Headlights

Darkness arrived early. Wind shrieked a predicted storm's arrival while rain amplified its existence with deafening pelts on my car. My grocery shopping was finished and I wanted to get home to relax just a little. It had been a difficult day, and the weather certainly made its contribution.

That's when I saw him. As my windshield wipers frantically removed sheets of water, his faint silhouette became apparent in the fragmented beam of my headlights. He stood along the busy roadside, as cars and trucks whooshed water on his silent figure. I think it was the cap, a sagging, soaked, black sweatshirt, and an arm that held a bulging plastic bag that made me pause. When I noticed his other hand, with thumb directed south, I knew I had to stop.

He slid in the door with rain that made its way in and sprayed the dashboard of my car. I smelled the odor of cigarettes, mud, sweat, and loneliness.

“Thanks”, he said, giving me a closed smile with eyes diverting mine and riveting downward. “Sure is raining.”
“Oh my, yes”, I replied, trying to sound upbeat and exasperated at the same time. “I guess it is what we expect this time of year, but for some reason it always takes me by surprise. Are you cold, can I turn up the heat a little?”
“ Oh, no, no. I'm fine. Just feels good to sit down. Sorry about my wet clothes.”

As I glanced over at him , I saw drenched clothing that clung to his slender body and hands that held the week's grime. “Hey, don't worry about that! Have you been in town long?” I asked, in a contrived matter of fact tone.

“Well, yeah, I have for a while. But not any more. I'm just trying to make my way south. I need to get out of here. This place has bad vibes. They call me and I don't like it. I just don't like it...maybe I'll go to San Diego or something.”

“What's in San Diego?”, I asked, still with an oblivious tone that was betrayed by my wavering voice.

“Oh, I dunno. I guess because I lived there before. I was a little kid, Dad was a contractor there....but....” His voiced trailed off, and then he changed the subject, “Um, I think I might get to see a concert tonight if I get south soon enough, there's some reggae stuff I'd like to hear.”

“ Music is always good... how far away is the concert?”, I asked.

“Oh, I'm not sure. I'll find out when I get there.”

Confused, I decided to redirect our conversation elsewhere. “You have family?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.

He paused, then said, “ I have a sister, and two half brothers, but I don't really know them. I mean, I know my sister, of course, but not them.”

“When did you speak with your sister last?” My question was a little intrusive, and I hoped it wouldn't offend him.
“At Christmas.” And he didn't elaborate.

As we made our way through the increasing storm, I held the steering wheel tightly. His words brought back another storm, a life storm that I'd finally accepted, and gently released. The wind and rain pushed against my car. I decreased my speed, gripping myself as well as the wheel, and continued the conversation.

At twenty five, he knew his life had been an eventful one. He told me about his first day of kindergarten, when he decided to walk home two miles by himself, and scared his mother. He smiled slightly as he recalled the story.

We talked about a time at fifteen years of age when his mother placed him in a therapeutic school in Montana to give him a fresh start where he reflected that he “talked to therapists every day and went to classes. Sometimes we went on field trips to go snow boarding or hiking. I remember one time I escaped and jumped on a freight train to Spokane and then hitched a ride to Seattle. I got a free ride on the bus there that took me to Sacramento.” He continued to share pockets of time with frayed images from another life. There was a three week hike in the Bob Marshall Wilderness of Montana with a therapist to get the drugs out of his body and find out why he was doing things that hurt his life. “Yeah, I learned how to make a shelter in the wilderness, and read animal trails. One night a mother grizzly bear and her cubs walked by our tent.” Certain my eyes were opened wide, I commented, “ Wow! That was a close call! You were really out in the wild. Did she come back?”

“No. I was actually asleep when she came by. The therapist woke me after she had gone. He was Native American, and knew a lot about animals and nature. He said he didn't move or breathe. He was afraid I'd wake up and startle her. That would have been bad. He peeked out of a stitch hole in the tent and saw her put her nose in the air. Then she growled at her cubs and moved on....” His voice trailed off again , and he looked out the car window. The mother grizzly's fierce protective instinct for her young was not far removed from mine as my memory bolted to times my own son had been coaxed by unseen life threatening dangers of illicit drugs lurking anywhere, everywhere.

“What else did you learn when you were out there by yourselves?” I asked, trying to regain his attention.

