Powell At Night #2

 

Approaching the Ides of October, I decided to take another walk.  The room was clutching my throat, threatening me with the cold, naked fear of another night on the Internet.  And, once again, my love for exploration and observation won out over my love for technology.  I suited up, and stepped out.

 

The night was cold; it was the first really cold day of the year, and made me happy to know my winter coat was once again in my possession, and actually being used.  After five or six months of unreasonable heat, though, it was still a system shock, and as much as I loved winter, I was still having trouble adjusting.  My hands were not enjoying the frigid air, certainly.  The sky was so clear that it was almost crystal, though, and that provided a beautiful view.  One only had to turn his head up.  Even in the city, the effect was incredible; the moon was full, Mars was still valiantly shining on, and the rest of the denizens of the sky were bestowing the only gift they had to give—light—to the bohemians and romantics of the world.  But then, that’s all they really needed to give.

 

I realized, setting foot, that tonight was homecoming, and the population of Powell that still needed a fake ID would be out.  I began to worry:  perhaps this would not be a peaceful night, like the sky seemed to suggest, or even plead for?  But my fear was soon gone with the realization that I have always been invisible when the moment calls for it.

 

Considering that tonight was homecoming, I decided to make my way in the direction of the high school; no better way to see Powell in action after dusk then to go to where Powell’s spending its time, eh?  The first 20 minutes of walking yielded nothing; a couple more cars than normal, but it was Friday night.  Getting closer, the cars started to get thicker, the headlights like shining beacons, two to a car, of freedom and small-town prosperity.

 

Closer and closer I approached, all the time having to watch more and more for any car at all; it was the sign of a football game ending (okay, okay, show’s over, folks, nothing to see here, get going, VAMOOSE).  I was on school grounds, now;  two people and recognized me, greeted me, and then made their continuing way.  It was eerie, this homecoming.  I had been at my own high school’s homecoming the year before, and felt mainly at home; hell, I’d even played trumpet with the band for old time’s sake.  But this was a stranger business:  I generally knew no one, and didn’t care about the home team.  Fittingly enough, an equally irrelevant song lyric began floating through my head. . . “Strange fruit, in the trees. . . .”

 

It suddenly hit me, as all needlessly epiphanic revelations tend to do:  I really didn’t belong here.  I was once again living a heart-broken bohemian romantic’s lie:  that night is all forgiving, the sky is always beautiful and peaceful, and you are always welcome at homecoming games.  My place was not here.  My place was in a practice room, holed up with my trumpet, some music, my increasingly neurotic and manic shards of sanity, and sound.  That was all I really needed.

 

Why, then, did I stay, pencil furiously scribbling on paper, and the chill biting through to my bones and brain?  I was supposed to be going back, right, tail between my legs.  No more of this free-thinking freedom enjoyment; I wasn’t free, I was a product of a cruel set of experiences that trapped me here in a town smaller than my hometown.  Back to the practice rooms, the music department, scales and arpeggios traipsing madly through my head.  I didn’t belong here.  I was supposed to be going back.

 

Or was I?  Who else was going to document the beauty of the night, recording every detail, every headlight, every tire screeching, curse word, broken street lamp, broken hearts?  What person was going to travel the town at night, observing all that I saw, so that the unspoken history and inner workings of a small college town wouldn’t be lost forever?

 

Possibly me, I thought.  Possibly me.