play but had no idea what he was talking about. However, I knew I liked it. When I eventually came to understand what he was saying, I found him to be a genius. His combination of philosophy and comedy would impact my way of thinking forever.

Carlin died in 2008 (though I have what I thought was a vivid memory of it happening three years earlier) and his memoir (he disliked the term ‘autobiography’) came out in 2009. I hated the book. Not that it was poorly-written or boring, but it was simply a guy telling the story of his life. Anyone can do that.

I’ve thought the same thing about every autobiography I’ve ever attempted to read, except for Marilyn Manson’s, which was so bizarre that it read like fiction. To be fair, though, most of us aren’t celebrities and our stories are less interesting than those who are.

But that’s exactly my point.

I am not famous. The closest I’ve ever gotten was being interviewed by a local news station at a zoo when I was maybe 8 years old.

I did not have an especially bad childhood. It was weird but certainly not negative, though some therapists have disagreed.

I am not an expert in anything.

What I am is an everyday person who you might relate to. (If written “properly”, that sentence should have read ‘whom’ instead of ‘who’ and been re-worded to not end with a preposition. I prefer to write how people speak.) And maybe that’s the idea of this- anybody could have written it. We’ve all had experiences and opinions. Mine are not special. But here they are.

This is an account of when I wandered aimlessly for 20 months mixed with some personal details. My hope for the book is a combination of entertainment, sadness, humor, and perhaps even inspiration. But most of all, I want you to find it real.

If you share some of my thoughts or disagree with them completely, that’s fine. As long as you care enough to have some kind of feeling. Spare me your indifference. (Thanks for that one, Kev.)

The stories are honest- sometimes very much so- and I hope they get you to approach some relationships in your life with a more sincere outlook, in theory or actuality.

There’s no point in waiting for things to happen. I should know. I have been waiting my entire life.

Chapter 1: Good-bye

When I left the only constant house I have ever known, it was 4:30 in the morning and raining.

It was the house I grew up in, the house I lost my virginity in, the house my mom killed herself in.

And, just like that, it was no longer mine.

I sold the place to one of those cash-for-homes businesses. I’d always dismissed their mailings, but it was time to consider that option. Plus, I really wanted to leave. The house was a black hole, never letting me out of its grasp. It was a den of sadness with a cloud of unpleasant memories hanging overhead.

I had to get out.

Throughout the selling process, I was looking for ‘the catch’ but never found one. It was very simple. They even let me choose the move-out date AND said I could leave behind anything I didn’t feel like taking. It was too good of a situation to pass up. Could I have gotten more money for the house fixing it up? Absolutely. Did the company I sold it to profit a lot from the transaction? Probably.

But it wasn’t about money. I just needed to be rid of it.

I thought vagabonding would be a great next step for me. Heading out to see things with no final destination in mind. There were some benchmarks, such as a friend’s wedding, within the first few months, so that would tide me over. All I had to do was fill in the periods between, but that was done with places I’d simply heard of rather than ones I genuinely wanted to visit.

At no point during my vagabonding did I regret leaving my house. It was a decision that had to be made, though I was years late doing so. Since my dad died fifteen years prior, I spent the majority of my days unproductive and lazy. I did an incredible amount of nothing. I also never had a guide, which a therapist brought to my attention was an important factor for most of my life.

* * *

A bit about myself:

I am an only child from New Jersey whose parents divorced when I was young. They had six tumultuous years of marriage and were probably not ready for a “bundle of joy”.

One time when they were still together, they took me to a doctor because I hadn’t pooped in a few days. The doctor said I was physically fine. Then he asked how home life had been recently, which did not receive a positive answer. Turns out holding poop was the only thing I really had control over, so that’s how I was expressing my discomfort with their arguments, according to him, anyway.

(Apparently showing emotions used to come naturally to me.)

From that point on, my parents stopped (or hid) the arguing and my bowels went back to normal.

I have no recollection of this but was told the story so many times that it became a memory.

After the split, they went against the trend of the time (mid-1980s) and decided to share custody of me equally, so I grew up switching houses every Friday until my senior year of high school. And that was my reality, my sense of normalcy. I knew no other way of life, though I was certainly aware that nobody else my age had a similar arrangement.

I have no memory of my parents together. As a couple, anyway.

My dad was more rigid than strict and expected things to go in certain directions, such as college-job-marriage-children with nothing in between. My mom was a lot more easy-going but also suffered from Manic Depression (now known as Bi-polar Disorder).

An example of their different attitudes- I was grounded for two weeks (probably for getting lower than a B on my report card), which meant I was unable to see my girlfriend. Anybody who recalls high school knows just how devastating that was. At my dad’s house that first week, I had no contact with her. My mom, on the other hand, let me pick my girlfriend up from work and hang out for a while after.

Her only demand was that I didn’t tell my father.

* * *

Growing up, I always referred to those places as “my dad’s house” and “my mom’s house”, never my own. Two rooms in two houses, two wardrobes, two sets of toys, two Christmases. Everything was dual. The ‘switching locations’ set-up was fine while I was young, but then I became a teenager, as children tend to do.

I began gathering things that I wanted with me all the time, not just every other week. CDs, clothes, and who knows what else. The collection grew bigger as I got more stuff and eventually warranted a large duffel bag, which a therapist suggested was the only true home I’ve ever had.

She also introduced me to a concept called Benign Negligence. The idea’s definition varies but it applies to me in that I had the basics growing up- food, clothes, shelter- but never more. I was a surprisingly well-behaved kid, so if I got into trouble, it was likely because of school grades. The punishment would always be imposed but I don’t recall my parents ever saying anything like, ‘Let’s sit down and work on this subject so you get better at it.’

* * *

My maternal grandparents held the mortgage on my parents’ house and blamed my mom for the divorce (even though, as far as I know, they were equally at fault), so they arranged for my dad to remain in it.

And where did my mom go? Well, that’s a curious thing.

Her parents moved to Massachusetts, so they “let” her move into their former house, the one she grew up in. I have no memory of that.

After living there, she moved to an apartment (which I also don’t remember) followed by a series of houses, all within a few miles so she could be near my dad, whose house was my “permanent” address so I wouldn’t have to change schools.

I’m assuming she would have left the area if not for me. I don’t blame myself but often wonder if I would have faulted her for doing so. At the time? Of course. Now? I’m not so sure.

My mom moved to Florida to marry my step-dad, but not before getting my approval. I was 17 and could not imagine switching houses weekly past high school. She had my blessing. Would she not have gone if I’d denied the request? I’ll never know.

* * *

My dad’s structure did not work out well for him, but he thought it was great anyway.

(I thought his order for a successful life was universal until hearing about someone taking a year off after college. What’s a gap year and where was I supposed to sign up for one???)

My mom’s Manic Depression sometimes made things very confusing. I remember her screaming one time. Not words. Not at me nor even because of anything. Just a loud, shrill noise. I didn’t know how to respond so I remained silent. I was ten.

My situation was made more puzzling because they did not treat me the same. In fact, there was competition. One got me a gold bracelet. Soon after, I received a gold necklace from the other.

I rarely wore either.

* * *

Growing up, I always felt like I was floating somewhere in the middle of everything. A friend and I once discussed how our families were boring. Not bad, not good, just eh. There were no traditions at holiday gatherings nor were there relatives who always made things difficult. Even an alcoholic who enjoyed starting arguments would have at least been interesting. But everybody, including myself, was just somewhere in Limbo.

* * *

My best friend tried to murder me on my birthday

Sean’s and my mothers met in the hospital before giving birth to us. Years later, I invited him over to celebrate the anniversary of that event.

While the parents were upstairs doing whatever “old” people do, the kids were in the basement imitating famous wrestlers. It was an innocent good time until Sean began strangling me. Like the others, I thought he was just playing a character.

Then I had trouble breathing. It was real.

The rest of my friends screamed, so the parents came rushing and took him off me. They were looking for an answer. So were we.

Apparently, Sean suffered from some kind of condition that caused him to do irrational things whenever he hit his head, which probably happened while we were playing, and events unfolded the way they did.

This was my introduction to mental illness.

I remember somehow understanding the situation. I also recall not seeing Sean much after that. Last I heard, he went on to become a police officer.

* * *

Grandma C

My first time dealing with death was my paternal grandmother.

I was asleep at my dad’s house when I was awakened and brought to my mom’s house. Just wanting to get back to sleep, I asked no questions. The next morning, I got the news that Grandma was gone forever. I had no idea what that meant, being nine at the time. The duty of explaining it to me fell on my mom.

Then I saw my dad and witnessed one of the few times I would ever see him cry.

Apparently, my grandma was an alcoholic. Whether she died as a result of that or from having Alzheimer’s, as I was told, I have no idea. My only memory of her was walking to a store so she could buy me some toy cars.

She was the first person I would “lose”.

* * *

Grandma G

As many people have said about their own, my grandmother was the sweetest person I’ve ever encountered. She was warm, welcoming, and constantly worried that I was not eating enough. She would bend the rules of card games and we could never figure out if she was truly clueless or very good at pretending, although it’s hard for me to imagine her as anything but honest.

The only time I remember her scolding me was justified. I spat in the kitchen sink, not to spite her or anything, but she took it personally and raised her voice. I was shocked then, but I now know how fair it was.

Eventually, she got some form of Dementia. (She and/or my grandfather was too stubborn to get her officially tested.) When things began, it was amusing. She would forget words or be confused when there seemed no reason to be. It was like dealing with someone who was playfully drunk.

Then it got more serious.

One thing she would ask me was how my brother was doing. At first, I would explain that I had no siblings and she probably thought she was asking my dad, who had an older brother. But Grandma insisted that she clearly knew who she was talking to. I had no idea how to react, so I simply placated her. “He’s fine”, I said, and would repeat several more times throughout the conversation.

This is how I learned patience.

She died as a result of not getting the help she needed, but she was lost years before then, just like her sister’s husband, who was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

I called him Uncle Fudge.

* * *

The Saddest Story I Have

Let me emphasize that this is certainly NOT my saddest story, but it was horrible at the time and obviously stuck with me. If it truly *was* the worst thing that my existence ever faced, you wouldn’t be reading this book.

In 1996, I faced a dilemma- two musical tours were going around and I wanted to attend both but only had enough money for one. White Zombie and Pantera were co-headlining with Deftones opening. Two bands I really liked and a band I would come to enjoy greatly supporting them. Looking back, this was probably the best non-festival line-up a tour ever had. I wanted to see this show so bad.

However…

During the same Summer, Garbage was opening for Smashing Pumpkins. I was completely enamored by Garbage’s vocalist, Shirley Manson. Also, teenaged-me had no idea how concerts worked, so I was certain that she would not only see me but fall madly in love at my sight and… well, I didn’t really know what. But something had to happen, right?

Of course not.

Nevertheless, I didn’t know any better, so I chose them (but really her) instead of the heavy metal tour I would always regret not seeing.

The show I got a ticket to was postponed because the Pumpkins’ keyboardist died from an over-dose, which was probably quite sad but I only felt bad for myself. I’d have to wait a few months for my romance with Shirley to begin.

Unfortunately for me (but quite happily for them), Garbage’s popularity blew up that Summer. By the time the re-scheduled concert date came around, Garbage was too popular to be the opening act, so they were replaced by Grant Lee Buffalo. Who? Exactly.

Not only did I have a ticket for a less-entertaining show but my dream of a relationship with a rock star would not come true. To make things worse, apparently that other tour was incredible to witness. Good for everybody who got the chance to see it. I will forever be jealous of you.

* * *

Sex

My dad never gave me “the talk”. The closest he’d ever come was asking if I was being careful. The question was so vague that I didn’t even realize what he meant at the time. I took it as acting responsibly (which was sort of the same thing, I suppose) and answered positively.

My mom, on the other hand, once asked if I was still a virgin while I was sitting across from her parents. She tended to not have a filter. Luckily, they didn’t hear (or ignored the situation) and my response was a lie similar to, ‘Of course I am’.

Anyway, here’s the story of my first ejaculation:

I was at my dad’s house and a promotional lingerie magazine was amongst the mail, which he usually got because he worked at home. But not that day. I didn’t understand why the magazine’s images were so appealing to me. Something told me to pull my pants down, so that’s what I did. And then what? Nothing. I just stood there, exposed and erect. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew I liked it.

A few days later, my dad was out again. I was on the couch, thinking about the magazine (that I did not keep). The friction I was experiencing against the couch was nice, so I decided to keep at it. Then my legs felt funny and I jumped up, terrified. I promptly ceased couch activity.

At some point, my dad left the house again, so I chose to try the couch thing once more. This time, the task was completed. Not knowing what just came out of my body, I was once again frightened. What just happened? Did I do something bad? But, if so, why did it feel so good?

And, just like that, I was thrust into adulthood…

* * *

Pendejo

You wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at me, but half of my ancestry is Spanish. My great-grandmother was from Spain, my grandfather from Guatemala.

(I think.)

Growing up, I never learned Spanish, probably because my grandparents kept it unknown to my mom and her brother so they could speak to each other covertly. Smart plan.

However, a certain word that made its way into our world was ‘pendejo’. To my family, the word always meant something playful like ‘fool’ or ‘dope’. It was used when somebody slipped or forgot a word. Then we went to a party and a Cuban guy heard my mom call me a pendejo. He was appalled that she said such a thing to her child. To him, it was decidedly NOT a playful term.

And that’s how I learned that things could have many meanings.

My grandfather liked to make figures out of metal, including a skeleton that hung from his car’s rear-view mirror. When I “inherited” that vehicle, the mini-sculpture came with it, and I transferred it to my current one, where it still hangs.

I named it Pendejo. He kept me company on the road. Yes, I spoke to him often, along with my phone’s map (Fiona), my car (Carmine), and my GPS (Clytemnestra).

* * *

Back to vagabonding, I thought leaving the house would bring me a sense of relief. It did, of course, but I was haunted by the word ‘finally’. What took me so long to get out? I had plenty of time and opportunities, so what was my excuse? Familiarity, that’s what. A recognizable situation, even a negative one, was always preferable to the unknown.

And now I have a tattoo of that house on fire.

Chapter 2: December 2022 – Super Bowl 2023

Altadena, CA * Boise, ID
Bethlehem, PA * Dallastown, PA
Williamsburg, VA * Columbia, SC
Orange Park, FL
St. Augustine, FL * Kissimmee, FL
St. Petersburg, FL * Cape Coral, FL
Fort Lauderdale, FL
Jacksonville, FL * Savannah, GA
Richmond, VA * Silver Spring, MD
Toms River, NJ * North Haledon, NJ

My vagabonding journey began on an airplane between a broken arm-rest and a toddler who screamed and flailed while awake. Thankfully, he slept during most of the trip. When we landed, the child’s mother handed me a holiday card with a chocolate bar. (Milk. I would have preferred dark.) She had prepared the gift for whoever sat where I was, knowing that her offspring would probably cause that person frustration. The gesture was nice but it did not make up for anything. It was as useless as saying, “Sorry”.

I felt bad for the woman, who has to deal with that all the time, but worse for myself, whose only mistake was desiring a window seat. I said the kid was fine and thanked her for the gift. And I felt like a dishonest jerk while doing so.

I flew to California to spend time with my uncle, aunt, and cousin. The latter was adopted from Guatemala at a young age, so we’re not “blood”, but he’s my cousin regardless. I do have three biological cousins, from my uncle’s first marriage. As I understand it, his ex-wife had complete control of the children and turned them against their father, who only wanted to be part of their lives. For example, he would find out about their recreational games from other people and attend them, watching from a “safe” distance.

