Briefcase.

"Interesting how moments that were once our favorites can be the ones we abhor the next day. and the ones that seemed so... meaningless are realized as pivotal points in our existence. Life... funny thing."

I love moments. I love to live them. I love those small seconds of the day that you know no one else noticed. They dangle and then dash away, leaving you breathless to describe them.

The day faded out and I sat on the bus, surrounded by familiar strangers on my way to Vancouver. We'd talked about Christmas, about families, how I feel about Texas and then laughed as I retracted my statements when approached by a Texan. We talked about writing and we talked about why we were on that bus. On the outskirts of Vancouver I wondered out loud why we had pulled over at a broken down gas station. It had a crooked sign, and the pumps were rusted. Through the window you could see the convenience store clerk looking bored as the last of the sunlight disappeared, doubting she'd have any customers the rest of the night. One pick-up truck was parked outside. The boy sitting next to me answered my wondering, facetiously asserting that this must be a stop. 

It was. 

From behind me an old man got up. He was wearing a blazer and a cowboy hat. He was no hillbilly though, but a figure emerge from a novel. He reached above his seat into the overhead storage of the Greyhound. He removed a single piece of luggage, a small, brown, square briefcase. Leaning slightly forward, he shuffled to the front of the bus. He descended the stairs and paused on the pavement below. I waited for him to move to the side of the bus to claim the rest of his bags which I assumed were underneath. Instead, he looked around, and then walked away. My head tilted in curiosity as I watched him move away from the gas station down an old road, one foot before the other on the asphalt, cracked and uneven. There were no lights ahead, no car to pick him up, nothing for miles. He turned quickly into a phantom. I turned to the boy next to me, and told him with the utmost respect for this man that I wished I could be so free as to travel holding only a briefcase. He replied, "How Kerouac..." 

I have no idea where the old man went. But in my mind he walked for miles, one of the few left from the Beat Movement. Still part of the anti-culture, still preserving adventure, still moving against the tide accidentally. Yes, it's moments like these that drive me back into my crazy mind, that unhinge me and send me hurtling back into the dreams of being On the Road. I'll never get over it. My life is one of those moments.