The Walkin' Dude.
May 26, 2007:
He died two years ago today. My father burst into my room at six in the morning, crying, waking me up, followed shortly by Joel, crying. We all cried that day. People that didn’t know him cried. Our tears were contagious, our sorrow a plague. I’m sure that even now, the farthest ripples of grief are welling eyes in New Zealand. Sometime I feel like the ripples stay in me, bouncing off my walls and racing back. I cry on my porch on sunny days without warning. No sirens, no bells, no emergency broadcasts. The ripples always race. I can feel the wind and power of the ones that miss my heart, 18-wheeled trucks of sadness and loss speeding down I-81. May 26th burns for me.
The 24-Hour Diner Extravaganza finished without a hitch. Sure, there were plenty of hitches between the 5th and 18th hours, but they disappeared towards the end. It finished without a hitch and that was a big accomplishment. The 24-Hour Diner Extravaganza finished without a hitch. Sure, there were plenty of hitches between the 5th and 18th hour, but they disappeared towards the end. Dustin and I toasted our coffees with thirty minutes left to go.
“To us,” I said after our cups clinked.
“To us!” Dustin repeated.
“In life, we will do foolish things. Let us do them with enthusiasm,” I said, leaning back in the booth.
“Here here!” Dustin replied and sipped his coffee.
“Nearly 24 hours in the Key City Diner. I didn’t think we’d actually do it,” I said.
“Are you happy I made you?”
“Yeah, but you should have given me some warning a few days before.”
“Psh. Planning just ruins everything. Live in the now, pal.”
I drank some coffee, thought for a minute, and said, “You realize that we have to outdo this now, right?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“How about a walk somewhere?”
“Sounds crazy enough. Where to?”
“Across America?”
Dustin inhaled his coffee and coughed, “Across America? Are you nuts?”
“Live in the now, pal,” I said. “You in?”
“Wait,” Dustin said, holding his hand up, “Can we practice?”
Outside the window, along Route 22 eastward, a trio of Hondas went by with surfboards lashed to their roofs. I smiled to myself. That was it.
“How about the shore?” I asked.
“Walk from here to the shore?”
“You said you wanted practice, so there’s your practice.” I smiled and finished my cup. I knew he’d agree. There was no way he could turn down the opportunity for an adventure.
“Eh, sure.”
Bingo.
We shook hands and swore to ourselves that we would walk from our town of Washington to the Atlantic Ocean, and then from the Atlantic to Pacific. The cross-Jersey walk would be about 75 miles from Washington to Sandy Hook. Cross-country would be about 3,000 miles. Not too bad, we agreed. It certainly would be the crowning achievement of our lives.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to justify your entire life with that walk.”
“Nah, it’s ok.”
Our decision to stay in the Key City Diner was made through roughly the same process. We had decided to play Monopoly across two boards (taped together), with four banks’ worth of money, the ability to buy extra pieces, and with a slew of other complex trading and buying deals that Wall Streeters and the like would swoon over. After three weeks of playing, Dustin finally bankrupted me. Immediately after my defeat, we tossed around ideas for the next weird thing we could do. Hardly ten minutes went by before I thought of sitting in a diner for twenty four hours. As practice, we decided that eighteen hours in the Washington diner would be good.
“Something crazy, but easy,” Dustin said.
“We could walk somewhere,” I suggested.
“Too hard.”
“We could sit somewhere.”
“Better. Tubing down the entire Delaware River?”
“That’d be exhausting. I kayak thirteen miles every year and that’s tiring enough.”
“A diner?”
“Diner’s good. How long? Twenty four hours?”
And so it went.
That was years ago. Most of our friends took off for college. Joel went to William-Patterson, Becca to Ithaca, Kevin to Penn State with Ashley and Ryan, Rob to Rutgers, and so on down our long list of comrades. A small handful of our high school classmates went to community college with us. We couldn’t decide what we wanted to do. Dustin talked of studying philosophy in Boston, but never seriously pursued the idea. I had no idea at all what I wanted. I liked a bit of everything. I could see myself doing it all and unconsciously resolved myself to do nothing. I worked part-time jobs where I could find them while I attended classes required to get a degree in Liberal Arts.
Early in 2006, our mutual friend, Joel, came back from college to work. At that time, Dustin picked up a job in the Walmart nearby so he could earn some extra money for a better stereo in his car. Between college and work, I didn’t see Dustin much. He worked the night shift and it ruined most of our plans together. Joel willingly picked up the slack with his own fast-paced wackiness. While Dustin and I would sit and talk, Joel and I would move and talk. Always moving, as if our bodies would seize up or something in us would solidify if we dared to remain still.