After the divorce, my uncle never had contact with his kids until Facebook came into play. He befriended the wife of one of his two sons, who convinced my cousin to meet up with him. Eventually, he got to see their daughters- his grandchildren. Having never been able to be a father figure to his biological kids, my uncle also found that his adopted son would not live a “normal” life, as his birth mother drank alcohol while pregnant. We think, anyway. Records are murky.

I never looked at my uncle as a father in the same way he didn’t express seeing me as a son. But the feeling was there. He once asked if I was ever going to have children. Though he never said as much, I could see that my response of, “Probably not”, stung him.

So, my first true vagabonding experience was with them, briefly seeing my uncle’s son, his wife, and their daughters, who are my cousins once-removed.

(The way that works is a first, second, etc. cousin is in your generation. You share grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. Removals involve their kids and/or elders and is the same going in both directions. A parent’s cousin is your second, once-removed. Similarly, your cousin’s child is your cousin, once-removed.)

My uncle and I went to The Bunny Museum, which is exactly what it sounds like. There were thousands of pieces of rabbit-related memorabilia, such as a Bugs Bunny pinball machine, Roger Rabbit posters, and an unreal amount of mugs. My family had passed the museum many times, since it was very close to their house, but never went inside. They might have continued that way had I not found it. My aunt dismissed it as silly, but my uncle was curious enough to check it out. Or he simply felt bad about the idea of me going to such a place on my own.

* * *

Boise, Idaho’s capital, has an annual potato drop on New Year’s Eve. It’s basically a gigantic spud made out of “something secret” that dangles from a crane until a few minutes prior to midnight. And it has wings. In that city, I also saw the blue football field at Boise State University, which was mildly exciting. I know very little about college football outside of the fact that it is a huge deal in many parts of the country.

Before the enormous tater fell, I went to a German-style pub and instructed myself to chat with whoever was there. This was going to be SOCIAL vagabonding. A couple was already seated at a long table, so it was them I was going to have some kind of conversation with. And then a group of 20-somethings walked in. People at a nearby table-for-two were leaving, so the 20-somethings asked the couple at my table if they would sit in the open space to have the long table just for themselves. And me, of course, who they did not acknowledge the entire time.

Instead of moving or getting my food to go, I sat and listened to their tales of drunken debauchery while one shouted at the television. All the while, I thought that if somebody asked me which specific group of people I would have no interest in talking to, the answer would have been this crew. I ended up holding my spot at the table (out of spite?) but certainly did not come out victorious.

So, why did I stay there?

For one thing, the company was nice. Being surrounded by people, even though I found them awful, was comforting for a reason that probably has to do with a subconscious desire for human connection. I thankfully did not run into a situation like that again, even though I dined alone many times throughout the journey.

* * *

After my return to the east coast, I was set to hang out with someone I had recently begun dating named Julie. We were going to spend a weekend together. And then she cancelled because she had gone on trips with her abusive ex and hotel rooms frightened her. We knew each other, but not well. I know how harmless I am but that was a great example of how others don’t. Julie felt bad and I was disappointed, but I understood, even if it still hurt. It was not my first let-down nor would it be my last.

That situation led me to staying in the basement of a house whose occupants I never met. I heard them plenty of times, but did not encounter them, though communication with the host was regular. I did not understand why somebody living above a person with only a door between them would not choose to make physical contact. She swore it was in the name of my privacy, which I never insisted upon.

Oh well.

* * *

At a restaurant one night, someone named Brian told me how much women adore his leather-bound notebook. He also shouted, "It even smells like piss in Paris", which might be accurate, but got me thinking that he was a less-than-reliable source of information.

“That guy” always seems to find me when I’m alone at a bar. He talks way too much, is often loud, and I usually know how many ex-wives he has before learning his name. I rarely get to speak, and whatever I *do* say just gets ignored. He never talks to me specifically, but simply a warm body. Apparently, I’m a good, patient listener. Not that I value such a person, but when he starts repeating things he already told me, I know the “conversation” is over and that nothing I’ve said is of any consequence.

* * *

Saint Augustine, Florida, is the oldest continually-occupied city in the United States, though technically San Juan, Puerto Rico, has it beat. But, until that’s officially a state, Saint Augustine holds the title. The Castillo de San Marcos is the oldest building within the city.

And there’s your history lesson.

In Saint Petersburg, I met up with Stella, Lillian, and her sister Addie. Lillian and her late wife were neighbors and friends of my mom, who went on a cruise with Stella. (Platonically, as far as I know.)

So, why did I visit that crew? There was no obligation, yet I felt compelled to. I certainly didn’t *not* want to see them, but it wasn’t exactly on my list. I had relatively little going on and was driving through the area, so I decided to hang out with them. And selfishly, I wanted to see what had become of my mom’s former house. She left in 2013 after divorcing my step-father, who remained until his death in 2016. The new owner let me walk around, though the building was completely new since he and his husband had demolished the original. It was very nice (he is an interior decorator) but I had no attachment to it. After the tour, I went out with the gals and we had a good time, though I was quietly looking forward to it being over. They told me about themselves and had questions for me. I could provide very few answers.

* * *

For the second time, I went on a heavy metal cruise, which was 60 bands playing two sets each over four days. I remembered my first journey, when I asked a member of the staff if they were all horrified by grungy people mostly wearing black clothing. He said quite the opposite, which surprised me at first but made perfect sense. Their usual clients are demanding and rude while generally displaying a complete lack of gratitude. The heavy metal crew, on the other hand, is always respectful, because most of us are not wealthy and understand that they’re just doing a job. The crew is not seen as servants.

At the beach party the day before the ship departed, a guy from Luxembourg named Luc began talking to me and we’re still friends. (We even both went for another round of metal on the ship and roomed together.) Had he not approached me, I would likely not have spoken to anybody on the cruise and possibly may not have returned for a third round. I’ve always been comfortable observing silently, but it gets very lonely. Although similar to me in that way, Luc was slightly more extroverted, which made me more confident overall.

* * *

In Silver Spring, I went to a “compromise” brewery. By that, I mean there are three in the city. The one I really wanted to go to was the farthest from where I stayed, while the least-appealing one was the closest. In the middle, there was a winner. And it was perfectly average.

* * *

Who won the Super Bowl that year? Who even played?

Chapter 3: An Ill-advised Road Trip

I met Avery at a brewery the night before my friend’s wedding. She floated around, talking to anyone who would listen, so I took it as nothing more than that. We had light conversation and I introduced her to a friend who had come into town, but I could tell she was quite flighty. Although we exchanged phone numbers, I expected to never see her again.

That was a Thursday.

On Saturday (coincidentally, my birthday) a comedy show was at the same brewery. I planned on going alone but asked Avery if she’d like to join. To my surprise, she agreed. To my bigger surprise, she actually showed up. The night was enjoyable but, although we hugged and took a picture together, I expected to never see her again.

* * *

Two weeks later, I was driving past Avery’s town and she invited me to see a band at a different brewery. During their performance, she mentioned something about us being on a date. That idea had never even occurred to me. (Was I *that* clueless?) She also asked me to slow dance with her if the band played a certain song, but they did not. At her car after the show, I asked to hear it. In a very rare moment of smoothness, I asked, ‘May I have this dance?’ before slow-dancing with her in the street. It culminated with a kiss.

Honestly, it was pretty magical.

The next morning, I had breakfast at the coffee shop where she worked. We chatted a bit but it was busy, so I left after waiting probably too long for it to slow down. Although we parted on good terms, I expected to never see her again.

* * *

Weeks later, Avery invited me to join her on a road trip from Maine (where she grew up) to Florida (where she lived). I had apprehensions since she was quite erratic but agreed in the name of spontaneous adventure. Plus, the idea of being on someone else’s schedule was quite appealing.

I should have taken my gut’s advice.

The plan was this: She would pick me up in Connecticut at 7am so we could drive to an overnight auto-train in Virginia. We would spend the next day in the train’s destination (Orlando), possibly see a fortune teller, then stay at an interesting-looking hotel. After breakfast the following day, she would drop me off at the airport before getting a tattoo finished on her way home.

Exactly none of that happened, aside from her going back to where she lived.

Though I was ready at 7, the pick-up was changed to 9 but ended up being around 9:40. Then, since her grandfather had served, we had to stop at a firefighters’ memorial before heading south.

One thing I was unaware of before the trip was that her truck was from 1989 and had a top speed of about 65 miles per hour. But the train was leaving at 5pm and we would be there before then, so I had no reason to be concerned, right?

Not right.

Despite the train leaving at 5, all vehicles had to be on board by 3, without exception. Avery failed to notice that information. Even though it was her trip, I felt somewhat responsible as well. It was after 3 and we were still an hour away. Her ‘things will work out somehow’ attitude was not going to prevail this time.

We stopped at Fort McHenry near Baltimore, but instead of experiencing the place, we (probably illegally) had some beers and then assessed the new situation. Foolishly, I thought some of the trip could be salvaged, so we decided to eat and then drive south until… who knows.

* * *

Around this time, I noticed Avery grabbing herself and wincing. She explained that she was still breast-feeding her daughter, which had not happened in days, therefore milk was backing up and making her physically uncomfortable. She tried to pump in the restaurant’s bathroom to no avail. (That’s what I was told, anyway.)

Having acted like a care-giver all of my life, I asked if there was anything I could do to help.

“Yes, actually…”

If you’re thinking I suckled milk out of her breasts, you are absolutely correct. I have done favors for friends before, but this was the only one that involved nudity.

We went into the back seat of her car, she removed her shirt, and I did that extremely awkward thing while doing my best to not make it sexual. It was very weird but it worked. And tasted kind of like yogurt.

I was/am not as disturbed by this as I probably should be.

(One aspect I found out is doing that is not my “kink”, which brought some form of relief.)

* * *

We ended up in Ashland, Virginia- a town known for its involvement in the locomotive industry. It was a nice place I would like to visit purposely one day.

The next morning, our new plan was to drive to Orlando and continue the journey as scheduled- familiar town, fortune teller, interesting hotel. Quite obviously, none of that happened.

With no regard for time, Avery wanted to wander around Ashland. She did not have a flight the next day and therefore was not concerned whether we made it or not. Plus, there was no REAL reason to go to Orlando anymore. Walking around aimlessly concerned me, but I went along with her lackadaisical attitude anyway because I tend to do such things.

Realizing the plan’s fruition was very unlikely due to distance and sub-par vehicle quality, I suggested going to Vollis Simpson Whirligig Park in North Carolina. (I had to enjoy something on this journey.) We checked that out then went to a nearby brewery for another assessment.

‘But didn’t you enjoy putting your mouth on the breasts of a topless girl in the back of a car?’ you might be wondering. Yes and no. You understand. Maybe.

At that point, I was taking over the trip somebody else was supposed to be leading. Defeated, I said ‘Oh well’ to that night’s already-booked hotel room and the next day’s purchased flight. No refund seemed possible. I booked a departure from a closer airport.

The night before Avery’s birthday (which was the day prior to this mess beginning), she stayed in a trailer in Savannah, Georgia, with her baby’s father. (I know their situation was amicable but never found out to what extent.) She and I stayed at the same place. I had no idea why anything was happening anymore.

* * *

The next morning, I got up to urinate and returned to find Avery naked. Yes, we had sex. (I may be fairly unconventional but am still a guy, after all.) It’s not that I didn’t want to, but the truly appealing factor for me was that I felt it somewhat justified everything else I’d dealt with. (Was that a messed-up thought?)

We then went for a walk in a nearby cemetery, during which Avery took a swig out of a bottle randomly left at somebody’s grave-site without checking its contents. This is the kind of person whose company I was in.

My new flight was only two hours away (in a vehicle manufactured in this century) but I chose one at night, just in case. How long would it take us to get there? I had no idea but pushed to leave six hours before I wanted to be at the airport and secretly looked up bus routes in case the truck died. Part of me actually hoped for that to happen. I wanted her to suffer, too.

Shortly into this leg of the journey, Avery suddenly declared that she was scared of driving on I-95, which we had been taking for most of the journey. An alternate route would have added 30 minutes but since we left so early that wouldn’t matter, right?

Not right. Sort of.

I did make the flight but got to the airport later than I wanted to.

* * *

Due to my attachment issues, I continued talking to Avery after that trek. Her random-ness was increasing and I became frustrated with the friendship. Among many other things, I remember she played chess with a stranger for a meal, became mesmerized by a circus, and slept on an abandoned couch somewhere. Being her friend was giving me a headache, so I wrote out a letter ending the situation, which I was going to send to her, but…

Avery was in the military for a number of years, so she had access to veterans’ benefits. She expressed interest in entering a VA hospital at two places in Florida, then in Tennessee, then in Vermont. I have no idea if any of those came with an actual plan.

Instead, she contacted me from a non-VA rehabilitation center (in Florida) to say she had checked herself into it. (Or maybe it was court-ordered. I truly have no idea.) She was there for a week, during which she would call at random times and occasionally leave an angry message if I did not answer. I suggested letting me know what time she would call but her response was that she had no access to clocks.

* * *

As of this writing, Avery popped back into my life but is gone once more. Perhaps the rehabilitation worked because she seems much better, though her situation is still a crummy one. Her focus is on her daughter, who she’s trying to get custody of. Good thing I’m not speaking at the trial.

So why continue talking to such a person? Simply, because I don’t learn.

And what if she were to return again?

I went from truly expecting to never see her again to this. What a mess. Have I wasted my time being her friend? Was I ever actually her friend?

The biggest question, however, is whether I will listen to myself in the future and stay away from people like her. I think so but have had the same thought before and here we are. Time will tell.

(At least I got a decent story out of this whole thing. Remember when I drank breast-milk from the source!?)

Also, I asked Avery to read my version of this story before it was published. My request was not given any type of answer.

Chapter 4: Dating

I’ve never known how to date properly. Most of my romantic relationships fall into the “easy” category. I know no such thing exists when being with someone, but I mean that it was almost always with a friend-of-a-friend or even a friend herself.

Dating apps are a nightmare and I’ve never been able to initiate an in-person conversation with a stranger I enjoyed looking at. An infrequent first date even more rarely leads to a second. But I share the blame because of my humor. For example, I went out with someone and it was snowing. I opened my car’s trunk to get a brush, which wasn’t obvious, so she asked what I was doing. I immediately told her that she was going in. We didn’t go out again.

Another time, I was in a group of people when a guy said something suggestive. This was when “That’s what she said” was popular, so a girl named Michelle said it to me. Being internally hilarious, I pointed out that HE said the thing in question, not SHE. I was playing dumb, but Michelle didn’t know that. After failing to convince me it was just an innocent thing to say after an innuendo, she walked away. Later that night, a friend asked me what happened with Michelle. I assumed it had to do with the interaction I just described. She thought I was cute. My friend said that if I’d simply apologize, she might hook up with me. Apologize for what? Being amusing only to myself and taking a joke too far? Exactly. But I said nothing and perhaps “missed out” on an opportunity. My friend was in disbelief that I’d rather mildly entertain myself than possibly “get some”. Apparently, he didn’t know me very well. After that night, I never spoke to him nor Michelle again. And I regretted nothing.

So, that’s a taste of my personality, take it or leave it. Sometimes, I wish it was possible to do the latter.

* * *

When I began vagabonding, I had a dating profile. The idea of it was to explain my situation and meet locals without looking for hook-ups, though I wasn’t against that sort of thing arising. The plan was simple enough, so I figured it had to succeed. And, obviously, I was wrong. It failed admirably.

Most women who contacted me (because the app was designed for them to make the initial move) did not even read my profile, as evidenced by questions such as ‘So how long have you lived here?’

It would have been easier (and probably more interesting) if I was just looking to randomly mess around, but no, I’ve been cursed with valuing attachment over physical attraction.

However, it occasionally worked how I wanted it to.

