I wrote this as a college essay a few weeks ago. The prompt was simply to write about a journey. Enjoy.
- Lunchbox
Whirr! Whirr! Whirr!
“You know you can’t afford it.”
Whirr! Whirr!
“But at the same time you know you can’t afford not to.”
Whirr! Whizz! Whirr! Whirr!
“Everything from here on out depends on getting it right. … But how do I start? Where am I supposed to go from here?”
Sydney had been carrying a burden for quite some time, one that he didn’t know how to take care of. All his life he had worked hard in school so that he could go to a top university and get out of his two-bit town. Now he had nothing.
Everything went as planned until Sydney’s senior year, when he seemed to fall apart. He arrogantly decided that he could use college to start his life over, so there was no need for anyone he knew anymore. Sydney dumped his friends and isolated himself from others. Bitter and alienated, Sydney graduated and spent the summer watching scholarships vanish and financial offers crumble as his final transcripts—which had never seen anything but A’s before—told the story of how he had let himself slip. And now, just two weeks before he was supposed to go to a college far away, his plan completely crumbled underneath him. Now he was stuck at home, forced to watch each of his old friends move away to begin their college journeys.
At first he was angry: angry that he, seemingly, worked his entire life for nothing, angry that everyone else was looking forward to starting school, and angry that he had been so stupid as to believe that he could go to a prestigious college somewhere far away. Mostly, though, Sydney was angry at himself. He self-destructed during his last few months of high school and now his gleaming record of success was tarnished with hideous scratches of hatred and failure.
Then the depression set in. Every morning, Sydney ascended from sleep and, for a fleeting second, was oblivious to where or who he was. Then reality dropped like a pile driver and shook him from his state of half-consciousness. Each morning he was forced to realize his failure and naïveté upon awakening. He was the Sisyphus of slumber: every day he managed to roll his boulder to the top of the hill, just for it to fall back to the bottom while he slept. Each day was a struggle, just like the day before and the day after, to make sense of what had happened to him and what he had done to himself. Sydney had never known failure of this kind, this depth. It ate him to the point where there was little of him left.
The day came when Sydney was supposed to have started college classes. He put on a brave face, but the hill was as steep as it had ever been. Sydney staggered through the day while the thought that he could have been starting a bright, new chapter of his story punched him off his feet repeatedly. That evening, he crawled into bed, his boulder having barely budged since morning. He lay there and quietly wept, thinking of his old friends he had cast aside who were laughing at him now, whether they knew it or not, as they unwound in dorm rooms after a day of classes.
Slowly, an idea began to dawn on Sydney. At dawn, he would wake and leave his boulder. He was the only person who condemned him to rolling it uphill every day, so why couldn’t he just leave it? Sydney knew he needed to get away from home and embark on some kind of ascetic journey, one without planning and distractions. Tomorrow, he would leave and not return until he had everything figured out.
So it was that Sydney found himself pedaling alone down a long trail away from town. It had been so long since Sydney had taken a bike ride (much less ventured outdoors) that he almost forgot the feeling of wind sweeping his face. The trail stretched for miles across the open countryside, part of a system that linked dozens of towns. The trees of the thick woods on either side of the trail curved over the path to create a vaulted ceiling, like that of a cathedral, painted in bright oranges and reds by fall. Besides the soothing shade it offered, the canopy created a perfect environment for deep thought. Under the ceiling and the rhythmic whirr of the bike chain, Sydney meditated over his troubles.
“Well no matter what, you have to go back to school. But where?” Sydney thought to himself.
Whizz! Whirr! “And where? You haven’t even thought about it.”
Whirr! Whizz! Whirr!
“You don’t even know what ‘Hey!’ you want to do anymore. Okay, when you get back ‘Hey you! Back here!’ start thinking about that and then ‘Hey! Look back!’ … What the heck is that?”
“Hey, are you deaf or something? Back here!” cried a voice from behind.
Sydney hadn’t seen anyone for hours, but looked back to see a thin, bearded man on a rusty bike wearing far too many layers of clothes. A tawny, dirty dog trotted alongside his equally scruffy master. Sydney stopped and watched the man catch up, huffing with breathlessness.
“Finally! Hey, do you mind if I ride with ya? I haven’t seen anyone out here in quite a while,” the man timidly exclaimed. Sydney could barely hear the man: something told him that even this high-pitched squeal was the loudest sound his voice could produce.
“Uh, sure, I guess. Couldn’t hurt anything,” Sydney replied. He didn’t want the company, though. Sydney hadn’t come this far to think just so some loner could interrupt him.
“Thanks a lot. Gets kinda lonely out here after a while. Say, you got a name?”
“Sydney, but most people just call me Sid.”
“Ah, I see. Name’s Bill, and this here’s Hobbes,” Bill said, pointing to his canine partner. “What’re you doing all the way out here?”
“I just needed to get out and think, that’s all.”
“Oh, I get it. Any clue where you’re headed?”
