Stories

I don’t believe things happen for a reason. I believe things happen and then we invent reasons for them. We force events to surrender to our causal minds. We see things in a linear fashion, B happened because of A.

Tom Finn said his wife left him for a reason. “I’m sure she had several reasons,” I told him. “Not that kind of reason,” Tom said. “There’s something bigger I’ll get out of this.”

We all want something bigger, something better. Tom’s wife left him for a life she imagined would be better than the one she had with Tom. “She didn’t leave me for anyone else,” Tom said. “She left me for herself.”

That’s a good one, I thought. A classic. It’s not you it’s me.

But Tom was thinking of something bigger than that. “It’s cosmic,” he told me. “There’s a greater reason for this happening to me.” And with that idea on his mind, he packed up his things and drove out of town last Thursday, the front of his compact car pointed north and his eyes searching the flat horizon for meaning.

Two days later he called me from San Francisco. “I think I found my reason,” he said. “I’m standing here looking out at the Golden Gate Bridge,” he shouted over the howling Bay wind. “You ever seen this thing?” I told him I had. “It’s sunset and the wind is about 30 degrees.” He paused a full minute, no doubt shaking away the chill.

“I never would have come up here if it wasn’t for her leaving me,” he explained. “I’ve lived in LA all my life and never driven up here.” He coughed. “I never would have drove through the San Fernando Valley and seen all the farms, all the flowers and fruit growing. It’s spring,” he said. “Did you know that?” I told him I did. “She broke up with me in spring,” he laughed. “Imagine that.”

Four days later his middle-age fancy had taken him to Seattle. “Didn’t you used to live up here?” he asked. I told him I had. “It’s beautiful up here,” he said. “Why did you ever leave? There’s so much green. And it’s so nice and cool. I love the rain.” He took a deep healthy breath and exhaled. “The rain cleans the air.”

“I think this is another reason,” he offered. “There’s no way I would have ever come up here if that bitch hadn’t left me.”

“Where are you going next?” I asked him.

“Alaska,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to drive that long highway to Alaska. You know the one I’m talking about?” I told him I did. “You ever drive that?” he asked.

I told him I had. “A long time ago,” I explained. “You should do it. It will be good for you. You’ll be alone behind the wheel, thousands of miles of road, much of it barely passable by mountain goats or yeti, much less your Toyota.” I lit a cigarette and took a contemplative drag. “It’s meditative. It will restore your soul.”

“Thousands of miles, huh?” he replied. “Maybe I should get a new car.”

He called me the next day from his new truck. “Another reason,” he told me. “I always wanted a truck and she never wanted a truck so we never got a truck.” He laughed. “Now I’ve got a truck. Will a truck make it to Alaska?”

“A truck will make it to Alaska,” I told him. “You got a camper on it?”

He laughed again. “I got a camper. I got a king cab. I got running lights and fog lights on it.” A semi roared past him and drowned out his words. I asked him to repeat himself.

“I said, Do you think I’m crazy? Doing all this driving? Running around like some heart-broke teenager, all because some woman dumped me?”

“She wasn’t just some woman,” I told him. “She was your wife. You were together almost ten years.”

“I know it,” he said. “But I still feel like a damn fool sometimes. Running around all over the country. Buying a new truck. Going north to Alaska. Like a damn fool.”

“A good woman has a way of doing that to a man,” I offered.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s the truth.” I heard his horn blare and he shouted something at someone. “Two hippies by the side of the road,” he explained. “Should I go back and pick them up?”

“Could be they’re axe-murdering hippies,” I offered. “Could be the hippy thing is a clever disguise.”

“Maybe it’s the hippy Bonnie and Clyde,” he said. “I’m turning around to pick them up.”

It was over a week before I heard from him again. He had picked up the hitchhikers (of course) and they rode with him all the way to Anchorage. They were working on a fishing boat for the summer. “I almost went with them,” he said. “I could use the money. I got this here new truck and I’m sure she’s going to screw me with her lawyer. You ever work one of those boats?”

I told him I had. “It’s hard work,” I told him. “Cutting heads. Gutting fish. Mending nets.” I wondered if they still mended nets. “You don’t like hard work.”

“You’re right,” he said.

“You coming back soon?” I asked.

“I was thinking of going back to Wyoming or someplace like that,” he said. “Someplace kind of Old West.”

“Wyoming is very Old West,” I said.

“You’ve been to Wyoming?” he asked.

I told him I had. “One summer I worked on a ranch there. Long time ago.”

“You’ve been to the Golden Gate Bridge. Lived in Seattle. Drove to Alaska. Worked a fish boat. A ranch in Wyoming.” He paused. “How did you come to do all that?” he asked.

“I’ve had a lot of women in my life,” I told him.