* * *

The first person I met was CC, a chef with plenty of tattoos. We matched, chatted for a bit, then I explained that I’d be leaving the area the following morning. And she seemed fine with it. She also lived an hour away from where I was, but wanted to meet anyway and insisted it happen near me. I repeatedly made sure she knew that I was not looking to hook up. I thought driving an hour to see someone you’d probably never encounter again was crazy, so I offered to meet her half-way between us, but she refused. Really? The whole thing didn’t seem worth it. For her, anyway.

I didn’t know the area, so I randomly picked a bar for us to initially hang out at. CC met me there and it was nice. Then we went to another bar for some food and it was nice. And then…… that was it. We both went home. Separately.

I told a friend this story and she accused me of handling it poorly. Did I do something wrong? My intention was clear and I reinforced it because of the distance she was travelling.

The next day, I messaged CC to ask what hanging out with me was like. I saw the whole thing as a learning experience. She never responded.

* * *

I started talking to Heather about a month before we met in person. She was training for a marathon. I used to jog frequently but never saw the point of doing *so* much of it.

We chatted and she seemed to understand that my situation was less-than-stable. Our main commonality was music. When we finally met in person (at a heavy metal bar), it was positive. We ate, had a few beers, laughed, talked about various things, and then that was it.

What was I doing!?

I just wanted someone to hang out with.

* * *

Then came Autumn, a sad Walmart employee with a Southern accent who took her job way too seriously. I knew this early, but continued talking to her anyway because I was lonely. And she was interesting, aside from the job thing, which was most of what she spoke about.

We graduated to phone calls and eventually met in person, at a railroad museum. It was enjoyable and for some reason they had the bench that was sat on by Forrest Gump. We toured that place then had lunch. Things were going nowhere fast but I desperately wanted *something* to head in a positive direction.

I also realized that, though my goal was not dating anyone, I was in fact putting myself into such situations.

I suggested to Autumn we continue talking and, a few weeks from that point, I’d visit her. We would hang out, I could do laundry and watch her dogs while she was at work, and then we’d have a full day together before I left. (Forever?) It was a solid plan which she agreed to. And then she cancelled. Maybe she didn’t want a person she’d met once staying with her. Maybe she was worried about something else. Or, maybe, she was a bit crazy, as I’d suspected from the beginning.

So, I wasn’t surprised. Just bummed. And that feeling hasn’t gone away.

Chapter 5: Loneliness

I’ve struggled with being lonely before leaving New Jersey because I’ve always felt a disconnect with people, even close friends. It’s like there’s an asterisk attached to every relationship, romantic or otherwise. ‘Things are nice, but…’ is always present.

I’m also not an expert in any area, so I was never the go-to person for a topic. I just have interests and occasionally discuss them but always stop myself from saying too much, even when I know more about the subject matter. I never want the spot-light, nor do I want to seem like a know-it-all.

* * *

One of my least-favorite parts of vagabonding was when people referred to it as a trip. They were well-meaning and not foolish for thinking such, but this was my life. Wherever I slept was where I lived, even if the next day brought a different address. It was no vacation and certainly did not feel like one. It was a life-style I wanted desperately to enjoy but failed.

I blamed a big part of that on my introversion, which still haunts me. So many times, I thought about doing an activity or starting a conversation with someone only to decide against it. Or, commonly, talk myself out of it for no “real” reason.

(I even have a long list of ‘conversation-starters’ in my phone. I’ve never used it.)

A friend’s mom gave me a book called Blue Highways by William Least Heat-Moon, because it reminded her of what I was doing. It came out in the early 1980s and first-person details when he left his hometown for a life on the road. I found it interesting (and relatable) but often caught myself being jealous of the adventures he talked about, namely that he had any at all. He was out-going and had practical skills, which made his vagabonding experience worthwhile. I, on the other hand, simply went places, occupied my time with mediocre things, then moved on. I met very few people during my journey and have a chronicle of places I visited but no real “stories” to speak of.

One aspect of the book I disliked was that it presented most of his journey as engaging. From experience, I can say with certainty that it was not. It seemed as if the trip was nothing but exciting. He made no mention, say, of searching for a bathroom or general boredom on a rainy day. Then again, those things might not have made for an interesting part of the tale. The book is very “real” but I wish it also explored such aspects.

I needed to do things I actually wanted to do instead of simply picking a place and making the best of it. I can’t help but imagine how much more interesting it all would have been if I spoke to some locals. I could have gotten restaurant recommendations instead of just finding ones. I could have been told where to go that was away from touristy areas. I could have even made a friend. Crazy thought.

* * *

Table For One

For me, introverted vagabonding largely meant dining alone. A certain negative stigma is attached to sitting anywhere (except for the bar) when going to a restaurant solo. (However, being able to get a seat at the bar when there’s a long wait for a table was advantageous many times.) I never knew if people were judging me, but I taught myself to stop caring.

Regardless of whether I was at the bar or a table, loneliness was a big part of things.

I rarely initiate conversations and whenever a stranger speaks to me, I get away from the situation as quickly as possible because… well, I don’t really know why.

Most people in restaurants are with others, sharing laughter and interesting stories. It seems so enjoyable. And then there’s me, looking at my phone or a book, ignoring everybody but being very polite to the server. I’m also aware I have a face that screams ‘leave me alone’, so there’s that factor as well.

Even when others were dining alone, I felt like I was somehow not doing it correctly. They seemed better at it and more confident.

* * *

Boredom

Many times, I experienced excessive boredom.

It’s not like there were things happening that I ignored, but they escaped my searches. I sat around numerous nights because I couldn’t find anything, even mundane, going on. But people everywhere went out. Where were they going and how did they find out about it!?

Also, I was tired of doing things by myself. I toured several places alone. Going to a karaoke night is not exciting for a solo introvert. More than once, I was the only person in a movie theater.

And I didn’t take advantage of the time I had. I could have read or written way more than I did, taken a class, learned a language, gotten into amazing shape, or anything else. But no. Mostly, I just sat there being unproductive. I certainly didn’t stare at the wall, but what was I doing?

Chapter 6: Super Bowl 2023 – March 19^th
Oakland, NJ * Chester, NY
Windsor Locks, CT * Ashland, VA
Savannah, GA * East Hartford, CT Worcester, MA * Brattleboro, VT
Parsippany, NJ * Toms River, NJ
North Haledon, NJ * Langhorne, PA Lake Hiawatha, NJ

Back in Connecticut, after my disaster of a road trip with Avery, I went to a Mexican restaurant. The server informed me that it was National Margarita Day. (Why does everything have a day?) So I ordered… a margarita. And it was… fine.

My Depression was also hitting hard that day. I don’t know if it was because of my recent frustration or if I just felt awful in general. Or did I feel that way because the road trip didn’t go according to plan? But of course it hadn’t. And I knew that would happen.

What was really going on? I was un-fulfilled, that’s what. There I was, wishing the adventure with Avery was exciting in a good way. I returned to my usual routine, which was not working positively for me but I felt powerless to change. Yet I was doing something trendy and very unlike me- sipping on a margarita on National Margarita Day. My usual response is an immediate rejection of whatever’s being offered, even if it interests me.

I don’t do anything on-demand unless I feel like it, which does happen sometimes. But it has to be the opposite of what’s expected. If you ask me nine times to do a silly impression, you will probably get nine refusals. However, ask again and I’ll do it, mostly because it’s not what the person thought would happen. (Also, don’t ask anyone for anything ten times. No means no.)

* * *

I checked into a hotel in Vermont and the old lady behind the desk read me the establishment’s policies. Slowly. And there were a lot of them. Being patient and non-confrontational, I stood there listening. She also seemed very intent on telling me the information, so I figured I’d be respectful as well.

A woman around my age approached the desk to check in, but remained silent when she saw what I was dealing with. She looked at me. I looked at her. There was a connection. But that was it. The old lady finished her spiel, said my room number, and I headed upstairs without peering behind.

Why? The woman was nice to look at and we had the basis for at least one short conversation. I had no explanation but asked myself the question repeatedly (instead of doing something about it) while heading to my room, still without even a glance toward the desk.

Shortly after, I came out of the shower to hear my room’s phone ringing. Thinking it might be the cute woman, I answered, but nobody was on the line. Determined to find out if my hunch was correct, I called the front desk. The old lady claimed to not have phoned my room. It had to be the one from earlier, who obviously heard my room number and thought I’d be interesting to chat with, right?

I have no idea, but I knew her room number too for some reason I can’t remember, so before heading out for dinner, I decided to be spontaneous. I went to her room and knocked on the door. And I was amazed that it was happening. But there was no answer. Oh well. I tried, then went to a restaurant by myself.

I had a sense of pride that quickly got overtaken by melancholy.

* * *

Now, let me explain Sarah Nonsense. (Not her actual last name.)

I met Sarah on a dating app and quickly fell for her. Our banter was playful, yet witty and clever. I would sometimes leave her picture on my phone at night so it was the first thing I saw the following morning. You might be thinking that’s cute. I think it’s weird. I also think it’s weird that people find it cute.

Our messages grew to be too long for the app, so we exchanged phone numbers and texted a lot, but not as often as I wished. I’ve never known how such things are supposed to go. We eventually met in person and our first date was six hours long, all in one place. The conversation was just that good.

But where did it go after that? Again, nowhere in particular. We got along well but had no future as more than friends. Despite that, we remained in contact anyway.

No wait, we had another date. It was… somewhere. And we went for “a constitutional” afterward, which was not scandalous but is an old-time phrase referring to a walk outside in the name of health. You’ve probably been on some and didn’t realize it.

This was all before I left the house for good.

During my vagabonding, I’d meet Sarah occasionally when I would be driving through her area. We enjoyed meals, walked around a park, and maybe hung out other places that I don’t recall. I saw her more often when I no longer had a house.

Her big personality was assertive, which was great for me, who usually lets whoever I’m talking to take the lead. She always had good practical advice for me and once suggested some medication that might help, even giving me a sample of hers. And I never took it. Why? Great question.

We still speak, though she’s somewhat disappeared since dating somebody who can actually focus on her. She also started a business growing micro-greens with her father. Must be nice to have encouraging parents.

A micro-green is a plant that’s picked in the early stages of growing. It’s commonly used as a flavorful addition to meals but often provides better nutritional value than its “mature” counterpart.

* * *

And that’s really it for this time period, as far as what was worth mentioning. I wish life was more exciting but, as I wished I was able to teach William Least Heat-Moon, sometimes it just isn’t.

Chapter 7: Peru, Vermont

My first long-term stay was at a cottage I’d already spent a weekend at with a friend.

Here’s the story of how I met her:

When I was a teenager, I came home after school to find a woman I didn’t know crying on the couch. My mom, who went out but thought she’d return to the house before I got there, arrived shortly after to explain the situation. She and the woman worked together, and the latter was in a rough place. Though I never got the full story, I know it involved a bad relationship and substance abuse.

The woman stayed with us for a while and we bonded over heavy metal music. She was as close to a sibling as I’d ever had, which was odd because I had a small crush on her. (Nobody told me that wasn’t supposed to happen.) She and I remained in contact but didn’t talk often. Many years later, she was one of the first people I called when my mom died. Based on our “family” history, she had to be.

At my mother’s repast, I offered to get her something from the bar, not remembering that she had been free from alcohol for many years. I apologized, she was not offended, and we both moved on. Ah, memories.

Anyway, I stayed at the place in Vermont with her, so that’s how I knew about it. We went as friends and slept in separate rooms. (Why did I need to justify that?)

* * *

After a few months of vagabonding, it felt nice to get somewhere and know I wouldn’t be leaving for six weeks. Plugging in my phone charger and not thinking about putting it away after use was quite comforting. I even put clothes in drawers. Imagine that!

Two days later, I took a breathing class. Yes, I was instructed on how to do a naturally-occurring thing more practically. I was open to anything that might provide physical and/or mental help, including things I was skeptical about. The class was made up of one student (me) and the “teacher”, who created what he called an altar, which consisted of feathers, stones, twigs, and tarot cards. He made it specifically for me and spread everything out on a blanket that was on the floor. I listened while he explained each piece’s significance, only to discover it really wasn’t my kind of thing, which I pretty much already knew. I appreciated the effort, but thought too plainly about each element of the altar.

‘This stone represents your inner psyche.’

No, it doesn’t. It’s just a rock. I’m unable to consider that things mean more than what they are.

Yet, I go to a lot of museums that feature chairs famous people sat in, clothes they wore, etc. Go figure.

* * *

I was in Peru (not the country; I clarified that many times) during “mud” season, a time of year when the snow melts and turns the ground, well, muddy. This period occurs annually when Winter activities are over but Summer ones have yet to begin. In other words, the weather was unfavorable and there was very little going on. Plus, the cottage was very isolated, meaning that if I didn’t go “into town”, I likely would not see another person, unless someone appeared along my daily walk to the main(ish) road.

OK, I didn’t make that trek every day, but most. I knew bears were still hibernating, but that didn’t stop me from thinking I would get eaten by one each time. And nobody would hear me scream.

I filled my stay with jigsaw puzzles and attempting to watch television shows. (I’m highly critical, so if one doesn’t grab my attention within a few minutes, I give up on it.) I also signed up to do Yoga twice per week and even went to an all-day retreat. Physically moving and being around people was nice, but did I benefit? Not really. I have a nervous system disorder (which is explained in chapter 17), so moving into Yoga poses is difficult for me. And the retreat was WAY too spiritual. I’m interested in learning about that mentality but not being immersed in it.

One time (obviously ‘one time’), I went to trivia alone and won. A round was dedicated to the capital cities of US states, something I memorized at a young age. I “justified” my knowledge by telling the host I majored in American Geography in college. I didn’t. (Is that even a thing!?) I felt bad about winning, so I gave the $25 gift card to some regulars, who seemed to genuinely appreciate the effort. But I couldn’t escape thinking that they saw me as a show-off. Did they? Probably not. Was I? Nope.

A “nearby” place had an open-mic night, so I went and asked if they’d accept comedy or if it was only for music. The host was open to anything, but I could quickly tell that I was the first person they’d ever hosted who wasn’t holding a guitar. I did some stand-up anyway and bombed horribly. Not that I’m great at it, but there was no reaction outside of polite applause. It’s difficult to perform anything in front of an audience, so I appreciated their acknowledgement of that.

And that was how I learned that rural people are not my target audience.

One thing I made in Peru I was especially proud of was an Easter-themed video. I had a vision for it that came true completely, which was nice.

Speaking of Easter, I went to a farm on that holiday. I had gone to it a few days prior to buy cheese and the event was mentioned, thus I was “invited”. It was a bunch of families (with no exceptions) celebrating a day that never meant anything to me. Once again, I felt alone surrounded by people.

I wandered around, petting whatever animals were there. I made some harmless conversation with folks, if only to not totally be a silent stranger lurking about. (They all knew each other.) One of the farmers and some friends played a few songs- vocals along with a violin and a guitar. I was in awe of them. They were not professional musicians but had abilities they used for fun. I have no skills. (Except for, arguably, writing.) I probably appreciated them in a way that was far different from anyone else there. Later in the day, a “parade” took place on the farm, which involved everybody in attendance (including myself) marching on the driveway, then turning around to walk back to the main area. And that was it. I was surprised at its pointlessness despite my hopes already being minimal.

For one more thing, I went to a Science museum, which was for children but not advertised as such. Once more, I was the outsider because it was occupied by myself and four school trips. I’m completely harmless and want nothing to do with kids, but the chaperones didn’t know that. I got some curious looks and was definitely being monitored while walking around. Thankfully, the museum had an outdoor solar system exhibit, so I just went there before leaving.

To sum it up, I hoped being in one place for an extended time would be good for me, but I felt almost nothing except loneliness as I wasted my time there.

