if i leave here tomorrow: filling empty spaces

8/6/2019 If I Leave Here Tomorrow: Filling Empty Spaces

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by KELLY SHEA

FILLINGEMPTY

SPACES


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For Brad and Jenn: wo amazing proessors that have made

me a better worker and taught me much, as well as openedthe doors to some o my greatest opportunities so ar. I amvery indebted to each o you or believing in me.

For Mom, who laughs with me like a sister and has beenthere without judgment through my ups and downs. For

Dad, who reminds me that I am strong in weak moments,and has ully unded various vacations that I may not havedeserved to take. For Robby, whose creativity, dry wit and

old soul never ails to bring me joy.

For Ashlee, the older sister I never had, who has been mymost fercely loyal riend despite the miles between us. Your

open heart and unbreakable spirit have been an endlesssource o inspiration to me, and I am lucky to know you.

For Jess, my frst true lielong riend: Tank you orwelcoming me into a world that changed me orever.

And fnally, or anyone eeling trapped by othersexpectations: Dont hesitate to shatter the pedestals built

beneath you. Find your bliss and write your own damn story.


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n a bleak night in May 2006, I opened my eyes to a pitch-black bed-room lled with silence. I strained to ocus on the numbers glow-ing rom my alarm clock: 10 p.m. Something elt wrong. I wasnt

supposed to be here. Why am I in bed this early? onight was prom night. Mystomach sank. As I clutched my pillow or support, the ashbacks crept up,each one worse than the last.

In the dramatic ways that teenagers sometimes do, I realized that my lie was

over. At least the lie Id built so careully beore. I had almost made it throughmy junior year o high school, but aer this, things would never be the same.As I played the coming day in my head, I ell into despair. Haunted already, Icried mysel to sleep.

* * *

Four months earlier, Id been lying on my best riend Annas bed looking

through an old box o photographs. I giggled at the pictures o us rom just aew years back. She was 50 pounds overweight, and I was resh out o a backbrace. As I ipped through the pictures, Anna was at her desk, working herphone like a stockbroker, throwing glances my way between conversations toll me in on party plans that really didnt concern me at all.

My stomach tightened when the doorbell rang. She ran downstairs to answerit with excited eyes, ying out o the room in a ash o shiny black hair. I heardher ootsteps returning and shoved the box o photographs in a drawer, earul

that one o the guests might ask to browse through them. Since then, Anna hadlost the weight and blossomed into a 17-year-old socialite. Id lost the brace buthadnt ound similar condence.

O


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Anna burst into the room with three boys rom a nearby private school.Tey were handsome in a preppy way, wearing button-up shirts and expensivelooking shoes. I smiled but avoided their eyes. For the rest o the night, Id be

monitoring my every move. I couldnt shake the notion that there was only oneway to act around these boys, and I hadnt gured it out.

Anna immediately began joking around with them, her conversation play-ul and her laugh irtatious. Greg, one o the boys in the group and her latestconquest, opened a backpack ull o beer while his riends told stories aboutlast nights party who hooked up, how much alcohol they drank.

I was still sitting on the bed, bored and tense. I wondered why I was eventhere. Anna said tonight would be un, that some o the private school boys

richest riends were having house parties. Tey wanted to take us along. Idknown the eager look in her brown eyes since we were children. When Annasparents were ghting, she would sometimes come nd me, armed with somescheme to have un. I was her partner, distracting her rom what was going onat home, listening to her thoughts, and laughing at her jokes.

More and more, though, I elt like a remnant o her ormer lie, shoved in abox when her new riends came around.

Teyre just so much more un, Anna gushed about the boys in her room

beore they got there. Wed spent the previous evening with our old riends, thepublic school crowd, eating Chinese ood on an abandoned barn rooop.

Tis night, I was sitting in a corner, watching the others drink and irt. Ihadnt talked to anyone in what seemed like hours, eeling worse with eachpassing moment. I was on the outside. Sitting.

* * *

Anna and I were lounging in my bedroom on an early May aernoon aerschool with Jordan, a riend weve had since junior high. Te three o us weretalking and laughing about nothing until Anna received a call rom Greg, hercurrent boyriend. He told her that two o his riends needed dates or Jesuitsprom in a ew weekends. Anna handled the news like a business call. In ronto her were two girls that Gregs riends hardly knew, but ound pretty, whichwould satisy them enough.

As she asked us about it, her voice was urgent, practically begging us to

oblige.Im not entirely sure how we got to this point. Te night aer the boys came

to Annas our months ago, I went home and viciously ranted to my journal


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that I was sick o being her silent sidekick. But the next weekend, I went withher again, and every weekend that ollowed.

My annoyance about the situation wasnt all encompassing. Over time Id de-

veloped a crush on the group o boys Anna introduced me to. She had alreadymade out with most o them. Id never even been kissed. Despite my shyness,something about them any o them; all o them looked like the imaginaryboyriend Id been dreaming up or years. Hell be artsy and spontaneous andhave shaggy brown hair, I wrote in my journal when I was 15.

At rst, I rolled my eyes at the boys ancy clothes and their pretentious tastein indie music. But aer visiting enough o their houses, my imagination beganto replace their personas with antasy. I convinced mysel that they were only

obnoxious and arrogant on the weekends. Certainly, i they liked Wes Ander-son lms then they must be romantic and intelligent when they were alone.

Te uttering eeling that these crushes brought to my stomach was some-thing I had yet to nd within the walls o my high school, so I pushed aside thereality that Anna and I were no longer riends. I claimed the position as herbest riend in our new social circle, away rom the pictures Id shoved in thebox.

Ill be in a dierent limo, but it would be so much un i you guys went,

Anna said to Jordan and me. Seriously, their proms are crazy.She explained that Jesuit doesnt require students to pass a breathalyzer test

beore entering the dance, as our school did.Dont worry. You dont need to hook up with ony, and Jordan doesnt need

to hook up with Josh, Anna said. Just go with them, and we can all go outaerward.

ony and Josh are two o the outcasts in the Jesuit group, their popularityachieved by their eagerness to drink and entertain the others. ony is a short,

boyish Italian. He talks ast and mean, making the others laugh with crudejokes about what he would do to women. Josh is a hopeless romantic withglasses and acne. Ive seen him drink and serenade popular girls on his knees.

Tese were not the boys o my imagination, but I could tell by the look inJordans eye that she had the same hopes I did. Our dates may be duds, but theother boys would be there. Other boys we would like to see.

