Love Me Broken (3 page)

I hate this part of my life now. Ever since that night, I can’t be around cars without feeling the same terror and helplessness of that night last summer. I can’t control it. I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s too much for me. The only way I can even get through town anymore is with someone holding my hand as we cross the street, someone else to take responsibility for guiding the way while I close my eyes and try to shut myself out of the moment.

Nicole says it’s PTSD. To me it just feels like death is coming. Death is coming and I can’t do anything to stop it.

We wait at the stoplight. I watch the concrete as I hear the cars pass by a few feet away from me. My lungs feel empty, but I try to be strong and hide my panic from Nicole. I know she knows already, but it’s embarrassing.

The light turns green and I can’t move. A van is idling in front of the crosswalk, the exhaust billowing up behind it like storm clouds. The driver stares at me. A car horn blares, and I start to gasp.

Nicole squeezes my hand and pulls me into the street. We cross. Nicole waves at a driver in apology for my slowness. When we finally reach the other side, I have to stop and lean against a lamppost, struggling to even out my breathing.

“Sorry,” I gasp to Nicole. I can’t think of what else to say.

She puts a hand on my back. “Don’t worry about it.”

We don’t talk anymore about how I can’t stand to look at cars, or how the thought of being inside one again makes me want to vomit. We don’t talk about the fact that the only colleges I applied to were in cities with good public transportation. We don’t talk about any of it. That’s how we’ve managed to stay friends. Nicole likes to chatter, but she knows when to keep her mouth shut.

“Okay,” I say when I’m normal enough to walk. She smiles, excited again at why we’re here. She loops her arm through mine and she skips alongside me as we make our way to a blue mailbox. She hands me the envelope, and I quickly throw the letter into the mouth of the mailbox and let it slam shut.

I let out a sigh of relief.

It’s done. There’s no taking it back now. In three months I will leave this town.

At my side, Nicole says something I don’t hear, and we cross the street the way we came, then walk two blocks to the coffee shop where Nicole works. It’s a small hole in the wall, but it gets steady business. As I choose a table, my body feels light, almost like I’m floating.

For a minute, it feels like I might not be there at all.

I’m momentarily distracted by these two hot girls crossing the street. It’s not just that they’re attractive, wearing tight sleeveless shirts that show off their fit bodies, but also that one is leading the other by the arm, almost like her friend is blind. Only she’s not. I see this at once as she reaches the other side of the street and leans against a post. She looks like she’s going to puke, and I continue on before I have
that
image stuck in my head.

This town looks so much like a movie, I feel like I’m walking onto a set. I got off the Greyhound bus about an hour ago and stopped off at this restaurant by the harbor with these great big windows that looked right out onto the ocean.

Not the ocean. The river. Although it’s so immense it
feels
like the ocean. There are even seagulls, and I heard some seals barking in the distance. I’ll have to check that out. But first I need to find Levi.

I readjust the duffel bag over my shoulder and pull out a paper from my pocket. It’s got his address on it, along with directions I’ve scribbled down. My handwriting’s so bad though that I’m not sure if I’m going the right way, and, not for the first time, I miss my iPhone and its mapping applications.

But I left that behind. I picked up a cheap throwaway phone at a gas station back in Sacramento, and it has nothing but an address book in it. I only put in two numbers, neither of which I’ve called, and only one of which I’d be willing to call: Levi’s. And no one has my new number.

As far as the world is concerned, I don’t exist. And I want it to stay that way. No one can come after you if you don’t exist.

I continue down the street, taking in this little place called Astoria. I’ve never even been to Oregon before, so this is doubly new. The air smells cleaner here than in California, and the colors look more vibrant. There are trees everywhere. I wonder if the people I’m passing appreciate this place. Probably not. People don’t appreciate things until they’re gone.

It’s less than a mile of small blocks before I find the street I’m looking for. I turn left and start walking uphill, away from the water, away from the shops and into the residential neighborhoods. The houses are older, and very different from the cookie-cutter tract housing that has taken Southern California by storm over the last few decades. Each house here is an individual, with towering three-story monsters next to dinky little cottages, and I wonder what Levi’s house will be like. He said not to expect much.

I turn another block and the road gets especially steep. I can feel my lungs working overtime and my bag is feeling heavier and heavier. I imagine myself collapsing with a heart attack, and laugh bitterly at the image. After all this, to have it end that way would be a cosmic joke. A real joke.

But I’m too young for heart attacks and I make it up another few blocks. I’m near the underside of the huge steel bridge that crosses the water to the Washington side of the river, and the houses are beginning to look shabbier. The lawns are littered with car parts and children’s playthings. One house has makeshift cardboard windows, and in the next the screen door is hanging off its hinges. I check my address and, let me tell you, I’m grateful to keep walking.

The next block improves slightly—
slightly—
and this is where I find Levi’s house. It’s no mansion, but it looks clean enough. The wood panels on the outer walls have been panted a light green, with white trim around the windows and doorway. The windows don’t have blinds or screens, but at least they’re not broken. I walk over the lawn—it’s barely as wide as the sidewalk, and overgrown with yellow wildflowers—and up the two wooden steps to the front door. The paint is peeling from the door, and there’s a piece of paper taped to the side:

DOORBELL BROKEN. PLEASE KNOCK.