Chapter 8: April 30^th – July 2^nd
Brattleboro, VT * Chevy Chase, MD
North Haledon, NJ * Lancaster, PA Saratoga Springs, NY
Keeseville, NY * Stowe, VT
Rutland, VT * Cohoes, NY
Lake Hiawatha, NJ
Parsippany, NJ * Syracuse, NY
Voorheesville, NY
Mountain Dale, NY
Wilkes-Barre, PA * Spring Mills, PA
King Of Prussia, PA
Bordentown, NJ * Bethlehem, PA
Monroe, NY

I got into an argument with a comedian whose show I enjoyed, though a part bothered me. He made a joke about Americans not knowing the horrible reality of Indian Partition. Actually, his point was that we’d largely never even heard of it. Admittedly, I was in that group. I commented on his after-show post, saying that the joke felt incomplete to me because it had no context. He didn’t even hint at what Indian Partition was. I presented my thought well, as he seemed to be an intellectual who would appreciate such a thing. His response was a one-word answer that basically instructed me to look it up on the internet. I took that as him saying the account could be better explained elsewhere, but I messaged him justifying myself even further and requesting more information. This was a private note to him, which he then posted publicly for his fans to see, along with saying he was not an educator by profession. I found it sad that he could have been using his platform to educate people but chose to be childish instead.

I vowed to boycott his work, but bought a book about Indian Partition anyway, because I was curious. And yeah, it was pretty awful. (Partition, not the book.) It refers to the end of British colonization in India. Instead of leaving gradually, they left abruptly, shoving the country into chaos.

Now that you have something of an idea, you can read more about it if you’d like. Apparently, the internet has a fantastic explanation of the situation.

* * *

The woman who ran the all-day retreat in Peru owned a restaurant about an hour away. It featured vegetarian food and, though I am not one, I tend to eat in that direction, so I went there. Was it part of the retreat? No. Did I have a requirement to go? No. But did I *feel* obligated to? Absolutely.

The item I ordered was falafel, which was made with sesame seeds instead of garbanzo beans. It fell apart easily and was just not tasty. I told the owner this and she said it would be looked into. I never cared enough to return and find out if it actually was.

                                                                          * * *

Circa 2005, I took my mother to get LASIK and made the horrible mistake of watching the procedure. It was quick but awful to witness.

I had worn glasses since fourth grade and got contact lenses in high school. I remember a few times when I awoke hours before band practice just to *possibly* get my contacts in. But eventually I got the hang of it.

I went for the LASIK screening once and was approved, but declined to get it. The experience with my mom’s surgery had left me scared and scarred. The doctor created a flap (OK, that word is awful) in her eye, which allowed him to use a laser to correct her vision, then put the eye back together. The whole thing was brief and my mom’s recovery went well. Most importantly, she returned to having great vision.

In time, my fear waned and I got the procedure done. Like many people have said, I wish I’d gotten it years earlier. It worked perfectly and was like wearing contacts all the time, but without the work involved. (And minus the saline.)

* * *

My friend Adam asked me to help re-doing the driveway at his family’s lake house. It was nice to feel needed, although I didn’t provide any expertise, so my specific presence wasn’t necessary. He just wanted assistance from someone reliable who had the time to provide it. But he asked me and that’s what counts. Or something.

His goal was to turn the property into a rental and having the path to it in good shape was a priority. Along with his father, we battled heat and gnats to get the work done successfully. It was good to do and I learned along the way, but the most interesting aspect for me was the dynamic between Adam and his dad. They had a good relationship, based partly on sharing information about tools. I had no such role model. My dad taught me nothing practical. In the same situation, he would have called someone to get the job done instead of recruiting his son.

* * *

My first experience with WWOOF (a program where farms exchange lodging and food for volunteering) came along that June. By now it’s probably obvious, but I’m not very sociable, so sharing space and meals with others greatly appealed to me. The prospect of cooking and eating with people excited me more than doing work on the farm, which was interesting in its own way. There was also the potential to learn a skill.

Shortly after arrival, I fell down the stairs. Removing foot-wear was a house rule and the steps had no railings. Plus, wood and socks are not the best of friends. Thankfully, I landed just right and was in pain, but my farm-working career was not over before it began.

The house had three bedrooms for volunteers, plus two more for women who did not work on the farm but rented rooms. The farmer lived in a separate house on the property. Another volunteer lived in a small cabin near “my” house and had been there for two months before I arrived. (He was also staying for some months after.) He was not quiet about having been in the military and was a “go-getter” type, who would often do things without being asked or before others had the chance to help, which quickly became aggravating, but there was nothing practical I could do about it.

My stay was for ten days but the program’s minimum was three, which is how long a participant who arrived the same day as me was there. He showed up where work was being done but never showed any interest in it and often seemed like he was inconvenienced by the whole thing, which was odd since he chose to be there. I couldn’t figure out his angle, especially one weeknight when he went out after everybody else had gone to their rooms.

There was a common area where I would often read and/or write, thinking the activity might cause others to be more social. It did not work.

After the mystery guy left, two girls who used the bathroom for way too long showed up. I had no idea about their situation either, but similarly didn’t really get beyond polite greetings.

My time at the farm did not go as expected. Or, at least, as I hoped it would. It was neither bad nor good; just largely forgettable. However, I did have a conversation with the farmer, who I asked for an interesting WWOOF story. She told me about a person who left shortly after arriving because she was afraid of insects. Apparently, she had no idea such creatures would be present on a rural farm. (Mind you, they were not in her bed nor other spaces she would frequent. She simply saw one on the ground and turned away.)

* * *

Part of vagabonding involved getting a storage unit for my stuff, which I had way more of than I’d thought.

Julie (the one who cancelled in January) accompanied me to it because I needed to get a camera. We searched, eventually found the item in question, and re-packed everything in about two hours. After making sure the door was fully closed, I turned around to find Julie crying. She was so excited that we’d done such a thing and I never once scolded her. I had no reason to, but it was more than that. Her previous relationship was with someone who treated her horribly, often yelling and “not allowing” her to do certain things. I had no idea what that was like, and Julie knew as much. It was amazing to witness someone being so grateful that I wasn’t awful. I didn’t even have to do anything to prove it!

* * *

The reason I was looking for my camera was to shoot a show with a friend while he spoke passionately about hot dogs. (The food. That wasn’t an innuendo.) Between filming days, we went for a hike, which doubled as searching for treasure. Along the way back, we stopped under a bridge because it was raining. We had no idea that it precipitated enough to cause a gushing flood that prevented us from returning the way we’d come in. The opposite direction led far away from where the car was. Our options were very limited, since there was a major river blocking the only other way to the parking lot. So, we decided to climb a steep dirt trail to the highway above, which would lead to…… something. Maybe.

It didn’t. The walkway was flooded and the road was not crossable due to constant traffic. My friend suggested going back down the dirt trail, which I saw as a terrible idea because my nervous system condition gives me balance issues. Getting up there was difficult enough.

He called a friend to pick us up, and her response was, ‘Again!?” Apparently, it was not her first time doing so for him.

* * *

Stopping at a National Park Service site, I had to urinate before exploring. The problem with that was the bathroom was closed and part of having HSP (hereditary spastic paraplegia) causes “urgency”. So, I partially went in my shorts until I could finish somewhere else, and by that, I mean an anonymous outdoor space. Yes, I, a grown adult, peed in my pants. And then I went back to my car to change.

The NPS place was about railroads, which I found interesting once I was finally able to experience it.

* * *

The Oneida Community was a religious institution founded in 1848. ‘Cult’ is probably a more accurate way to describe it. They believed that Jesus had already returned to Earth, which allowed them to live without sin. They also believed in open marriage, “male continence” (with-holding ejaculation), and a form of eugenics in which “undesirable” children were not conceived.

Charles Guiteau, assassin of President James Garfield, was a member for a time, though he was apparently very awkward and unpopular.

The community advertised fairness to women (which was uncommon at the time, and arguably still is) and survived by producing many items, including high-quality tableware, but ultimately failed when there was an argument over how to proceed after its founder passed leadership to his Agnostic son.

The site where the group lived and worked has been preserved to offer tours, information, and even lodging for short- and long-term residents.

* * *

During this period, I also volunteered on a farm that had nothing to do with WWOOF. It produced food that was sold to a local charity for distribution to people who were unable to regularly afford the grocery store. While living there was not an option, I found the work and environment in general to be far more rewarding than my previous experience, although it was just as lonely.

Chapter 9: The Loft

Early into my vagabonding journey, I bought a roof-top tent for my car because I thought it would somehow make things easier.

My first clue that this was a terrible idea came when the installer put it on my car backwards. (I am not a professional but know the “skinny end” goes in front.) Noticing it but feeling weird about correcting him, I snidely but subtly commented that the tent must have been designed oddly because the fatter end was at the front. And he… agreed. I then had no choice but to find a picture of it installed properly and show him. (Well, I guess the alternative would have been to drive it anyway, but even I am not *that* much of a people-pleaser.)

One night, I woke up panicking that the tent could easily be messed with. It had no lock and anybody with a curious mind could undo its straps, taking the contents and inconveniencing me the next time I wanted to drive the car. (The device wasn’t designed to hold cargo but there was room enough for a few things.) My fear was going to the car and finding the tent raised. I asked the manufacturer and installer for a recommendation. The best they had was to tie a bicycle lock around it, which I thought was a poor idea but looked into anyway. The length didn’t match up at all.

I knew the tent would be trouble.

The manufacturer’s customer service was the worst I’ve ever experienced. Topping their previous “assistance”, when I called to say some of the tent’s material and straps were sneaking out while I was driving, the best they offered was, ‘That that’s not supposed to happen’. Exactly. In fact, that’s why I called in the first place! So, they agreed with me but stated no way to prevent it. When I suggested opening it then closing again (sort of a re-boot), the person said it was a good idea. Apparently, this had never happened to anybody else. Also, it didn’t work.

Once and only once did I sleep in the tent and I must say it was comfortable. The pictures showed two adults and a dog relaxing inside, which seemed improbable to me, but alone it was quite nice.

After their “advice”, the company randomly responded to my e-mails, which quickly became frustrating and counter-productive.

Then, my absolute worst fear came true- the tent popped up while I was driving. I didn’t notice it at the time because a loud truck was next to me, but I saw the result when I pulled into a rest stop, noticing that half of it had opened. (What if the whole thing had? Also, thankfully, it didn’t affect me nor anybody else on the road.) The straps holding the top down snapped. Duct tape wasn’t going to fix this mess.

So, I called the company. And tried another number. Then a third. I e-mailed the address I had but got no reply. I truly had no idea how to proceed. Desperate, I posted pictures of the situation to a social media group I had originally joined because I was trying to sell the tent. People responded but were about as helpful as the manufacturer. And lots of them were praising the customer service. (Who had they been dealing with!?!?) But that wasn’t my problem at the moment. I didn’t know what to do and nobody was helping me in any way, especially the guy in the parking lot who declared ‘That sucks’ while walking by.

One person on the website who was less-than-awful told me the company was on vacation that day. (It was a regular Friday, not a holiday.) The news was announced in only one place and that individual just happened to see it. The entire business was off and nobody thought of changing their voice-mail or automatically responding to e-mails so people could at least *know* they wouldn’t be helping.

With no other alternative, I resorted to the duct tape that I knew wouldn’t help. Putting on more than what I thought was reasonable, it looked secure. Ish.

I returned to the highway and the tape came loose shortly into the drive. I pulled to the side of the road and determined I had two options: do the same thing for an unknown number of subsequent times, which would have made my four-hour drive much longer, or detach the tent and dump it on the side of the road. Putting in the effort to keep something I didn’t even want anymore seemed ridiculous, but I hated the notion of just leaving it somewhere. ‘Which would be easier?’ I thought. Well, obviously the idea that I disliked less.

Before I could change my mind, I raised the tent, cleared its contents, then put it back down. I used a wrench to separate it from the roof then pushed it off (with minor damage to the vehicle). It was bulky and weighed about 140 pounds (~63.5 kilograms), so there was no way to get it back on top without assistance. I put the manuals (but not the receipt) next to it and drove off before the police came. This was not how I wanted to end my tenure as a roof-top tent owner, but I tried several times to sell it and even asked some charities about donating it, all to no avail. What I did was wrong but, as is said, was the lesser of two evils.

And yes, I’m aware that I might be condemning myself by writing this, so if it falls into the hands of people who can make things difficult for me, I will not resist. I simply ask that you understand (and perhaps go after the company that created this disaster).

To be fair, most purchasers of this tent also get a trailer to install it on, which is about waist-high and much easier to manage. I’ve never seen anyone else put it on a roof, though it was designed to fit there as well.

Chapter 10: Easton, Pennsylvania (Summer 2023)

I spent over two months living in Easton and some people probably didn’t even know about it. The bungalow I occupied was quite nice- surrounded by trees, two main rooms connected by a narrow hallway, no television. There were a porch AND a deck, but I only enjoyed those a few times because insects were too numerous for relaxation.

And who saw the place? Julie was my only visitor. During one stay after I had gone to the gym, she looked through my bags until finding something she didn’t like. (It was a writing about Avery.) I didn’t agree with the method, but in a way, understood why it happened. She was looking for an answer. But what was the question? It had to do with the fact that I was too distant to read. Not expressive. And I was. It was never malicious, but being able to tell what emotions I was experiencing must have been challenging. (Did I just blame myself for a horrible thing somebody else did!?)

Her invasion of my privacy reminded me of when my dad found and read my journal when I was in college. He was worried about me, but after doing so, had even more concern. He didn’t understand that it was just a place to let confusing emotions out, not for hatred or planning awful things. They were only thoughts.

The worst part was when he denied it to my face after I showed him irrefutable evidence. A receipt from an office supply store that was dated a few days prior fell out of the pages. He had taken the journal to get copies made so he could send them to my mom, who asked him not to do so. Obviously, that didn’t stop him. And there was no way he “just came across” the journal, as he claimed. It was buried under a lot of things. Looking casually, nobody would know it was there. He wanted to find something.

He eventually apologized for the whole situation, and I probably let it slide more easily than I should have. Similarly, I understood the reasoning.

Anyway, back to Easton…

It was too secluded. I like being separated from things but the location was excessive in that department. If I didn’t venture anywhere, I wouldn’t have seen another person. The nearby roads were hilly and windy and lacked sidewalks. There was enough traffic in the area to make walking not worth the risk.

I thought I’d see friends more often and do social things in general. I only made a few attempts to see familiar faces, probably because I thought they would reach out to me. ‘So, I’m here. I did my part. Your turn!’ What a stupid mentality. If I wanted things to happen, I could have at least tried to set them up before blaming anyone else. Then, at least, I might have a valid complaint.

* * *

I planned to volunteer at several places during my time there.

One was at an animal shelter, walking dogs. I just had to sign up online then arrive on time. I was even instructed to not associate with anybody while working. (That was standard protocol and not specific to me. I think.) I only went three times after making the effort to get qualified. So why did it end? I don’t really know. I think dogs are great and it really was an excellent situation that involved being outside and not looking at a screen. That place’s fatal flaw for me was being well-organized, meaning the animals didn’t *need* me to go. Regardless of any volunteers showing up, the dogs would be walked twice every day.

Another job I had was at a library, working hour-long shifts reorganizing shelves. It was a dream. I’ve always enjoyed putting things in order and, more importantly, finding and removing outliers. The work was easy and picking shifts was not even a thing there- I could just show up whenever I wanted. But I stopped going to that as well. Why? Great question.