Reluctantly, we agreed. Anna squealed and proudly called her boyriend tohave him deliver the news.

* * *


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On a sunny Saturday aernoon later in May, Jordan and I were driving to-gether to onys house or a pre-prom photo session. We chattered back andorth, giddily and about nothing. I elt beautiul in a red amenco dress, my

hair curled, my lips painted by Armani proessionals. But as we approachedthe house, my stomach began to turn. We could see a dozen couples minglingin onys backyard, none o them I would call a riend. I realized I hadnt eventalked to Anna today, the reason I was here in the rst place. I braced mysel.

As we made our way into the backyard, I didnt see ony until he emergedrom a cluster o taller boys. He seemed jittery, eager to get through this photoritual. Te strangers parents took photos and everyone laughed while weposed. I began to eel more at ease. Maybe tonight would be dierent.

Te limo pulled up, and everyone scurried to leave the crowd o parents. Werolled slowly out o the neighborhood, headed downtown. A boy named Alexquickly uncovered a cooler and began distributing bottles o Grey Goose andcans o soda. Finally, his girlriend muttered.

Te drinking happened ast. I was sitting beside Josh, who passed me thebottle aer each swig he took. We didnt have shot glasses, so we passed andchugged, losing track o what we were doing as we yelled at the driver to turnthe music up. Nestled in the limo, knee-to-knee with a good-looking crowd,

I elt a drunken elation. It elt like tting in. Jordan and I drunkenly grabbedeach others arms and giggled my last clear memory.

My eyes closed, and my head sank to my chest, Jordan later told me. I startedcoughing, body limp. I vomited bile onto my beautiul red dress. Everyone inthe limo laughed except ony, who panicked and demanded water to wipe medown. We arrived downtown and the group scattered, eeing the scene. ony,Jordan, Josh, and I stayed in the limo. ony told the driver to take us to a gasstation, but I wasnt getting any more sober. Eventually, the limo driver insisted

that we get out and dropped us o outside the Indianapolis Convention Center.Jordan and ony got out rst, trying to shield us rom the crowd o chaperonesand aculty nearby. As soon as we exited, I stumbled onto the pavement andJosh ell into a wall.

Te dean was only a ew eet away. We werent going anywhere.wo weeks later, I was sitting against my bed on the oor o my room. Alone,

I ound mysel looking around at my posters, stopping to observe a collage Imade just a hal-year ago. Hoisted against a map background are pictures o

the Pacic Ocean, o green mountains and beaches, o train tickets and o myriend Jessica and me.

I remembered the late-July aernoons I had spent craing my memories into


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this artwork a tribute to my trip to San Diego to see Jessica in 2005. I had re-turned rom that week hung over with excitement. For a moment, I wonderedhow dierent my lie would be had she never moved away.

* * *

Te Gellars moved down the street in 1998 while I was in h grade. It wasa summer day when two neighborhood riends and I stumbled upon a sceneo action at Misty Pine Court. A moving truck and a blue Volkswagen Beetlecrowded the cul-de-sac. Men hauled oral couches and boxes into the house.wo white cats wandered the premises.

While I preerred to watch rom aar, my riends, Erica and Molly, wantedto introduce themselves. We noticed two young, dark-haired girls helping theadults carry belongings inside. One appeared to be our age, the other a ewyears younger. I lagged behind as we approached the new neighbors. Aer brieintroductions, we were soon exploring the house with the older daughter, Jes-sica.

Jessica had thick, brown-black hair and air skin. She laughed a lot but washesitant with her speech, like me. Erica and Molly did cartwheels around the

empty basement, while Jessica and I talked about where she was rom: SanDiego.

Its really cool there, she said. Its sunny, like, almost year-round. We go tothe beach a lot.

Jessica lived a block away, so we became convenient riends in the wayelementary kids do. I was shy but liked thinking about the world. She was thenew girl with stories o araway places. We agreed that itd be nice to spend ourlives traveling and taking pictures.

We talked about things the other girls thought were weird. When I men-tioned the absurdity o outer space to someone else, I was met with a blankstare. Not so with Jessica. For the next seven years, we were inseparable until2004, at the end o our reshman year, when she quietly told me her amily wasmoving back to San Diego.

My stomach sank, but I could sense in her voice that she wanted to go. Aerall, she hadnt stopped talking about Caliornia since Id met her.

Te night beore she moved, early in the summer, ve o our closest riends

slept over at my house. We were hanging out in my unnished basement whenwe decided a closing ceremony was necessary: pool hopping.

Well have to jump the ence, I said. Its been our mission or years, but


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weve never ollowed through. Tis is our last chance to do it beore Jessicaleaves.

Midnight passed. With careul steps, our group led up the stairs in a close

line, our annel pajama bottoms sweeping against the carpet. I led the waysince I knew the squeak o our basement door and the creak o each stair. Weworried that my dad would catch us. I peeked my head out into the kitchenand heard his snores rom upstairs.

I opened the door ever so slowly, jumping back at the sudden ash o my catrunning, startled, down the hallway. We giggled, then shushed one another andscued out the back door.

Once outside, we hit the pavement running. Wed escaped. We sprinted

down the street, laughing at each other. Te streetlights guided us through thewarm night air, past sleepy houses, past the great oak tree Jessica and I had satunder so many times, past cul-de-sacs, and nally, past the tennis court. Wehad reached the pool.

We entered rom the ar side, a barricade o young pine trees keeping us saerom streets view. We lied and pulled one another over the black iron ence.As we reached the other side, one by one, we ran to the water, rolling up ourpajamas to splash about in the shallow end. Frolicking aded into reminiscing.

We were sitting in a line on the pools edge, dipping our toes in the water andspeaking in low voices.

You know, this isnt the rst time that Ive done this, Jessica said. She hadbeen quiet. We all looked up when she made this announcement. Yeah, onetime Callum and I snuck in here at night.