I knock and set down my duffel bag. For a moment it’s quiet, and I have a moment of panic. What if Levi doesn’t even live here? We’ve only chatted online; I’ve never even met the guy. What if he turns out to be some crazy lady with a husband and kids and a million Facebook profiles? I’ve heard of things like that happening. A footstep creaks on the floorboards inside, and I hold my breath.

Then the door swings open, and it is definitely not some lady.

Levi is wearing a stained navy t-shirt and baggy plaid pajama pants. His feet are bare, and his thin arms are covered with intricate tattoos. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, with long black hair and a pierced eyebrow. His eyes appear vacant—I want to guess stoned—but that look disappears the instant he sees me, replaced by a wide-eyed enthusiasm. He’s grinning like a kid on Christmas.

“Adam!” he yells. Before I can answer, he rushes forward and throws his arms around me, squeezing me in a man-hug.

Levi and I have been talking online for the past few months. We’re both into motorcycles and are complete gearheads. When I mentioned I needed to get out of town, he offered to set me up as an apprentice in his boss’s shop. He even had a room to rent, so it was perfect.

He lets go, and I try to be polite without inviting conversation. I want a place to stay; I’m not looking for friends.

“Hey, dude,” I say. “What’s up?”

His eyes are still wide as he looks me over, taking me in. I realize I never sent him a photo, and I am probably not what he expected either.

 I’m taller than him, and while not a bodybuilder or anything, I’ve spent more time in the gym than he has. My arms especially look toned in my black t-shirt. I’ve got messy brown hair that could probably use the assistance of a barber, and what I’m told are don’t-fuck-with-me eyes. I try to smile to make myself look friendlier, but I’m still sort of uncomfortable, so only half my lip goes up.

“Come on in, man,” Levi says, and reaches for my duffel. I beat him to it, and he notices that I’ve stopped him from touching it. This only gives him pause for half a second, and then he motions for me to go inside, the eyes and smile wide again as if I’m his long-lost best friend.

He closes the door behind me and I look around. This house definitely has a bachelor feel to it. There’s an old couch and a TV in the living room area where we first walk in. What I assume is a coffee table is in front of the couch, but I can’t really tell because it’s completely covered with stuff: a pizza box, empty beer bottles, video game controllers, unopened mail. This guy’s no Martha Stewart.

“Let me give you the tour,” he says. He walks past the front room and into a small kitchen with yellow linoleum flooring. “This is the kitchen. You’re welcome to use the fridge and stuff.” He opens the refrigerator, and it’s bare except for some old take-out boxes and a carton of milk. “I mostly eat out, so...” He shrugs to finish his statement.

He points to the right side of the house. “That’s my room, and across from it the bathroom. We’ll share that. And over here,” he says, walking to the left, “is your room.” He opens a door and goes down a few steps. I walk inside. It’s a square space with a concrete floor. Along the back wall is a mattress on the floor. A set of sheets is folded at the end of it. “It used to be the garage,” Levi explains, “except I don’t have a car, so I figured an extra bedroom would be better.” He laughs, and I’m not sure what the joke is. “Anyway, there’s another door to the outside over there.” He points to the far side of the room. “It stays pretty cool in the summer, and in the winter you don’t need much but a little space heater.”

“I’ll be gone by winter,” I blurt out, interrupting him.

He shrugs. “That’s cool.” Then he smiles again, and chuckles. “So, do you want to see the bike?”

My face must light up, because he laughs and says, “This way, man.”

That was the last part of the deal: a place to stay, a place to work, and, for a reasonable price, a bike to ride.

I set down my duffel bag next to the mattress in my new room and follow Levi past the kitchen and through a sliding glass door. The backyard is even more overgrown than the front, with a small cement patio with some cheap folding chairs and an ashtray full of stubs. Levi gets his keychain out of his pocket and thumbs through the keys as he leads me to the side of the yard. There’s a little shed to the right. It looks cleaner and newer than the entire rest of the house. I’m about to ask what it would cost for me to live there instead, when he opens the two double doors and my mouth drops open.

Inside the small shed is a row of four motorcycles. “Whoa,” I say. At least I think I say it. I’m kind of drooling and unable to form coherent thoughts. “Are these all yours?” I ask.

“The two in the back,” he replies, and I’m jealous. He points to the one in the middle. “This one I’m fixing up for a friend, and this—” he wraps his fingers around the handlebars of the motorcycle in front “—this is yours.”

“No way!” I run forward and he pulls the bike out of the shed. It’s black and chrome and raw power.

“It’s just a mishmash of parts, but it’ll run,” he tells me. He flips through his keys one more time, then unwinds one from the ring. “Well?” he asks. “Do you want to get on?”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I go around and hop onto the back, feeling the weight of the seat under me. It’s almost like mounting a horse—an indestructible, mean-as-shit horse. I put the key in the ignition and meet Levi’s eyes. He’s grinning, totally getting how this feels and sharing in the moment. I twist the key, then squeeze the handles to pump the gas.

The engine
roars
.

Levi says something and I don’t hear what. My entire body is vibrating, and I begin to laugh at the simple existence of this beautiful machine. I rev the engine one more time, luxuriating in the rich smell of the exhaust, the noise, the undeniable feeling of there-ness when I’m on the bike. There’s no question whether I’m alive. I am here. I am on a fucking motorcycle—my own fucking motorcycle!