I worked some shifts at a music festival but got nothing out of it. The event itself was a success and perhaps I helped that happen in some small way, but I never felt like it, especially when I showed up to find out the post I was assigned to did not exist. It was also odd when people complained about having to be there. I reminded them that volunteers were under no obligation to work at the festival. If it was so awful, why did they sign up again? The only answer I got was because they’d been doing so for years and it was tradition.

The one volunteering thing I *did* stick with was at a food bank, sorting donations and getting people groceries they couldn’t afford. Doing this work made me feel good but also worse in a way. There I was, complaining about having too many options, when there were people who couldn’t pay for basic things. That food bank was the only place I continually went to, confirming that I like familiarity, even when it’s uncomfortable.

* * *

The yard behind the bungalow had a fairly noticeable slope to it, which I thought would be perfect for walking a few times per day to improve my leg strength. I probably averaged going out there once a week.

Better than nothing?

* * *

My previous physical had been inadequate, so I enrolled in a program that offered one taking many hours and covering the entire body. I was the only person there who was not an upper-middle class guy in his fifties. I didn’t fit in. As usual.

But the tests went well and I got a clean bill of health, which was nice but also not, because I still wasn’t feeling right.

Even a lengthy examination didn’t help.

* * *

I went for three drum lessons from an eccentric man who possibly had mafia ties. He definitely thought I did, as evidenced by making several allusions to me being a hit-man. He was also not an understanding person, who would scold me for hitting the bass drum too many times. I explained that it was not voluntary. I would strike once but the hammer might hit repeatedly because my spasming leg caused my foot to step on the pedal after the initial move.

He didn’t seem to get it, so I stopped going to him. Actually, my lessons ceased because he told me to call the following week instead of making our next appointment at the time. Had we done so, it probably would have continued. But he inadvertently gave me an out and I took it. After that, I randomly saw him walking his dog once.

(Why do I feel like talking about him was pointless?)

* * *

I was able to see Monty Python’s The Meaning Of Life in a theater. I’ve always enjoyed that movie, but the experience was a different story. The stranger who sat next to me (even though there were plenty of open seats) laughed at everything on the screen, even parts that were not meant to be funny. After debating with myself for way too long, I decided to move away from her, but only by a few seats. I thought I was being bold and stealthy but it was probably just pathetic.

Then a guy’s cell phone rang. Not only had he not silenced it, but he answered the call. (I could tell that it was no emergency.) The conversation was quick but… wow. I was impressed by his commitment to inconsideration.

* * *

I managed to at least go to the gym every day during my two-plus months of living at the bungalow, except for my last full day there. I spent it packing, of course, but also made a meal out of the random left-overs in the refrigerator. I was ready to leave.

The next morning, I thought, ‘Well, I sure wasted my time here’, which had pretty much become my mantra.

Chapter 11: September 22^nd – New Year’s Eve
Woodbury, NY * North Haledon, NJ
Hummelstown, PA
Shenandoah, VA * Knoxville, TN Jackson, TN * Little Rock, AR
Hot Springs, AR
Oklahoma City, OK
Amarillo, TX * Santa Fe, NM
Williams, AZ * Altadena, CA
Big Bear Lake, CA
Twentynine Palms, CA
Los Angeles, CA
Lake Hiawatha, NJ
Worcester, MA * Boston, MA
Wayne, NJ * Bethlehem, PA

As ready as I thought I was to leave Easton, apparently I wasn’t. I stopped at the post office, went to the gym, then had lunch at a café before vacating the area. Maybe I *was* getting attached to a place. But it was nothing more than familiarity.

I eventually left to attend a co-ed baby shower, which was… fine.

And then it was time to drive across the country. I thought it was how having enjoyable adventures would begin. My aunt and uncle were going on a weeks-long cruise and invited me to stay at their house with my cousin. He didn’t need my help but being there on his birthday was nice. We went to a zoo then out to dinner.

* * *

I had previously visited Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, but returned because its northern half was covered by fog when I was there. And it was along my way. Sort of.

After experiencing that properly, I spent the night at a hotel within the park. At breakfast the next morning, I silently farted, which was common enough. I’m not mature enough to stop doing such things but know that it’s better to keep them quiet. Returning to my room, the back of my pants felt odd. Yep, the fart came with a bit extra. My plans of leaving shortly had switched to cleaning clothes and figuring out how to let them dry before I was able to get to a washing machine. (I “hung” them on my car’s windows.)

* * *

In western Tennessee, I met friends at a barbecue restaurant. They were a heterosexual couple and I’d never met him before. I knew her from the internet, which probably sounds shady but was really not.

That story: A band we both liked was playing in their home country of Iceland, but the show quickly sold out. I asked on their page if anybody had an extra ticket because, unlike in the US, there is no secondary market. It’s as if people actually want to attend events and not just make money off them. I got a message from someone saying that her daughter-in-law could no longer make the trip, so that ticket was available. And I felt kind of lucky for once. After conversing with her for a bit to make sure she was a real person, our deal was set and I booked my flights. (It was my fifth trip to Iceland. An isolated, cold, strange place. By now, you can probably see why I find it so appealing.)

And I’m still friends with them. Hi!

Back in Tennessee, it was great to see her again and meet him. They hated their town but recommended a museum, which I visited the next day. Did you know that Blue Suede Shoes was a bigger hit for its original writer and performer, Carl Perkins, than Elvis Presley?

Along my journey, I spent a few days in Arkansas. I joined a walking tour of Little Rock (which displays the “little rock” the city was named after), went to a jazz festival, and explored a national park. Yes, there is one in Arkansas. It’s called Hot Springs.

In Texas, I shot a video of myself after going to a steak place. I liked it, but wasn’t nearly as proud of it as the Easter one.

* * *

While approaching California, I was looking forward to sharing living space with another person and a dog. However, my cousin was incapable of a back-and-forth discussion because of a mental condition and the dog was too old to play or even go for a long walk. So, I had an ideal situation, but not the way I wanted it. Be careful what you wish for.

When I began vagabonding, I was hoping a ‘home base’ would come along. Some place that would catch my interest enough to consider living there. I never found that, but southern California came closest. It was near family and friends and interesting things happening. Yet I quickly discovered that it was too crowded. Plus, I am not a fan of heat. I considered the idea of moving to the northern part of the state, which sees snow and is home to some beautiful Nature, but decided against that because I would not be close to familiar people. Perhaps I should re-consider.

My time there consisted of seeing friends, going to live shows, and a bunch of wandering. I also dated someone. Alyssa and I met on a dating app then eventually went to a Mexican restaurant, where we connected quite well. Not wanting the night to end, we walked to a nearby bar, which was busier than we thought it would be. Alyssa was visibly uncomfortable and I think she appreciated when I noticed it and suggested we leave. We went out a few more times after that, to an exhibit about spiders, an impromptu comedy show, and a play her friend was starring in. She was an interesting person who had been in non-monogamous relationships. I’d never cared about partaking, but found the subject fascinating. She also earned extra money by filming herself in the shower and selling the footage to anybody who wanted it. She said something like, ‘I take showers anyway, so why not get some income for doing so?’ Reasonable, I thought.

I’ve never been a jealous person, but knowing information like that usually makes me feel weird. With her, it wasn’t happening. Things, dare I say, felt good for once.

And then…

I asked Alyssa if she wanted to get together. She declined because of a friend’s birthday party, which represented another instance of me being accepting of the situation instead of feeling bummed. The next day, I asked how her night was. She didn’t go to the party because she was on the phone with the suicide hotline all night.

There was the catch I’d been expecting.

I cared about her (and anyone in that situation) but immediately felt like backing away. After making sure she was fine (at that moment, anyway), our conversation dwindled. I hope she’s OK but know there’s a realistic chance that she isn’t even alive anymore.

* * *

I was in California during Halloween, which I spent alone wearing a death metal shirt, reading in the front yard, and dealing with zero trick-or-treaters because nobody came by. I even bought candy to give out. How festive of me.

And, by the way, Trick Or Treat? is a question. You are under no obligation to dole out sweets for free to young people in less-than-scary outfits. Challenge them. Say, ‘I choose Trick’, and see what happens.

A few days earlier, I went with a friend to a haunted hayride, which was perfectly average. It’s hard to scare somebody who is generally numb.

Speaking of spooky, a friend from the east coast was visiting her family about an hour from where I was, so we met at the cemetery where Ritchie Valens is buried. Not realizing the head-stone would feature his birth name, it took us an embarrassingly long time to find the grave of Richard Valenzuela.

* * *

While my aunt and uncle were away, I cleaned their kitchen. I re-organized the shelves while keeping most things near where they were, so no one got confused when looking for something. (My cousin found it odd that I was doing work nobody had asked of me.) I even removed the cabinets and drawers to clean the doors, which were especially dirty around the handles, which I also took off. Some gratitude for my efforts would have been nice, but to be fair even though I don’t have to, they returned with illnesses. It’s as if cruise ships are full of germs or something.

Then I went away, “escaping” the not-remotely-difficult situation at their house for a few days in the mountains. My stay was in a practical cabin and not a tent, as you might have been thinking. My time there was unproductive but “nice”, I suppose.

In Joshua Tree National Park, I thought I saw Avery. If it was anybody else, the notion would have been completely ridiculous. I ended up determining it wasn’t her, though I can’t say for sure. And what if it was? Would I have even talked to her?

* * *

I went back to my family in time for Thanksgiving, which I never had any attachment to. The history of the holiday (such as Abraham Lincoln making it official in an attempt to unite the country) interests me greatly, however I always found the day itself ordinary. Except for stuffing, which is delicious and should never ever contain sausage. I also have not done anything to create any kind of tradition, so I’ll share the blame for the day always being mediocre.

While there, I also volunteered at an art supply store that got private donations and bigger ones from film studios, which are prevalent in the area. Instead of throwing out something that was only used once, it made sense for the place to sell things cheaply to art students. One of the workers was very talkative and almost immediately asked if I ever wanted to hang out. I returned, but only twice.

* * *

I had an idea for a new tattoo- a building on fire. No idea what *sparked* the design but there it was. Then I realized that I had to choose which building. I selected my childhood house, the one mentioned at the beginning of this book. I never wished ill upon the structure, but recalled a fairly boring time growing up in it. Pair that with a host of negative memories and the house practically picked itself. And I wanted the artwork on my chest, so it would be close to my heart. I was trying to feel anger. Or sorrow. Or anything, for that matter.

I set up an appointment at a local shop and was good to go. My physical being would be altered for the sixth time. The end result was both cathartic and disturbing, probably because the accuracy was superb. My family, who had seen the actual house, were kind of horrified, but I liked the piece. And that’s what counts, right?

* * *

I asked my uncle to play trivia at a nearby brewery, knowing the invitation would trickle down to my cousin. (My aunt had already declined.) He passed but my cousin, who had never been to trivia and doesn’t drink alcohol, wanted to go. Trying a new thing called, ‘Looking at the positive side’, I took it as a teaching opportunity. I explained the rules and what his responsibilities were.

And then trivia started. A few questions in, he suggested an answer that I knew was incorrect. I wrote it down anyway because I didn’t want to take over. The whole experience wasn’t relaxing for me, which was my goal. I insisted on leaving after the first round. Luckily, my cousin is convinced easily.

From there, we went out for ice cream.

* * *

Back in New Jersey, I went to a brewery where I used to work. It was a few days before Christmas and the founder had a tradition of reading a yuletide story. I saw some familiar faces but avoided talking to most of them because I dislike “catching up”, especially with people I barely knew to begin with.

I texted a former co-worker to say where I was and he responded with, ‘Why?’ There was no reason I could think of.

Chapter 12: Year Two

New year, same me.

According to the Gregorian calendar, it was 2024 and I’d been living as a vagabond for over 12 months. I still had no home, no passion, no direction. Really? Nothing happened in the previous year to help guide me in some way? Sure didn’t.

Chapter 13: January 1^st 2024 – March 2^nd
Bethlehem, PA * Philadelphia, PA
Pittsburgh, PA * Altadena, CA
Phoenix, AZ * Alamogordo, NM
Big Spring, TX * Bossier City, LA
Meridian, MS * Montgomery, AL
Chattanooga, TN * Asheville, NC
Mount Hope, WV
Canal Winchester, OH
Morgantown, WV
North Haledon, NJ * Paramus, NJ
Dover, DE * Annapolis, MD
Richmond, VA

I rang in 2024 by getting an elbow to the spine, twice. I turned around to see some guy drinking a beer with his left hand. We were both there to see a cover band, but apparently he had an additional agenda: argue with a stranger. The general admission section was a standing-room-only affair, but he wanted his own space. The sensation I felt on my back was caused by him raising his arm for a sip of his drink. I inquired why he failed to switch to his other arm, which seemed to be functioning fine. He didn’t want to.

Then I apologized, assuming he’d never attended a concert before. I inquired but learned he had been to many. Confused, I then asked if he knew that there’s no such thing as personal space with a general admission ticket. (Like many things in my life, this story would be more interesting had I kept debating with him, but I turned around to enjoy the show. You know, the reason I went.) Not afraid of the elbow guy but a tad nervous that he was behind me, I looked shortly after our encounter but he was gone.

My friend who I’d gone there with knew something had happened but didn’t know what. I told her it was not worth mentioning and we watched the band. Later that night, she and I ran into the guy who would become her boyfriend. Good for them. Seriously.

* * *

The only places I felt unsafe during my vagabonding time were Syracuse, New York; Jackson, Mississippi; and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Nothing happened, but it was a vibe, if you will. And you *will*. While visiting the latter, a guy on the street randomly told me to watch out. I had no idea what he meant but heeded the warning anyway.

* * *

In Pittsburgh, I volunteered to sort clothes for a charity. The others present were amazed that I took time out of my short visit to work with them. Little did they know that I really had nothing else going on. If I did, would I have gone there regardless?

The ‘thank you’ gift to me was a solar-powered dancing reindeer. I still have it.

* * *

My car was in California, so I flew back for another two weeks. My birthday was a mental adventure. I ate breakfast alone and saw each member of my family at least once before being wished a happy one.

Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a happy birthday, except for the time I threw myself a party and invited friends over, so I wouldn’t have to go anywhere. However, my then-girlfriend didn’t make it, claiming illness. She also skipped a Broadway show the following day, which my mom got us tickets for despite the girlfriend telling her that I probably wouldn’t feel like going the day after such a celebration. She was correct, but I had to go anyway. By myself, to boot.

Back to California: I walked to a café for a coffee and some reading. It was quiet except for another guest’s little yippy dog. After that, my uncle, aunt, and I went to watch my cousin play soccer. Then we went to a restaurant I didn’t pick, not that I likely would have chosen differently. Being asked might have been nice, however. As we walked in, my uncle asked the host for a table for five. “But there are only four of us,” I exclaimed.

“I know,” he said. “It’s a surprise.”

I assumed the mystery guest was Kevin, a friend from childhood who had moved to the area. Plus, he was the only local person my uncle had contact with. I saw him a few times prior (including the previous night), but the gesture was appreciated. And then my aunt spoiled any surprise that remained by saying, ‘It’s Kevin.’

Since he wasn’t paying, my cousin ordered a meal for himself, ate much of the table’s appetizer, and wanted some of the pizza my uncle and I were splitting. My aunt ordered something light and Kevin had eaten with his family earlier, so that was my situation.

As innocent as it was, the whole thing was mentally trying for me, so I went for a walk once we got back to their house. Along the way, an ex-girlfriend texted to wish me a happy day. She caught me at a vulnerable moment. I told her it was not, but thanked her just the same and thought the interaction was over. However, it had only just begun. I discovered two things during our communication: 1) That she had been drinking alcohol all day, and 2) She was still not over our break-up, which had happened almost seven years prior. Not remotely wanting to deal with her, I suggested that she reach out the next day if there was a legitimate complaint. That didn’t happen.

