New Eden (part one of four)

    By K. Stuart-Anderson, Jr.

It’s been almost six months since they released me from the hospital. The good doctors in their finely pressed white jackets all lined up at the front door, each shaking my hand, saying I’d made a full recovery and that in time I’d forget. I suppose the drugs that they gave me were the reasons for their confidence. But the things that happened to me that night cannot be magically erased by some little blue pills. And even if I wanted to forget, I can’t. My nights are consumed with her.  I’ve tried to talk to my family and a few friends about what happened to me in the desert, but from their understanding smiles I can tell that they really don’t believe me.  I’m sure a few of them think I am mad.  Maybe I am.

     I’d just finished a job on an oil rig outside of Tulsa and was heading home on my bike.  There’s something liberating about riding a motorcycle. It’s just you and the bike and the open road. No room for ex-wives, bill collectors or any other life’s headaches. I remember the day I told my ex-wife I was thinking of getting a motorcycle. She barely glanced up from her crossword puzzle and replied that she would divorce me in a heart beat if I ever brought one of those “suicide machines” home.  Next evening I came home riding a motorcycle and she kept her word. That was five years ago. Last time I heard about her was through a cousin who said she’d remarried and was a cashier at the local Piggly Wiggly.  I really don’t blame her for leaving me. I wasn’t the greatest husband. We really didn’t have anything in common. Her idea of excitement was watching T.V or sitting on the front porch drinking diet coke and doing crossword puzzles while complaining that her manicurist did a terrible job on her nails. She was not a happy woman. Perhaps that was my fault. For the longest time I blamed her manicurist.

    You see I think some people forget how to be happy. They get caught up in the routine of life and slowly they forget. Some I suppose do find happiness in pills, booze, television shows and crossword puzzles, but it is short lived.  I tried to tell her that riding that bike made me happy and that I hadn’t been happy for a very long time. When I first heard that engine roar to life, something in me roared too; and as I began to go down the highway, opening up the throttle and accelerating faster and faster, it felt like I’d been given wings and my body no longer belonged to this earth. But my wife couldn’t understand. All she saw was the danger.  It was dangerous. I was always keenly aware when riding that I was trying to hold onto to something that really was not meant to be tamed. But somewhere between excitement and fear, I found that moment - that moment when I finally could take a deep breath and I knew that I was alive.  It was like I had awakened from a long sleep. I guess the reason I didn’t stop her from leaving that night was that I wanted her to wake up too.  

      So fives years later, here I am cruising along with the cold wind blasting in my face, and the lights hitting the road in front of me. The coffee from the last gas station was wasn’t working and I was tired and should have found some cheap motel to crash for the night, but for some reason I felt the pressing need to just keep going. There was no moon that night.  Every now and then my headlight would shine on a bush or a cactus and I would get a glimpse of some animal. You see, in the dead of night the desert comes alive. When the sun retreats they come out.  You don’t really see them. You can hear them call to each other though.  In the darkness it is safe for them to come out and hunt for food.  There’s nothing really to be concerned of as long as you stay on the road.  Oh, I have heard the stories about this stretch of road, but that was because some drunken fool wandered off and got lost.  If I did have any fear that night it quickly vanished as I looked up at the night sky. The stars were so numerous and endless that it felt like they were turned on just for me.  Perhaps if I had not been gawking up at the stars I would’ve seen the large pothole down in the road. It happened so quickly. The front tire blew and I went soaring into some thick brush. I am not sure how long I was unconscious. It was still dark when I awoke. I was okay, but blood trickled down my check from my forehead. I guess I was lucky. My bike wasn’t as fortunate. It laid coiled like a snake and missing the front tire.

     “Blast!” I moaned.  Seeing my bike was more painful than the pain in my own bruised body. Slowly I got up and looked up and down the road. I had no idea how far it was to the next gas station. I’d passed the last station earlier in the day. I pulled what remained of my bike off the road, brushed the dirt off my jacket and started to walk.  I’m not sure how long or how far I had walked when I came to sign that read: “New Eden, east one mile.”  What an odd name. Never heard of the town and I hadn’t remembered seeing it on a map. Of course I was no longer on the new interstate. I’m not sure why I decided to exit and take the old route 32 that night. Got tired of going the same way I guess. The old highway is a lonely stretch of road. Many family businesses failed and families moved away when the new interstate was built. Some towns just disappeared over night. New Eden was probably one of those towns that somehow survived. The chance that there might be someone there to help me was enough for me to head in its direction. Hopefully someone in “paradise” had a working phone.