Story 2.0
i wanted to make my story a little bit better so here it is
Confidential: A Memoir by C.H. Blumenthal
We left Detroit in a hurry in the Thunderbird, not knowing our next destination. Running from highway to highway all the long way up to I-80, we stopped by several gas stations and liquor stores with young cashiers with a certain self doubt about them. Two female cashiers joined us. Sarah from a Seven-Eleven in a little town outside of Chicago, and Jenny from Dayton. Jenny had shy and very deceitful personality, probably due to her bad history of family insanity. Sarah was more of a peaceful happy-go-lucky girl who would take her chances in The Loop during weekends in July.
You have to understand there was always a deep confusion of why we left New Jersey for this trip. No goal was intended. Maybe it was our anger at monotonous life in the suburbs of a mob town, down the street from where Sinatra lived during his early years as a delinquent in Bergen County. Possibly it was the curiosity of our American Dream. We only knew Bergen and the Big Apple, Max and I needed an escape from seeming centuries of life in the Northeast. A quest for the answers of rhetorical questions. Meaningless wandering between the states.
After a few days mingling with our lady guests, we had made it to Ohio, Max and I decided to stop in Columbus to visit an old friend of ours who had been painting in Florence, Italy for a few years and had recently returned to his rundown apartment in the Columbus Valley. John was a tall and very thin man around the age of twenty-five, and lived with his steady, Jen, who had gone to Italy with him. Throughout the first night we only could bare to hear passionate screams from down that horrible worn hall from the Forties, a reminder of the depressed country we had all loved and lived in during ‘The War’. Three of us left in the car the next day, but Jenny had decided after our encounter with love in an old home that the trip was too immense for her self conscious.
She flew back to Utah as we headed for Pennsylvania, a long eight hours to return to Bergen. None of us were in a big hurry to return to the busy streets. Max was driving now and Sarah and I began a discussion about our lives. Turns out she had a childhood much like my own. Influenced by jazz and elements of rock, we gladly listened to Miles’ “Bitches Brew” on an old tape cassette I found in the trunk of the Thunderbird.
Now, listening to the experimental explosions of a legend, we buzzed down the highway in a trance of buzzing tranquility. It’s rare to meet someone who can understand what a jazz musician is saying in a piece of music. Sarah, Max and I all love Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” and understand there’s more into the music than his notes. Pennsylvania and New York (I-80 rides on the border of the beautiful states) was the perfect scenery to accentuate the peak of our trip.
We made it to Jersey. Home. But not for long. We made a sharp right onto I-95 in Moonachie and followed it down to Florida, a perfect place to spend a few days. The beaches and sunsets seemed perfect to continue escaping reality. Little did we know about this hurricane season thing. What a bummer here. Florida was not a “Sunshine” state. Maybe for an hour or so. Then rain! Rain, rain, rain. Humidity and more rain, then heat! The beaches were lovely if they weren’t pulling in a tourist every ten minutes to their death. The sunsets lovely if you like going blind for an hour and a half. A convertible was not a good choice for a Florida mobile in the summer.
We had to head for a different state in the South, where the heat and humidity was at least expected. Driving up to Tallahassee was like returning to northern Pennsylvania for ten minutes. Then back to the South.
We ended up partying in New Orleans for a week or two. It was all a blur for me. Sarah was lost in the insanity at a Dr. John show. We later found out she moved to the city and was loving the music. We never saw Sarah again. We returned to New Jersey and sold the gas guzzling Thunderbird.
Max and I now run a record store near Clifton Commons, right off the highway we once traveled. We went to so many places, and the only way to remember are sunsets. The sunsets on the road are more beautiful than creation itself, gleaming with amber rays over violet skies, catching my attention every night to appreciate their splendor. My wonderful memories are preserved in a small black and white picture book beside my bed. I share them with my family and hope one day someone will find them with this memoir…
Confidential: A Memoir by C.H. Blumenthal
We left Detroit in a hurry in the Thunderbird, not knowing our next destination. Running from highway to highway all the long way up to I-80, we stopped by several gas stations and liquor stores with young cashiers with a certain self doubt about them. Two female cashiers joined us. Sarah from a Seven-Eleven in a little town outside of Chicago, and Jenny from Dayton. Jenny had shy and very deceitful personality, probably due to her bad history of family insanity. Sarah was more of a peaceful happy-go-lucky girl who would take her chances in The Loop during weekends in July.
You have to understand there was always a deep confusion of why we left New Jersey for this trip. No goal was intended. Maybe it was our anger at monotonous life in the suburbs of a mob town, down the street from where Sinatra lived during his early years as a delinquent in Bergen County. Possibly it was the curiosity of our American Dream. We only knew Bergen and the Big Apple, Max and I needed an escape from seeming centuries of life in the Northeast. A quest for the answers of rhetorical questions. Meaningless wandering between the states.
After a few days mingling with our lady guests, we had made it to Ohio, Max and I decided to stop in Columbus to visit an old friend of ours who had been painting in Florence, Italy for a few years and had recently returned to his rundown apartment in the Columbus Valley. John was a tall and very thin man around the age of twenty-five, and lived with his steady, Jen, who had gone to Italy with him. Throughout the first night we only could bare to hear passionate screams from down that horrible worn hall from the Forties, a reminder of the depressed country we had all loved and lived in during ‘The War’. Three of us left in the car the next day, but Jenny had decided after our encounter with love in an old home that the trip was too immense for her self conscious.
She flew back to Utah as we headed for Pennsylvania, a long eight hours to return to Bergen. None of us were in a big hurry to return to the busy streets. Max was driving now and Sarah and I began a discussion about our lives. Turns out she had a childhood much like my own. Influenced by jazz and elements of rock, we gladly listened to Miles’ “Bitches Brew” on an old tape cassette I found in the trunk of the Thunderbird.
Now, listening to the experimental explosions of a legend, we buzzed down the highway in a trance of buzzing tranquility. It’s rare to meet someone who can understand what a jazz musician is saying in a piece of music. Sarah, Max and I all love Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” and understand there’s more into the music than his notes. Pennsylvania and New York (I-80 rides on the border of the beautiful states) was the perfect scenery to accentuate the peak of our trip.
We made it to Jersey. Home. But not for long. We made a sharp right onto I-95 in Moonachie and followed it down to Florida, a perfect place to spend a few days. The beaches and sunsets seemed perfect to continue escaping reality. Little did we know about this hurricane season thing. What a bummer here. Florida was not a “Sunshine” state. Maybe for an hour or so. Then rain! Rain, rain, rain. Humidity and more rain, then heat! The beaches were lovely if they weren’t pulling in a tourist every ten minutes to their death. The sunsets lovely if you like going blind for an hour and a half. A convertible was not a good choice for a Florida mobile in the summer.
We had to head for a different state in the South, where the heat and humidity was at least expected. Driving up to Tallahassee was like returning to northern Pennsylvania for ten minutes. Then back to the South.
We ended up partying in New Orleans for a week or two. It was all a blur for me. Sarah was lost in the insanity at a Dr. John show. We later found out she moved to the city and was loving the music. We never saw Sarah again. We returned to New Jersey and sold the gas guzzling Thunderbird.
Max and I now run a record store near Clifton Commons, right off the highway we once traveled. We went to so many places, and the only way to remember are sunsets. The sunsets on the road are more beautiful than creation itself, gleaming with amber rays over violet skies, catching my attention every night to appreciate their splendor. My wonderful memories are preserved in a small black and white picture book beside my bed. I share them with my family and hope one day someone will find them with this memoir…