* * *

During my time on the left coast, I figured out that going to State Capitol buildings meant more to me than just a nerdy way of killing time. It was a *thing*, and I have arranged trips since then around seeing them. I vowed to visit all fifty.

* * *

Remember Alyssa, the ‘suicide hotline’ girl? I didn’t see her on this leg of the journey, despite mentioning my return, but did leave a book I had borrowed by her front door. Why? Because I’m unnecessarily considerate.

* * *

While vagabonding, I usually selected hotels with complimentary breakfast. And it was always average: never good nor bad, just adequate. But that didn’t stop me from developing an unhealthy attachment to it.

In one such situation, I sat at the last open table. Shortly after, the hostess asked me if I’d share it with a couple that was looking for a place to sit. An opportunity to be social presented itself and I didn’t even have to get up. Without food, the couple sat down. And they spoke no English, only stared and giggled awkwardly. I spoke a mild amount of Spanish to them but mostly shrugged until they left a few minutes later. I never learned why they “needed” to be there.

* * *

There are two women I still remember: a guest at White Sands National Park and a hotel clerk in Mississippi. They were nice to look at, and I actually had casual banter with them both. And that was all.

* * *

Once again, I went to my friend’s house for the Super Bowl. Once again, who played?

* * *

I returned to Fort McHenry, where Avery and I had stopped during our disastrous road trip, to actually learn some things and experience the place. Among other aspects, it was where Francis Scott Key wrote what became The Star-spangled Banner. I probably would have gone there anyway, but having some history with the place, even though it was rather awful, made my visit seem extra-deserving.

* * *

There is a website and app called Meetup, which allows strangers to attend everyday events, such as hikes and bar trivia. It lets people come together in order to not do things alone.

In Maryland, I found one such group that regularly played chess. They were not experts, but certainly out-performed my basic knowledge of the game. I was taught a bit and given some advice, even though I felt like an outsider the whole time because the rest of them knew each other. And then I left, never to see them again.

* * *

I went to a memorial service for someone I never met, which isn’t an uncommon thing, so let me re-phrase: I went to a memorial service for someone I never met but definitely could have if I wasn’t such a fool. That’s better. Sort of.

Anyway, here’s how it happened:

I met and communicated with Raegan on a dating app, which turned into text messages and eventually phone calls. Early on, she saw my hometown and asked if I knew a certain person. Not only had I heard of him, we were friends who had done many things together. She knew him from college and they’d been close since.

Raegan was forward with me from the beginning, which I appreciated. She’d had issues with her brain (physical, not mental) and told me she would never be able to drive to me and the possibility of her becoming exhausted shortly into one of my visits was very real. Some people would call this information a “red flag”, but I didn’t run away. Instead, we continued speaking and had very interesting conversations about a variety of topics. However, time went on and we fell out of contact. Nothing bad happened; we just stopped talking.

A few months later, our mutual friend posted on social media that Raegan had died. (She did not ‘pass away’. Euphemisms are stupid.) I didn’t know how to feel about this. It was sad, of course, and I felt awful that my friend had lost someone dear to him. Plus, the world was going to miss out on her wonderful nature. But how did it affect me? I immediately thought about how I’d never met her and would now never get that opportunity. Could we have even ended up together? Maybe. (Speculation often does not help.)

I felt compelled to attend her memorial service but couldn’t place why. I had never met the person being honored and, though I certainly consider him a friend, the mutual and I don’t talk much.

I always break things down to three questions- Am I obligated? Do I *feel* obligated? Do I want to? No question that I was not obligated to attend. I mildly felt obligated to go, so that was certainly a factor in some way. And nobody wants to go to a memorial service so I replaced that by asking if I felt like I should. I really did, so I figured out how to get there.

Then I wondered how it would go. Would it be weird? (Well, of course, but you know what I mean.) How would I explain my presence to her relatives? Was I making this about myself? Kind of, but internally, so it was acceptable. (Right? I don’t even know.)

Here’s how I pictured the evening going:

I would feel under-dressed because I was not wearing a suit, chatting with my friend would be nice but he would gravitate toward others who knew Raegan, I’d do a lot of lingering and wondering if I should leave, I would be embarrassed upon meeting her family, people would tell memorable stories about her while I’d listen but contribute almost nothing then feel inferior because I had so little to add, and I would simply be uncomfortable the entire time.

And that’s exactly how it played out. (Did I will it to be that way or am I really good at predicting?) Am I making this about myself again? Sorry.

Despite feeling mostly negative things about this, I’m glad that I went. Memorials are awful to attend but, having been on the other side of the situation, I understand how much seeing friendly faces really does help.

Also, I left when I thought one of her cousins was cute. Although honest, I recognized how inappropriate that was and decided to remove myself from the situation. Not like I would have talked to her anyway, but that didn’t stop me from wondering about possibilities. I even thought that we’d have an interesting ‘How did you two meet?’ anecdote.

One of my few stories about Raegan involves bananas. She told me that turning one “upside-down” and pinching the end would get it to un-peel every time. And she was absolutely correct. I began doing it immediately and have ever since, thus reminding me of her almost every day. (I eat a lot of bananas.)

Now that you know about the trick, try it out. And thank Raegan when it works.

* * *

The time had come for me to end the relationship with Julie for good, but I didn’t want to. Not because I liked her so much. It was just… familiar. And comforting, in a way. I was set to attend a group therapy program in North Carolina, so I told Julie the place demanded I cut all ties while there. Did they? No, but I needed an excuse to accomplish something I knew had to be done anyway. So that concluded.

I didn’t miss her specifically, but what she represented. Someone to say ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’ to, along with everything in between. And she was great to talk to. She understood me.

Maybe I *did* miss her. But still…

Chapter 14: Suicide, Therapy, & Other Life-altering Experiences

My Introduction To Suicide

At a house my mom and I lived in, our neighbor Danny had Down Syndrome (named for British physician John Langdon Down, who first recognized the affliction in 1866). He was high-functioning and I remember him as happy, though I now know he definitely faced oppression. One day, that got to him enough to make him think jumping off the George Washington Bridge was the only remaining way to deal with it.

I was a kid who didn’t really understand what happened beyond the fact that I’d never see Danny again. Was somebody mean to him? Just how mean was that person to cause him to end his life?

I had no idea Depression was more than just sadness. Unfortunately, I’d learn that many more times.

My Intermediate Lesson In Suicide

During the Summer when I was 16, it was not uncommon for my mother to sleep (or at least be in her room) for several consecutive days. In fact, I wouldn’t exactly hate those times, because I got to make myself macaroni and cheese for dinner, which I’d later find out was part of the Benign Negligence mentioned earlier. But whatever- it was tasty.

I was a member of the town’s swim club, where friends and I would do a host of activities, including playing games we later learned were insanely dangerous. Returning from there one night, my mom’s bedroom door was shut. ‘All right! I know what’s for dinner!’ The next morning, her door was still that way. (Still? She must have gotten up at some point during the night, right?) Thinking nothing of it, I went back to the swim club as planned.

After a day filled with more antics, I came back to find my mom’s door closed once more. This caused alarm, so I quietly put my ear to it. Upon hearing a faint groaning, I slowly opened the door to find my mother sideways on her bed, covered in urine, unable to get up or even respond with more than a noise.

In order, I called 911, my father, and the man who would become my step-father. They all got to the house and tried to ease my confusion. (Not only did they fail, but added to it immensely.) I informed curious neighbors my mom had a bad reaction to a new medication. I wasn’t ashamed or anything- that’s what I had been told.

Later, at the hospital, a doctor asked my dad if this was the first time she attempted something like this. My dad tried to let the doctor know I had no idea what was going on, but it was too late- I heard the interaction and figured it out. (It was not the first time, by the way. She tried while in high school.) Armed with this discovery, I went into her room. I was angry and still confused but didn’t want to upset her, so I left those feelings bottled-up, which I now know was an absolutely terrible idea. While chatting (I wish there was a record of the actual words used), she mentioned not being able to do anything right, “including this”. Humor has always been my defense-mechanism-of-choice but I was not amused.

I don’t remember what happened after that but what I do recall for certain was her saying she’d never do anything like it again.

Another Lesson In Suicide

(No, not her. Yet.)

Shortly after getting my driving license, my friend Keri killed herself. We weren’t that close but called each other friends and regularly hung out with people in the same group. Our relationship was always pleasant and I think we admired each other in some way.

When the news came, I had to drive to my friend Jen’s house. She was our group’s strongest link and a close friend of Keri. I knew she and her sister would be absolute wrecks and that most of the crew would probably be there, since it was our main gathering spot. After my mom (foolishly) let me drive during a snow-storm, I picked up a friend and went. It was quiet and everyone was sad, or perhaps simply in disbelief. There was no agenda. People just showed up and sat around. Nobody knew what to do.

Something I’ve never shared: One of my first thoughts was to pretend Keri and I had made out at some point. I felt shame that I didn’t know her better and wanted to present that idea for… some reason. Attention, perhaps. Thankfully, I decided against the lie, though that awful thought still haunts me.

Keri was stable on medication, but the insurance company refused to continue her treatment. It only took a short while for this to happen. Mental issues are very real.

* * *

The first time I went to therapy was against my will, but not in a forceful manner. I drove my mom to her appointment and read in the lobby during the session. Then the door opened. ‘Rob, would you like to join us?’ Not particularly. ‘We both think it would be a good thing.’ Reluctantly, I went into the room. But there was no plan. I just sat there until the therapist asked if I’d like to talk about anything.

What I really wanted to do was go back into the lobby to continue reading, and I remember saying something along those lines. (Also, the book was by Edgar Allan Poe. The therapist LOVED that.) Then, my mom gave some examples of things we could discuss, such as her suicide attempt or when she put our dog “to sleep” without consulting me. Unwillingly dragged into dark places, I passed on the opportunity, though, looking back, I probably should have done the opposite.

And that was my introduction to the world of mental health.

* * *

The first therapist I got on my own was (and presumably still is) named Jillian and she was six months pregnant when we met. I had no problem with that but asked what would happen when she needed to take what would probably be a lengthy leave. She suggested I await her return. Though I was fairly inexperienced with therapy, I was smart enough to know that was a horrible idea. I sought someone new to speak with, after sending Jillian a message of gratitude for her time.

Talking to her did not help, but I learned that therapists are not supposed to be friends. We often chatted about weekend plans instead of my issues. Looking back, it was wrong but felt right at the time. It was also more her fault than mine, since I didn’t know any better. She should have immediately set a boundary, which has always been a difficult thing for me to do.

* * *

My second therapist was Tracy, who talked to me at the beginning of vagabonding. In total, we had regular sessions for over four years. (Is that too long?) She came on strong, suggesting something I thought was extreme, though perhaps she said it purposely, which I later found out was the case. I was unsure about the romantic partner I was living with, so Tracy advocated putting her belongings on the front lawn the next time she was out of the house.

See? It would have succeeded, however…

* * *

Tracy talked me through some challenging times, but I always thought I was doing therapy “wrong”, even though I know there’s no “right” way to go about it. When I hear others talk about their therapeutic experiences, they often say that a recent session was especially intense or they had some kind of break-through. Neither has ever occurred for me and I didn’t know if that was my fault, Tracy’s, or simply how things were. Did I just have to be patient? If so, for how much longer?

A main issue was that I remained in uncomfortable situations because I didn’t want to change things. I saw how others might feel as more important than how I actually felt. Another main issue (there were several) was thinking my problems weren’t “real” but other people’s were.

For example, a friend reached out to see how I was doing. “Good enough” was my usual reply. I then asked the same and she said something similar. But I knew neither was fully true. While I *was* good enough, I was miserable within it and didn’t really know why. She was struggling at work, her husband and she were having financial troubles, and one of their daughters was mysteriously sick. (She recovered.) To me, those were actual problems. I woke up every day feeling groggy and was uncomfortable in social situations.

I had no right to complain. Or did I? Regardless, I didn’t.

The same mentality applies to strangers. I once waited at the top of stairs for someone to climb them. He moved slowly and his breathing was erratic, but he was able to thank me for my patience and went to his apartment, which was on the third floor. He makes that ascent at least once daily and it’s probably painful each time. I may be in poor condition but at least it’s not THAT bad, right!? Well, yes and no, because people have their own problems.

Anyway, I always referred to Tracy as a good therapist, but was she the right fit for me? Probably not, since I largely felt the same at the end of our communication as when it began. I would prepare for each session (virtually; we never met in person) by writing down some things I wanted to discuss. Then it would begin and if she had a plan, which was usually the case, I pushed my topics away for another time. I probably should have told her I was doing that.

Our interactions ended abruptly. I e-mailed Tracy to confirm our next appointment and got an automated message saying that she’d be unavailable for at least three weeks. Since we had spoken for so long, I thought I was owed an explanation, which I requested but only got the same response. I felt betrayed and lost. I might have waited for her return had I known the cause of her absence. After a few days of pointlessly hoping for an answer, I had no choice but to seek another route.

My time with Tracy was over.

* * *

Since the previous therapists had been female, my new search led me to Sergio, a Portuguese man who was logical but not exactly helpful. Talking to my third online therapist made me yearn for something in-person.

Enter Kelly. (That was an introduction, not a command.) She presented several different ideas, namely that seeing a therapist in the real world involved spending a lot more money. However, Kelly suggested a book, which I looked through at a library but have since forgotten the name of. Part of it said that past trauma is often held in the nervous system, which made me think it was to blame for my current physical condition. Every test had come back negative, so a direct cause did not exist. This, however, made sense. Until I got diagnosed with HSP.

* * *

Other Forms Of Therapy

Attempting to feel better physically and mentally, I’ve gone to a breathing class, yoga, a wellness retreat, and gotten an extensive bodily examination. None of it has helped, even a little bit.

I’d also been looking for something that probably didn’t exist: a long session. The 50-minute weekly ones were not doing enough, I felt. While wandering near my new “home”, I came across a place that offered Intensives, multi-hour therapy meetings. Perfect! I spoke to the practitioner, who gave me more information. It seemed like an ideal match for what I wanted, and it was practically across the street. We scheduled an appointment and were on our way. This was it. I needed an afternoon to get things out and really come to some sort of conclusion.

And then she cancelled, stating that she was not taking new clients, which was quite odd since she had set the whole thing up. I asked if she knew anybody in the area who was offering Intensives. She gave me a name and phone number, both of which went nowhere.

Again, hope was high but came crashing down.

I have also tried EMDR therapy, which stands for Eye Movement Desensitization & Reprocessing. Basically, the point of it is to distract yourself in the hope that sub-conscious thoughts emerge. The patient is supposed to feel a physical sensation when thinking of a certain event and determine another time when it appeared. Then, with the therapist’s help, the cause of issues gets figured out. This works, of course, for people who’ve had physical sensations. In my case, that’s not so much a thing.

* * *

Harking back to the previous chapter, my journey landed me in North Carolina for group therapy. Before finding the place, I spoke to a company that hosted residential mental health treatment in Tennessee and Florida and thought it would be good for me, given my life-style. Food and lodging would be taken care of and I’d be getting psychological help.

After doing more research, however, I found that the program they offered was basically an elaborate suicide watch. Phones, internet, leaving the property, and visitors were not allowed. I didn’t need that kind of care. Perhaps I am addicted to over-thinking, but I have no dependency on substances, though part of me wishes I did. I would love something external to blame for feeling like this. Maybe I’d also have some interesting tales to tell. Although the stories may not be positive, most people who are getting over some kind of addiction have experienced extreme measures and/or broken promises.

I’ve already discussed many of my narratives. No wild adventures or anything like that. Just sadness or, at best, middle-of-the-road events. Whenever I see a junkie, I can’t help but feel inferior.