What? What did you guys do! we all squealed.Jessica just laughed with eyes cast down. She was the kind o girl that would

surprise you, the only one o us that ever had a boyriend, but never one to

brag.We went in, she said.Did you make out?Well, yeah.Our eyes grew wider. Were you wearing swimsuits?I dont remember. It was a long time ago. She laughed again.It was times like these, when she stunned us by casually mentioning events

o such teen girl importance, that we could only wallow in the shame o lagging

behind. It was times like these when I knew shed be ne without us.Te passing time began to weigh on our conscience. We eared someone

would be looking or us when we returned. Using the pools plastic chairs to


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boost us, we plunged back over the ence. Bushes broke our all. Adrenalineueled our run home. We savored our ew moments le to be rebellious. Racingthrough the dark, we tore o our pajama pants, becoming a parade o skinny

legs and ip-ops pounding the pavement. We lassoed the pants over ourheads, returning to my driveway in a t o giggles and exasperation. Slinkingback into the basement, most o our group ell asleep right away.

Jess and I stayed up talking past sunrise.Are you nervous? I asked.No, she replied. I know how it is out there. Ill make riends. She some-

how lacked the neuroticism that had claimed my young mindset.Wow. You know, I just cant believe youre going to be so ar away aer to-

morrow. Its really exciting or you, but Ill miss you, I said.I know. Well, youll have to come visit me!

* * *

Gazing at the pictures o Jessica and me in Caliornia, I remembered howliberating it was to go on an adventure with someone who truly enjoys explor-ing. Our riendship thrived on being able to discuss things, not people. Sitting

alone on my oor, I realized that as Annas cohort, lie had revolved around thelatter.

When Jessica moved away, I was lost. My best riend was gone, and herabsence quickly pulled a root o comort rom beneath me. Aer she le, highschool became an entirely new jungle, in which I strained or acceptance, nomatter what the cost.

s Jessica settled back into lie in San Diego, I waded into a new socialgroup at home, led by Anna. A much dierent person than the chubbyItalian girl I beriended in elementary school, Anna had spent the past

ew months slimming her way into an overnight sensation. She wore Lacostepolos and short skirts instead o horse -shirts. She made boys into missions,not jokes. Our class elected her or student senate.

Bewildered, I ell by her side. Trough student government, Anna met a

handul o nice boys and began inviting them to hang out with our group ogirlriends. Without much prompting, we ell in and out o love regularly. eno us ve girls and ve boys became inextricably bound, bearing the

A


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weights o jealousy and longing we had never known beore.Tose emotions crashed upon me when, just a month aer Jessica moved,

my ather told the amily that wed be visiting Caliornia, in particular Napa

Valley. For 15 years I had been a wine mans daughter, but I had never seen avineyard. Dads career required him to spend his weeks circulating the countryby plane and car, tending to the liquor business.

It wasnt San Diego, but the idea o ying to Caliornia thrilled me untilthe emotions o my new lie hit me. I tossed and turned the night beore weew out. Some part o me worried I would be orgotten during my trip. It willbe nice to get away, I thought, but what will happen while Im gone? So much canhappen in a ew days.

In the rare moments when our amily happened to eat dinner at the sametime, my mind was always xated on other people, analyzing the words thathad been said to me that day, worrying about what they implied. Behind mybedroom door, I scribbled about social dilemmas in my journal or spoke toriends on AOL Instant Messenger.

All o that aded away as our plane lied away rom Indianapolis. Besideme, the look in my brothers eyes matched mine as we both leaned orwardto watch the wild peaks and valleys o the western landscape. It dawned on

me that ahead o us was an air o possibility I hadnt elt beore. As we ew, Icouldnt stay bound to what we were leaving behind us. I had become unteth-ered.

Te next morning, the San Francisco sky seemed an unnatural shade obright blue. Red streetcars climbed hills, dropping o characters at swarm-ing marketplaces. Flowers bloomed in windowsills. Seagulls circled overhead,occasionally swooping down to the cobblestone streets we were walking. Ithought about Jessica.

We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge in our rental car. Across the water anisland came into view, covered in orest, with strange houses staggering up anddown the Berkeley Hills.

Tats Berkeley, my mom said. Teres a really good school there. Maybe Ill go to Berkeley. But I was thinking about possibilities or my ear-less uture sel, not the girl who had just been nervous to leave her riends ora week.

We kept driving, away rom the city, toward Napa Valley along narrow roads

that were the only separation between vast green vineyards. Grassy hills in thedistance held sleepy armhouses and windmills.

A dirt road led us to our destination: a small guesthouse owned by wine-


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maker Robert Mondavi. It was nestled between elds. Inside, the oors werewooden, the urniture cozy and old. We each had our own bedroom. Mine hada large bed with a white comorter, a wooden dresser, and an antique lamp.

It was everything I never knew I really wanted.In Carmel, my riends and I oated through the giant, resh-painted rooms

o suburban mansions, their interiors spotless and cold, their spaces lled butempty. In one home, a riends mother insisted on washing our eet beore westepped urther inside. But this cottage elt warm and broken in. A spirit o qui-et lie and laughter lingered in its rooms. I elt mysel begin to breathe easier.

I made my way back outside, where white sunlight cast dramatic shadowson the back porch. I strayed into the elds, ollowing worn dirt paths that

must have been le by grape pickers. In an hour we were back in the rental car,headed to the Mondavi winery. We had a reservation or a tour, which involveda walk through the vineyards and a room o giant wine barrels, as well as a six-course meal. We ate on a valley patio surrounded by lush mountains. It was aperect, sunny day.

On an adjoining terrace, Mr. Mondavi, the man whose lie we just ex-plored, was celebrating his 91st birthday. Nancy, our pleasant and groundedtour guide, took a liking to me. I wasnt used to this. None o my high school

teachers knew my name, and i they noticed me, I elt it was only because theywere annoyed with my blank stare and silence. But this was dierent. I was soascinated by my surroundings that I hardly noticed mysel stepping out o myshell. I asked questions. I laughed. I wanted to rolic.

I was thrilled to catch a glimpse o Mr. Mondavis smiling, weathered aceas his wie guided him toward a table o beaming guests. I wished we could becloser to him, just to watch. I marveled as I thought about how much he hadlived. While my young lie elt heavy in its own way, I knew I still had a long

road ahead o me.When we le, I bought a photography book, its pages lled with images o

the winerys gorgeous details. When I wasnt looking, my dad asked Nancy tosign it. 6/17/04 - Kelly, you are delightul. Tanks or sharing a day with me. -Nancy G. Her message was proo that my lie could be something beyond thewalls o the high school.

As night ell, my amily retreated to our rooms. I stayed up reading, curtainclosed to shield me rom the night. Te blackness rightened me. Tere wasnt

a city light or miles. Yet the surrounding silence was bliss. As it got later, myascination grew into an urge. I needed to eel the air o such a peaceul place,to taste the night.