Over the next few months, we would visit Dustin at work with Dunkin' Donuts coffee, hang out in the store and embarrass him in front of his boss, then leave. On the night of May 25th, as the air was beginning to warm up, we rode around in Joel’s red VW Golf. It was about midnight and we were bored. We went to a traffic circle were we usually go to think. Five minutes passed in the circle. Around and around.
“Should we visit him?” He asked me.
“Think we should? Dunkin Donuts is kind of far from here,” I said.
“I guess he’ll be fine without coffee for one night.”
“I guess so.”
We sat in silence while the car went around the circle another time.
“So,” said Joel, “want to go to High Bridge?”
“Nah. Want a cigarette?”
“Eh…sure.”
We drove around the circle some more until we finished our cigarettes, tossed them out the window, and left. He dropped me off at 1 A.M. and said goodnight. I said it back, went inside, and made a gin and tonic. Out on my back porch, I sat with my cats and drank.
Things were changing. I could feel it then. I was twenty at the time and snug in my prime. I went to bed an hour later, tired from thinking.
That was years ago. I joined the Army, started dating Paige, everyone went to college, we were growing up and apart and then Dustin left us. For good. There’s no comfortable way to say it, think it, or remember it. I’d choose not to but that choice isn’t mine and I’m left to flounder in my perpetual state of aching and confusion. On April 19, Paige and I had just been through a difficult situation that I started. There were lots of uncomfortable and unsure feelings and we decided that we needed a break. Paige couldn’t leave. She had bills and work responsibility. I had nothing. I was a jobless schmuck, 23 and living with Dad. I needed to get away from the people I loved and get some perspective. I was suffocating. A week, we decided, would be a good length. It seemed so obvious at that point what I should do. I told her my idea while we sat at the Brewhaha Restaurant. Paige didn’t believe me at first and I didn’t care.
So I packed my stuff on the next morning, Friday the 20th. I only brought the essentials: extra T-shirts, lots of socks, underwear I didn’t care about (so I could throw them away instead of carrying dirty boxers), a blue poncho, rope, a first aid kit, trail mix, a pocket knife, BDU pants, Army desert boots, my corduroy jacket, bag of gemstones, a school backpack, hand cloth, hand sanitizer, notebook, pen, pencil, toilet paper, whistle, canteen, boonie hat, two plastic bags, two candles, matches, trail mix, 1/5 bag of Fritos, a map, wallet, $20, a pack of Camel lights, shorts, and my cell phone. I had rolled up a sleeping bag and sleeping mat, which I lashed to a hiking backpack, but it was too heavy and uncomfortable. I settled for my school backpack. I figured the trip would be more interesting without sleeping gear. Also, the pack was getting heavy.
Paige drove me to Ritas Italian Ice to treat me with a farewell gelati. It was refreshing and I took the rest of hers for the walk. We soon parted ways - she drove back to Oxford, and I, dressed like a homeless Vietnam-vet, walking to the Boro. I stopped at the A&P to buy some sunscreen and give my mom a call. The only people that knew about this walk were Dustin, Paige, my mom, dad, and Kevin. Well, also including everyone that believed my status on Facebook. My second stop was at Hot Rod’s Hot Dogs for the first time in my life and had a cheese dog. Not too shabby, I'll admit, but a bit cheesy. I had walked passed 4 crows, each one sitting on a power line and cawing at me. After the third crow, a dump truck drove by with the word "Think" across the back in big black letters. At first, I assumed it was a bad sign, but ravens are good omens to Wiccans like me. If anything, they were amusing. Those crows would visit me until I reached the end of Route 22.
I had my first foot-soak in the river behind Christie's Lounge. That was very nice. There were lots of fishermen out, but none of them talked to me. They're loss, I guess. Route 31 became tedious very quickly. I used to think driving down it was annoying. Somewhere around High Bridge I realized I was sick of it. Relief didn't come until I crested the hill that was near the reservoir and the Sunset Inn. My canteen was empty, so I set my pack on the porch and walked inside the Sunset. The bartender there refilled my canteen and two of the customers said that they saw me walking farther up the road. I told them my destination, they laughed in disbelief, and then wished me the best of luck. I thanked them and talked for a while. They were all nice people, 50 to 60 years old. The bartended looked like Alfred. After a few minutes, I shook his hand and left.
I left Ritas at 1 p.m. and left Route 31 at 5:30 p.m.. I took a few backroads for a couple of a miles, one of them wrapped around a mountain a good mile or two before the Route 78 intersection. It was about 7 p.m. when I finally saw 78 and 22. My boots were beginning to be uncomfortable. There were bumps and ridges in the sole that the cushioning couldn't keep under control and it put a couple nice pressure points on my feet. I trail-blazed alongside 78/22 until 22 split off and had a nice shoulder to walk on. The sun was nearly down and I wasn't too tired, so I kept on walking. At 8:30, I came across the Spinning Wheel Diner in Readington, which is next to Lebanon. I ordered a gigantic chicken caesar salad and couldn't finish it. Everyone gave me funny looks the entire time I was there. I probably looked homeless. Or maybe it was because I hadn't shaved for three days. Perhaps I looked like a flying squid to them, I don’t know. The waitress was nice. Her name was Diane and she smiled when I gave her a lilac I had picked up 30 minutes before. I had it tucked in my canteen strap, just in case I had to woo any troublesome ladies I came across.
