sushi restaurant

I stumble into a sushi restaurant in the nearest big city to my hometown. About 30 minutes away. I’m alone and I have a panic attack parallel parking on the skinny street. Although I am fairly decent at parallel parking; I would say it’s the party trick that I rarely get to prove. Just merely brag about. I always mention that it must be inheritable since my dad can parallel park a truck and trailer. The truck we take into the mountains with the trailer lugging behind the ATV’s. The trailer would also, usually, happen to also hold the massive Carhartt jackets and fishing gear. Although during those time I would not allow any of my true emotions to show through words or facial expressions, if I died the autopsy would show the dread I would have every early Friday morning we were piling in the truck. I never liked freezing my ass off in the mountains. Even with the Carhartt jacket, the Utah air still stung the skin enough for the goosebumps to appear. Even in the midst of a summer afternoon. I enjoyed the time with my dad and the rest of our family, but it never felt right to me.

It was the summer of 2019 when I went to New York City for the first time. Prior to this trip, I knew in my heart that I was being yanked out of my small town, but my feet always felt stuck in mud. NYC was the breakthrough my heart needed. And by breakthrough, I mean that my heart physically felt like it was so throbbed that it was near to ripping through my skin. My heart felt full. I knew the city was what had been pulling me. Everything about it just seemed… good. right.

So now it’s the spring of 2022 and I find myself driving 30 minutes just to feel whole. Just to sit at the bar in a restaurant with the only thing near to company is the strangers that ask if they can borrow the soy sauce that accompanies the space in front of me. Just to sit at a bar and not order a single drink to sip on. Although I wish I could, my 19 year old self knew that they would ask for my ID. The tattoos might help with making me look a little more mature, the voice gives it away every time. 

But out of no where, the stranger next to me with a British accent decides to strike up a conversion. What do you do for work? 

Tonight I am a stranger to myself, too. I work at a carwash, but without hesitation the words I’m a writer slip through my lips too easily. I am a writer, but that’s not my job… yet. At this point I figure it would be more worth it to run with the lie than confess that I’m just manifesting a future. That I’m telling him about a future version of myself. The man’s British accent talks about his very real marketing job. It is a good thing he is a little self absorbed and slightly tipsy off the five wives vodka that he keeps ordering. He continues to talk about himself and his job for the few minutes we talk before we get our checks. He asked how I made money as a writer and I continue to fib. I work for a literary journal which publishes poetry and non-fiction work. He didn’t question it, maybe he will in the morning. 

I pay and leave a hefty tip, because sometimes I pretend like I can afford that. One day I want to be able to leave random $100 tips to random nice bartenders that keep asking if I’m sure about not wanting anything to drink. Tonight I just did 30% and felt pretty good about it. I walk out to my car on the skinny street. I ponder about how tonight was the dream I have often. The dream I’ve had since I went to NYC in 2019. The dream I had when I was dreading going one every one of those camping trips. The city and big dreams always pulled me.

I’ll get there someday. This game of tug a war will be over and I only hope for it to go one of the two ways.

I drive back to my hometown.