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I sat up rom bed and slid my eet into my sandals. My Walkman lay staringat me rom the dresser, so I grabbed it. Making sure to walk slowly through theold house, eeling my way along the wall, I ound the back door. I paused be-

ore I opened it, listening. Tere was nothing. My hand on the door, it seemedonly a giant vacuum o space waited on the other side, ready to suck me in. Ihad no crutch to guide me, not even a cell phone to light my way.

I I stared into the blackness long enough, I could ool mysel into a alsesense o direction. A general idea o our cars location began to emerge romthe black hole. I took a ew delicate steps toward it beore the dreadul sensethat someone was ollowing me popped into my head. Tats when I startedrunning.

I ran into nothingness. I ran into a wall o vines. I bounced o a bush. Myheart pounded aster. Finally my eyes began to adjust, and a sliver o moonlightcaught my eye as it reected rom the cars window. I darted. As i throwingmysel onto a lieboat rom shark-inested waters, I leapt on top o the carshood, eet scrambling up the windshield beore reaching the roo in relie.Laughing to mysel, I lay back and looked up. My breath le me. Above, the skywas saturated with stars. I had never seen so many. And they seemed so close. Ireected on all the beauty I had seen that day. Who knew how meaningul time

could be, how each moment can really be soaked in and loved, when you are ina place so perect.

As an adolescent in Napa Valley, I possessed a reakish power, a glitch inperspective. I was able to use my surviving childlike wonder to view an adultsworld. My surroundings were a reverie, but within them my anxieties aded.For the rst time, I elt that I might be okay.

* * *

Upon returning rom our amily trip, I began staying up late in ront o mycomputer screen, researching. I compiled notes in a blue older, simply titledCALIFORNIA in block letters. Inside were cross-country maps, notes on thegas mileage o my Jeep Cherokee, potential motel stops. I would go when it eltright, I gured. Te escape was my only option. Caliornia was perect, and webelonged together.

My attachment had been growing since we le Napa Valley, where I had my

rst brush with the eeling o love. I had yet to have my rst kiss or my 16thbirthday, but lying on the hood o a rental car parked in a sea o vineyards gaz-ing at the sky, I was complete.


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I decided that the Midwest was a collective o small states to oster armland,NASCAR, and dormant souls. Te vast West was right, and my landlockedsuburb was very wrong.

I schemed through the winter, until March, when I got my drivers licenseand suddenly possessed the power to explore. Driving down unamiliar streetsbecame an addiction. Aer late nights working at a catering company, I spedpast my neighborhood instead o turning into it, continuing on SpringmillRoad until there were no more streetlights, no more houses, and nally, just agiant two-way arrow asking me to choose between two directions into the un-known. For 15 minutes I could drive surrounded by nothing but cornelds andabandoned barns. Tere were still wild patches o orest beyond these roads.

Tere were tiny houses with junkyards out back. In these rugged scenes I elttraces o the authentic and unbridled lie I had ound in Caliornia.

Searching or nothing but a eeling, I elt ree. Movement without destinationbecame my bliss. But in the end, I always had to turn around.

On some nights o aimless driving, I would get lost and push my curew, a-ter which I would quietly walk up to my bedroom. My angst calmed by countryroads, I had all but abandoned my blue olders hal-sketched plans. Instead,some nights I elt like writing and would pull my journal rom its hiding place

beneath my mattress. Other times, I elt like talking.Just as Id convinced mysel that Indiana wasnt the trap Id convinced mysel

it was, I received an Instant Message rom Jessica.Her rst year at school had gone well, she said. Her amilys new house was

on top o a mountain. She loved it there. Summer was approaching, and shedidnt have any plans. Would I be able to visit her?

I imagined my coming summer, and how many nights I had spent drivingalone just to nd some sort o separation rom my riends over the school year.

While I needed them, the stresses o pleasing a crowd had driven me to craveany excuse or independence. Tis was a dierent eeling than the panic I hadelt when my ather announced our trip last summer. Now, I longed to leaveand return to the unamiliar but beautiul land.

Within two months, I was getting on a plane to San Diego.

* * *

On a July night, I packed my new sundresses and doodled suns and hearts inmy journal, scribbling viciously about how I couldnt wait to get away. I wasleaving the next morning.


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Spanish empire, white stucco buildings reminiscent o colonial times, crowdedharbors still relevant. Te sun was bright as ever, but the dry warmth elt per-ect on my skin. We explored boutiques along stone streets beore leaving in a

new direction.Im so excited that youre here, Jessica said. We were driving along a south-

ern Caliornia highway, a street with more lanes and more speed than I hadbeen trained to eel comortable with. I dont actually have my license yet. Youhave to be older out here to get it. Its so annoying. So you can drive rom nowon. Tats okay, right?

Holy shit. Well, okay. You might have to help me out at rst. Tis is kind ointimidating. I watched cars speed by at 100 miles per hour.

We were headed about an hour north to Valley Center, population 8,000 twice that o Carmel High School. Jessicas amily lived on Costalota Road, anarrow drive winding up a mountain to connect scattered ranch houses andorchards. As we got closer to her home, the roads began curling and societyreduced to patches o twinkling lights below.

Aer exiting Avocado Highway, I wondered how she could tell the countryroads apart. We could see only a ew eet ahead o the car. Finally, she stoppedin the blackness to take a stark right. We were ascending her mountain.

Once in the driveway, I saw her white house, wrapped with a porch and sur-rounded by gardens. Inside, it elt comortable, just like the place where we hadplayed when we were younger.

Her parents greeted me with open arms and showed me around their home.Tere was a stacked library, and Jessicas mother had a room just or quilting. Atiny black kitten scrambled around our eet. Jessicas younger sister, Rochelle,had brought it home not long beore I arrived.

Rochelle, now Jessicas height, was an eerie copy o her, though more oeat.

Jessica, like me, was an observer, not a perormer. Tere wasnt a drama clubbone in her body. Yet here was Rochelle racing upstairs.

Well, I have to go upstairs and practice lines or my play, she said.I pulled my suitcase upstairs to Jessicas room, where a suroard sat in the

corner. Her walls were painted bright yellow, and her bed sheets were a vividshade o blue. Tis was a much dierent room than her white walls and ancientoral quilt in Carmel. Exhausted, I ell asleep without many words.