I got my salad to go, topped off my canteen in the bathroom, and continued along 22. But Route 22 was long and quickly became boring. According to MapQuest, I had 18.2 miles to spend on that sucker. I chugged along, the pain in my feet hurting to the point of unignorable annoyance and the tendons behind my right knee were aching bad, so it wasn't long before I had a nice limp going on. I called it "The 22-Shuffle". There are a few more shuffles I'll learn before I reach the ocean, and you'll learn them as well if you keep reading.
Paige and Emily tried to come out and visit me around 10:30 p.m. while I was in North Branch, but they couldn't find me and gave up. It was dark, cold, lonely, and I reached Bridgewater by 12:37. I decided that I was hurting enough to get to sleep, so I made a small camp amongst some bushes near the entrance to the Raritan Valley Country Club. I put my salad off a ways to distract any animals. Using my pancho as a blanket and a mat, I fell asleep for 30 minutes. I woke up freezing a bit passed 1:15 a.m. and put on my long-john pants and a few more shirts, but it didnt work. I was way too cold to sleep. I gave up on the idea and packed my things back up. I ate the rest of the chicken off the salad and threw the rest into the woods, holding onto the container so I could put it in a trashcan. I may be a vagrant, but I'm no litterbug. Sleep is one of my more favorite things to do and I get pretty grumpy when I can’t have any. My legs had stiffened during the rest and my shuffle became a hobble. It was getting colder, so I wrapped a t-shirt around my face like a mask.
A little more than a mile later, I was stopped by a Bridgewater cop. I had seen six of them driving around since I left camp and it seemed like just a matter of time before I was pulled over. I can't blame the cop for stopping me. I was wearing a backpack with a pair of socks dangling from the back, desert boots, BDU pants, corduroy jacket over a two brown shirts, a white shirt wrapped around my head, and the new Army camo boonie hat. I have no idea what he could have thought I was. He asked me where I was headed and he laughed when I told him. Then he asked why and I told him about Dustin. That shut him up real quick. I handed him my military ID and I asked him where the nearest 24-hour diner was. He told me and offered to drive me, but I declined it, saying that I had to walk, no matter what. He understood, and we talked a while about army stuff. He had been in the service too, so that helped me out a bit. We shook hands, and I continued walking. I saw him drive by a few more times. I guess he was just checking on me. He seemed like a nice guy and I wish I could remember his name. Nothing like a little hospitality. Thank you, officer, where ever you are.
Turns out the diner was a bit off of 22 and I opted to ignore it. I didn't want to get too far off my trail. It was now 2:30ish and I wanted to keep moving. Between the pain in my legs/feet and the cold night, I had a hard time keeping my focus and deciding to sleep or walk. I decided to take a five minute nap every couple of miles until I ran out of places to hide and sleep. I staggered into the Dunkin' Donuts before the intersection with 287 and got a bagel, orange juice, and coffee. It was 3:45 AM and I sat there like a zombie until 4, when I packed up and left. I wanted to keep moving just so I could get off that damn highway. Five minutes later, a man pulled up beside me and asked if I needed a ride. Actually, the conversation went more like this:
(man opens the passenger-side door)
(I stand there)
"You gonna get in"?
"Actually, I'd like too but I have to walk."
"Shut the door then."
(I shut the door and he takes off)
I still don't know what to make of it. He was nice enough to stop, but still a big enough jerk to be a bad conversationalist. Thanks for the thought, though. I appreciate it.
Two miles after that, a soldier in a pickup stops beside me. He asks me if I'm headed to Bound Brook. I say no, but mean yes, and then he asks if he can drive me. I tell him my story and he tells me mine. I learn he's in the National Guard and heading to Bound Brook to help. It slipped my mind to ask him why, but I found out later. He wishes me the best of luck and drives away. A mile and a half after this, I reach my exit to Bound Brook (Thompson Ave, I'll never forget it. I was yelling for it since 3:30. I fucking hate 22). It was 5:02: AM when I stepped off of 22. I laughed with glee and found new life in me as I headed down into Bound Brook.
