There I Go

Another Story From the Jukebox

This is another effort prompted by MJ Polk’s page, “Stories From the Jukebox”.

The inspiration is Bob Seger’s song, “Turn the Page”.

Why is airport coffee always so awful? You’d think the little waif behind the counter could drum up a fresh brew every now and then. It’s not like she’s doing anything else. I’m delayed for the third hour in Seattle, after circling for an hour over Minneapolis in that drab grey that coats the winter heartland. 


Book tour, day twelve. Seven cities down, twenty-four to go. Tonight was a downtown “arts salon,” a narrow room with folding chairs and a popping microphone. I read three pages, answered the same questions I answered in Columbus last night, and Austin before that, and Portland before that. 

After signing a stack of copies, I retreat to my “boutique” hotel, which smells faintly of chlorine, though there’s no pool. The bedspread is patterned with maroon vines that seem designed to camouflage stains. Mind in overdrive until sleep overwhelms anxiety at 2am. 

Tomorrow is, checks phone calendar, Omaha. Another room of strangers who want to see if I really exist.

There I go, turn the page.

Boise. Snow. Taxi. Hotel. Chair. Stage. Pen. Name. Done.

The thing about controversy is that it never leaves you alone. I wrote the thing in solitude — three years of drafts, revisions, research, nights in the attic while the world moved on without me. I had pinned a question to on my board. “What makes us what we are?”.  A simple thought that just kept exploding. By the time the book reached the market, the experiment had been labeled everything from “groundbreaking” to “dangerous.”


I’m not here to change the world. I’m here because the publisher booked thirty-one cities. “That’s how you make a book breathe.” So off I went, edgy leather jacket, autograph pen sharp as a dagger, out into the “spotlight”. 

There I am, up on the stage.


The place is small, crowded, full. Lately, they’re all full. Some come curious, some hostile, some just there to gawk at the spectacle of a writer people love to hate.

I meet the host, he’s kind in that heartland way. He introduces me with a strained smile, voice trembling on the bio, as ‘the author of The Book That Everyone Is Fighting About Online.’ Which isn’t the title, but it might as well be. I speak a bit, not so much explaining myself as placing myself in the landscape. Then I read a couple pages in a flat voice, because passion is jet fuel for the haters. The microphone cuts out every time I say the word "truth."

Then come the questions. “Do you believe what you wrote is dangerous?” “What do you say to critics who—” “Would you write it again, knowing what you know now?” The faces congeal into one. Some angry, some interested, some young and hungry for a fight. I keep my answers measured, tight, rehearsed. Never give them more than they can use.

You always seem outnumbered, you don’t dare make a stand. I almost did. 

The signing line snakes down the cramped aisle. They linger, they argue, one slips me her number. All for a quiet man who just wants to tell a story and go home. I’m still amazed that so many come to witness.
 
Finally, the quiet of the hotel. I sit on the bed, neon washing the curtains red, my ears still ringing with voices. I light a cigarette, a ritual I hate and need, in equal measure. The spotlight was supposed to mean triumph. But out here I’m a million miles away from myself, pouring out energy as though it were an infinite reservoir. And every night, afterward, the same collapse. No one to talk to. No one to see me as anything but the words I’ve unleashed.

Exile by choice. I could have written a safer book, could have stayed quiet. Could have stayed home. But I chose to try to say something that matters, something that carves a mark. And this is the price.

Here I am, on the road again. The gate agent in Santa Fe asks if I’m carrying any hazardous materials. “Only myself.”


I often think of her. Just before the split, she asked why I’m always running. I had only deflection, no serious answer. She had wanted cuddles by the fireplace, a little dog, maybe a family some day. All I gave was distance, theory, mind without soul. When the book came out and the firestorm started, she left without ceremony. Now, she exists in hotel mirrors and half-finished drinks. There’s always another woman, if that’s what you want. But there is always a morning after, too. I fight with my mind to stay in the here and now.


Day twenty-seven. Lexington. SSDD. The days blur into a fragmented roll. I notice details in snippets. The waitress makes a little too much eye contact, thinks she might recognize me. I've grown accustomed to that sidelong double glance. Happens in airports a lot. 

Once in a while, something genuine and touching comes my way. A young boy the other night, maybe seventeen, whispered “thank you” in a shaky voice, then bolted. 

Moments like that are dangerous. They crack the armor. They remind me there is something alive underneath the boredom, something that still feels. But feeling is costly out here. Safer to fold back into the path, into the drone of jet engines and the blur of faces. 

The wall art in my room at The Manchester is a framed photograph of potatoes. I stare at it for twenty minutes before I realize I’m hungry.


Exile has become routine. The book opened a door, the only way through is forward. There is no way back. It’s penance for the crime of needing to be heard. The crime of believing words matter. More than deeds? Enough to burn a life for?

There I am, playing star again.


Last night of the tour, New York City, packed house. A man hands me my own book, pirated, laser-printed, bound with staples, asks me to autograph it. What are ya gonna do? The lights finally go down, the host brings me a drink. 

Wondering what tomorrow brings, now that the calendar is empty. No flights. No stages. Just silence. But I knew the truth before the thought was finished. Another book. Another exile. Another road.

Because that’s what I am now, a man in motion, banished to distance. A man who exists only when the pages turn.