Te next morning I woke early and had the strange sensation o having

orgotten where I was or a moment. Absorbing the bright colors around me,I smiled and realized I was on the other side o the country, on top o a moun-tain. Sunlight streaming through the window, I had an itch to see outside in the


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daytime and crept out o bed to pull back the curtain. Te sun was rising overa landscape o green mountains, yellow elds and scattered orests. I lled upwith joy at the sight o it beore alling back asleep.

Later in the aernoon, I adjusted to driving alongside Caliornians, and soonwe were blaring Hawaiian music and cruising down the highway, en route toa town appropriately named Oceanside. I elt lied. Here was a power that Inever elt while driving Indiana back roads aer dark.

At home, I thought I ound reedom in the hours that I drove aimlessly, butthe excursions worked backwards on my condence. I was lying to peopleabout where I was, running away rom them into nowhere. Te new places Iound were simply a soothing backdrop or my escape. I had no intention o

exploring them urther than my rearview mirror.Night drives had become a sel-prescribed medicine. At the end o my days,

my brain would eel congested with worries. Te thought o being boxed in ahouse, orced into close quarters with the drone o television sets and questionsrom my parents, seemed too much. My car gave my mind time to digest. rav-eling mindlessly through quiet spaces, away rom trafc and away rom people,I held rare moments o empty calm.

Driving along Caliornia highways, we had a destination. We parked beside a

beach and removed our shoes, ready to approach the Pacic Ocean. Mexicanson a dock tossed shing lines into the sea. Surers paced the sand, running intothe waves and being spit back out. We walked past these strangers, our skirtsblowing in the breeze, our toes digging into sand.

My cousin Rebecca is a surer in L.A., Jessica said. She said we could govisit her in a ew days, i you want.

I said that sounded great. But in my head, I couldnt picture what a relative oJessicas would be like surng. Te Gellars, with their black hair and pale skin,

always struck me as indoor people.When we returned late in the evening, Mr. Gellar was on the couch reading.

Jessica asked him what he was doing up. He explained that a release party othe latest Harry Potterbook was beginning at midnight at an Escondido book-store. Amused that he didnt think twice about going alone, we said we would

join him.Fieen minutes beore midnight, we rolled into the Barnes & Noble parking

lot. Trongs o people lined up outside. Some were lying on blankets. Others

were dressed in cloaks and glasses, jumping up and down in excitement. Jessicaand I laughed when the doors were opened to the stampede, lagging behindthe crowd. Mr. Gellar assumed his place in a line that would surely take hours.


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We began browsing through books.We snaked through aisles, scanning shelves until we reached the travel sec-

tion. Behind me, Jessica read a title to hersel: Finding the Open Road. My ears

perked up. Te words resonated as what I had wanted to do all year. I stoppedin my tracks.

What?She pointed to a large paperback acing the aisle, its cover a green RV parked

in ront o a cloudy sky. I read the back:A Guide to Sel-Construction Ratherthan Mass Production. Te authors were three college students who realizedduring their nal year o school that they didnt know what they wanted todo with their lives. Tey bought an RV and traveled the country, interviewing

individuals who had channeled their passions into successul careers.aking in the books pages, I elt my spirit align with something, and I elt

more alive by the page. Flipping through interviews, I stumbled upon one withMr. Mondavi, a simplied drawing o his aged ace in the corner. Reading hiswords, it was almost as i I was having the conversation I had dreamt o havingwith him a year beore. As we sat waiting or Mr. Gellar, reporters approachedus. Jessica talked to them. My eyes stayed glued to my book.

I could have stayed on that oor or hours, but Mr. Gellar approached us

with his coat on, book in hand. We le the glowing store behind us.Sitting alone in the backseat, I elt my insides buzzing with passion. Some-

thing between the book and me had clicked. I longed to keep reading aboutthe road trip, about what these people had to say. When we got home, Jessicapulled out a book o her own, and we both read until she began yawning, ask-ing i she could turn o the light. I obliged, turning over and closing my eyes.But I couldnt sleep. I could eel a new energy radiating through my veins. Iwasnt sure i Id ever sleep again.

Suddenly, lie was a grand adventure, its possibilities endless and its peoplegood. My mind raced with hope. Tere were people out there like me, peoplewho elt that the ordinary wasnt enough. Tey had gotten up and le theirlives, seeking more, and they ound it. I wasnt alone. Tere was more to liethan everyone at home let on. I knew it. Tere was more, and I would do more,and everything would be okay. I elt like I was oating away. With a nal lookat the ull moon outside, I oated into a peaceul sleep.

Te next day, I awoke ready to explore.

We took o to see Jessicas high school, a collective o small buildings acrossthe road rom an orange grove. Concrete covered the premise between class-rooms, making it one large patio dotted with plants and picnic tables.


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We are really only inside i we have class, Jessica said. Or i its raining. Butit doesnt rain much here.

Jessica proudly pointed out the places where she had class and ate lunch with

her riends. A year beore, she would have been the new girl walking into thisarena. I wondered how she did it.

Jessicas parents dropped us o at the San Diego station the next aernoon,where bright red trains arrived every 20 minutes. We boarded one to L.A. andsoon were gliding through mountains and above beaches. Rebecca, Jessicas31-year-old cousin, was waiting or us when we arrived.

Rebecca drove a station wagon, just like I imagined a surer would. She didntlook a thing like Jessica. Sandy blond hair ell just below her shoulders, and her

awless skin was tan. She seemed strong but also had an easy laugh and hospi-table personality. On the way to her place, she talked about the second printingo her book, Surer Girl. We were being shown around L.A. by a emale surngicon. I couldnt wait to see where she lived.

We drove through neighborhoods tightly packed with tiny houses. Terewerent many trees here, only pleasant slumming or as ar as the eyes couldsee. She parked in ront o a pink ranch house.

Here we are, she said, helping us gather our bags. We began walking toward

the ront door.Oh, no. Tis way. Follow me. She guided us through a gate to a sidewalk

leading out back. Dogs barked at us rom behind the ence o the adjoiningyard. We approached a garage.

Tis is where I live, she said.Is this a garage? I asked.Yeah. Well, it used to be. Te amily that lives up there didnt need it, so they

turned it into an apartment and rent it out. Its great!

I expected the worst, until she opened the door. Inside was a perect one-room dwelling. One wall served as a kitchen, lined with a ridge, stove, andcounter. Te ar corner held a bedroom area, her bed and dresser acing eachother beside a sliding door. Te rest o the space held a couch, a table and asmall library o sur documentaries and photo albums. An eccentric collectiono art hung on the walls, perhaps gathered rom other countries.