My first thoughts of Bound Brook were good ones. The place was suburbanish and reminded me of Deptford, where my grandparents lived. Everyone's lawn was nicely cut, homes nicely painted, streets nicely paved. A cul-de-sac on every other block. I turned down a couple of roads and a state trooper passed me. I thought nothing of it until another passed a second later. I saw a man smoking on his stoop. He didn't raise his head to look at me as I walked by. A state trooper in an SUV drove by and took a corner without slowing down. I thought there might be a drug bust, even if it is a bit early. The sun was coming up but it was still very cold and my shirt was still on my head. I took the same corner as the SUV and saw a Dunkin' Donuts at the end of the street. We have a 52-Alpha at the DD, requesting backup, over. I saw a biker and two joggers, another trooper, a Buick, then another trooper. I turned left at the DD, which had only two troopers at it, and saw a road block. A trooper, two road block stands with lights, and tape across the sidewalk and street. I made a detour around it, but came to another road block. So I made another detour and ran into another road block. I stopped seeing people around and saw a few orange Xs on a few doors, but shrugged it off as retarded shit. There were no troopers at this block, so I crossed it and tried to find River Road and my way to New Brunswick. I couldn't see over the block until I crossed it because it was on hill, but when I did, I understand the need for the block.
There was garbage strewn all about the streets. Ravaged furniture lay broken on the sidewalks. Puddles dotted the street and watermarks stained the homes and businesses. Every building there was marked with an orange X. I saw a local cop car parked at the intersection ahead, but it was empty. I kept turning around to check for zombies. I had heard talk of Bound Brook for 5 seconds on 101.5, but didn't think it was too bad. I found my way through the trash and into that intersection. I checked the carnage up and down the roads and hung a left, trying to follow the sun East. The ocean was East, so it made sense. I had to cross the road to the other sidewalk because the amount of trash laying around. At the next intersection, the light was broken and the street signs missing. There was another trooper car parked in the center with the officer still in. He eyed me as I walked up to him. I asked where River Road was and he laughed. He didn't answer me, but rather asked what I was doing in a restricted zone. I told him I was lost and then explained my story, to which he offered me some solace and permission to continue through the restricted zone (but I'm pretty sure it was the army gear that persuaded him). I left in the direction he pointed to, crossed a bridge and through a larger road block, this one with sanitation teams and pumps. I guess the trooper I had talked to radioed this group, because they let me through without questions. River Road came up fast and I made a right onto it. Turns out River Road was river now, and I had to step carefully along the high grass shoulder and over a railroad bridge (because the road was impassable going under it). After that bridge, it was a steady uphill for 2 or 3 miles until I entered the Rutgers area.
I wasn't completely sure I was in Rutgers until I saw the QuikCheck I went to while visiting Rob (who goes to RU). I shuffled in, bought a sub and a gatorade, and had my meal outside on the curb. I called Rob, hoping I could sleep on his couch for a while. I was wiped out. I had maybe a total of 45 minutes of sleep and (by now) 34ish miles of walking. Rob didnt pick up and I sent him a text message, shut off my phone, and continued walking. I found a tiny park area with two benches a little off the road, so I dropped my junk and took a nap on one of the benches. I slept for a nice 30 minutes and it felt amazing. I woke up, made a few calls, had a snack, and took off again. A mile later, Pat gave me a call and tried to get me to turn around, "for the sake of my feet" she said. I said I would think about it, and she told me to buy some insoles. After 5.4 miles on River Road, I found 18 South, changed my socks and aired out my feet, and headed into downtown New Brunswick. It was about 11 AM.
Route 18 South was a bitch. There was a walkway for a mile, then it disappeared. There was no shoulder to walk on, so I had to take side-roads and follow it the best I can. I eventually found a little park area for RU students and the entrance to a trail that was locked. I climbed the fence because this trip was about sticking it to the man, and hopped on the trail. It looked like it followed 18 South almost exactly. A mile later, there was a path off the trail and onto an exit ramp, which I climbed on to. I just had a feeling about it, and seeing as how I haven't used my brain yet on this trip, I might as well keep trusting my heart. The ramp took me away from 18 and into a stretch of contruction all around 18. I walked through a large construction area, and then another, and then up a ramp that was being dug out. From a distance, it looked like the ramp was connected to the road it was ramping to. Turns out it wasn't and there was a muddy cliff. I had to climb a cement wall to my right, up a woody slope, over a brick enclosure, and across the lawn of the Art Building for RU (or whatever). I refilled my canteen in its bathroom after scaring a few students that were studying in the lounge. The air-conditioning was heaven because it was about 12:30-1 and hot as hell on that highway. I left the building and walked through MORE construction (thank God is was the weekend and they weren't working), and came up on the intersection with Route 1. At this point, my left knee had over-worked a tendon, and the blisters on my right foot were worse. The 18-Shuffle was interesting to watch, I bet.
