Misfortune leaves a traveling writer stranded in a sleepy town on the Californian coast. Leo Mas, along with newfound friends explore the outskirts of their comfort zones as they struggle to find a balance between a life of stability and a life of adventure. The story follows each of the characters as they confront their own demons and the distractions they use to cope with those demons. Leo and his companions grow close, but the road calls to him, eternally beckoning his return.
Can happiness be found in a life of safety and comfort? What are the consequences of testing these personal boundaries?
I wish I could say I wasn’t lonely. Miles ahead, miles behind. Didn’t know where I was going, but definitely not lost. A chase? An escape? Or was I just discontent? Bored? All that mattered was a direction. Forward. I had little, but I was grateful to have that. I thought about my recent past. My heart tightened. A feeling unfamiliar to me so I fell back on something I was accustomed to.
I wrote.
A man looks back on his past. He finds shelter in the only home he knows. It sprawls ahead, beyond his weary eyes, and, as the colors bleed into a gradual dark hue, he finds comfort in the nothingness. He sees what others do not see. He walks where others do not walk. The sun-soaked rock faces offer a warmth without caveat, without judgment, without wish for restitution.
He breathes deeply, slowly. The warm air fills his lungs, lifting his spirits as hills crawl over the horizon ahead, then retreat beyond the horizon behind. His world is packed on his back, yet his past is what weighs him down.
In his exodus from the world he once knew, he came upon the world he was meant to love. With a guardian protecting his steps, the man walks forward into abyss.
I stood up and circled to the back of the car, opened the trunk. I took inventory. A couple jugs of water. Some beef jerky. Cheetos from a gas station. Some oranges plucked from a grove that I passed a couple days back. My pack. A weathered, black-and-grey Osprey internal frame pack. Light, but it contained most of my life. I grabbed the bottom, and dumped the contents on the floor of the trunk. Gave it a shake as I watched the contents spill out. The normal backpacking stuff: waterproof matches, kindling, toilet paper, first aid kit, flashlight and headlamp, a Gerber fixed-blade knife. My old tent and sleeping bag. A small bundle wrapped in a red bandana tumbled out of the pack. I knew my gear in and out, yet this bundle was still an unfamiliar addition.
I grabbed the bandana and unfolded it. A photo with a piece of paper clipped to the back lay in the bandana. There were charred edges, apparently saved from licking flames. I didn’t spend the time to study the photo or the note. Not now. I thought about how that photo had reached me but couldn’t well. It was too early for that.
Another item in that bundle. I held it still partially wrapped in the bandana. I looked out at the empty road, squeezing the handle. The wood grip was soothing, and the cold steel bit at my fingers. The steel began to warm, as if fusing to its new owner. It was small but I knew the power it had, and what it meant to be carrying this. I tucked it in my front jacket pocket and circled back to the open trunk. Repacked my gear. Neat, organized. It was easier when there wasn’t much to organize.
I sat in the driver’s seat, hanging my feet out of the car. I opened my notebook and stared at it. Thoughts of the recent past crept back. I closed it.
“Alright, time to go. Andiamo.” I tossed the notebook on the back seat, pen in my front pocket. Stretched my back before ducking back into the car. 7AM. Good early start on the day. I took a long pull of whiskey from my flask, and took the first steps of the day down the road.