We woke early the next morning or sur lessons at Santa Monica beach, justa ew minutes away. Tis was Rebeccas day job. Te children, elementary age,

arrived with a sense o earlessness. Strapping on their wet suits, they laughedloud and pushed one another on their way to the water. Jessica and I put onwetsuits o our own, awkwardly. Wading into the water, I suggested that we


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keep our distance rom the kids because I had never sured beore. Jessica andI spent the aernoon in our own patch o ocean, receiving personal instructionrom the determined Rebecca, and nally, or just a moment, I was standing on

my board and riding a wave.I had always assumed the role o the clumsy, quiet riend in a group o over-

achievers. I wasnt athletic. I wasnt outgoing. Poor Kelly, they would coo inthe most stinging way possible whenever jabs were made at me. I could onlyagree. But out here, my ocus on conquering the roar o waves drowned out theecho o their voices. Here, I had no role to abide by, and on this aernoon, Ihad a mission.

On a lunch break, we sat in the sand, listening to the guitar playing o an-

other instructor who appeared to be Rebeccas age but had skinned knees romskateboarding. I imagined these bright children, ocus in their eyes, keeping upwith their sur lessons and returning to this beach ve years rom now. Teycould come here in the morning with best riends, or aer heartbreaks, alone.I I had lived out here, perhaps I could have done the same, and my boredmind wouldnt have become a magnet or worry.

With boards stacked in the back o her car, Rebecca drove us to the train sta-tion at sunset. I spent one more night on the mountain beore leaving the next

morning. On the way to the airport, I clung to my book and kept my picturesclose. I knew there was more out there and that I wasnt done exploring.

* * *

Standing on the rooop o Dads apartment, I could still eel the rush o adren-aline running through my veins. I eel awakened, I wrote to my journal. I hadound passion over the last week a setting that matched how I elt inside.

Tere were people out there that lived their own way. While I eared returningto Carmel, I knew that I wanted to do great things and meet more inspiringpeople. I couldnt wait to tell my riends, including Anna, all about my trip.

Aer taking a good long look at the Chicago skyline in twilight, eelingthe possibilities o the city as possibilities that may one day be mine, I turnedaround and walked downstairs to call Anna.

Well thats exciting, Anna said aer I gave her a breathless recount o mytrip. I elt like she might get bored with details, so I kept it brie.

How was Jessica? she asked. Still the same?What do you mean? Yeah, I guess so. We had a lot o un.Oh, Jessica, Anna laughed. She was always a little bit strange.


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I urrowed my brow but listened intently as she began recounting her ownadventures. She had just returned rom a leadership camp in Indianapolis.

Ive met so many awesome people here. Tey are so much un! Tey go to

Jesuit, that private school downtown. Anyway, I really want to start hanging outwith them. Im going to meet up with my riend Chelsea at a estival next week.You should come with me.

I told her that sounded great, and she said she had to go.I went to bed with a unny eeling in my stomach, listening to the sirens and

sounds o the city night as I tried to all asleep on my dads uton. I enjoyed be-ing in Chicago, with a library to explore upstairs and my suitcase. I wanted tocontinue eeling good on my own, I realized. But Anna was on to a new crowd

and wanted me to come with her.On one hand, I told mysel that I was more condent now, and this kind o

branching out was exactly what I needed. Since Anna was the one that alwaysgot out and did things, maybe I should just go with her. I wasnt sure whereI would meet new people even i I tried. But deep down, I wished it wasntalways Anna that brought new people into my lie. Te tone in her voice as shehal-responded to my comments made me eel childish, as i I were stuck in aworld she had moved on rom long ago.

* * *

Te day aer the worst night ever, when I wasnt apologizing to everyoneinvolved, I had been replaying prom nights events in my head. Other eventsstarted lining up behind them. From that rst meeting with Annas riendChelsea in August, I had been tagging along with a crowd I didnt really likeand convincing mysel that I should be as enthused as Anna about how much

un we were having.I lay in my empty bathtub, curtain pulled shut. Tis was where I hid to have

late night phone conversations, the shower providing a sound barrier betweenthe rest o upstairs and me. I was usually araid o waking my amily with mylaughter. Now, I just wanted to be alone.

I called my cousin Ashlee. Four years my senior and a student at BowlingGreen State University, she had become my closest riend over the past year.We talked oen throughout the week. Vivacious, witty, and ree-spirited, she

told me her stories o dating musicians, traveling the world, and creating artprojects with her many riends, stopping only to smoothly inhale and exhaleher Parliaments. I usually listened more than I spoke, occasionally chiming


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in about the silly parties I attended. Simply hearing about someones lie romsuch an independent point o view was rejuvenating. It was a lieline to thatCaliornia eeling I had all but lost.

But or this conversation, I spoke more than I listened, grimly detailing theaermath o prom night, describing how Josh had almost died while getting hisstomach pumped and how we had gotten an entire school in trouble.

So what? Ashlee said. Who gives a shit i 800 people know about it? Noneo them sound like good people anyway. Its probably a good thing that yourenot going to be hanging out with them anymore.

I let that sink in. I let go. Distress was replaced with disgust, a eeling thatbegan boiling over inside o me, horried at all the time I had wasted caring

about what strangers thought. I never wanted to see the Jesuit crowd again.

* * *

When Anna nally called me later that night, she acted as a messenger.Dont worry. No one thinks its your ault, she said. Her voice no longer

seemed eager to invite me to the next conquest, though. She seemed at a lossor what to say, already anxious to get o the phone.

It doesnt matter, because I never want to see any o them again, I respond-ed.

Oh, Kelly, stop. Tey still like you. Its not the end o the world, she said.Anna wasnt grasping that my statement was made in deance, not shame.

She tried to assure me that my world was not over, but I realized just how di-erent our worlds were. Crowds that she thrived in, longed or, had never beenmine. I dont think she could process the act that I stopped caring about theiracceptance. Certainly I would come back to her side and everything would be

ne again.But alone in my empty tub, I knew that I never would again. I might return

in body, but never in spirit.An awkward silence hung in the air between our phone receivers, and I

asked Anna what she would be doing that weekend. She told me o Jesuit par-ties she had been invited to, that she might attend no longer trying to con-

vince me to join. I didnt need to wonder who she would bring along, becauseat this point comrades were unnecessary. She had been assimilated as one o

their own. I elt the weight o the pressure to join li.Aer hanging up, my mind began reeling about all o the other people I

could call.


