Lucky Dog

I read somewhere that autumn is a time of renewal, a time to get one’s ducks in a row. Or maybe it wasn’t renewal. Maybe it was moving on they were talking about. Or growth? Maybe coming into one’s self. Something with a cocoon metaphor? No, that wasn’t it—oh, yeah, I think it was just change. That would make more sense, what with the trees and all.

I’ve been back in America for nearly 3 months now, and yesterday marked the official end of my travels, of my ambitions for transience. Moving from one place to the next, hanging out in different groups of people—some had a lifestyle like mine; others were more markedly “on their way,” whatever that means. It’s easy to look back at the past few months nostalgically, as somehow they were a fantasy world whose border lies somewhere within the two states of “employment” and “unemployment.” Funny how money often establishes itself as a division between things; social classes, various qualities, definitions of success to offer a few examples. So many—too many—things are largely dependent upon whether or not you have a green substance known as money in your pocket. And I’m not talking about boogers, folks.

But, money can also lead to possibilities. Had I not chosen to spend a lot of money over the past 3 months, the following might never have happened:

There would have been no trip to a lookout tower in Northern Idaho with two of my best and oldest friends. We wouldn’t have eaten that vegetarian chilly and suffered the gaseous explosion that infested the tower for two days straight.

I wouldn’t have driven from Portland to San Diego with another great friend, and I wouldn’t have eaten at a spectacular Indian restaurant on a foggy and cold summer night in San Francisco.

I wouldn’t have gone surfing with another close friend, taking breaks to come back to our towels to sip beer. I also wouldn’t have taken long runs on the beach, and wouldn’t know anything about Pipe’s breakfast burritos.

I wouldn’t have taken the hook out of a golden trout’s mouth, nor would I have seen a full moon from the perch that is the Sierra Nevada grandiose. There’s no way I could have gotten that rather intense hiking crotch-rash, either, without dishing out a little moo-lah.

I wouldn’t have taken part in the glorious wedding of two close friends during a weekend up at Mt. Hood, where more old friends and I drunkenly compared James Brown impressions around a hot tub. I wouldn’t have pulled my one break dancing move in the middle of the dance circle at the reception.

If I didn’t spend my money, I couldn't have gone to Japan for a quick week to see the woman I love, spend time with her and her family, and drink wine at an Italian restaurant while looking out at a sun setting into Kobe Bay on a warm September evening. We couldn’t have tried to projectile-launch chewing gum into each other’s mouth on the infamous bullet train bound for Tokyo.

I couldn’t have accidentally found a mountain lodge with my Dad in backcountry Montana after a day of fly-fishing where we met a family of moose and he caught a beautiful fish on a FUCKING BUMBLE BEE imitation. There’s no way we could have been the only guests at the lodge like we were, and order wine, and go to the hot tub in which we were to accidentally lock ourselves.

No money, and I couldn’t have hiked hilly miles into another backcountry lodge where cowboys, real cowboys, live and whiskey and coffee are the main staples of one’s diet. There’s no way I could have caught the biggest cutthroat trout of my life if I hadn’t spent a little money to get there.

I would never have learned how to splint an open femur fracture, and I still wouldn’t know where the xiphoid process is located, or even what the hell it is. I couldn’t have watched a seal fishing at dusk under a bridge that looks straight out into the straight of San Juan de Fuca.

Lastly, I wouldn’t have had my armpits grabbed and been lifted up at a reggae concert by my younger (but bigger) brother. He wouldn’t have kissed my hand in downtown Seattle, thinking it was his girlfriend’s. To think! He and I wouldn’t have drank cheap beer in front of a television screen trying our god-freakin’-damndest to beat Super Mario 3 if I hadn’t dumped out a little dough to get where he is.

Although I now find myself with an almost empty pocket, I have a handful of gems (not boogers, mind you) that are memories scattered throughout perhaps the biggest transition of my life to date. This is where you say: “Hey, John. Master Card called…they want their commercial back!” Then I would say, “Naw, I’m just lucky.”