Lost in America: A Dead-End Journey by Colby Buzzell

Author:Colby Buzzell [Buzzell, Colby]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs
ISBN: 9780062097095
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2011-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The End

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

KURT VONNEGUT,

Mother Night

While I spent the day walking aimlessly around Detroit taking pictures, my sister sent me a text informing me that our father had decided that he was going to sell the house that we all grew up in. I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say or think of that, though I saw it coming and don’t blame my father at all.

Knowing that the house I grew up in will no longer be there when I get back made me want to drink in a bar. All the memories—Christmas, Thanksgiving, etc.—that we shared at that house would be no longer. In a way, I was homeless now. Equally important, that house had also been the place where I always ended up whenever I hit rock bottom and needed a place to stay for a while as I tried once again to get back on my feet. I always knew that it would be there. Yes, as I got older the welcome arms of home weren’t as welcoming. There was never a “Welcome Home, Colby!” banner strung across the living room when I moved back in. But still, it was there for me in case of an emergency. My mother lived and died in that house. All of a sudden I felt that I was about to jump out of a plane behind enemy lines without a parachute.

My phone started to vibrate; it was Callahan. He said he was out of class and wanted to hang out. I was near downtown, and my watch told me it was close to five. When I asked him how bad traffic would be at this time of day, he told me not to worry. “You’ll be fine. Nobody’s working anymore, so there’s not as much traffic.”

Before leaving I stopped back inside a dive bar. A sign posted outside the bar advertised free wireless, and I needed to pull up directions to Callahan’s place, so I stepped inside, ordered a pack of smokes from the bartender, tipped her a dollar, made my way to a corner table, and pulled out my laptop. While I was looking up directions, a tall old black guy with a white apron around his waist walked slowly over to me and silently placed a tray of onion rings on my table. When I told him, “I’m sorry, I didn’t order anything,” he said in this really deep voice, perhaps the deepest voice I’ve ever heard, “I know.” And then slowly he turned around and walked away.

When I pulled my car out of the parking garage, the same guy was working. I handed him my ticket, and he told me that would be $18.00. Jesus Christ. No wonder nobody went downtown anymore. As I was handing him the money, he asked me what I thought of Detroit. I told him that except that they charged way too much for parking, I liked Detroit a lot, actually.

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