“The Old Man And The Sea” Made Me Write This
The highway lines weren’t moving, he was sure of that, but the car felt squeezed as his tired eyes glared at the road.
Compared to the usual trips they took, this was a short one, just a few hours. It had been a great day, the feeling of family still hung off his clothes like the uncles’ cigarette smoke and he didn’t mind either hanging on for awhile. It hadn’t been too long since he and his wife had seen everybody, but in his head, visits always felt forever ago and yesterday, he didn’t know why.
It was finally almost cold out. Winter had seemed to hesitate somewhere around the 3/4 mark of fall but that pause had now broken and the artic snap could be heard away in the distance, if you took a moment to listen. The stars were shining the brightest he’d seen in awhile and Orion's Belt laced against the dark backdrop to the left of a crescent moon as they left the house. If it were up to him, he’d have laid in the grass and watched, but it wasn’t up to him and it had been years since he’d done anything more than just talk about laying in the grass to watch the stars.
The pour over coffee served in a Ravens mug still felt warm in his belly. If there was a better coffee than around 6pm after a couple beers with the family he had yet to find it, and yes, he included the mandatory first thing in the morning cup in that search.
As the Explorer warmed up, heat began pumping through the vents and soon his wife was asleep in the passenger seat, her little head tucked in an airplane pillow with a blanket wrapped tightly around her. Some men didn’t like when their copilot fell asleep; he loved it.
The trust she showed in him, the complete release of herself into his hands, the unspoken words of “I know you, you’ll get me home” was one of the few times he felt like a man. Plus, she was so adorable when she fell asleep in the car. How a grown woman can turn into a quiet child when her eyes got heavy still confused him, but he’d thrown that on the pile of mysteries about this girl he hoped he’d never figure out.
“Old Man And The Sea” was the audiobook of choice for this ride. He’d read it once before in one sitting and had avoided it since then because of what it had stirred in him. Just the thought of that night where he devoured his first full work of Hemingway and the tingles returned. Duller every time, as repeated exposure to anything will increase your tolerance, which is why he had avoided it, but tonight he felt it was necessary.
His writing had grown stale. What started okay would inevitably end in a boring recantation of the steps he’d taken, the words he’d said, and the half assed conclusion he reached that was for sure stolen near directly from some person he could probably name if he sat and thought about it hard enough.
The videos were getting to him. “There is some good stuff there, I’m just using it for inspiration. I need to see how others think to think myself. Elon said to take in as much information as possible, why shouldn’t I listen?” The excuses for scrolling were as endless as the shorts he watched and didn’t remember. He knew it was a trap but took the bait anyway, like a bass with scarred lips, all he knew was to strike and swipe at the too easy to be good for you sitting right in front of his face.
But it had been decided. Tonight was the time, the time to take in something real again. Wash away the flashes and find a focused beam of something true, something that was actually something, words that were more than distraction.
All of this, the guilt in what he’d been doing, the shame in what he’d not done, and lies he told himself about why he could or couldn’t (or worse, should or shouldn’t) raced in his mind like the taillights of Civics and Mustangs on I-95. His eyes had settled a bit and the lanes appeared somewhat stable and he knew he was ready.
Ready for another start. A start at doing. Doing that started with listening. Listening for truth, truth that would stoke the smoldering inside his gut that longed to get out and had been tamped down with all the noise of nonsense he shoved through his ears and eyes daily.
So he drove and listened. The boy took care of Santiago, Santiago powered through hard times and old age, fueled by routine and stubbornness and the pursuit of greatness.
Throwaway phrases ripped at his core, the nibbling of the marlin dampened his palms, the tension of the line tightened his chest.
The highway turned to sea in front of him, the Explorer became an old boat, and the last mouthful of water in his Yeti was all he had left. The car’s heater was a hot sun on open water, sucking the moisture from the air and cracking his lips. His eyes were no longer tired but sharp and he saw everything for how it really was. All of this was caused by words that came from his speakers that had been written long ago by a man long dead and he knew he’d found it again.
But the road ended before the sea and soon he was parked in spot 71 outside building B. His wife woke up and her blue eyes blinked a few times, trying to escape the grasp of sleep.
“How’s your book?” she asked.
“Oh it’s good. Very good.” He’d thought about trying to tell her what he’d done, how he landed the marlin and fought off sharks and proved that he was the man he thought himself to be, but decided against it.
He knew it hadn’t actually been him, he wasn’t that mad yet, but his mind had lived those moments and right now it felt real, fading as the seconds flicked past like it always did, but he knew it had felt real.
They walked upstairs and he put her to bed. The embers inside him were glowing and you couldn’t waste time when the fire was burning, he knew that.
Lights low, hood up on his sweatshirt, he laid down on the couch to write:
The highway lines weren’t moving, he was sure of that…
Written by Andrew Mies.
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