But why North Carolina?

I’m getting to that. Practice some patience.

The organization had many “branches”, including one in an area that I vaguely knew from visiting a friend once. Their specific program featured music therapy, which was enough to convince me, since I find the cello soothing. Tracy insisted a facility in Manhattan would have been more helpful. I agreed but am fairly focused on staying away from that area because it’s just so crowded. Going to the place itself may have been good but commuting would have been a nightmare for me. I didn’t want to get stressed out before going to something relaxing. And at the same time, I cared not to dread leaving.

The North Carolina town I stayed in was congested but much more manageable than the alternative. Having only ever done individual therapy, I didn’t know what to expect in a group setting.

I enrolled for four weeks, giving me two each in PHP (Partial Hospitalization) and IOP (Intensive Outpatient). That was the plan anyway, though it could have changed during my stay, based on whatever it warranted. (The P stands for ‘Program’.)

The building was not a hospital, so the first two weeks were mis-identified. Also, the two versions were the same, only differing in that IOP lasted three hours instead of six, presumably so they wouldn’t have to order lunch for those patients.

Although everybody was warm and welcoming, I felt uncomfortable when entering for the first time, as I’d learn was perfectly common. A quiet person normally, I stayed true to that in the group. I wasn’t about to tell a bunch of secrets to a room full of strangers. But then they began sharing and it was kind of amazing. Though I couldn’t relate to some aspects, I discovered that everybody there was going through *something*, which made opening up much easier. I was also comforted by the idea that I would likely never see any of them again after my month.

But the group dynamic was weird. Was there an obligation to speak? Was I talking too much and hogging the session? At one point, a woman whose daughter died recently joined our group. I thought she belonged in grief counseling, not somewhere that taught the inner workings of emotional ideas. She needed to be surrounded by people in similar situations to learn how not to dwell in sadness. Also, how was the person who spoke after her supposed to feel?

‘I lost my daughter.’
‘I… slept weird last night.’

Everyone there was in a different situation, yet we were all getting the same treatment. I thought that someone who’s feeling lost along life’s journey should not receive the same lessons as an autistic trans-gendered person who rocks while punching himself in the head or someone with narcolepsy and multiple personalities who wakes up and asks, “Where am I and who are you people?”

The first thing I disliked about the place was how nothing ever started on time. A fifty-minute session was supposed to begin each hour, providing a short break until the next one. We were lucky if a “class” started twenty minutes late, making one session bleed into the next. The lack of organization was distracting enough to keep me from fully involving myself with what the therapists said. Another aspect I didn’t appreciate was how agreeable everyone on the staff was. If a bunch of people each handled a situation differently, all the ways were deemed correct. I understand acceptance is a main part of how therapy works but being told ‘No, that’s wrong’ just once could have made a big impact.

I always felt uncomfortable within the group dynamic. I wanted to get better but never wished to make myself the focus of a session, because it was unfair to everyone else. And what if I had a response but shared first on the previous question? Was I supposed to take a break? Things like this were mildly discussed but the consensus was that people spoke if they wanted to and not if they didn’t, though they were encouraged to do so.

We were also not taught how to deal with ending the friendships we’d inevitably form there. People “graduated”, which really meant they no longer attended. Seeing them went from all to nothing. I grew to care about my fellow patients and had trouble letting some of them go, though the experience helped me differentiate between simply being in a situation and forming true friendships. I formed one real bond there but never stayed in touch with anyone else beyond a week. Still, I wonder how they’re doing.

Also, we were not supposed to communicate outside of the building, though nobody was ever told as much until randomly finding out. I asked for time to promote an event I’d be going to. Apparently, that sort of thing wasn’t allowed, which appeared counter-productive to me. Comfortably attending social things seemed like a great idea.

Though the program was not right for me, it provided solid, practical advice (such as how to handle confrontation) and I definitely needed those things, but I was looking for something else.

What, exactly?

Honestly, I’m not sure.

At the very least, I wanted a sense of structure. Having to be there by 9:00 every morning filled that void. Every weekday, that is. (If only mental issues took weekends off.) Another thing that bothered me was speaking every Friday about not having plans for the upcoming weekend. Our concerns were noted but no suggestions were given.

Despite its flaws and general lack of organization, however, I think it was worth going to. Now, I just have to use some of the skills they taught. Going to the program was the easy part.

Also, talk to a therapist if you’ve never done so. And if you think you don’t need to, *definitely* seek one out.

Chapter 15: Cary, North Carolina (March 2^nd – April 3^rd)

While my main reason for being in Cary was the group therapy thing, I did do some other stuff, including walking to a brewery, attending a play’s table read, and seeing a few movies.

The first thing I did was see a string tribute to Nirvana by candlelight. They played some expected songs and a few surprises. I talked to a guy seated next to me who had recently moved to the area. And that was all he had to say. He didn’t seem uncomfortable, but perhaps he was. Or he hated me for some reason. Or he was just boring, as I assume most people are. (It’s a defense mechanism to keep me from engaging in conversation.)

Well, actually, it’s a superiority/inferiority thing. I find myself so interesting that I assume (probably incorrectly) people wouldn’t be familiar with what I was talking about. And they wouldn’t care. I never want to sound like a know-it-all, so I tend to not say things, even when I’ve studied the subject being discussed.

“Oh, you like my black hole tattoo? I got the idea from a movie.”

And, usually, that’s it. However, if you know about the subject-at-hand, I shut down as if my knowledge is limited and does not count. But I’ve been reading about space things for years, which led me to absolutely adore the movie Interstellar and sparked my interest in getting it permanently drawn on my body.

I don’t say those things, though, unless I can tell the other person is genuinely interested.

* * *

It may seem to contradict introversion- and it certainly does- but I’ve done stand-up comedy at open-mic nights. (There were a lot of hyphens in that sentence, huh?) The people at the group therapy place were amazed by this news.

At the one near Cary, I sat down next to a guy and girl who were on a date. He was performing and she went to watch. He also declared that I was probably hilarious since I was quiet. He didn’t stay for my set, but I did see him on the way out, sitting alone at the bar. I guess she didn’t find him amusing, probably because he wasn’t. I left instead of sitting next to him (again) and saying something like, ‘Bummer, man. I’ve been there.’ I owed him nothing.

* * *

Another night brought me to trivia, which was sponsored by a water-supply company. I thought the entire event would be about water conservation. Nope. It was one round. Sort of. All the questions were *related* to water, but only a few regarded the night’s purpose. ‘Which river is the longest in the world?’

At least I got a nice pen out of it.

* * *

I brought a cane to a “mall goth night”. In between lifting dumbbells, the bouncer asked why I had it. I explained how I often feel uneasy walking and it gave me balance, which was partly true. Though I sometimes have mobility issues, carrying a cane helps me feel more secure. And should I ever need it, the device will serve its purpose. He let me in without further incident, leading me to realize that anybody could have easily brought a weapon in. I did not stay long.

Though I rarely bring the cane, I’ve also used a knee brace for a similar reason. When I stand up, I feel it looks like I’d been drinking a lot of alcohol. Not according to friends I’ve asked, but I think so. I don’t care if strangers criticize me, but I want the reasoning behind it to be correct. Maybe someone sees me and assumes I’m drunk. But with a contraption strapped to my knee, that same person would know I have some kind of physical ailment. And that’s the thought behind it. But it doesn’t work, physically or mentally.

Sergio, my third therapist, successfully talked me out of wearing the brace. He said something like, ‘Why bother if it doesn’t really help in any way?’, and that was the end.

I still have it though, just in case.

* * *

After my last day with group therapy, I ate lunch alone, which was nothing new. Then I went to a tattoo shop for something featuring a semi-colon. The symbol represents dealing with mental health, whether that person’s own or someone else’s. It also represents suicide prevention and the notion that one’s story is never over, but just takes a pause sometimes. It seemed appropriate. I got the punctuation mark inside the outline of a brain. The artist never asked what it meant, which I thought was rude.

* * *

Originally, I was set on spending two months in Cary- one for the program and the second for… something. I had no idea what, but it seemed silly to complete group therapy then leave right away. However, I decided to cut my unfulfilling time there in half, thinking it would be better spent elsewhere.

Chapter 16: April 3^rd – June 1^st
Harrisonburg, VA * Belington, WV
Morgantown, WV * Charleston, WV
Hagerstown, MD * Bethlehem, PA
Ashland, VA * Raleigh, NC
Columbia, SC
Daytona Beach, FL
Orange Park, FL * Marrow, GA
Nashville, TN * Indianapolis, IN
Porter, IN * Muncie, IN
Frankfort, KY * Huntington, WV
Mars, PA

Wilmer McLean and his family lived on the grounds of the U.S. Civil War’s first major land battle, near Manassas, Virginia. Their house was used by the Confederacy and suffered at least one attack. Afterward, McLean wanted to avoid further conflict, so they moved to Appomattox. Though the relocation *did* evade encountering further fighting, the family’s house was where Lee surrendered to Grant, officially ending the war.

He unintentionally created a nice book-end situation.

* * *

The second time I worked with the WWOOF program, it was at an off-grid farm in rural West Virginia. The house was small (but certainly not a “tiny house”) and I was the only one there aside from the couple who owned it. If you’re thinking ‘off-grid’ means a shack with an out-house, you’d be mistaken. Except for a few quirks, one wouldn’t even be able to discern the situation: running water, electricity, even wi-fi.

My room was up a spiral flight of metal stairs and had some kind of wasp problem. I hate killing insects, but sometimes it must happen. I didn’t want to get stung while asleep. Or while awake either, I suppose.

The couple was very nice and accommodating, providing me with breakfast every morning. The wife (who is a minister) said Grace before each meal, a concept that is largely foreign to me. And it was nice because she meant it. Religion was never a part of my life, but I appreciated her commitment to it. I’d always been jealous of people who truly believe in anything.

After a week of helping around the farm and observing the fascinating culture of its chickens, I cut my stay short. The couples’ four adolescent grand-children were coming to visit and I thought such tight quarters would be too much for me to handle. Plus, the house only had one bathroom.

I was gone for about six weeks before returning.

Learning more about the off-grid lifestyle (and bee-keeping) was great, but I spent most of the time wondering why I came back, which was certainly not a reflection on the hosts nor the property. As welcoming as they were, I always felt intrusive. I deal with that whenever I’m at somebody’s house, whether staying for a length of time or not. But I’m glad I went in the first place then returned and look forward to trying WWOOF again.

(Third time’s a charm?)

* * *

While getting dinner at a bar in Morgantown, “that guy” found me once again. This time, his name was Rusty. He was very drunk and knew nothing about me, so I easily could have lied to him about being an astronaut, a food critic, or a recycling plant worker. But I chose to speak the truth, which was far less interesting, but still made him envious of my “adventures”. Rusty was able to enjoy my story many times, since he asked the same questions repeatedly. It was like dealing with an Alzheimer’s patient, but less understandable and far more obnoxious.

Part of me was envious. A bigger part of me was getting nothing out of the interaction, but I ordered dinner, therefore I had “no choice” but to listen to his ramblings. He always wanted to visit Europe but thought he never would. And that’s probably a good thing for Europe. Then his ex-girlfriend showed up at the bar, which made Rusty uneasy. He told me all about their relationship, then told me again, then once more, and then he ordered a drink for her. I wanted no involvement with whatever was about to happen and luckily my meal was finished by then.

Before I left, Rusty insisted on giving me his phone number and wanted me to call him the next time I was in town. There might not be a next time and it’s very unlikely that I would reach out to Rusty first, but I kept his information anyway. Meeting up with him probably won’t happen (and there’s even less of a chance that he’d remember me), but it would make for an interesting story.

* * *

Though I planned on being there for longer, I lived in West Virginia’s capital Charleston for just over two weeks. When I visited the city previously, I really liked the area near the Capitol building. (Also, I toured it. Told you it was a thing.) I planned to stay somewhere near it so I could walk along the river every morning before breakfast, get involved with various events (such as open-mic comedy), and go to some quirky local spots.

What I actually did was book a place two miles away, rarely explore because it bordered the “bad” side of town, and mostly stayed in the house. However, I performed at an open-mic comedy night, though it was at a different place than I’d found and the audience was four locals who were very excited that someone else was there.

The first thing I did in Charleston was visit a chiropractor, which I’d never done. He could tell I had a nervous system condition but said his practice was not equipped to help me and recommended I go to a clinic in Cleveland because it was the best. (It was not, but that’s another story. Actually, it’s the next chapter.)

I *did* volunteer to work a litter clean-up, which is a positive thing I’ve done many times before. I went alone but asked if anybody needed a partner or if there was a group I could join. ‘Work down by the river’, they said. I figured many solo people were told the same. Nope. I was the only one in that area. Another failed attempt at being social.

Through a dating app, I met Carrie. Our first date involved going to a Science center to make clay penguins and learn about Antarctica, then we ended up chatting on the steps of the Capitol building. (I returned there after all!) I was simply looking for someone to enjoy my time with, so I didn’t expect to meet anyone like her. We had A LOT in common, down to having the same car and phone. Shortly into our first meeting, she said something that made me confidently say, ‘I think you’re an only child whose parents divorced when you were young’. She was amazed by the accuracy.

Meeting Carrie was so life-changing that the thought of moving to Charleston occurred to me. (I didn’t make a plan to do so, but simply considered the idea.) And I think she sensed that, which led her to end our brief relationship. She liked my cold demeanor and didn’t want a silly thing like emotions to interfere. The last time we hung out, we made and ate pancakes at her apartment. And then it was just… weird. So, I left in the rain. (Appropriate.) I messaged her a few times after that night but there was no response.

I did, however, go to a Meetup chat at a café that was hosted by her ex-boyfriend. She was not a topic we discussed.

Through the dating app, I also met Brittani. She was very nice and we got along well, though the “it” factor of attraction was missing for me. She never expressed any either, if it was present. We both warned each other that we’d be un-showered when we met at a Mexican restaurant, me from the gym and her from having a busy day. (I wonder what that’s like.)

The only other time we hung out was at her house. I helped move some furniture, then we made conversation a bit before ordering dinner. Being around another person was good for me, but I couldn’t help wondering why it was happening. Was it simply better than doing nothing? (For both of us.) But my goal was to meet people, not necessarily date, so what was the problem?

What, indeed.

* * *

In Huntington, I couldn’t find anywhere to park but saw many people walking around in fancy garb. Lots and garages were full, so they definitely drove in. I got very frustrated and almost left, but convinced myself to at least go to a restaurant I’d found. There, I asked what was going on and was told it was prom season, which meant families were seeking the “perfect” places for pictures.

I went to my prom, but this idea did not resonate with me at all. Apparently, it was an annual, all-day affair, which flustered me enough to leave and forego the movie I planned on seeing there.

Actually, I was asked to three proms without ever requesting anyone’s company. I no longer talk to any of the people involved. Wait, that sounds ominous. It had nothing to do with the dances. One was an ex-girlfriend and another was a casual friend, who ended up helping me years later with my mom’s situation.

The other one and I were friends for a long time. Years after high school, we talked about doing something on Valentine’s Day, a date we both saw as pointless but were tired of having no plans for. We were going to get dinner somewhere then see a band. It was going to be a good day for once!

And then she cancelled, saying she was going skiing with her mom that weekend. I asked how it went but she failed to remember her own lie.

* * *

Before meeting a friend for a concert in Florida, I stopped to have dinner with Avery. (If you just said, ‘Why!?’, know that I fully agree.) I hadn’t seen her since our two-day mistake and was only doing so this time because I felt obligated to since I’d be driving past her town. I met her at work, where we caught up before going to an automotive place (for the truck she was STILL driving) and then a bar for dinner. I guess the rehab worked, because she displayed a much better mental state, so seeing her again was pleasant, though it was probably pointless.

