A Letter, a Duffle, and an Empty Room

He had not been expecting a letter. He had not been expecting anything really, except to graduate college and find a job. That's what he was told would happen. The past eighteen years of his life he had been a prisoner of one school or another: preschool, kindergarten, elementary, college, it was all the same. Set recess times ceded to arrangeable schedules. Large lunch tables shrank to single lonely seats. Cots and naptimes gave way to dorm bunks and regrets. He was stifled with routine. The letter crumbled that routine into a fine mist that floated away when the hushed wind picked up that early summer day it arrived.

It had been a long time since he had traveled. The new air was musky but fresh. Everywhere about him were tall trees, dirty trails, misshapen stones and boulders dropped like God's cigarette ash amidst the sullen countryside. He had no tent, just a thin blue sleeping bag that held him over for the cold nights. He lit a cigar and flicked the wooden matchstick back towards its giant forestry brethren. The smoke barely lifted in the still calm. The air moved and the cigar smoke eddied then returned to a straight wisp.

The old beat-up canvas bag next to him held his portable life: two pairs of socks, three pairs of flannel boxers, a loose white button down, a couple of old t-shirts rolled up and stuffed into the side pocket, a pair of khaki shorts, a canteen of water, a notebook, a pen, a pencil for when the pen burnt out, a carton of Lucky Strikes, a now empty cigar case, half a bottle of Chivas, and a letter.

The sun was dipping down across the tree-littered horizon. Splashes of light glanced through the branches and danced on the dirt as the trees swayed in a light breeze. He collected twigs of various sizes and scraped off some dead leaves from a fallen branch. They would do. He teepeed the twigs over the dead leaves and struck a match. It went out with the sudden evening breeze that had picked up. He shook his head. He struck another one closer to the leaves and they caught flame, but the twigs were still too alive to catch and the small inferno lit up and went out like a miniature supernova. He had to do it all over again. He got more dead leaves, new dead twigs, lit another match that went out, but finally succeeded in the hearth. He put his hands against the glow and leaned into the flame to relight the cigar that had been extinguished by distraction.

Last week he had been in college. It was his senior year second semester. The four years had passed by in varying hues of hours and weeks, assignments and drinks, girls and syllabi. He had bought his graduation cap and gown and was staring blankly proud into the mirror. An unfinished senior seminar paper on the evolution of Arthurian masculinity between twelfth-century French verse and fifteenth-century English prose was up on his computer. Stacks of drab green and brown and red books were stacked neatly against the wall and scattered half open over his bed and floor. He looked at his reflection. A pair of khaki shorts lay unwashed over the side of the bed. A white button down was thrashed on the ground. He only had a couple pairs of clean socks and boxers left and hadn't done wash for three weeks. He looked at his reflection. A bottle of Chivas was unopened next to the computer, an early graduation gift from his best friend along with a new corked flask. His bed smelled like old fish and yesterday's cologne. He looked at his reflection. A shout came from the bottom of the steps. A letter had come for him.

The envelope was unmarked, just his name on the front in deep red felt pen. He quirked his face and frowned his lips. Inside was a letter. It read: "I guess back then things were simple and easy. A laugh meant a laugh and a tear only meant a scraped knee. I don't know why I'm writing you this, but I couldn't write anyone else. I guess I just wanted to thank you for being a best friend. Goodbye."

He lowered his hands and looked into the mirror. He saw his reflection. He sat that way for a long time before he got a call from his mother. She was crying.

The next morning his room was in disarray and he was gone. A cap and gown lay abandoned on the dirty sheets and a duffle packed with a couple necessities was missing. He didn't know where he was going, but he was sure he would get there eventually.