“I remember I missed my family a lot. When I came out of the wilderness, I was so happy so see everyone. They surprised me”. His eyes teared slightly as he fumbled with his bag.
“Been a long time, though. Lots has happened since then. I tried going to college for a while, and working. I came back up here, my mom got me into rehab down south for thirty days. That was cool. I liked it. I think I'd like to do that again. But after so many bad people that keep taking advantage of me, I dunno....” Then he catapulted to another subject. “ I had to have part of my intestines taken out last spring. That was from Crohn's Disease. I got into the Dr. just in time, I guess. There was some sort of blockage and ulcers in my colon. I was in there for a week, and stayed with my mom for a while...but then I had to go. I had some kind of mental breakdown, and she called the police. After a few days, I talked to her on the phone.....then I took myself up here to the mental hospital. They kept me there for five days. I was given some good medication, and it helps me think better. I guess I have bipolar disorder or something. My dad has the same thing. Anyways, I guess I'm telling you more than you wanted to hear. Sorry.”

“Oh, don't apologize, please”, I responded. “You have experienced a great deal in your young life, thank you for sharing it with me. You have had so much involved with your mental and physical health. I admire your strength for continuing to try and figure things out. I can only imagine how difficult your journey has been. I'm sure your family loves and misses you so much.... and wants your life to be a good one.”

He looked down and wiped his eyes quickly. “Yeah, I know they do. At least I know my mom and my sister does, I doubt that my dad does.. 'cause he never knew ...” and his voice trailed off again as if he had entered a cave that consumed his words.

After a few quiet moments he told more of his story. He had been kicked in the jaw and shoulder during one bad drug contact, wandered in the forest where he knew he heard someone talking to him and telling him where to go. He had many nights of sleeping on the ground, or in his old car. He found a homeless shelter for a few weeks, shared a room with two men who had just been released from prison. One had been in there for ten years. He also told of a time when he tried going to see his dad in Nevada for a month, but it didn't work out. The police were called after a night of terrible yelling and threats made by both himself and his father. He left and hitchhiked for days, ending back here, as he always seemed to do. When I asked about his mother again, he told me she always loved him, and helped him many times. She got special food for his diet because of his Crohn's disease, washed his clothes sometimes.

I approached my exit, and wanted to ask where he was going. The weather continued its downpour and I was a little hesitant to send him back out into the rain. My mind reeled with the information he'd given me, and I wondered where his journey would take him next. “Hey”, I said as I neared the offramp. “I tell you what. Since your mom lives in the area, how about me giving you a ride to her house? Do you think she'd mind? Would that be okay with you? You might be able to at least wait out the storm there.”

After a long hesitation, he answered. “Well, maybe I could.” He reached into his bag, and pulled out a small cell phone. “Hey, Mom? Hi, yeah. Sorry I haven't talked with you lately. I just had to go, I had to get out of here. Yeah. Uh huh. Well, I'm getting a ride from a lady right now and she said she could give me a lift to your house if that is okay with you. Okay. Yeah. I will. Love you, too”. Closing his phone, he looked at me and smiled. “Okay. I'll take you up on that ride. We have to go about five miles east of here.”

After I dropped him at the end of the driveway, I watched as he made his way up to the door. I saw a small woman reach up and hug the solitary man, and kiss him on the cheek.

I drove home and reflected on the storm that raged outside as well as the one that had raged inside my car. I'd felt the unpredictable wind shift within my traveler many times, and my heart ached with sharp pain, empathizing with all his lonely days and nights. His confusion was like rain that aimlessly swirled around lights lining the streets to my house. “What will happen to him?”, I wondered and suddenly realized how his life paralleled that of my son.

As I entered my warm home, a shiver consumed me. I looked at my end table and picked up a framed picture, taken twenty five years ago. It was of me as I held my month old infant son. My arms and hands cradled him in front of me as I kissed his perfect face. I recalled the joy, and hope I felt. I wanted him to have a happy life. A good life where he could experience the exhilaration and wonder the world had to offer. I hoped for him to be a good man, one who could make a difference for others.

I put the picture back on the table, and took a deep breath. My eyes closed to see him smile again. I wondered where he was, if he was safe, warm and had food. Was he caring for his life, his body? Was he out of danger? Was he taking his medication? Had drugs, with their sinister language, found a way back inside his mind?

Months have blurred since I last saw my son, without knowledge of his whereabouts. My calls to the police, circulation of his picture, conversations with acquaintances, and prayers have provided no answers.

I hope. I always hope. Tonight, though, my hope is for someone to see his silhouetted figure in their headlights, and offer him a ride home.

Then I could open my door... and kiss his perfect face.