I got lost pretty damn quick at the intersection of 1 and 18. I must have followed 1 or thought I missed my exit on 18 or something, because I went south and almost to the Turnpike. I stopped at Bennigans for lunch and nearly passed out while I waited for my food. My legs were killing me by then and it even hurt to sit. I asked the waiter how to get over the river, but he must of have thought of some OTHER river, because he sent me over into East Brunswick. I cursed him out for a while on the side of the road, but it wasn't his fault. I didn't give him the name of the river because I didn't know it. That was a waste of an hour. I don't remember what time it was, but I decided to take a nap on the muddy river bank for 30 minutes. A foot-soak and sock change later, I was pissed off enough to cross the Raritan River (I know the name NOW), on Route 1. There was no shoulder and barely a walkway on the bridge, and I had to trail blaze through garbage and weeds to get to it. Stepping off the bridge, I wound up in Edison. Fuck it, I was thinking, I'll just head east.
So I did. The first road I saw that was going east, I took it. Turns out it 514 and it ran all the way through Edison. I was fueled by anger and disappointment with myself and I don't remember much of the walk except for a few things: it looked pretty unsafe to walk through at night, I stopped at a pharmacy for insoles which didn't fit and I wound up not wearing. I cut a hole in my boot's insole and placed the insole I bought on top. That hurt the sides of my foot instead of the middle, where the blister was. It was ok. It was a different pain, which was a relief. Atleast then I could choose what kind of pain I wanted. I like having options. I eventually passed 95 and the Middlesex County College. After too many extra miles of walking, I saw a couple hotels. My pain in my legs, knees, and feet was incredible at this point and I barely made it from hotel to hotel. The Hilton was too expense, the Holiday Inn was full, Extended Stay was for extended stays. Farther up the road, later which I found out was King Georges Post Road, was the Best Western Palace Hotel. It looked like a giant White Castle and was run by Indians (Indian-Indians, not Native Americans). It was $85 for a night, with a military discount, and I jumped all over that and made sweet love with the receptionist. Well...she was probably thinking I would because I was so grateful. I looked like shit, though. Shitty, dirty, homeless, and unshaven for 5 days now. It was 7pm.
I took a bath for 2 hours. Scolding hot water. I sat there and sipped my hotel coffee and made a few calls to the essential people, letting them know of my whereabouts and well-being. After the bath, I showered twice. I was so funky, I could step out of it. I shaved and had another coffee. My legs felt better, a little, and I decided I wanted a beer. I went barefoot to the bar that was full of Indians with 3 other white people huddled together at the stools. I joined them and we instantly bonded. They were from central New York. The exact center, they claimed. I forgot why they were here, though. I told them my story and they were amazed. The started to call me "The Walkin' Dude" and bought me a shot. Well, one guy bought everyone shots. I had a few beers with them until there was a fire alarm. We all went outside, me barefoot still. I lost them pretty quick, but they had previously invited me to the room, 417, for some more beer. I went back to my room where I showered again, and then headed to their room. It was a big fat guy, a taller and fat guy, and an almost-fat girl with piercing on both of her cheeks. I forgot to mention that earlier. We drank Miller High-Life and ordered food and had a grand time smoking and drinking and eating. All three of those things really helped with my pain, or maybe it was the dozen of Extra Strength Tylenol I had taken throughout the day. I barely got into my cheesesteak when I became exhausted. I told them I had to go and they all shook my hand and wished me luck. I staggered back to my room left my cheesesteak on the bed with me, set my alarm, and passed out with the lights on. I guess it was 10:30pm.
I woke up at 6:30 and hit the snooze 3 times. I woke up again at 6:45am, and packed my stuff. I tried to find the continental breakfast, but it was in the restaurant, which was in a different building. I said, "screw it", and took a few bites of my cheesesteak. I packed that away for later, powdered up my feet, took a few towels and the shower curtain. I figured I could use the shower curtain for a floor in my tent, which would be the pancho, if I decided to camp out that night. If I didn't, well then it was still funny that I took the shower curtain. I shuddered as I put my boots back on. I went on the community computer in the library to check a map. Turns out I was in Fords, which was right north of the Raritan River (which was everywhere, apparently) and I was a bit more than a mile from the Parkway and Route 9, both which ran across the river and right to Route 35. Exactly what I needed. I memorized the map and left.
I had two options: follow 287 somehow to get to 9, or walk through the industrial park to the south and follow Industrial Ave to 9. I chose the latter, it seemed harder. Boy was it ever. I had to slink through warehouse yards and fields without being seen by the few people that were there (on a Sunday for some reason). The ground was soft, wet, and uneven. After that, I had to walk to a patch of woods, only to be blocked by a swamp. So I made my way around the swamp, which was way too big, and down the driveway of another business. It took me an hour and a half to walk a little more than a mile, but I made it to Industrial Ave. That road was nice with big shoulders and few cars at this hour. My feet were still feeling better and I was too. It was a beautiful morning and I had finally gotten some decent sleep. Through a series of exits and ramps and turns, I made it to 9 and started across the bridge. That thing was something to see, especially from the shoulder of it. There was plenty of space to walk, and since I saw signs for that Parkway that prohibited pedestrians, I had no choice. I couldn't swim across or float my wagon across. I always lose one of my children when I try. Damn kids.
