Loops

Searching

People have this funny habit of asking me where I'm going. I'm not really sure what it is about me that causes them to ask, but my answer's always the same. "In circles" I tell them. Sometimes I wonder why they ask. I'm sure I've considered every angle. Perhaps it's the over-size backpack I am always carrying. Maybe it's because I'm always glancing over my shoulder mid-conversation, to see if anyone's watching.

I like to think that it's the lost look in my eyes. Every time I catch my reflection in the mirror, I am surprised at how restless I look, how anxious I seem.

At 22 years old, I've lived thirty-seven different places, and counting. If you do the math, that's almost twice a year, not including all of the places my mother brought me when I was too young to understand that she liked to run away. I suppose it might be genetic. I mean, running's what I've been doing my whole life, isn't it? All I can say is, whenever I've been somewhere too long, my legs begin to ache. It's like growing pains past twenty.

For once, I'm a sunny place. I didn't look at the token "Welcome to..." sign on the way in, so all I know is that I am somewhere in the middle of British Columbia. It makes me sad to think that even the unique beauty of this province can't hold me here for very long, though the isolation sometimes can. So I hitchhike annually, whenever that feeling strikes, out onto the Trans-Canada Highway toward BC. I ask the driver to drop me off near Kamloops, and they watch me stomp into the forest. I never look back, but I like to imagine their looks of confusion as I disappear into the trees.

I think it's the mountains that always bring me back. I like standing at their base, so I can experience and maybe absorb some of their strength. They always give me comfort, to know some things never move. Or can't. I remember, a long time ago, the first time I saw the mountains. I'll never forget that moment, deciding that each peak signaled the upturned faces of a lost people who, a long time ago, looked to at the stars and forgot to look down again. Even remembering those times brings the familiar tingle. Then my choice is easy; I take one step away from civilization and, thumb flagging, toward the nearest highway. Someone is always nice enough to offer me a lift.

This time, a kindly fellow asks where I am headed and I tell him. For some reason, I trust this stranger. I think it's his eyes. I put my bag into the backseat of the old soft-top and let myself into the front of the car. We watch each other for a moment. He's elderly, with keen watery eyes and a crooked nose. His flannel shirt is untucked, his tan trousers slightly wrinkled and his feet, bare.

I take off my shoes.

We drive in silence for a while, and every minute or two he glances in my direction. I can usually tell right away whether I'm being picked up by a pervert, I've had a lot of experience with that sort of thing, but he isn't like that. This guy is only gently curious, I think, like all other people of the transient kind, who are only searching for an answer. For a story. I know that look. I see it every time I look in a mirror.

"Come out this way often?" he asks.

"You could say that."

"Got a name, kiddo?"

"Kiddo'll do me just fine." He smiles and adjusts the radio dial before giving up hope of getting any good reception.

"I s'ppose it's just conversation from here on out then," he grins, watery eyes twinkling.

I'm curious. I want to know more about him. I want to add him to my collection of interesting encounters. There aren't many that make it into my book, but I have a feeling that his story is worth it. I take my journal out and – pen poised – I ask him to tell me a story. His story.

"Well I can't right well tell you all that!" he laughs. I tell him I only need one. He changes lanes, glancing at me through the rear-view mirror.

"I s'ppose that's not too much to ask. Come to think of it, I have one that'll suit you just fine. It's about a girl I met, some years ago. She would have been a bit younger than you, maybe ten." He looks at me again through the mirror, waiting for a reaction.

"I'm seventeen." I sit up taller. His mouth twitches and I can't help but smile.

"All grown up now, aren't we?" I like his familiar air. It's refreshing in the face of so many strangers.

"Well then! Maybe Kiddo ain't so appropriate after all! You can call me Cal, if you like."

"Is that short for something?"

"Nope. That's the name my poor mama gave me," he laughs again, "Bless her heart." He passes a semi-truck and a mini-van before continuing.