Simplicity by Sunny

I lost my job last week. 

Every list that I’ve made, budget I’ve designed, plan I’ve looked forward to, is now obsolete.

With the economy unwilling to forgive since 2008, and me working in commercial real estate, I’d been prepared for a job loss.  But not prepared for it last week.  I’ve fantasized about quitting my job at least once every day.  Once before lunch.  Once after lunch.  But imagining a voluntary runaway is different from being told your job is no longer needed.

Before it’s assumed that I set fire to something or mooned the CFO (things I’ve imagined, but refrained from), my job – along with everyone else’s job in my department – is being erased because the large company I work for is cutting off its real estate arm.  Our portfolio of buildings is up for grabs.  With great luck, if it can be called that, I’ve been given a four-month notice because selling commercial properties is a complicated process and I’ll be needed to see it through.  So, I have four months to prepare whatever path is ahead of me.  I’ll be given a small severance and letters of recommendation.  Well, only if I don’t set fire to anything in the meanwhile. 

I was given the afternoon off to absorb the news.

The sun was bright.  The sky blue.  The temperature 95 degrees.  I crawled into Eddie, shivering despite the summer heat.  I slipped on my sunglasses.  I backed out of the parking spot that I’ve occupied for the past four years.  I rolled down the windows, breathing in hot dry Colorado air, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.  I reached the stop light and grabbed my phone.  But there was no one to call.

For the first time in four years, I yearned for my dad.  We haven’t spoken since the day I left Florida, for mutual reasons.  I couldn’t call him and ask for his advice.  All of my friends were either working, or not the kind of person you call and say, “How ya doin’?  Just lost my job, wanna get loaded?” 

There was no one to go home to.  No one to call. 

I’ve never felt so lonely.

Eddie and I drove without a destination except away.  With the windows down, air whipping in and out, hands shaky on the wheel, I didn’t head to the mountains like I usually do when I need a drive.  Instead I found myself on Hwy 83 where the two lane road is surrounded by red barns and dairy cows.  Where there’s flat pasture and cranky old pick-ups.  Tractors mowing lawns.  It’s a landscape reminiscent of my hometown in Wisconsin.  I sought the familiarity of it.

I parked on the side of the road, next to the black-and-white cows, and cut the engine.  I climbed onto the hood of my car so I could see the countryside clearly.  Grass shuffled against the breeze and it sounded sweet.

Then I cried.  Quiet, polite tears. 

I didn’t cry because I’d miss my job.  I’d been wanting to leave it anyway.  I didn’t cry because there weren’t options ahead.  But I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how this will affect my expensive apartment.  Or my plans for the nursing program.  Or my wine habit.  All of the progress I’ve made since moving to Denver  – would it all disappear?

Looking across to one of the peeling barns in the distance, I thought back to when I was a Midwestern kid.  The whole world a land of opportunity, to be bent and shaped as I saw fit.  I remembered all the trouble I was back then.  Being escorted home by the sheriff for trespassing.  Cheating on my calculus exams.  Skipping school.  Smoking in the bathroom.  Racing stolen four-wheelers through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin (we returned them eventually).  Sneaking into bars at seventeen by flirting with the bartenders.   

There were, of course, consequences to these things.  I was a bad kid, a troubled kid, and paid the price for it.  Detention, being shunned by the “good” kids, treated unfairly by teachers, and my dad avoided me at all costs. 

There are some good memories, too.  Fishing on the Peshtigo River.  Swimming at the YMCA every morning before school, ears submerged in chlorinated water, the vibrating silence and movement of my limbs providing peace when it existed nowhere else.  Sledding in Meadowbrook Park.  Camping every weekend at Potawatomi State Park in Door County, lounging barefooted in canvas chairs next to a campfire.  

The good.  The bad.  Back in the Midwest, when I was a rebel child, life wasn’t divided by these things.  Because every time I got knocked down, deservedly or not, I always popped right back up.  There was endless energy within.  Invincibility.  And naiveté, of course, which isn’t always a terrible thing.

That’s why I cried on the side of Hwy 83.  I wanted to pop back up, but after so much heart break and struggle - some of which I’ve created enthusiastically and stupidly on my own, some of which a result of circumstance, some of which have brought hidden gifts, but have hurt just the same  - I no longer possessed endless energy.  I’d never felt so tired as I did that afternoon, sitting on top of my car in the middle of nowhere.

I held up well through the rest of that week.  Until Friday afternoon.

While driving along a deserted country road, this time Hwy 105, a police officer pulled me over for doing 62 mph in a 50 mph zone.  I sat, completely dejected, waiting while he wrote my $162 speeding ticket.  Was this really happening to me?  Getting laid off and being slapped with a ticket… within the space of three days?

He ripped off my copy from his little metal clipboard and said, “Now drive safe, you hear?”  Implying that  I wasn’t a safe driver, despite never having been in an accident and never having been pulled over for speeding.  (Okay, once before in Florida I was caught speeding, but it’s required to speed on I-95.)

I seriously considered backing him over with my car, but despite the sense of satisfaction it would’ve given, I’m too sensitive to be thrown in the slammer.  I allowed him, then, to drive away in a dust cloud of self-righteousness.

