Pablo Honey

It is sunny and bright—normal for where we live. A pleasant autumn morning. As I pull out onto the four-lane blacktop, I note how industrial the scene is. The backdrop: a row of manufacturing plants, including PVC pipe, welded steel tanks, and a custom fabrication plant of some kind. In the middle ground, a Burlington Northern track with a single huge diesel-electric locomotive screams through at top speed. No load, and likely late to solve someone else’s problem. In the immediate foreground, a road crew refreshes the asphalt shoulder. Mostly Hispanic, they work tirelessly, mile after mile, making this decades-old road new again.

The whole site is barren and cluttered with strange shapes of equipment and raw materials. This is a place between places. Somewhere else things begin, and then at another they are used up. But right here is where the conversion happens from nothing to thing. It is simultaneously for everyone and no one.

And I live here.

When we landed a decade ago, I brimmed with hope and eagerness to be greater, better, more. That I would bring light and happiness to my friends here. In the first 5 years, it was shocking, but we aspired to inspire and none of it bothered us. No longer seeing manicured medians full of lush grasses and crafty stonework. Or rows of well-designed (though under-built) zero-lot homes and the accompanying neighborhood shopping centers oozing with bistros and bodegas. Late night poetry readings and gourmet fare are long gone. This place looks, by comparison, like a war zone. So burning brightly was an easy task. Even a dim light shines in a dark place.

In time though, that effervescence diminished. We became blind to these scenes. And my own hope and thrill for life began to dim simultaneously. There was a time when I believed in truth, beauty, freedom, and love. But somewhere along this road, I forgot.

Now, it is just morning. None of it seems unusual or out of place. This takes a toll on the mind. Self-esteem at the very least massively suffers. Self-image is important. We must believe ourselves capable of more than we are. But I rarely even note my environment anymore. The 3-mile stretch from this turn-out to town is just one long scar of what happens to a place neglected for 40 years. It was no doubt a thriving center in the 60's and 70's, but something changed and then something else and it never got better.

I have accepted this emotionally and mentally. Do I perceive myself as just a scar of what I used to be? The flowers on the seat next to me represent the man I was, hope and beauty. Truth and love. I am still him, but maybe forgot.

Humans are incredibly adaptable. Like the traces of human settlements in the southern regions of Arrakis in Dune, people here made a life. They raised children. Bought flowers (and burritos). People expand and contract depending on circumstance. While life here may have been contracting for many years, it is still life. Easy to look down on from another place. But when you live somewhere, see it from ground level and look in the eyes of your fellow combatants... you find glimmers of hope and joy. Like a soldier in a bunker who looks over and sees a small yellow daisy amidst the destruction. Life is beautiful wherever it is found.

I am seeking beauty this morning. Glimmers of that truth, beauty, freedom and love. I glance at the splash of color next to me, representing the love others have for me. And I for them. Hope is where we look for it.

A few miles down the road, I find myself at Joey’s Burritos. They are very busy this morning at 9:30. While I wait for my breakfast (small chorizo and egg burrito), I listen to Cole Swindell sing about flipping a quarter to decide his life course: 'Heads Carolina, tails California...' I wish decisions in life could be made so easily and with so little collateral thought. I build mental prisons that prevent me from taking action, and so stay in stasis as a result. Instead of going anywhere else in the world and risking happiness, I will stay here and embrace... whatever this is that I have. Glimmers of hope.

A man eats alone at the table next to me. His face is blank as he hunches down to his food. The table is a clutter of breakfast detritus. With a few bites left, he flags down the proprietor, Joey, and orders a second breakfast. For his sleeping significant other? Could he choose to be anywhere else? Is she sleeping because of him? Did he keep her up too late? Was her anxiety too much for her and instead of sleeping through the night she paced, or watched television? Or did he just work a 12h shift and wants to surprise her with breakfast this morning?

The wall to my right is covered in mirrors from the wainscot up. It is a small space, and this was likely intended to make the room feel much bigger. Good idea. Probably a pain to keep clean, though.

One corner has a long crack, and I wonder about the inciting incident. Some patron probably leaned back after eating too many beans and potatoes. A quiet crack, and he’s suddenly anxious. “Uh-oh,” he says as he scoots his chair further from the wall. His son gasps, thinking of how much trouble he would be in and wonders if dad will get grounded. The wife, just rolls her eyes. She knows what a hulk he is and thinks of the broken banister on the stairs that he caused when he insisted on carrying her up to the bedroom in his arms. The flowers and the night were worth it though. He doesn’t say anything—just sheepishly pays his bill and hopes no one noticed.

My order is ready. Time to deliver my flowers and breakfast.

She will ask later, 'What is the occasion?' I will answer, 'The occasion is truth, beauty, freedom and love. You are always the occasion.'

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