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Traveler

Bernadette Miller



��I am a tumbleweed. Unanchored, I drift about on a desert, clinging to life. Hate being a tumbleweed: melancholy, no purpose. Blown by a breeze, I roll this way and that--unable to avoid the merciless sun, but somehow avoiding the prickly cactus. I’m searching. For what? I only know that by my third drink, I’ve become a traveler...
��A sea gull! Yes, I’m now a sea gull circling over New York City, recklessly zigzagging around smoke stacks. I’ve migrated from a posh Connecticut town, separated from my flock; their route was unappealing. Alone, I spread my wings and soar, then coast on the wind. Oh, the exhilaration of flying. So beautiful, don’t want to stop.
��Tired, though. Very, very tired. Must find a resting spot.
��I’ve settled down as a rock near the Atlantic Ocean.
��Solid, dependable, enduring. Steve Wilson, the lush, has become a rock. Nothing tires a rock. Having no eyes to see with, I face the ocean stoically, accepting whatever fate offers. My slender, refined ex-wife walks by. She can’t see me inside the rock, but her daughter, Jana, can. Adorable six-year-old Jana pauses, pats my shoulder, and whispers affectionately, “Nice rock.” I’m stirred by sweet little Jana, feel intense loneliness as I watch her skip away to join her mother gathering seashells. Even Jana can’t see me now. Locked up inside this rock, I gaze with sightless eyes. No good being mere background. I’m a traveler...
��Could be a horse or cow or pig. Maybe ass--ha! ha! I could wallow contentedly in mud like a hippopotamus, or trot over sand like a camel. Or, how about a watermelon? Cool, delicious watermelon, fertile with seeds, protected by thick rind. People would want me. A nice, middle-aged housewife in Murray Hill might select me at the supermarket. Thoughtfully, she’d weigh me in her steady hands, wondering if I’m worth the price. I’d smile, hoping she’d notice my pristine condition, unsullied by fifteen years of alcohol. Agreeing I’m pure, she’d deposit me in her grocery cart, and serve me at family dinner. The kids would scream with delight, “Oh, boy, watermelon!” I’d be relished--a refreshing treat on a hot summer day. Then, forgotten.
��Okay, I’m not a watermelon; I’m a wristwatch. Mr. Moran, my owner, checks me impatiently as he runs for the train. He reminds me of my ex-boss. Obese and sixtyish, Mr. Moran is a big-shot executive in a super corporation-like the one I used to work for. He lives in a swanky house in Newport, Connecticut, and commutes to New York. Mr. Moran depends on his wristwatch to fill his life. Time is important to him. I’m awed. Being a wristwatch is a heavy responsibility. Responsibility is not my forte. In fact, that’s why I quit my prestigious managerial job and started dropping by my favorite East Sixties pub. Don’t want people laying their burdens on my conscience; can’t take it. Mr. Moran frowns at me as he finally sits, huffing in his seat. He almost messed up his routine and, for some idiotic reason, blames me. Why do people blame me when things go wrong? Why did my parents blame me for being unhappy with success? Demands, demands, demands. That’s what started my drinking. Can’t stop now. Too late. I’m a traveler...
��Could be a canvas. That would be hopeful. A canvas waiting to be filled up: lines, shapes, rhythms, faces. Yes, I’m a canvas wanting an artist to buy me in a supply store in Greenwich Village. He’ll take me to his studio with its cheerful skylight, and for a long time I’ll ponder the artist while he ponders my emptiness. I yearn for the colors he’ll splash on me. He’ll give me life. How I crave life! But, must be patient, wait for the painter’s gift. He’ll make me significant, worthy. I wait. The painter, an intense young man of twenty-five, shakes his head. He’s not in the mood today to paint. Perhaps tomorrow. I wait in the darkened studio. I feel forlorn, despite the other canvasses. They’re alive; I’m not. For weeks I wait, but the painter doesn’t return. Something has happened. Don’t know whether he’s been killed in an accident, committed suicide, or what. His wife, Louise, enters the studio this morning. She gazes with velvety eyes at the paintings, strokes her husband’s work with her long, thin fingers, and sighs. I’m certain something terrible has happened to my painter, but don’t want to think about it. Can’t be a canvas--too upset, lost heart. The young man seemed so full of potential-like myself at that age--and now he’s gone. Not a canvas anyway. I’m a traveler...
��A cloud, that’s what I am. Floating lazily in an azure sky. Not a worry in the world. Ah, feel utterly content. Don’t need another drink. May never drink again. You don’t need liquor when you’re a cloud. I’ll float over New York and watch the inhabitants. Busy, busy, busy. They have so much to do: going to work, shopping, making love, maybe even traveling, like me. It’s comforting being a cloud. Free of human pressures, I can descend wherever I like, peek into my favorite pub, and see what my drinking buddies are up to. They’re eating pretzels and watching television. Don’t like to observe them because I know they’re wasting themselves. Makes me uncomfortable. I quickly rise, then descend again to inspect offices, kitchens, tennis courts, hear nonsensical chatter about stock certificates, hairdos, buying a second car. Bored, I retreat into my carefree sky. Don’t like it there either; atmosphere too rarefied. Being a cloud no longer ends my need to drink; feel the desire returning.
