Threadbare

Some of my posts will be older writings which can be found elsewhere on the internet.  I figure it would be smart to collect all my best writings in one place.  It also, well, lets me be lazy on occasion, and it is a cold, rainy, dreary day in Minneapolis.

The following story was originally published to I’m From Driftwood in April 2009.  I have made here a couple of minor edits.  This account illustrates my sense of humour (I claim to have no sense of humour but some friends claim otherwise).  I can’t try to be funny, my jokes fall flat, but funny things happen to me, and I can relate them.

******************

RRRRIIIPP!

I checked for the source of the sound, and felt a small hole in the crotch of my jeans.  “Fifteen hours,” I assured myself.  “Fifteen hours, and I can unpack my bags and change pants.”  I consoled my mom for the millionth time, telling her I would be fine, as we both fought back the tears and my brother prepared to drive me to the Greyhound station.

The previous three weeks had been a whirlwind.  I had received notice that the funding for my philosophy degree at Indiana University had been cut sharply, and that my state insurance had been eliminated.  When you live in a small town in a conservative state and have a serious medical condition, you don’t mess around—you move.  Spending several sleepless nights on campus computers, I talked with friends about where to move.  Toledo?  It had an intriguing opportunity for me to advance my art career, but it was too small for my taste.  Chicago?  I loved to visit, but it was too big for me to live in.  Seattle?  Nice, but too far for moving on a budget.  Minneapolis…

I pulled out the ticket.  Bloomington to Indianapolis to Chicago to Minneapolis.  I had packed as many of my belongings as I could into the Greyhound maximum of four bags— two to go below and two carry-ons.  (More of my possessions would follow thanks to friends visiting Minnesota, and the rest would go in a landfill.)  Surely, my two smallest bags would fit into the overhead compartments.  Unfortunately, my memory of the size of Greyhound buses proved very optimistic. “You can’t fit those on here, they’re too big, they’re gonna have to stay off,” called out the driver gruffly.  “But, I’m moving, I don’t have a choice!” I begged.  He relented.  I stuffed the smallest bag underneath my seat, and straddled the other carry-on…

RRRRIIIPP!

Behind me lay most of the world I knew. Sure, I’d studied awhile in St. Louis and interned in England. And sure, I was born in a different town, but Bloomington was the map of my heart. Bloomington was where I started coming out—and felt stifled in expressing it.  Bloomington was where I had made most of my friends—and lost most of them as I came out. Bloomington was where I got my education—and had it taken away.  Bloomington was where my art career budded—and smothered under a lack of opportunity.

What was I losing, really?  My relationships with family were always awkward; perhaps they would benefit from distance.  The economy would be far better outside my college town, where a Bachelor’s degree would get you $6.50 an hour and cup of coffee—and I didn’t even have the Bachelor’s degree.  I was sure I would thrive where I could live out and proud.  The past was behind me; a bright future lay before me.  And my present?

RRRRIIIPP!

We pulled into the downtown Chicago station for a 2 1/2-hour layover.  I knew one of the little shops in the station would have a travel sewing kit.  My plan was to safety-pin together the ever-growing tear.  I figured it worked for my punk friends, so why not me?  Frazzled from a severe lack of sleep, I gingerly slipped six safety pins along the course of the rip.  After all, it only had to hold eight more hours, right?

RRRRIIIPP!

We stopped at the McDonald’s in Tomah, Wisconsin at the cusp of night and day.  If Greyhound weren’t contracted to stop at McDonald’s, and were I not starving, I would have avoided that grease trap and tried to at least get a nap.  Sleeping with a huge duffel bag squeezing me into a seat proved to be impossible.  I blearily ordered a caramel sundae and an apple pie, hoping to God that no one in the restaurant noticed my deteriorating jeans, the rip now down to my knee.  I had yet to learn Upper-Midwestern passive-aggressive behavior, to learn that they wouldn’t say anything until after I was gone.  At least, I thought, I’m wearing boxers.

RRRRIIIPP!

Minneapolis at last!  I was crazy, I thought, moving to this city without ever visiting.  But crazier things had been done.  I just had to call my friend Chris to pick me up, and I could finally get rid of these jeans.  Except…  “Sir, I understand your situation, but there are families with young children in here, and I’m going to have to ask you to step outside the station.”  Great, I’m in a strange city, half-naked, being kicked outside where I could get arrested.  I crossed my fingers, hoping that Chris would hurry up.  Indeed, a few minutes later, my chariot arrived, and the first thing we did was to go to his place for me to change my pants.

******************

It is coincidence that I am posting this story on the anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard.  You catch a glimpse of homophobia in my life in this story.  Shepard’s death affected me profoundly, and I will write more about how so later.

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About Whittier Strong

Whittier Strong is an MFA student in creative writing at the University of Alaska-Fairbanks, with a focus in nonfiction. He graduated from Metropolitan State University with a BA in creative writing. He has special interests in sociology and philosophy.

Posted on 12 October, 2011, in Narrative and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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