I found a really cool biking glove on that bridge and it fit me. I looked badass. A cop stopped me and offered me a ride to the end of the bridge. I told him I had to walk, to which he questioned, to which I explained my story, to which he sympathized and drove away. No cop could bug me as long as I told them that story. I was golden. At the end of the bridge, I had a rest and aired my feet. I ate half of my cheesesteak and drank some water, of which I was running low. I'm not sure what time it was, but if I left the hotel at 7:30 and it took me about two hours to get to where I was, I'd say it was 2 hours after 7:30am. Or close to it. I could look out east over 9 and see the Raritan Bay, and very far away, the Atlantic, or so I thought. It was too hard to tell from this point. I followed 9 South a while until I came up on 35 South. I was getting close to the shore.
I hated 35 South pretty fast. It reminded me of a more curvy 22, also with more go-go bars. I'll tell you what, those bars were extremely tempting. After all the walking I had done so far, I could have used some boobies in my face and a beer in my hand. Somehow, I fought the temptation. Most of them were closed and I doubt they had high-quality boobies anyway. I stopped at a convenience store for some Starbursts to keep my mouth wet since I was out of water by then. Two miles later I came across a Dunkin' Donuts, where I filled my canteen. A mile after that, I found a public beach along the bay where I took a nap on my fancy shower curtain, which I laid out on the sand. I think it was Lawrence Harbor. I slept for 15 minutes, woke up, soaked my feet in the bay, and made a few calls. I soon packed up and left down 35. Let's say it was about 12:30.
I became tired of 35 and left it for Route 6. It ran along the bay and I had no fear of getting lost. I walked through Keyport, which is such a pretty town. The cozy feel and small blocks and the people made the walk feel shorter...or made it longer but I was too distracted to notice...I'm not sure. I followed 6 to Florence Ave (Route 39, for those of you tracking me), which took me right up to the bay. It was a really nice view. I sat on a bench for a few minutes to air my feet out. I could see the ocean and the end of Sandy Hook. There were a lot of little bars and restaurants nearby, too. I walked by one earlier that had $1 Miller Lite bottles. Had I stopped, I'd be in Sandy Hook by now. I was on 39 for a while when I noticed the Henry Hudson Trail and decided to take that. It seemed nice and there were people on it. I needed to look at something else besides cars and trash. I suppose it was about 3pm when I got on it.
A mile down that trail I met a man on a little bridge. He was standing there and looked like he was waiting for me to get close enough to talk to. When I was, he asked me if he could walk with me. I said yes and we walked together. He was dressed in a large, sorta puffy gray jacket, white flat-rimmed hat, baggy jeans, and flat-soled shoes. In our conversation, he told me his name was Pete and he was an ex-convict and fresh out of jail. He was walking to the Highland FROM jail, actually. He was in for a couple of knife-fights in which he claimed self-defense, and currently had drug peddling charges against him. He tried to join the Army, but his status as a convict prevented it. I told him about getting a waiver through a recruiter, and he wanted to give it another shot. Pete seemed like an honest guy and I trusted him pretty quick. I told him my story and he said he had a lot of respect for me. Earlier in the conversation, before he gained my trust, I told him I was in Iraq for a year, I guess as a way of dissuading him from stabbing me in the face and taking my wallet. I was way too exhausted to fight off ANY attack, so I had to play my cards right. It wasn't until later that I felt bad for lying to him. He even offered to arrange to get a place for me to stay once I got to Sandy Hook. I gave him my number and he left me a voice-message a couple hours later. I kind of wish I had taken him up on that offer. Anyway, we walked for a couple miles on that trail, from Natco to Port Monmouth, until he saw a friend of his and we parted ways. I'll probably never see you again Pete, but thanks for keeping me company and thanks for the offer. Stay out of jail.
Not too long after Pete left me, I met a couple taking their toddler-son out to feed the geese. I was resting and changing my socks when they passed me. We chatted for a bit and they kept walking. Once I began walking again, I caught up to them on a bridge where their son was throwing bread into the river for some geese and two ducks. The husband was an ex-Marine and the wife an army-wife, so we instantly had a connection. I was offered a bottle of water which I drank immediately. Pure water was something I hadn't had in a while. They told me that the shore was about 5 miles away. We talked for about 5 minutes when we shook hands and I walked on. They were a really nice couple.