��So goodbye, cloud, puffy with importance. Must resume my journey, escape this pub with its pseudo-Tiffany lamps glowing over sad-faced couples in booths, my buddies at the bar repeating their maudlin stories to ears that don’t listen. The affluent drunks are those in conservative suits with loosened ties. Drunks without affluence are sprawled on park benches or gutters. How lucky I am to be an affluent drunk! Thanks so much, Dad, for making all that money in real estate. Truly considerate of you to insist I attend Harvard, pursue a sensible career like Business Administration. You made sure I did all the right things, yet none of them...
��I’m a train. Sleek and shiny. I can toot my whistle and puff steam. Pregnant with passengers, I proudly roar out of Grand Central Station and head toward the Midwest, away from the frantic pace of the city. I’m a train. What freedom! Feel as if I were born to be a train. I fly by the countryside, watch the tracks spinning and weaving like black ribbons, watch the planted fields adjoin and merge, looking alike yet somehow different. Sometimes kids on bicycles wave as I pass, and I whistle at them cheerfully. Oh, I feel so happy being a train. I pass through little towns and big cities. Such variety. I discharge passengers, welcome others; I’m beginning to love them dearly. I obey the engineer’s every command.
��I go, wait, stop, whistle, steam, grin. Yes, I actually grin, though people in the pub don’t notice and wouldn’t care anyway. But that’s because they don’t know I’m a train. Now I approach a ghetto. I sneak through, ashamed as I scan decaying tenements. I see hopeless faces, feel their hate. They hate me because I don’t let them rest. I rattle the windows of their obscenely-poor apartments, give them no peace whatsoever. No wonder the ghetto hates me. My tracks always run through the poorest section of town. Not allowed to bother the rich, only the poor. My God, being a train is getting on my nerves! Don’t want hate; only love. My parents didn’t hate me. Misunderstanding is more apt. That’s why, when drunk, I’m careful not to disappoint anyone. I smile a lot, am very accommodating. But, shouldn’t dwell on that. Too depressing. Instead I’d rather be a mirror.
��My owner, a divorcee, goes out a lot--mostly to bars like my favorite pub, where she picked me up. Judy worries about me, fearful I’ll shatter. Gently, she props me on the booth seat. What a soothing relationship we have! As a mirror, I receive much attention. My owner studies her reflection in my blue eyes, discusses her hopes as she combs her dark curls, and I listen.
��Don’t feel lonely anymore. Sometimes she clowns with me, wrinkling her nose in an amusing way, and I laugh. It’s such fun being a mirror! But, after several weeks, Judy regards me mournfully, which makes me squirm. When she first propped me in the booth, she was excited about finally being on her own, and I shared her delight. Now, I glimpse her terror of the unknown future, and I don’t like it. Contemplating the future makes me nervous. She’s lousing up all my joy of being a mirror. She’s causing me to want to be something else, sending the road again, a traveler...
��A Pekingese? Yes, indeed, a pampered pet, that’s me! I’m the mascot of a drying-out hospital in Long Island. Feel so protected here: fed, bathed, medicated, given vitamins. Marvelous! In return, I follow orders, am lovable, eager to please. Though the doctors try hard, they can’t cure my self-destructive habit. Know they mean well, but I’m beginning to resent their tyranny. In the back yard, a nurse calls me:
��“Stevie! Stevie! Come here, you naughty little dog. Come here at once or I shall become very angry!”
��Don’t know why she doesn’t realize I’m running toward her as fast as my little paws will allow. Running so fast, I’m losing my breath, but her yells are getting angrier and angrier. Oh, I see why--I’m running in the opposite direction! I’ve left the yard and am fleeing down the street, away from that scary institution with its electric-shock treatments. Well, seems I wasn’t happy being a pet. No more calling me, overly-concerned nurses. Can’t hear you. I’m off on another journey. I’m a traveler...
��An old man has bought me at the liquor store. What? Can I really be a bottle of wine? Is that how I end up? Ironic, perhaps, but morbid. He pats me tenderly, gazes at my label, but doesn’t see me. He wants to quench his unquenchable thirst. He doesn’t care about me. As they say, if you’ve tasted one drink, you’ve tasted them all. He staggers from the store, and pauses with his cargo. He’s very dirty, baggy trousers colorless, like his life. His shirt is torn. Think at one time it was plaid, but now hard to tell the pattern. Streaked with stains: liquor, undoubtedly, and maybe last week’s breakfast. He wanders for awhile. Finally settles on a bench in Central Park, removes me from the paper bag, and takes a long swig. I sense his appreciation, but wish he’d linger more. Savor me, cherish me. He drinks in gulps, as though it were his last chance, and who knows, it might be. Thought I’d be happy being a bottle of wine, satisfying someone’s deepest desires. As I watch the old man with his grizzled cheeks and bleary, once-blue eyes, I’m sad, terribly sad. Want to cry, for him and myself...
��Why can’t I satisfy people? Why can’t I ever be satisfied? Hell, I’m damn lucky to be standing on my feet, fumbling in trouser pockets and shoving bills at the skinny bartender. So long, Mike baby. See you tomorrow. And every day after that...
��Finally leave the pub, stare at swaying apartment buildings across the street, and faceless people floating past in the rainbowed lamplight. Not a traveler now. Noooo, too drunk to travel. Just groping along, trying to find my way home.




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