Fear and Loathing on the South Shore pt. 1

    One week ago yesterday, I was on an evening flight that touched its wheels down in Chicago's Midway airport at approximately 10:00 p.m. It had been five days since I had been on a similar aircraft, lifting off at half a mach, bounding in the complete and opposite direction. It was a strange feeling to be gone from the wife and kids for that long, although I had been to my former home of Long Island without them in the past. Something was different this time. Something was definitely amiss. It was the homesickness-something that had not hit me this hard before. I have lived in the near-west suburbs of Chicago now for the better part of a decade and I had not felt the tug of The Island this forcefully before. I had some airline vouchers to spend. My mind and body were burnt. I was gone.

    The flight was full. Just a tip: don't be a fat guy on a full Southwest Airlines flight. You will not find yourself to be in the slightest bit of comfort. I had picked up a copy of Rolling Stone magazine in the airport, which is the only time you will ever catch me buying any magazine, especially Rolling Stone. This flimsy overpriced booklet was to be my only entertainment for the flight. Leave the phone alone. Save the battery. It's going to be a long five days. I tried to shift myself into the most comfortable position possible and skimmed through the magazine. Without much delay, we were off the ground.  I was homeward bound for New York. To the Island that is Long. My wife and kids were somewhere down there on the ground and here I was, hurdling through space and time (heading into another time zone is sort of like time travel, isn't it?). When we reached the proper altitude the flight attendant came by for my beverage request I went with water, rather than what my reptilian brain was calling for, which was scotch. This was to be some much needed R&R time for me and I was quite certain I didn't want to start off with bad breath and an even worse hangover. One thing was chewing at me from beneath my skin, though: I did not know which version of myself would hit the ground on the other side in New York City. Was it to be the mad man set loose from his padded cage, swallowing all that was within his grasp? Or was it to be the fairly calm, tired father of two just looking for somewhere quiet to sit with a pair of headphones and a pack of smokes? Either way one thing was for sure: this was going to be a long five days.

    Hitting the ground at LaGuardia in Queens was beyond a relief. My neck and back were invariably stiff from the near three hour flight. The large black woman next to me was probably not very thrilled with me either, I'm sure. There she was: sandwiched between her average-sized friend and me, the humongous, unshaven white man who forgot to put on his deodorant on his way out the door that morning. If she hadn't been a racist before, I guarantee she is one now. Nonetheless, we deplaned fairly quickly and I made my way through the terminal. The terminals at LaGuardia by the way, might as well be directly modelled after the shittiest airport on the outskirts of Calcutta. Every time I pass through this airport, I am always surprised when I don't see crates of livestock stacked on top of one another. I am out on the street without any problems because my decision to not check any bags was apparently a brilliant one. Without haste I pulled a Marlboro from my pocket. That first post-flight cigarette is like a gift from God himself. All of you smokers know what I'm talking about. All the rest of you...I almost pity you for not knowing how amazing this is. Sucks to be you, I guess.

   Within seconds I see my brother Ian, who is miraculously passing right in front of me almost immediately after I pass through the doors and light up. My short walk to the car was bombarded with little pieces of New York. Yellow cabs, exhaust fumes, honking car horns, those incessant fucking horns. But these sounds were to fade quickly as we sped away from the city, the Empire State building looming large behind us. We exchange all the normal pleasantries and catch up a bit on work, wives and his new band. A question is raised as we give a listen to the latest demos: "How in the Hell is he ALWAYS in a great sounding band?" He really might be the most talented singer/songwriter that you've never heard before. We hit Chipotle and stop at his place on the north shore of The Island to check out his new stereo system and to look up some of his favorite new music. We listen to "The Milk Carton Kids". These guys are incredible. They sound like a modern day Simon & Garfunkle with double guitars. The harmonies are on point and somber. Listening closely, it seems as if every lyric I manage to catch is about me... where I am and what I am doing there. They sing about being alone, missing someone, being in New York, etc...I was only on The Island for two hours so far and already I missed my wife. I missed my kids. This was going to be a long five days.

    We head back to my parent's house shortly thereafter and nobody was home. There was a house key in the usual hiding spot and on the island in the kitchen was the crux of my whole visit-a key to the beater of a Honda my folks bought from my uncle when my step-dad's truck went out during this dismal winter. Ian leaves and I head up to my old room which is now converted into a beautiful guest room. This room is light years away from its former self. Oh, the things this room has seen! This is where normally the writer would state a generic list of the debaucheries that occurred within those four walls. These are going to be purposefully omitted for the sake of the relatives of mine that still view me as a decent person who may or may not end up reading this. Besides, some of you were there and you know all about these things already. I try not to fester in this room for long so I grab the phone charger for the car and I head downstairs and grab the key. I am hitting the road.

