Two Marlboros and a Ghost
His birthday still feels like a funeral- a quiet ache that makes one question life. Grieving my brother on the day he was born is a head on collision of love and loss.
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When I pulled into the first gas station in town- I saw him. I knew- right or wrong- I was going up to him. A shared peace sign before walking in was the reassurance I needed. A blue Gatorade accompanied my new rainbow trout lighter and yerba mate. I gave it to him as a peace offering and asked, “Whatcha go by?” He responded with a crooked smile, firm handshake, and a raspy,“George.”
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He offered me the first Marlboro red of the pack. Not my first choice, but like the gentleman I am, I accepted.Turns out, in about eight mouth-to-lung drags, you can learn a lot about someone
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George’s stats were wild
He served 17 years in the Army and toured North/South Korea and all over Vietnam. Afterwards,he married the road and never looked back. 15 laps around the states, 13 years riding rails, and has been hitchhiking for 40 fucking years. I was dumbfounded.
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We talked about the dead, laughed about his reckless 20s, and showed each other our tattoos and scars. As I was leaving, I asked if I could take his portrait. Confused, I explained my vendetta_on_death_project to him. I Said his story mattered and deserved to be documented. A couple quick pics before I left. He said it was “ a fair trade for the Gatorade”.
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Talk to strangers. Shit- maybe even share a smoke. When someone opens up to you, it cracks the illusion. The one that says you’re alone and to suffer in silence.Truth is, we’re all carrying some shit.But its moments like these that remind us we’re not alone. We never were. Even if the world and this adult pacifier I’m typing on say otherwise.
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George or I could vanish after this breath, but the two burned out butts on the ground say we were here.
Best of luck out there to the eyes reading this
and to you George, wherever you are
-Current self
