Not five minutes into the drive home and I begin to scream.
“Scream” is a generous word for it, really; it was more like the noise you make when you feel that you need to throw up, but the event is a good 4-6 hours away from actually happening.
I’ve just realized that the 4th is Tuesday. This coming Tuesday. Three days in Chicago for Andrea’s wedding, back on Sunday, and then out.
I bounce the flat of my palm against the steering wheel, as if we are high-fiving each other over a job well done.
“I can, I can do this,” I hear myself groaning. “I can do it. I can write beautifully, thoughtfully, and compellingly about people I find interesting.”
It wasn’t an article of belief or disbelief. It was…what was it?
I begin to hit the ceiling upholstery over my head, as if the General’s cab is a prison and I’m trying to get out. But the whole point is to be in.
I want to go out with a bang. To ride out like a search party, blowing a cloud of triumphant dust. With smiles and quick-cuts and confidence. With a pile of scalps hanging from my belt.
Instead, it could be a quiet crawl out of town. Just pick up your bags and edge out of the room of mourners.
That’s not the story I planned. But the deal is to follow and report whatever story is there. I can’t make myself the one exception to my policy of brave, unresolved honesty.