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y late June, I was again on a plane to San Diego, this time without hesi-tation. During the ight, I thought about the morning beore, when Iwoke up at my riend Laras house surrounded by playing cards, beer

bottles, and sleeping kids rom school that I would never have hung out withthree months earlier. I smiled at the vision. By now I was realizing that it eltgood to get to know people on my own and to do simple things.

Jessica had made many new riends this year. For once, I was thinking moreabout meeting them than about my riends back at home. As I walked o theplane, my excitement built with each stride. I knew where Jessica would bewaiting or me, beside baggage claim, and when I saw her in a white tank topand sunglasses, I realized that there was something dierent about her as well.

She had an agenda.We need to stop by my grandmas on the way back, she said aer I grabbed

my bag.Oh, does she want us over or dinner or something?No. Shes not there. She has some stu stashed in her house, though. And I

have a key.We drove to a sunny retirement village. Jessica umbled to get inside. I

looked at amily photographs while Jessica raided cabinets. She emerged, vic-

tory in her eyes, with a bottle o vodka.Oh my god, I said. Why does she have that? She wont know that you took

it, will she?No. She has plenty! She burst into giggles.We drank the stolen vodka later that night on her riend Baileys back porch.

Like Jessica, Bailey lived on a mountain. Her parents were out o town, andkids wandered through the bungalow-style house beore settling outside to talkby the light o a green pool. A ew o us passed a hookah back and orth as we

spoke.I have no idea what happened last night, said Bailey, a boisterous blonde

with crooked teeth. I woke up naked on a gol course to sprinklers shootingme down. She laughed about it.

Bailey possessed a bold restlessness that I sensed in the others as well. Buttheir ront o sel-destruction, perhaps stirred by desert heat and avocadogroves, couldnt conceal their sharp wit and brevity. Tey were up or anythingand didnt have patience or bullshit. I elt an unexpected connection to them.

Over the next ew days, I got to know Jessicas riends through more con-versations on back porches, breaking into public pools, and eating at In-and-Out Burger. Tey laughed loud and cursed oen. Out here, there werent any

B


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parents around telling them how to look or what to do. Tere didnt seem to beany parents out here at all.

On the evening o the Fourth o July, we joined thousands o others that had

gathered on the Valley Center High School ootball eld. Patriotic music bel-lowed rom the speakers. Giant reworks shot o. I had never liked Americamore than during that show, while laughing with strangers in a strange townon the edge o the country.

High school kids lingered aer the nal explosions, and a band o boys in-vited us to their riends house. We got lost on the way there, nding ourselvesat a crossroads in the middle o a mountain. Jessica called or help. For a ewminutes we sat in silence, until a nasally roar came rom the distance. A single

bright light raced toward us rom the dark, and an attractive, rugged boy in awhite -shirt and jeans halted his motorcycle in ront o us.

Sorry about the bad directions, he said. Come on, ollow me.He led us to a dark driveway, where we parked and ollowed him to the side

o the house. We entered a giant room with vaulted ceilings, the interior darkand empty. An old man sat motionless on a couch, his long white beard illumi-nated by the static blue glow o a television, his eyes set blankly on the screen.

Without words, we were led down a staircase into a dark hall. A row o doors

lined both sides. Light and the mued sounds o music leaked rom underone. Inside was a small room scant o urniture. A group o teens was sitting onthe oor, some drinking beer.

wo boys were bickering about a recent misortune: getting arrested inMexico.

Tey steal cars and drink a lot, Jessica whispered.Another was showing someone a tattoo he had just gotten on his chest. I

liked the look o it. It was a tidal wave.

I like that design, I said.Its to remember my riend Devon, he said. He died a ew months ago. Car

accident.Im sorry. Was he rom here?Yeah, he went to school with us, he said. It happened on that cli west o

here. You guys may have passed it on your way over. He was speeding, goingabout 100 when he rounded a curve. But, I mean, everyone does that. Im notsure how it happened, but he just went o the edge. Plummeted all the way

down. Died on impact.Driving home that night, I tried to imagine this place as home. When I de-

scribed what I used to do in my hometown go to theme parties and dance in


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peoples basements the crowd had legitimately seemed to think that Indi-ana might be worth visiting. Just how accustomed had they grown to living inparadise?

On my last night, we went to the house o Jessicas riend Luke. It was hisdads place, a modern ranch on top o a mountain with a pool out back. Hisdad was out o town, so we drank and hung out on the rooop. While Jessicaand I talked, the boys jumped rom the roo into the water. In ront o us weresilhouettes o palm trees against a purple sky, and shadows o black mountainsloomed in the distance. We were somewhere between the glow o scatteredhouses below us and the bright stars worlds above.

Luke and I had met a ew days earlier. He seemed unpredictable, his hair

messy, his voice cynical, always pufng on a cigarette. I liked him.We ended up in his bedroom, talking. I elt a connection with these kids like

I hadnt elt beore. We hadnt been shaped by the same winds and landscapesand home lives. We may have been dierent breeds. Yet I elt as i I had oundthe kind o people I wouldnt regret spending time with.

ell me about your lie back home, he said.I have a group o riends. Well, lately not so much. But thats how it used to

be. en o us ve girls, ve boys. We do everything together.

Tats so crazy. Tat sounds like something out o a movie.Kind o, I guess. Weve spent so much time together, though, that were

like brothers and sisters. We just seem to ght all the time. It used to be good,though.

We lay in his bed, and I told him more about my magical group at home.He wanted my cast. I wanted his setting. I wondered i you could have both.

Jessica and I returned to her mountain late. Falling asleep, I thought abouthow I was really going to miss her. Tis had been a dierent trip than the year

beore. I could say that innocence had been lost, that I realized Caliorniawasnt a dreamland. But that wasnt the case at all. While my rst meeting withCaliornia had struck a chord o inspiration in me, on this trip, I came to visitmy riend who had already ound her way in an imperect, but real, world.

I wasnt quite there yet, but I could start to see what that might look like.

* * *

In October o 2007, on one o the last warm days o the year, I was sitting undera tree near my dorm at Indiana University, dialing Jessicas number. We wereboth having trouble adjusting to our schools, hers being San Francisco State.