What felt like 5 miles later, I walked into Leonardo. The trail ended suddenly and I was sad, but I was still near the bay and couldn't get lost. The couple from before said I'd be in Sandy Hook before sundown and now the sun was almost down and I was in Leonardo. I painfully walked from one street to another and came to a T-intersection. I tiredly swung my head either way and saw a most excellent surprise. To my left was the Quick Stop and RST Video from "Clerks". I excitedly shuffled to Quick Stop, opened the door, heard the little door jingle and thought of Randal strutting in. The aisles were moved around a bit, but I still recognized everything. I turned and saw some sort of Arabic or Indian clerk and I was very upset. I was even more upset when I learned they didn't take plastic, only cash. I could only afford a can of Coke. I would have liked to walk around and replay movie scenes in my mind, but the man made me feel weird, so I left. Instead, I hung around outside, leaning against the wall of RST Video. Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts..
A couple hundred feet later I found the trail and a map of the area. I was still pretty far from the shore and still had the Highlands to walk over. I looked down the road and saw some big hills and I groaned. My legs could barely handle stepping up and down curbs, let alone hills. I popped more Tylenol and marched on. I was exhausted, in horrible pain, miles away from the beach, and looking at some ill-placed mountains. The sun had set and twilight was there. It sucked.
Before I started up the Highlands, I passed two girls that were talking. A SUV drove up to them and some boys asked them for their names. I think about 4 boys were in there. The two girls laughed uncomfortably and kept asking why. The boys, probably uneased by me walking by, gave up trying to get at them, and drove off. I smiled politely at the girls and walked on without saying anything. I feel like I did them a service. I wonder if they feel the same.
A third of a mile up the Highlands I was spent. It was getting dark and I was hungry and hurting much more than I thought I would be. I couldn't even raise my head anymore to see where I was going. I figured keeping to the left would lead me along the bay and eventually to the shore. The Highlands-Shuffle was a good one. I have two of them, the Uphill Highlands Shuffle and the Downhill Highlands Shuffle. It's hard to describe them, but I'll tell you that the Downhill Highlands Shuffle looks a lot like I took a crap in my pants. About a mile of groaning and moaning and half-stepping, a jogger came up behind me. We said our "hey"s and then he asked me how far I'm going. A strange question, but I told him I was headed to Sandy Hook. He jogged slower to keep with my pace and we talked. He told me of nice places to eat in the Highlands, what roads to take, and even a place to sleep. He didn't ask why I was walking though, and I find that oddly respectable. His name was Brian and was either very friendly or gay. I wasn't able to figure it out, but it doesn't matter. He jogged with me for a while before he turned around and went back down the mountain. Thanks for pointing me in the right direction, Brian. Have a good life.
The hills and curves of Ocean Ave as it wound it's way up the Highlands seemed endless and oppressive. There wasn't much to do to keep me from collapsing on the road besides smoke the cigarettes those New Yorkers gave me at the hotel. They tasted like shit, but they keep me conscious, so thank God for that. My half-step became a quarter step and I was resting every hundred feet or so. If you folks reading this know of Mine Hill in Oxford, it's like walking three miles of the steep section by the sharp curve. The whole thing felt like 30 or 45 degrees (angle). It was going on 8:45 and I couldn't call until I reached Route 36 because of the bad reception. I knew everyone would be worried. I have been calling earlier than that each night.
I got to Route 36 around 9, made my calls quickly, and walked on. It was downhill now and I rested on a guardrail. Up ahead I saw I sign that said "Bahrs Restaurant and Pub - Take right ramp under bridge" - 1 mile". I was happy and upset. One mile at this point felt like 10. Route 36 went down into the business section of Highlands and I found a plastic streetlamp head that looked like someones lawn ornament. It was laying on the sidewalk and I picked it up. It was the perfect candle holder for my tent tonight (Brian told me that it was safe to sleep under the bridge to Sandy Hook). I carried it with me, feeling more homeless than ever. I was searching for good places to sleep, just in case the bridge spot fell through. I saw a bunch of nicely concealed areas and even a bed & breakfast. Soon after the bed & breakfast discovery, I saw the bridge to Sandy Hook. I was relieved enough to shit myself. Bahrs was down a ramp and off to the left (the sign had lied), and "Off The Hook" was on the right. It was another place Brian suggested. Bahrs looked closed. It was about 10:15pm.