    My first stop is at the southern end of my parent's street. This is where the marina sits, overlooking the bay and across to the splinter of sand dunes and brush that conceals the Atlantic on its opposite shore. I park the car and light a smoke. I roll the windows down and turn up my old favorite local station and ease the seat back slightly. Just enough to lounge but not too much as to not impede my view of the bay. To say that this spot is beautiful would be an understatement and lazy. FYI: I am lazy and I like to understate things. It is a beautiful spot, perhaps my favorite in the whole town. My mother used to drive me down here during violent storms so we could watch the lightning split the sky and touch the whitecaps stirring in the bay. I loved those storms. Finishing my cigarette, I touch base with the wife and kids on the phone. My son sounds sad, my daughter sounds somewhat indifferent to my being gone. The call is brief and I hang up with a heavy heart. God damn do I miss them already. In order to avoid thinking too much and feeling depressed about it, I put the car in drive and once again, I'm on the move.

    Kept company only by my phone, smokes, and WEHM, I careen through the back streets of Mastic Beach. I'm a man on a mission, I think. What that mission is exactly, if there even is one, escapes me at the time. My hometown is full of bungalows, historical sights, and slumlord-run properties that should have been condemned decades ago. I pass the houses of old friends and acquaintances, which sends old memories spiraling through my skull. "Isn't that where so-and-so used to live?" "Wasn't that the place with the party and the guy who did that thing and then there was that girl that threw up everywhere?" Some of those facts I remember like it was yesterday. But more often than not, I struggled with the names, the faces, the dates. One fact got shoved in my face on that drive-I am getting old. Better yet, I  AM old. Just another underachiever, shat out of this town that grows old with me, even as I reside nearly a thousand miles away. I make my way down to my Aunt Sharon's house, (which used to be my great-grandparent's after they abandoned Brooklyn due to the well-known "Hipster Gentrification Invasion of 1945") and we have tea. My cousin Isabella comes home from school while we sit and talk. She is ten now and so much older than when I saw her last, which was only a year ago. We talk about life and look through a bag of old photos she found upstairs. Pictures from when I was young, pictures of my parents and their parents and their parents. It was perfect, in a way, being home and looking over those old scenes from the great beyond. My parents, aunts and uncles, all young and naive, broke and trying to figure it out. It was then that I realized for just about the one-millionth time that we all go through the same shit, just in different eras. We are all the same. I needed this re-realization. This is part of why I was here, I think.

   After sitting awhile with my aunt and cousin Bella, I head home to say hi to my step dad and my brother Patrick. Again, I find the house empty and very still aside from the aging Killian Red, the dog that has been with the family for the better part of fifteen years. I set myself on a chair in the living room and I close my eyes. The stillness of it all was almost anxiety inducing. It feels as if it had been years since I have felt this sense of calm. The quiet was cut by the squeaking back door. Dad was home from work and we meet with our standard "it's been awhile" big hug. I ask him how his day at work was and he answers the same way he's answered that question everyday for decades, "Work was good." He asks me about how my job was and I mirror his earlier reply with "Work is good."

    This is a slight bending of the truth. The fact that I am employed is a good thing. I consider myself lucky to have been seen employable by someone, by anyone for that matter. The truth about my work is that I am a hospital security guard, not living up to my potential, working odd hours (mostly midnights), staying home with my kids during the day while my wife works. Staying up for 20-30 hours at a clip with 3-4 hours of sleep in between is quite normal now. The shifting hours and long stretches with minimal sleep helped to usher in the stomach virus from Hell right before I left, lasting five days and leaving me a dehydrated and weak shell of a human being. It was only a day before I left for this trek did I even start feeling somewhat normal again. No worries, I had remembered to pack the Immodium, just in case. But I digest...

    Dad tells me that he has to get ready for his school board meeting and my brother will be out late. He apologizes for having to go and for nothing being planned for dinner. This apology is far from necessary, though. I have keys to a car, nowhere to be, and a boat load of people I could stop in on. I make no phone calls, and set no agenda. I get in the car and put NoFX's "Punk in Drublic" in the CD player. I put the car in drive. Well, I reverse out of the driveway first, smartasses, and I drive aimlessly once again. The sense of open-ended nothingness is nearly overwhelming but I just let it hit me like a violent wave from beyond the dunes across from the marina down the street. I light up a cigarette and ask myself, "Where to?" I have no answers and I like it. This was definitely going to be a long five days.