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We called each other to discuss roommate problems and journalism classes.IU was the only school I applied to, given the incessant pressure rom my

parents to stay in state and the act that seven o our group o 10 enrolled there

Anna excluded. Jordan had asked me to room with her, but I reused, know-ing that this was my chance to make my own riends. I instead roomed withAlyson, an acquaintance rom high school. We had spent the nal ew monthso our senior year talking about how ready we were to leave.

I just dont understand the dorm you live in, Jessica said.Its called a living-learning center, I said. You have to apply to get in. Tere

are art studios attached to it and stu. Alyson and I thought it would be ourticket to meet cool people. You know, none o those ake, partier crowds that I

got sick o in high school.But you hate it now? Jessica asked.I dont know, I said. Tis seems worse than what I was trying to avoid. Our

neighbors are constantly dealing drugs. Some come banging on our doors at 3in the morning, strung out on acid and what not. Teyre really out there.

How is Alyson handling it?Shes not around much. Shes ound her crowd already older kids that

have houses o-campus. She knew them beore she got here. Teyre pretty

nice, but they dont seem to be into college at all, even i theyre students. Shesdating a high school teacher right now. I dont know how the hell that hap-pened.

What are you going to do?I tried to think o options. I had spent most nights crying mysel to sleep, ut-

terly lost. I thought that once you got to college, everything ell into place. Eveni I hadnt wanted to go to Indiana, I gured that something had to come along,eventually. Finding mysel alone and unsure o what else to do, I would walk

miles to Jordans dorm to hang out with my high school riends and sleep onher concrete oor. I elt completely deeated.

I think Im going to try a dierent dorm, I said.

* * *

On a mid-December evening, I was sitting outside a new dorm, counting downthe days until I went home or winter break. My new roommate, Michelle, was

sleeping in our room. I lit up a cigarette, a habit I started just to keep me com-pany on these nights, when I elt I would go crazy i I stayed in the room.

Michelle turned out to be nice enough, but her religion o Islam required us


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to keep our curtains and door shut at all times so that men wouldnt see herhair. She slept throughout most aernoons, muttering that she must be sick.When she woke up late at night, she enjoyed watching oreign lms at a high

volume. Tis drove me to sleep on old riends couches even more than beore.Tis was one o those nights, but I had grown sick o being the girl on some-

one elses uton as their own riends poured in and out o the room. At least outhere it was quiet, and I might cross paths with a normal person who needed alight. I pulled out my cell phone and looked through my call history. No recordo Anna.

Jordan and I visited Anna a ew times early in the year. But during the lastvisit, she had run away rom us early in the night to hook up with someone in

a closet. I didnt see her aer that and ended up sleeping on a dierent riendscouch, much as I did at school. Tere was no sense in going to her or reuge.

Sitting on a short cobblestone wall, I gazed at the beautiul buildings aroundme. Tey were romantic, but I elt at odds with them, and with this school. Itold mysel that i Id made it this ar, I can make it until winter break. I hadnttold my high school riends, but my parents and I agreed that I wouldnt becoming back.

* * *

Beginning that winter break, I lived in my parents basement or a semester,spending my days at a community college and my nights looking or a newschool something I had avoided doing the year beore.

Aer much browsing, I decided on Ball State University, a smaller stateschool that I had never thought much o beore college. I needed less than onehand to count the number o people I knew there, but it elt like home aer my

rst visit.In August, I ound mysel moving urniture into a house at Ball State, where

I would be living with two other girls. I was truly apart rom my old riends orthe rst time. Without a stale saety net, I elt like my own lie was truly start-ing.

Exhausted rom hauling boxes, my parents were about to leave me alone atcollege, or the second time. I hugged them with a big smile, condence twin-kling in my eye, reassuring them that I would be ne.

* * *


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Four years later, I graduated rom Ball State.Walking across the stage in a room ull o inspiring students and proessors

that have become wonderul riends over the past three years, I elt joy and

gratitude brought to the surace with that sudden perspective in your headthat asks, How on earth did I make it here?

It was the same eeling I had on a San Francisco rooop last summer, be-tween my junior and senior years.

It was a Friday night in July. I had woken early that morning to make aight to San Francisco rom Seattle, where I was interning at Yes! Magazineor three months. None o my teachers had heard o the magazine when I toldthem about my summer plan. Neither had I, until I Googled publications or a

dream internship project late in the year. Once I stumbled upon their website,I elt that buzzing through my veins eeling that I had so many years ago stum-bling upon a certain book in Escondido. I didnt know what came next, but Iknew I needed to ollow the eeling.

It would be my rst visit to Jessica in our years, and my shortest ight everto see her. Now doing well at San Francisco State, she was spending the sum-mer interning at a business newspaper in the heart o the city.

Aer a day spent roaming as we had in our teen years, talking like no time

had passed at all, we rode a bus rom her rented home a Painted LadyVictorian reminiscent oFull House to her boyriends high-rise apartmentdowntown.

Her boyriend, Sheldon, cooked up a shrimp east inspired by his nativeHawaii. Amid lively conversation, plates that covered the table were scrapedclean. Full and eager or the night to begin, the three o us wandered to a porchoutside, where a narrow black ladder led to the top o the building. One by one,we ascended.

On top o the building, a cool breeze ran through our hair as we sat to ob-serve the city night. In the distance, the lights o the Golden Gate Bridge traceda wave-shaped line over the dark bay. Skyscrapers illuminated the night with aaint orange glow.

Te last time I had seen the city, it was rom below, when I was just 15. Ihad wandered the hills with my parents, imagination running wild as I trailedbehind them, straining to look up at the top o the ancient buildings. Whenwe had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, I daydreamed silently in the backseat

about my uture sel lie or the rst time.Snapping to rom these girlish memories, I took in the moment that we were

sharing. Sheldon was pointing to a spot in the distance and explaining some-


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something to Jessica. Tey were laughing together. More riends were startingto arrive, and the crowd on the rooop grew.

We had an open night ahead o us, an open lie ahead o us.

I smiled to mysel. I had made it to this rooop on my own.


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I I Leave Here omorrow by Te Invictus Writers is licensed under a CreativeCommons-Atrribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

o view a copy o this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco,

Caliornia, 94105, USA. Permissions beyond the scope o this license may beavailable at http://www.thedudeman.net.

Photo by Ken Lund, available through the Creative Commons License. Seethe original picture: http://www.ickr.com/photos/kenlund/3376784956/.

if i leave here tomorrow: filling empty spaces

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