When he was gone, I stumbled out of my car, steadying myself against Eddie’s strong outline… and threw up in the ditch.  Exhaustion and stress had taken me over.

I slid to the gravel road, slumped against the car tire, hung my head between my knees. 

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, but when the roaring of a motorcycle slowed, sputtered, and stopped a dozen feet from me, reality came back.

The driver kicked the stand and dismounted.  He had the look of a serial killer.  Or a joyrider.  Who could predict?

His booted feet thudded toward me.  If he pulled a Smith & Wesson from beneath his untucked tee-shirt, which looked possible, it was of little concern.  Just kill me and get it over with, I thought. 

He eased close enough to talk, but allowed a comfortable distance to remain.  He scratched the heavy whiskers darkening his chin.  He looked left to the mountains, then right to the open field.

“Well, now,” he drew out, words dripping out like honey, his tone very unlike his dangerous appearance.  “Seems like you’re lost or in some kinda trouble.”

He was obviously Texan.  His accent belonged from nowhere else.

“Trouble,” I told him.

“Mm hm,” he murmured, hooking thumbs into back pockets and rocking on his heels.  “Trouble’s a damn unfortunate circumstance.”

“You betcha,” I said, obviously a relocated Midwesterner.  No one says “you betcha” unless you’re from smack dab in the middle of the U.S.A. 

He pushed back his red bandana, giving me a thorough look-over from atop his Aviator sunglasses.  I took him in fully, too.  Mid-thirties.  Sunburned.  Barb wire tattoos circling very large biceps.  Wranglers a bit too tight, but he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“What kinda trouble?”  He asked.

I scrunched up my nose.  Should I tell him the truth?  “I just got a $162 speeding ticket.”

He whistled through his teeth with what could’ve been appreciation.  “Those pigs,” he said, referring to policemen.  “Sonsa bitches, all of ‘em.”

The left side of my mouth lifted, understanding the sentiment.  “And I got laid-off on Tuesday.”

“Damn, lil’ mama.”  He gave a kick to the dusty road to show sympathy.  “Luck ain’t on your side.”

I sighed heavily.  “I thought about vehicular homicide.  For the cop, I mean.”

“I woulda helped burn the body.”

He said it so seriously, but I knew he was joking.  I laughed.

He laughed, too, muscled shoulders moving up and down.  “You know what I do when I’m down and out?”

I was afraid to know the answer, but he supplied it anyway.

“I take a long ride on Miss Harley over there,” he gestured to his bike.  It was a Super Glide.  My mouth watered slightly.  “And all my worries go’on an’ disappear.”

He stepped forward, right in front of me, and held out a hand.  “Take a ride with me, darlin’?” 

I hesitated.  Really, though, what did I have to lose?  And it was a Super Glide.  You can’t simply say “no” to it.  “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle.”

He grinned, suddenly looking quite sexy.  “The only thing you gotta remember,” he said, words like honey again.  “Is hold on tight.”

I lifted a brow.

“Real tight.”

I smiled.  And I took his hand.

I climbed onto the back of his Harley, feeling a tinge of excitement.  Feeling, just a little bit, like a kid again.  I scooted close so that my thighs hugged his and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Tighter,” he said.

I obliged.

We blazed forward.  He took the corners fast and we dipped low into the road.  My stomach lurched and I buried my forehead between his shoulder blades.  Connected to this mysterious man, the heat and steel of him dangerous yet comforting, I wasn’t lonely anymore.  My troubles flew away, as promised.  There was nothing except hanging on tight and leaning into the curves.  The scenery zipped by, colors flashing, and I saw, once again, that the world is a beautiful place.  Soon I tilted my head back, way back, until the fire of afternoon burned my face. 

On the back of that rumbling beast of a bike, I became a rebel again.

When the ride was over and he idled next to my car, where we’d left it, I hopped off.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling light and breathless.  And happy.

He winked at me.  “Pleasure’s mine.”  He revved the engine and nodded to my car.  “Drive it like it’s stolen, baby.”

“Shiny side up,” I returned.

Back behind my own (four) wheels, I shook out my knotted hair and examined my sunburn in the rear view mirror.  The face that looked back, lobster-like as it was, had strength and resilience once again.  I refused to let any “sonsa bitches” ruin my day.  Or any lay-off ruin my life.  At any moment, after all, you can fly away on a Harley and escape your troubles long enough to get some perspective.

I’m renewing the Midwestern rebel kid inside of me.  Not be the girl who always got detention, but be the girl who always pops back up.

Go ‘head, do your worst to bring me down.  Throw every obstacle in my way.  Throw me heartbreak.  Throw me uncertainty.  Throw me pain.  And disappointment.  Loneliness.  Hunger.  Fear.

I’ll catch it all willingly.  And keep it close to my hopes.  My dreams.  My desires.  My fantasies of vacationing in Bali .

Nothing will fuel my run toward succeeding faster than being told success is impossible.  Or having everything taken away.  Or being told “no” too many times.

Because, after all, a rebel loves a challenge.