The first part of the four-day concert was so hot that my friend got sick because of it. But she prevailed and the rest was tolerable, if generally uncomfortable. Our hotel had a shuttle for the event and its driver ignored just about every law of the road imaginable. He sped and drove over the median in the name of getting his passengers to their destination quickly. The drivers from all the hotels were like that, and it’s amazing no crashes happened. Or, at least, were reported.

On the way back north, I met up with my friend who had gotten married the previous year and Avery eventually showed up. Again, it was… fine.

* * *

I went to a random restaurant in South Carolina for lunch and the owner was originally from Buffalo, New York. (Must be nice to consider something a hometown.) I sent a picture of myself with a bunch of Bills memorabilia to my friend Dana, who I knew was a fan. This led to us talking and my invite to Nashville, where she and her daughter had moved. I dismissed the offer initially because I automatically refuse everything at first, but then figured out that it was actually on my way to Cleveland. I had no plan past my current location, so having a destination sounded nice.

I hadn’t seen her since high school, about 24 years prior. She was very excited to hang out and I was… there. Am I even capable of feeling such a thing? I truly don’t know, and being around Dana again made me question myself.

We chatted a lot and ate sandwiches.

* * *

Every year since 2010, my long-time friend Mike and I have gone to a different city and NFL game. I no longer care about the sport, but traveling is always good. A few years ago, our buddy Chris joined and is now a life-long member of our crew. He and Mike went to high school together and became close friends.

I visited Chris the day before going to Ohio. At the end of our time together, he invited me into his house for a beer. And I declined. Why? Did I not want to? Was something preventing me from partaking? No and no. I just… didn’t. And I still feel silly about it.

Chapter 17: Cleveland & New York (June 1^st – July 4^th)
Cleveland, OH * Jamestown, NY
Sayre, PA * Chester, NY
Middletown, NY

Cleveland is not an exciting city. Then again, I am not an exciting person, but that wasn’t the point of going there. Supposedly, their famed clinic held the key to figuring out what was happening with my nervous system.

I used to jog a lot. It was meditation for me, because clearing my mind while sitting still seemed to be an impossible task. I noticed it was taking a bit longer to start and stop. Thinking little of it, I assumed it was due to my general lack of moving around. I did squats randomly and set my computer up so I could stand while using it, thinking those things would get rid of whatever was wrong. They didn’t.

I had seen doctors, specialists, and went to physical therapy twice, but got no answers. My case wasn’t “extreme” enough. There was no pain and I could do everyday things, like stand up and walk around, even if they took a bit longer and felt weird the entire time. Nothing helped, but I was told that the place in Cleveland had the best neurology department in the US.

I met with Doctor Bob, who immediately ruled out Parkinson’s, which my father had gotten at a young age. Despite that, it was (and still is) on my mind. I went in hoping to get a daily routine and some kind of direction to go in. I got neither, but Doctor Bob suggested that I get a new set of MRIs at a place he’d recommend once I settled somewhere. (Finally, I had a reason.)

When that happened months later, I contacted him to find out he didn’t know the area and the MRI location did not matter. I could have gotten the tests much earlier.

After a series of frustrating events, his suggestion of MRIs eventually led to a diagnosis of hereditary spastic paraplegia, so I guess seeing Doctor Bob went somewhere after all. Still, the whole thing seemed kind of pointless.

HSP is a nervous system disorder that makes me lose balance, though I’ve never gotten dizzy. It causes muscle weakness in my legs, without pain. It has also brought about a verbal stutter, which I seem to notice a lot more than people who talk to me. And, of course, there’s the bladder thing, but you already know about that.

Even though Parkinson’s was ruled out, my symptoms are very similar to my dad’s when he began showing signs of his illness. Perhaps it has been medically dismissed, but it remains a possibility to me.

My main issue with HSP is how unpredictable it is. I move slowly, but could be doing so perfectly well when I suddenly trip, seemingly for no reason. What happens is not defined enough. If my leg fell off every time I used stairs, that would be terrible, but at least it would be something to focus on.

But no, I’ve simply seen a series of medical professionals who claim I should not be able to do certain things after seeing me accomplish them. I also wonder how much of the problem is mental, since I’m very careful about every move I make.

* * *

When I left Cleveland, I stopped to learn about James Garfield, one of four U.S. Presidents who’d been assassinated. He was more important than people realize, advocating for agriculture, education, and equal rights. Plus, he was ambidextrous along with being fluent in Latin and Greek. Supposedly, he could write in both languages at the same time.

Then, I went to Jamestown, New York, to visit the National Comedy Center. Why is it there? The location was chosen to honor Lucille Ball, whose hometown it was. Going to that museum was probably the high point of vagabonding.

* * *

I lived in Middletown for three weeks. The day after getting there, I began a (prescribed) regimen of muscle relaxant medication. It ended up doing nothing, but *did* cause me to take a nap the first day, which I rarely do.

Before getting to Middletown, I contacted my friend Melissa, who resided in the city. Upon arrival, I invited her to an open-mic comedy show I wanted to perform at. She said she and her daughter would attend to support me. The day of the performance, I texted Melissa to see if they were still planning on going. No response. Later, I told her the time I would be at the venue. No response. Later still, I said I hoped they had not been kid-napped. No response. The event went on and they never showed up, which made no sense yet somehow completely did so.

Let me explain my friendship with Melissa:

She was dating someone I knew but contacted me anyway, innocently at first, but then wholly not. (I think ‘guilty’ is the opposite of ‘innocent’.) I’d never met Melissa in person, but knew enough about her to stay away. That said, we continued communicating and eventually hung out. She was unhealthy for me, therefore I was attracted to her. We made out (after she stopped seeing my acquaintance) but things never went beyond that.

Until…

Several years later, I went to see a band in Manhattan. Melissa was also there, recognized me, and said something about it. This is more than I would have done, because I likely would not have even noticed her. (I tend to have blinders on.) We hung out at that concert then went to another one several weeks later, after which we shared a hotel room. Dot dot dot.

Melissa is the most scatter-brained person I’ve ever met. (Yes, even more than pre-rehab Avery.) And I’m certainly not saying that like it’s a negative. The day after the comedy show she didn’t go to, she posted something on social media. I didn’t think she and her daughter had actually been kid-napped, but now I knew for sure. Yet still there was nothing.

She invited me to use her apartment complex’s pool and gym, neither of which I ever had the opportunity to do. A few months later, I texted her with some nonsense. She replied as if nothing had happened.

* * *

I feel like a bad friend.

Someone I’d known for most of my life invited me to a surprise party for his mother. I didn’t even know it was her birthday. I showed up (with no gift) and saw many familiar faces I never went beyond small talk with. I felt no connection with them. Any topic I chose *might* have fallen on uninterested ears, so I didn’t bother trying.

But back to my friend, I was the best man at his wedding. I remember when he asked, and how I felt very little but acted quite excited. Not that I wasn’t honored and knew it was a huge decision for him to make, but I simply felt numb to the whole situation. Often, I don’t know if my reaction to something is genuine or leans more toward what I think somebody wants. And it doesn’t feel good, especially when I care for the person involved.

* * *

Around this time, I came to terms with something I’d realized long before- that I needed a home base. Vagabonding had not worked for me. I needed to remain in one place without knowing the stay’s end date; to build some kind of routine around an area; to empty my storage unit.

I found a residence in Middletown and scheduled an appointment to see it. I had no intention of living there but knew the experience would be good for me. And the agent cancelled. So, I learned that can happen.

Undeterred, I looked in an area near where some friends were moving and found something. I accompanied them to the town and we looked at the house from the outside. It seemed perfect for me. I contacted the sellers and set up a walk-through with them. I had some questions written down in a notebook. (Admittedly, they were matters I was “supposed to” ask about instead of things that were actually important to me, but it was thorough anyway.) I was prepared to make this change.

The interior was being fixed but would be ready by the time I wanted to move in, which was immediately, but I gave a later date to not seem too eager. My friends would be two blocks away, the house had a covered garage, there were parks and cafés and a brewery nearby. Everything was perfect.

And then they went with someone else. Oh well. No, not ‘oh well’. Not this time. It stung. Had I known what I was doing, maybe it would have turned out differently. Tracy (the therapist) had been right about me needing a guide. And I still craved a home base.

Chapter 18: July 4^th – September 1^st
Toms River, NJ * Nanuet, NY
Hyde Park, NY * Princeton, NJ
North Haledon, NJ * Goshen, NY
Monroe, NY * Bethlehem, PA
Pompton Lakes, NJ
Saddle Brook, NJ * Hellertown, PA

I went on a date in Beacon, NY. She was too skinny and “it” was not there. (I knew this prior to going.) Our conversation before getting together was nice but not incredible. So why did it happen? Because she was as bored as me, I guess.

We had coffee and walked around for a bit. Then I ate at a diner by myself. I forget why she didn’t join me, but it was understood that our time together had come to an end. Unsurprisingly, I felt indifferent toward the whole thing.

At least I went out.

* * *

Similar to my early vagabonding days, I never met my host in Goshen. I stayed next to their pool in what was probably a guest house. (Also, there was no shade on the window above my bed.) I only swam in that pool once, though the weather was warm and I thought about exercising in it every morning.

One time, a woman (not the one I’d been communicating with) and child went for a dip. I was very curious who they were but never found out. Purposely. I was going to leave shortly before their arrival but waited until they were gone to do so. It made more sense, even though I knew it was completely idiotic.

Goshen is home to the Harness Racing Museum. I had no interest in the topic, but that’s never stopped me from visiting a museum. However, I only walked to the front of the building, not into it. I just didn’t care enough.

* * *

I dog-sat at the house of friends while they went on a week-long family vacation. (Seems nice to do things with people related to you.) This was my second time doing so. They were looking for a reliable person with lots of free time and I needed something to do and a place to stay.

Their two dogs were a fiery young Labrador with abandonment issues and an old Corgi with a large tumor that could not be safely removed. Surprisingly, the Labrador was fine to deal with. The Corgi was as well, but she did some things that made me irrationally angry. One was barking at a tree every time (and I mean every time) she went out. This annoyed me enough throughout the day, but especially early in the morning. I felt bad for the neighbors, even though nobody ever complained to the owners about it. (I checked.) Each time I left the house, the Labrador had to go into her crate, which was a large steel cage. She had broken out of previous ones, so that was the next step.

Will I be asked back for a third time? Maybe. And would I go? Probably. I tend to put myself into situations that I know are unhealthy for me because helping others is always more important.

Welcome to co-dependency.

* * *

There had to be a change and I was determined to find the ‘home base’ I’d been seeking. And so I did.

A house in Hellertown was being rented out by the landlady, who lived next to it. I met with her parents, the real estate agents that spoke very highly of the property and my politeness. Most things in the house were new and there were two garages. (Why are garages so important to me!?) It was in a neighborhood that was close enough to places I wanted to visit without being immersed in an area riddled with traffic. I finally found somewhere to stay for at least a year.

Until…

I met a friend that night at a music festival. (Dare I say that I was actually excited to tell her the news? Yes, I dare.) She also lived in Hellertown but wanted to move in with her parents (nearby) and wished that her house didn’t go unoccupied. She offered me cheaper rent and said some furniture would be there, as opposed to buying all new stuff at the other place. Plus, I’d be helping people.

But I already committed to the first house and had a meeting with the parents/agents the following morning to make it official. I called them to explain the situation. Truthfully, I had no idea how to handle it. (My honesty was admired.) The wife understood my friend’s plight and actually encouraged me to go with her place. (She was being nice when I needed her to say, ‘Too bad- you already agreed to this one’.) So that’s what I chose.

* * *

The night before emptying my storage unit, I had dinner with a friend then saw a handful of acquaintances at a bar. I looked down on them for seemingly being in the same place as when I’d last seen them. Yet I had no right to judge them. (You’ve read the rest of this book.) There was my superiority/inferiority thing emerging again. I felt better than them but also jealous of their strong connections with other people.

I played nice but was screaming internally.

* * *

Clearing out my storage unit reminded me of the very beginning of vagabonding, not because of its contents, but the word “finally” kept repeating in my head. I thought it would be a great relief but it just felt like another thing that was happening too late. Regardless, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Actually, there was nothing I *wanted* to do to stop it.

Chapter 19: “Home”

At least I ended up somewhere, right?

Before moving in, my friend said, “Make yourself at home”. I have no idea how to do such a thing.

The house is nice, but it will never be my home. I’m just living there, though it’s for a longer time than any since I left New Jersey. I rarely refer to it as “home”, which is something I’d gotten used to. Now, doing so simply reminds me of that duffel bag.

For a while, I wanted to be a “regular” somewhere. A place in which people knew my name and what I wanted to order before I even said anything. Then I got it. And I hated it. The feeling was discomfort, so I stopped going. And nothing changed.

Ugh. Being like this is exhausting.

Chapter 20: Privilege

A curious complaint- I’ve never had to struggle. It’s not that things were handed to me or came easy, but I’ve heard people say they had to decide between eating and paying rent. I can’t relate.

A degree of privilege has come with my situation and I’d like to acknowledge it, though I certainly have failed to appreciate it. During my time vagabonding, I never had car trouble. There was always a bed to sleep in, clean clothes to wear, and money for gas and food. My GPS worked every time. Not once did I get sick, though I encountered many more public places than I’d ever been used to. I also did not have to debate paying entrance fees at museums or renewing my National Parks pass.

I’m not wealthy by any means, but I had enough money saved and inherited to allow such a life-style. Perhaps my parents left me too much. I was able to live the way I did, but no amount of money could buy me out of unhappiness.

I’m aware that this is kind of amazing. People I’ve spoken with about my journey have been jealous of its freedom, and rightfully so. But I was miserable the entire time. I was unhappy doing something folks can only dream about. Is that fair?

* * *

So, what did I learn from these 20 months?

That I was completely unprepared; only ready for it to happen.

That I’m not happy alone or around others.

That I should be careful of what I wish for.

That Tracy was right when she said, ‘Wherever you go, you take yourself with you’.

That I can be gloomy even in positive situations, which I already pretty much knew anyway.

That new scenery doesn’t make anything better.

That feeling nice is temporary.

That I should trust my gut, especially when I know it’s correct.

AFTERWORD(S)

I sent some chapters of this book to a friend (the hot dog guy) who had previously sent me writings that he was working on. (It only seemed fair.) His first suggestion was that my idea was too broad and should be narrowed down, which I did. It was initially a full-life memoir, but I decided to focus on my time vagabonding while incorporating other elements I wanted to address.

He also said it left him feeling vacant, like things were missing from the story.

But that was the point. I never felt fulfilled and wanted anyone who read this to have the same experience. If you wanted to know my car’s color or why I visited each place, I ignored those things because I saw them as unimportant to the story I wanted to tell.

I also excluded some events and places because they just weren’t interesting. Also, this book would have been much longer.

One aspect I omitted was an on-and-off relationship with somebody throughout my journey. (And, actually, for around two decades.) She spent her birthday with me, met me in Cleveland, and accompanied me to the concert in Florida. She’s housed me. I’ve watched her pets and met her family. We’ve gone to comedy shows and trivia nights and who knows what else. So, I’d just like to acknowledge my appreciation for all of it.

‘Why didn’t we ever become more than friends?’, you might be asking. Probably because we’re both shy and foolish.

I’m assuming that she’ll read this. If not, the last little bit was a total waste.

Also, if anything I’ve written bothers you, let me know. Doing so was not my intention but I’d gladly discuss whatever issue(s) you’ve got.

Anyway, sorry if you thought things were missing. But now you know what I dealt with. I hope you learned more from my experience than I did…