“Not at all.”
Sydney paused and gazed into the distance. Bill pursed his lower lip in thought, catching the double meaning in Sydney’s answer. Sidney snapped out of his trance and whipped his head back around.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?”
“I don’t have any particular plans either. Good! I guess we’ll just ride until something happens.”
Sydney was suspicious at first. His mind raced over all manner of possible scenarios. What if Bill attacked him and stole his bike? Or worse, his backpack full of granola bars? How would he eat out here as he crawled miles for help? Sidney looked at his mugger-to-be: Bill just stared down the trail as the wind whipped his beard from side to side. The two rode for several minutes in awkward tension. Finally Bill broke the mutual silence.
“So if you don’t mind me askin’, what’d you come out here for? Wife leave ya or something?”
“Wha—? No …. No, I’m 18 … I ….”
“Sorry, just, you never know,” Bill said as he let a small laugh slip through his grin.
The two fell back into a silence, but this one felt more comfortable and temporary. Sydney studied Bill’s clothes: he wore a few plaid shirts one on top of the other underneath a jacket spotted with stains and riddled with small tears. Hobbes was just as worn, but clean of ear ticks and scratches. Perhaps Bill was one of those cyclists who ride the whole trail for two or three weeks on end? If so, it was curious that he had no fancy gadgets or expensive water bottles—the sure-tell signs of anyone who has ever even thought of biking a mile these days.
“How long have you been out here?” Sydney asked.
Bill furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched his face in thought.
“You know, I don’t have a clue. Can’t really put my finger on how long … or even why I’m still on this trail. But that sure seems to me like a good reason to stay out here, if you ask me!” Bill said optimistically. After a pause, he continued.
“Say, you’re old enough. Shouldn’t you be starting school now?”
“Well, yeah. But it all fell apart at the last minute.” This explanation had always been sufficient for anyone who asked, but Sydney sensed that Bill would be more difficult to please than others as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Whatchya gonna do now, though?”
“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t really know,” Sydney replied. Something told him not to tell this complete stranger any more, but Sydney yearned to tell him all that had happened: how he had plans to go to college far away and make something of himself … and how he had thrown it all away.
After a short pause, Sydney let loose and couldn’t stop. He poured his story out in a torrent of emotion and came close to tears toward the end. Sydney had never told anyone about his situation before: he always packed his thoughts away and stored them deep inside to rot. For the first time, Sydney emptied all of the toxic filth he had built up over the last few months and a feeling of guilty refreshment overcame him as he spoke. All the time, Bill rode ahead, never nodding, never interrupting. Even Hobbes seemed to absorb everything Sydney said as he jogged down the trail alongside. Sydney finished and stopped to rest—his confession left him exhausted and out of breath. Bill
said nothing, but drew his eyebrows together until his forehead wrinkled. There was something going on inside that head; Sydney knew it.
Sydney, Bill, and Hobbes travelled in silence until dusk. Cool wind swept leaves across the path, leaving swirled patterns of burnt oranges and reds in the fading sunlight. Eventually the two began to lighten their pace until Hobbes could lead them walking.
“There isn’t a town around here for another six miles. There’s a clearing at the next mile marker,” Bill said, pointing toward a faint white post in the dim distance. “We oughta make camp there for the night.”
When they reached the post, they dismounted and walked their bikes to a small patch of grass in the woods just off the trail. Bill reached under his shirts and pulled out a couple of thin blankets folded around his waist. Then bending awkwardly to the side, he reached into a pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a water bottle. Telling Sydney to clear a spot for the blankets, he disappeared into the woods.
Sydney brushed leaves away with his foot and laid the blankets down. “It sure isn’t much of a ‘camp,’” he thought, “But it’ll do the job.” Besides, it didn’t look like it was going to rain. Sydney unzipped his backpack, pulled out a few granola bars, then set the bag down at the head of his blanket to act as a pillow. He found a suitable place to sit on a dead log next to the blankets and began unwrapping a granola bar when Bill emerged from the woods with his water bottle—half full of cold water—and a collection of dead branches under his arm. Pulling out a magnesium fire starter and a pocket knife, Bill arranged the sticks and lit the pile after a few tries. Bill plopped down on the log next to Sydney and the pair feasted on granola bars as Hobbes slept at their feet.
“You’ve got to go back, kid,” Bill said.
“I know, I just want to take a few days to figure all this out and recoll—”
“No, no, no. You’ve got to go back tomorrow,” Bill said with a tone of urgency. “Does anyone know you’re out here? What about your parents; did you tell them? They’ve got to be hysterical by now. Did you think about them?”
