The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives

by M. Blake

It's that time of the year again with the green back in the trees, and people out in the yards and in the street, the kids almost out of school, the bugs already out, birds everywhere, the smell of fresh-cut grass, people in boats on the ponds, and he knows the beach season is just getting into full swing. A time for the outdoors without question, and again that urge to go places, to be on the move, to let go of what he has now, to let go of everything. Yes, that plunge into the summertime whim, and always a feeling of youth with it, the giddy rush of going somewhere on long, bright, warm days, getting his kicks, appreciating his leisure. Yes, a man at forty who knows how to appreciate it, and isn't in as much of a hurry as the younger version, yet still in fine shape, still with spring in his step. Sometimes he can still retrieve that feeling of delight at being alive. Delight, not contentedness. It goes hand-in-hand with that occasional giddiness, reminding him of what he once took for granted.

Yes, this time has been coming; he's been seeing it in his mind for two months now. The inevitable. And there are days when he wishes it wasn't here yet, feeling he isn't ready and hasn't accomplished what he wanted to. But that feeling is a given, no matter where he is or what is ahead. There has always been a part of him that likes to wrap things up neatly before moving on to something else, the perfectionist in him.

That is why sooner or later it's a plunge; it has to be. There is no slowly working his way into it. There never has been. He doesn't have the make-up for that. When it's time, he'll know, and he'll do it, immediately.

Copyright © M. Blake 2005

Departure

by M. Blake

Ford knew he'd hurt her by not saying goodbye, but then he could just envision the painful and tearful scene if he had stopped by on his way out of town. She might even have asked him not to go, try to touch him with guilt by saying he was deserting her (words she had used in the past). She might not have understood that he was doing this not only for himself, but for her too. They simply couldn't live together; as bad drunks, they were killing each other. Or at least it felt that way on most mornings. And Debbie was the one to do most of the complaining, which he had gotten tired of. She spent most of her days in bed, sleeping, or moaning and groaning about her ills. If it wasn't her head, it was a leg or her feet, or arthritis in general. It was something every day, so that Ford had learned to tune it out, and began to appreciate the hours she spent asleep under the influence of pills.

Debbie slept most of the day while he was out working, and then stayed up most of the night with the TV blaring (her hearing was bad, too) while he tried to sleep. It just wasn't working out for him, but it was her place. He had to be the one to go. They had already had one nasty little fight and Ford didn't want things to come to that again. They wouldn't. He was going home, or to his parents' house, to rest up (which meant sobering up) and hopefully get some more writing done in the quieter atmosphere. That was the one most important thing he missed in his life these days, his creative work. Days went by without him scribbling so much as a line, and his frustration nagged at him. It bothered him every day coming home from work, and yet by then he was usually too tired or drunk to get fired up about words.

The day work he did (under the table for cash) didn't require mandatory daily attendance and Ford had originally hoped to work only part-time in order to do his own work. Yet, without fail, he and Deb managed to spend every dollar he made; and her monthly check never lasted more than a week or so, what with her rent and her penchant for smoking weed.

Not that they didn't have their good times; they'd had quite a few of them. Nights they'd spent laughing together, with the classic rock radio on and teasing her little fat dog, Balls; swapping stories as some TV program played in the background; blowing joints and passing the whisky bottle back and forth, sucking down cups of malt liquor. They genuinely enjoyed each other's company at these times. These nights were the backbone of their friendship; they had been since they had first met seven years before. There had been gaps in those seven years, but the two of them had stayed in touch, and this was Ford's third visit to Houston. It could very well be his last.

He would stay in touch with Debbie of course, by letter and phone, and he might even visit her again, but he wouldn't live with her. He couldn't live with her and stay healthy, and she knew that too. One night, recently, she had even suggested that he go back home to his family. She knew she would never get sober herself as long as he stayed there. There would always be some drinking money coming in.

Ford, with a drink glow on, decided he would just get on the bus (with the last of his bottles), and then contact her by letter when he got to his parents' house. He wouldn't need to do much explaining; Deb probably would have suspected it anyway after his absence for a few days. Hopefully, she would stay in touch, and he had the feeling she would. She didn't have any friends in Houston after all, and her son lived a couple hundred miles away. After her anger was gone, she would call and he would be glad to hear her voice.

Copyright © M. Blake 2005