I set my streetlamp by the stairs and I walked into "Off The Hook" and sat my ass down before anyone noticed. I grabbed a menu and decided on a burger a few minutes before my waiter realized I came in. His name was Andrew and he seemed to ignore me a lot. I can't blame him. The place was filled with attractive women. Good thing I looked like a shit bag vagrant, or else I'd have been up all night. My burger was fantastic and I ate everything on the plate, had a coffee, and three glasses of water. I filled my canteen and left. There were three women talking on the porch and I asked them where the nearest motel was. The only place they could think of was the bed & breakfast I saw before. I went back inside and asked Andrew the same question. He gave me the same answer. So I left and went to the bed & breakfast, as much as it hurt me to walk uphill again and in the direction I came from. I rang the bell three times with no answer and had just turned around to walk away when the door opened. A Spanish man said they were closed for renovations and pointed to the workings of a balcony right above us. I thanked him and walked away, disheartened. I really didn't want to sleep outside. It was cold and windy and I wanted a comfortable sleep. I walked down to the underside of the bridge and examined possible campsites. I saw a few and would have chosen one of them, but there were a group of people leaving Bahrs and they sounded drunk. I walked away so they wouldn't see me making a tent and walked around to the other side of the bridge where I saw a closed restaurant. In the back of the parkinglot was an abandoned VW Microbus. I found my bed for the night.
Yerp. I took out one of my candles and lit it to warm the Microbus up a little. The middle seat was clear and clean enough to lay on, but the rest of the thing was full of rusty tools and junk. I made a pillow out of some folded shirts and used the hotel towel as a blanket. It was warm enough in there with the candle and my longjohns on and it was nice to get out the wind. The double sidedoor wouldn't close or open, but I was able to shut it enough to keep the draft to a minimum. Once I got comfortable, it was pretty nice in there. No animals, no smell, away from prying eyes, nice view of the sky. I slept for a good 5 hours in that thing. Sure, I woke up cold and sore, but atleast I slept. It was 4:30am when I woke up and I debated going back to sleep, but I really wanted to see the sun rise over the Atlantic, so I got up. I gathered my things, left the candle, which by now was a melt lump on the bucketlid, and headed out.
I know what you're thinking and yes, the VW Microbus had shovels and rakes and other implements of destruction. I know, right? I laughed too.
Or, if you weren't thinking that, then I was living in a van down by the river and living on a steady diet of government cheese. I know, right? I laughed too.
The bridge to Sandy Hook wasn't too long and there weren't many cars on it as I walked across. It was still pretty dark out but the view was nice. Standing under the only streetlight on the bridge made me feel victorious, alone, wandering, artistic, and kind of emo. I decided to cut myself then and write in my diary how nobody likes me. Immediately after that decision, I decided to not do all that and to keep walking...which I did. I stepped off the bridge and onto Sandy Hook at exactly 5am. I heard the ocean waves greeting me as I limped across the road, the median, and the rocks. The sand felt inviting beneath my boots. I dropped my backpack and walked right into the water. It was much colder than I thought it would be but I still cupped some and splashed my face with it. Breaking waves splashed, ran up to me, and swirled around my boots. I had finally reached the Atlantic. I heard Dustin laughing somewhere in the distance and felt his hand on my shoulder. I smiled so much that it hurt and I started to cry there, standing in the ocean.
There was a rocky wall that went along the beach and separated it from the road. I guess it was about ten feet high and seven feet across. Every fifty feet or so, there would be stairs from the road to the top of this wall, and then from the wall to the beach. Most of them said "Private" on them. I walked along the top of this wall, keeping a close eye on the sunrise because I wanted to sit down and watch it come up. The terrain was very uneven so the walk was tough and there were scattered puddles everywhere, full of some mysterious brown gunk with the texture of grits.
I wonder what’s in that puddle, I thought.
Life, it whispered.
When the curtain started to open on the sunrise, I grabbed a seat on the rock wall and dropped my pack. I sat there, calmly waiting to see him. I waited and waited and waited until 6:13am when the sun peeked over the watery horizon. It's wavy reflection beamed off the water with a life of it's own. It was a deep red and a deep orange and it had curly strands of yellow and brown. It smiled at me as it rose, a big goofy smile that told me that everything was OK. I sat there and watched my brother come up over the ocean and my tears started to blur his face.
As steadily as I could with my shaking voice, I said:
"Hi Dustin. I've come a long way to see you. I miss you, man. I miss you and I love you."
I sat there and watched the sun for nearly 45 minutes. While the sky brightened and night retreated, I came to realize that my walk was a pilgrimage, as if that were the place that Dustin had gone to that night. I had been on my feet, mostly, for 80 miles since Friday. I probably have shin splints and torn tendons in my left knee. I’ve no idea where my life is headed or what I want out of it. The promises we made to walk to the Atlantic, and then from the Atlantic to Pacific, were no longer promises, but mandates from God. I was simply waiting for the ideal time to do it. And now that I have, I have to do it again. And again. And maybe once more, because I never felt his presence more strongly than I did for those 3 and a half days. I can only get better, I think, until the day I finally get to see him again.