Leaving Idaho

The black paved sore stretched towards the horizon.

The black paved sore stretched towards the horizon.

He had grown up on bread, milk, and potatoes, until he threw it in the trash, ran away from family and friends in search of steak and cappuccinos, and found them; but, now he wandered where his life had broken down, walking through fields of green leaves and waving grains, past herds of cattle... staring at him.

They moved towards him as if he would heed their moos, as if he could read their lips if they came closer. He stood still for a moment as if time could stand still.

Thoughts wandered to day-old crusts soaking in milk, to potatoes boiled and eaten without butter. He wrapped himself in the self-pity of poverty as if it could keep him warm. He zipped up his jacket, picked up his backpack, and set off again, looking up at the clouds, wondering whether it would rain. Not a problem. He weighed nothing, dry or soaking wet. Yes, he was hungry, but... the road beckoned.

No cars passed him. Just as well. He wasn't in the mood to chat with anyone. He saw a truck coming towards him but he wasn't going back. He'd die first. He chuckled at that thought. Yes, he'd die regardless of which way he went.

The day was warming up, a bit too warm. He took a swig of water and considered his situation, figured he could walk for another hour.

He saw a lone elm sentinel and decided to take a rest in its shade, leaning against its furrowed bark. He almost fell asleep to the wind in the wheat, the moos joining in with their tenor harmonies.

After a snooze, the macadam beckoned again. He was certain it was going somewhere. Somewhere, anywhere he hadn't been, would be fine.

A couple of cars slowed down to ask whether he needed a lift. He smiled and waved them on. He wasn't ready to trust anyone. He had paid dearly for this solitude, left everything and everybody behind. He had a blanket, a jacket and enough money to starve, unless he came across someone kind enough to buy him a coffee and maybe a bun. No telling how long he could last on his own; but, he reckoned he could last a while longer. The freedom to live or die under a not-so-empty sky comforted him. The night would be tattooed with stars. Maybe he could ride the Milky Way! Better that than the roller-coaster he'd just gotten off. The drama had nearly killed him. He'd chosen to live.

He even dared to hope he'd live long enough to dance on a few rotting graves.

It was getting dark. He found a spot with no rocks, where headlights wouldn't find him and laid down with the backpack as a pillow. He fell asleep after an hour of making wishes to the stars, waking up to thunder. There wasn't enough light to go anywhere so he covered himself with the blanket and hoped it wouldn't rain. It poured. Fortunately, not for long. The storm moved on and the stars blinked at his soggy form as if nothing had happened. No juicy stories to tell, no warmth to dry him.

He made his way to the edge of the road and decided to walk to keep warm. He was too exhausted to worry about the eyes following him. He mustn't have smelled too tasty to the creatures of the night. He laughed out loud. Maybe not taking a shower for four days had been a blessing.

A sign loomed at a corner telling him how far he was from... somewhere... maybe a day's walk... but then he saw a covered bus stop for a never to stop again school bus. He found a dry spot, curled up and went back to sleep... and dreamed.

No one ever talks about the piss and shit, the cough shared with a kiss, the sweat and vomit staining the sheets, the price of sex and polyester candy. Better to just cuddle on the bench and cheer the team instead of taking one for the team — two at a time. Best to just say no, followed by another no, scream until bird is the word, the middle finger writing it on someone's face with excrement.

No one talks about the blood, the tears, the unrequited dreams, the non-stop nightmares, the fluttering from bed to bed to feel something other than loneliness, the dying alone memorialized in quilts, sepia photos and sad elegies. No poetry can show the pain that only lovers know. No, there are no lovers in the end, unless one loves oneself — and even then — no comfort in the cold.

A brown dog woke him up, washing his face, wagging its tail. A bit scrawny, a bit like him. He took out a sandwich from who-knows-when, took a bite and shared the rest with his new found friend. They got up, left soon after dawn, somewhere bound. They waved and barked at the cows and rabbits as two trucks passed by. They'd arrive in town by nightfall. It felt good to not be alone.

© Kåre Enga (August, 2025)

WC ~862