CONTINUED FROM POST BELOW

The only thing I knew about Colorado, other than it was mostly mountains (and I was fairly sure Denver was the capital) came from John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High. Yes, I liked the song (still do). And he made it sound like a cool place, being reborn and all.

Made sense for me, what with my sudden epiphany. It was time to reinvent myself, to take a risk. I had to venture toward a place I could not see, placing trust in my own abilities rather than sit back and let life come to me. Yeah, that had paid off pretty well at this point. Here I was with a college education and no bills, and a rent-free place waiting for me.

But if I were to remain, I would get complacent. This future, the one that awaited me in my hometown, was pretty clear. If I didn’t find a newspaper job, well, I could work behind the counter of Shop ‘n’ Go, as I had the last two summers. Minimum wage, medical benefits, spending downtime with some quality adult magazines. The I’d send out another batch of resumes waiting for something to land on my lap.

Or I could get off my ass. Carpe diem, so to speak (not that I would actually say that because even I wasn’t that big a doofus).

The decision had been made, in those few seconds at the urinal when Mr. Hayes gave me his “So what the fuck are you gonna do with your life?” look.

I was going to go to Colorado. That’s what.

As time went on, it made more sense. A few months ago I had sent out 50 resumes (job hunting was such a pain in the ass before the Internet and monster.com; you really had to work hard on sending out meaningless crap that had about as much chance landing you a job as winning Powerball). I received five replies, if you count the one sent by the Portland Oregonian, which returned my resume with a form letter that said, in essence, “Dude, we so want to kick your ass for wasting our time with this.”

Ten percent got back to me, zero job offers. I could have done better if I’d stood on a street corner with a sign that said “Will write for food, and a beer every now and then.” Even if I’d had any wind in my sails (effectively deflated by Mr. Hayes), I knew I was dead in the water at that point.

Shop ‘n’ Go looked likely. Unless I did something drastic. Like pack the back of my car and drive to Colorado.

There was only one problem, and his name was Harry. I was not sure how my dad would react to my decision, though I new it could be summed up in two words: “Not well.”

I said nothing to him that summer as I finished my studies. The grand plan was to steal away in the night, for I was nothing if not a coward. I discounted that scheme once I knew how difficult it would be for me to put my stereo in the back of my Datsun B210 hatchback without help (this was in the day when the measure of a man was taken by his stereo speakers, and mine were massive, making up for shortcomings as Hummers do now).

No, I would tell my dad when he came to help me move back home, the day after school ended. How tough could it be? My dad had always wanted the best for me, and did what he could to make my wishes come true.

What he never realized that sometimes, those weren’t my wishes.

It was a gorgeous summer day, sunny and not too hot. An ocean breeze blew in gently from the Pacific (god, how I took the weather in San Luis Obispo for granted). I had taken my last final exam the day before, had said goodbye to friends, promising to keep in touch forever (no idea where they are now), and woke that morning early to start putting my things in milk crates I had collected over the years.

By the time my dad arrived, everything was ready to go. We worked quickly and silently. Me, wondering what my next few weeks were going to be like; my dad, happy his son was coming home.

I placed my last crate of albums in the car (now crammed with enough vinyl to fill maybe one-tenth of my MP3 player now). My dad reached for his car key, reminding me to follow him along Highway 101 during the four-hour drive home.

“Dad, one thing. I’m, uh, I think I know what I want to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, after I get home.”

“No need to worry about that now, son. Look, take some time, a few weeks, your mom and I don’t mind. She’s even going to help you with your resumes.”

And he reminded me once again how close the local paper was, that he would not be surprised if something opened up there in a few months. “You’ll be fine, trust me. You’re good at what you do. Even if you don’t get something right away, it’ll happen. Have faith in yourself.”

“I’m going to Colorado.”

I’ve always believed that the faster you rip off the Band-Aid, the less it hurts.

In most cases, anway.

“You’re what?”

“I had a talk with my advisor and I know you want me to—“

“Colorado? What the hell is in Colorado? You’ve never been to Colorado. You know it’s cold in Colorado. How many newspapers are in Colorado? Do you know how far it is from here to Colorado?”

My dad had just said “Colorado” more times in those few seconds than he had in all my 21 years combined.

“It’s just that I need something different,” I said. “I need to shake things up a little.”

“Well, this is certainly going to shake up your mother. You know she’s expecting you home for a while. Baked cookies last night for you.”

I had no words for that. I simply stood in silence.

My dad did too. Then he jammed his car key back in his pocket, turned and started walking.

“I need to think,” he said. He disappeared behind the wall separating the apartment complex’s parking lot with the train tracks that probably ran all the way to Colorado.

I went back to my apartment, sat on the carpet, leaned against the wall. Waited.

When he came back about 30 minutes later, all he said was, “Let’s go” and we headed back to Concord. By way of Highway 101.

Four hours spent wondering if I was doing the right thing. When we pulled into the driveway, the garage door opening, my mom waving from the front door, it was clear.

It was Colorado.

My parents eventually got used to the idea. Never really accepted it. This wasn’t the way to accumulate a nest egg, to be careful, to be safe. No, this was just too risky.

Two weeks later I was ready to go. The Datsun was packed with all my earthly belongings (and they were, in order of importance, the stereo, 17-inch color TV, and clothes).

My dad left for work about an hour before I hit the road. His was a morning ritual – shower, shave, cook two fried eggs to eat while sipping coffee and reading the paper, put on his tie and coat, and get in the car.

He called to me as he was putting on his tie. The scent of Old Spice was still strong.

“You know we’re going to miss you,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you know that we think it would be best if you stayed here for a while.”

“I know that too.” I’d been dreading this moment for two weeks. Not because I was terrified of my decision (I was), but because of what the last words of my father might be.

“But you’re set on this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Finished with his tie, he pulled on his coat and reached into an inner pocket, withdrawing an envelope.

“There’s $600 in there,” he said. “Even though we disagree on this, we’re always going to support you. We will always be your mom and dad. Call from the road, let us know you’re OK. And you get out there and do your best, OK?

“We’re proud of you.”

We hugged. Not another word was said as I slipped the envelope into my back jeans pocket. I walked to the front door with him, watched as he got in the car and drove away.

This really was real.

I was going to Colorado. With all my stuff in the car. And $600 in my back pocket.

TO BE CONTINUED