“Well, not really, but this isn’t about them. I mean, with all this junk that’s happened, I need to think. And getting out here seemed like the best way to do it. And it really is. I just need to spend a few days on it because, well, I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I just never thought I’d—”
“Listen here, son,” Bill interrupted again. He shifted to face Sydney. “I know this all seems like the world’s fallen apart on you and nothing makes sense anymore. There’s always a god out there to get us or some excuse like that; we all find ourselves victims of some greater force. But that doesn’t mean you can just go off and do senseless stuff like this. This whole mess you’re in hardly has anything to do with college. Heck, it’s much bigger than that. Sid, you’re 18. You’re so young: you’ve lost nothing yet. You’re still at the beginning of your journey, so if stuff doesn’t go exactly right at this point, who cares? At least you can change it now—and for the better—before you’re decades down the road and you have no choice but to keep going the way you’re headed, no matter what’s at the end. And to be real honest with you, all of our paths end at the same place. On your deathbed, it doesn’t make a bit of difference whether you were a lawyer, a criminal, a tycoon, or a bum. We all start at the same point and end at the same point in the grand scheme of things: what you have to decide is which way you’re going to go in between those.”
“I lied to you earlier, Sid. I’ve been out here for years. I don’t know exactly how many, but Hobbes and I have been out here for a long time. I was where you were once: I had a family and I had to decide what to do about college once, too. I graduated, got a job, and hated myself. It was never what I wanted. I had a house. So what? Everyone has a house. I had a car. So what? Everyone has a car. I had everything any regular person could ever need, and it sickened me. I was just like everyone else, and what kind of life is that? I wasn’t changing anything or making a difference for anyone. I just worked, came home, watched TV, paid the bills, and went to sleep everyday like everyone else. So I sold everything and came out here. It’s not a life I’d wish on anyone, but it makes sense to me. I get to see the world everyday and I get to see the best in people. It’s lonely out here, but I’ve made plenty of friends along the way—good people, the kind who don’t see a vagrant, but rather someone with thoughts, someone who can make as much difference as a preacher or a best friend. And sometimes I come across someone like you, searching for answers, who I might be able to help. And that’s what’s important, Sid. That’s the path I’ve chosen, and I regret nothing. And you know what? I may not always be some homeless wanderer, but in the end, I still won’t regret a thing. And that’s the best feeling in the world.”
“I know things seem tough, Sid, but you’ve got thousands of different paths laid out in front of you right now. You’ve got to pick one because you can’t just sit where you are. You’ll never have that many choices again, either. Sure, you can always change paths when they intersect, but going back is difficult and is hardly worth the
time. I suggest you find what it is that you want to do with your young life. What makes you happy? Who makes you happy? How do you want to spend the rest of your time? You’re a smart kid and you’ll figure out something. Just remember that your path isn’t all about you, either. You can’t be happy just trying to help yourself figure things out. You have to help others along their paths as well, maybe even share paths or get off of yours for a little while. That’s the key to happiness, kid. No one dies wishing they had spent more days bitter and sad. Whatever you do, I suggest taking the path that will make you happiest on your way to the end.”
Bill sat for a moment, staring at the ground beneath the dying fire, then rose from the log and settled down underneath his blanket. Sydney stared at the fire blankly for several minutes before he noticed Hobbes’ head resting on his shoe. Hobbes looked up at Sydney with droopy eyes, reminding Sydney of his tired eyes and sore legs. Hobbes was right: Sydney couldn’t digest this all in one night. Bill’s advice was something that would take a lifetime to apply and understand. Hobbes pulled himself off the ground and waddled to the empty blanket in weariness, then slid into a pile. Sydney followed and crawled into the blanket beside Hobbes.
Underneath the rustling leaves and what few stars poked through the canopy above, Sydney gave thought to what Bill had said. It was time to stop wallowing in his past failures and decide his next step. All he had needed was a change in perspective, the words of a grey-haired vagabond.
Sydney woke to a grassy plane and a smoldering pile of grey ashes. A lone bike leaned on a nearby tree, whose birds sang of midmorning. Sydney rose, and the blanket that had covered him fell to the ground. Next to the log he found Bill’s bottle, still half-full of water. Underneath Sydney was a depression in the ground, mirrored across the remnants of the fire by a larger dent in the grass.
Sydney was alone, and this loneliness reminded him of Bill’s words the night before. He had to choose a path. No one else could help him anymore—the next step was for him to take alone. Sydney gathered up the blanket and water bottle, knowing that Bill probably needed them both but chose to give them up out of pure kindness. He wrapped the blanket around his waist and slid the bottle into his backpack. After grabbing the handlebars of his bike and wheeling it out onto the chat path, he took a moment to look down the trail from where he had come and where he was about to return. He had set out on a journey to end all journeys: one to solidify his future, one that would tell him where to go for the rest of his life. Instead, this bike trip became a turn in a much greater journey that was only now becoming apparent to Sydney.
Looking down the trail, Sydney wasn’t eager about going back to his old town and back to reality. The journey was going to be long and the end certainly wasn’t going to be very enjoyable. Nevertheless, Sydney mounted his bike and began pedaling, this time with a new sense of sureness in himself. The trail was straight, familiar, and slightly boring, but that was okay with Sydney. He had a lot to think about anyway.
