The Call

A Short Story

South California, 5th September 2007

"There was this unrest I felt every time I looked out of a window and saw a forest or mountains, fields, even trees at a particular point. I knew I had to do something about, I realised I couldn't just sit there and let it go over."
Diary of Brandon Green

Brandon walked over to the corner shop and entered, the bell rang and he heard a female voice: "I will be out in a minute!" Brandon knew what he needed, he headed right for the tins and grabbed three, soups. Then he took a pack of rolls. On the way to the counter he stopped at the board full of sweets, mainly chocolate. When was the last time he had eaten chocolate, Brandon wondered, did he had eaten any since he had decided to leave his home. No he thought, I didn't had the money for it since I decide to leave New York. He continued to the counter and paid the woman, cash as always. He had no bank accounts, not anymore, no credit cards no phone. He put everything in his backpack and left the store. "Have a nice day!", the woman called after him. "You too," he answered before the door closed behind him.

As he walked over to the tracks he wondered why he hadn't been more friendly to her. Ever since he had been on the road he had increasingly stopped talking with people. Not entirely of course but there had been a time when he had enjoyed socializing, at the beginning of his trip into the unknown he had talked with a lot of others who were searching for something, just like he did.
When he arrived at the tracks he sat down and opened the bag, he eat a roll, slowly chewing it to mimic to his body that he was eating enough. He had picked a spot from which he could see the train from a distance. It would be slow because it was heavily loaded, perfect to hop on. But Brandon wasn't in a hurry he slowly packed the rolls back into the backpack put it on and adjusted it. He walked down and waited in a two meter distance to the tracks. Train hopping was dangerous, if you couldn't hold up or jumped in the wrong moment it got ugly, he himself had bruises and scars from both, hopping on and off the train.

The train came and Brandon speeded up he ran along an open wagon and jumped, he grabbed a bar and swung himself in the wagon.

He robbed into a corner from which he had a good view out of the open door. The wide fields of south California were flashing by, it was harvest season and people were on all the fields. In the afternoon he saw the first signs for Las Vegas. He didn't want to go into the city; he had left this long behind him. Brandon was more interested in what was north of the city, he walked to the door threw out his backpack and followed. He rolled off. While he walked back to his backpack he beat the dust out of his clothes. Not that it changed a lot, they were old, his trousers had holes, the jacket was slowly falling apart.

None of my friends would recognise me like this, Brandon thought. He had studied in New York at the Law School; his father always wanted his youngest son to get a lawyer. A doctor, an architect and a lawyer, Clive Green's dream hadn't been fulfilled. Dad always dreamed far too high for us, neither Jake nor Victoria ever wanted to study medicine and architecture; they only did it for him. I got out of it just fine.

He lifted the backpack up and followed the street signs.

In the evening he arrived at a small gathering of houses, he walked past them and into the forest. In the last light of the sun he prepared for the night. He didn't had a tent, the West was hot in the summer. He only lay on his sleeping bag not in it, since San Francisco. He sat down and leaned against a tree. The sunlight was falling through the trees and Brandon decided to read before the light was gone. He took one of the books in his backpack, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman.

                                              "Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.

                                                                    You must travel it by yourself.