Two Bit Hack by Billy Jones
Part 21, Home Again
“You need a village, if only for the pleasure of leaving it. A village means that you are not alone, knowing that in the people, the trees, the earth, there is something that belongs to you, waiting for you when you are not there.” -Casare Pavese I woke up sleeping in the recliner in my home office where I’ve slept for the last year and a half since I messed up a disc in my upper back, my memories of Asylumland as clear as if they were just yesterday. “Wait a minute,” I mumbled to myself, “it was just yesterday.” I couldn’t remember leaving or how I got home. I splashed some water on my face and walked into the kitchen to take my medications — a ritual that has been with me since my stroke about ten years before. Then I walked outside to greet my neighbor who was siting on her front porch. “I like those new pipes you put on your motorcycle,” My neighbor said, “I didn’t even hear you come in last night.” New pipes? I pondered. I replied, I didn’t remember buying new pipes. Hell, I didn’t remember riding home either. That’s pretty bad considering I haven’t had a drink in years. “I’m glad I didn’t wake you,” I replied. After a few minutes of chitchat I walked around back, fed the cat, fed the chickens watered the garden, and unlocked the shed to check on my old motorcycle. I felt around the engine and just as I suspected it was stone cold with the gas tank completely topped off. I put my key in the switch and there wasn’t even enough power to bump the starter over. And the tires were low. No one had ridden my motorcycle the night before and probably not for several weeks. I hooked up my battery charger and went back inside for breakfast. After I got my bike running I rode to the credit union where I’ve done my banking for 20 plus years. “Long time no see,” the teller said, “What can I do for you?” “How long has it been?” I asked.
“Well it hasn’t really been all that long,” the teller answered, “according to the computer I waited on you about a month ago.” “Seems longer,” I said. “Been on another book tour?” the teller asked. “Yeah,” I replied, “something like that. Have I had any royalty checks deposited lately?” “A few,” she replied, “but you’re not rich yet.” “Somehow I didn’t think so,” I agreed. “No proposals from any Hollywood starlets?” the teller smiled. “You see my bank account,” I laughed, “you know better. Wanna go for a ride?”
“Right now?” she asked.
“Sure,” I grinned knowing her answer would be no.
“Sorry,” she frowned, “I still have to work for a living.”
I left with a couple thousand dollars cash in my pocket, and set out on the road, two wheels in the wind with no idea where I might go. I don’t know how I knew which way to go but something inside my head kept telling me where to turn as if by instinct The longer I rode the more I became sure I was on the right track. A few hours later I found myself hiding in the woods on a hillside near the tiny town of Dillwyn, Virginia staring through my binoculars at Asylumland while listening to a freight train make its way along the Buckingham Branch in the distance. I rolled out my sleeping bag hoping my back would allow me to sleep on the ground.