Road to nowhere.

Written at 2 a.m. Central Time on Yahoo Messenger between me and Crocker:

rileymccarthy: If I promise you that I've not gone insane, can I talk to you about something? I know it's late.
rileymccarthy: I'm in Alabama right now. I drove to Birmingham on a whim.
rileymccarthy: I'm in some cheap, ugly motel room.
rileymccarthy: And this could be, possibly, the dumbest whim I've ever had.
Crocker: Why the hell are you in Alabama?
rileymccarthy: I thought my friend Eric might want to have brunch.
rileymccarthy: And, thinking about it at the time, it didn't seem like that much of an undertaking.
Crocker: Uh-huh
rileymccarthy: My birthday's on Monday, and I was tired of waiting around for something to happen in my life.
rileymccarthy: So I decided to act on a whim and try and finally meet Eric, a friend of mine who I sorta know through my college debate society whom I talk to once a week but haven't met.
Crocker: OK - I can accept that. But, Birmingham? You want something to happen in your life, you go to NYC, Paris, Prague or something.
rileymccarthy: I need to be back by 4 p.m. Prague was out.
Crocker: Yeah, that's all well and good, you just need to go somewhere where you don't know anyone for several months.
rileymccarthy: Huh?
rileymccarthy: My birthday's on Monday. And I had a tough week. And I got sick of waiting for something good to happen. So I decided to try and meet my friend, instead of waiting for it to happen.
rileymccarthy: Unfortunately, that led me to drive to Alabama.
rileymccarthy: He's just a friend.
Crocker: You want to find out who you are - you need to leave everything behind just for a little while. Two months seemes to work. Well, at least you're trying.
Crocker: Alabama is better than, well, Conyers.
rileymccarthy: I know who I am.
Crocker: You sure?
Crocker: I know you know, but . . .
Crocker: I'm just being a bitter person.
rileymccarthy: That's a question that takes anyone, not just me, a lifetime to answer. And they don't even know then.
Crocker: I'm sleepy, so I'm probably not making much sense. If you want to find or know who you truly are - go someplace where no one knows and where you don't even have any expectations.
rileymccarthy: You weren't bitter the last time I saw you. You were focusing on examples of love you saw in your family.
Crocker: Paris is good for that. Oh, I love my family - going away helped to to appreciate how special - and limiting - they are.
Crocker: In any case, Patches is prancing so I need to take her out.
rileymccarthy: I saw a movie tonight. And there was this couple walking around Phipps, holding hands and kissing, who were my age. And they kept walking together to all the places I was walking alone.
rileymccarthy: I kept running into them.
rileymccarthy: I'm fine alone.
Crocker: Take care - sorry if I've been a little too talkative. Don't worry about other couples - use them as examples of what to be or not to be.
Crocker: I"m not deliberately quoting Shakespeare.
Crocker: Good night pookie.
rileymccarthy: OK.
(6/19/2004 2:56 AM)

_____

I'd just gotten out of a screening of "The Terminal" at Phipps Plaza, and it was pretty good, even though Steven Spielberg's still having difficulty with his movie endings. The movie, taken outside of its plot, is about how one man deals with his entire life being placed on hold. He's stuck in limbo, waiting and waiting. The movie's funny, with touches of Jacques Tati lunacy, but its key dramatic strength comes from what the hero finds himself able to do when nothing comes in to influence his life at all.

That message sorta touched me.

Taking the escalator down to the parking deck, I saw that couple I saw when I came in, the one that couldn't keep their hands off each other, even though they were wearing matching wedding bands already. They were the ones on the escalator ahead of me out of the parking deck, next to me in line for the movie tickets and the ones in line for a table at American Cafe after me.

Their plans for the evening were the same as mine. Wait. That's not right. I had no plans for the evening, and seeing "The Terminal" and eating at American Cafe is what I ended up doing. They'd made "plans." I found myself with time to fill.

Walking out of the movie and looking at that couple, I found myself wondering what I really wanted for my birthday. What, exactly, could I give myself.

And I realized that I wanted to see Black. Just to say hello to him. Maybe thank him. Maybe hug him. I don't know.

He's been a good friend to me ever since he and Miss Gibson went for drinks together in Nashville last summer. Miss Gibson suggested that we talk, so I called him on the phone while I was watching a DVD of Akira Kurosawa's "Ran." And he called me back, saying he was in the middle of watching a highbrow art film. And we started to chat about stuff, all sorts of stuff.

And we've continued those conversations for a couple hours once a week. We talk about stuff that I don't talk about with anyone. It's not a love affair, exactly, for Black's not gay. But, I don't know, we "get" each other.

When he needs to talk to someone about why he can't find a damn date, he calls me. When I'm feeling freakish and can't call anyone else, I can call him. When I've been in major binds, he's helped me.

But I've never met him, and that strikes me as weird.

We talk a lot about meeting. When it should happen, how it should happen. We talk. But I've never had reason to go to Birmingham, and, when he's in Atlanta, he's in town for only a couple hours, doing a job interview or attending a family wedding.

So we've not met.

Sometimes I feel like we're avoiding it because we know that it will "alter" the dynamic we're allowed to have in our phone calls.

When I got home from the movie, there was a message on my voicemail from Black. He joked that he felt "neglected" because we've not been able to talk so much lately. I called back and missed him. He was out for the night with his sister at a music fest.

He said he'd try me tomorrow.

Different factors from my week and from my conversations with friends started connecting in my head, and, through that, I made a whim decision.

He said he'd try me tomorrow.

Doug lives in Birmingham and drives to Atlanta once a month or so to get a haircut.

It's about a three-hour drive.

It was 10:30 p.m. My next shift at the bookstore starts tomorrow at 4 p.m. EST.

I have time. And there's a paycheck waiting for me at the bookstore.

Miss Gibson and I were talking via e-mail this morning about our lack of confidence, and she mentioned that she was going to the Tate Modern on Saturday. When we were at the Tate Modern in London, Miss Gibson spoke to me about how sometimes the best things to do were to take risks. Even to take a chance that an outcome would be bad.

Take a risk.

I told Miss Gibson that I was going to start writing "What if?" stories on the blog, detailing how my life might be now if I'd made different choices. In one, I imagine myself unhappily "coupled" with an angry waiter I used to have a crush on. In another, I saw myself married to Miss Gibson. I've become someone with fantasy lives. I've become Walter Mitty.

What if ...?

Lupo wrote me an e-mail saying he and his fiance Kenn had taken a day trip to Atlanta the day before and done some shopping.

People take day trips.

Lupo sent me a kickass DVD box set of "Gilmore Girls" for my birthday, and I need to bow to him and worship at his feet for getting me such an excellent gift. Or, barring worship, I need to send him a card.

It's my birthday, and this is the only time I'm going to have to do this.

And, three hours later, I'm in Birmingham.

I called Black before I headed out, leaving a message that explained I'd be in Birmingham in the morning, and I'd like to be able to say hello to him.

I said, "Even though you don't know me, you know me. We talk about how we don't ever take action, but we talk about it and think about it and agonize over it. Call me when you get this. Maybe we can do brunch tomorrow."

I also called Doug and asked him for a favor. But he didn't call back yet.

I don't know Black's address, and I'm not going to show up on his damn doorstep. I'm not stalking him. I may not see him tomorrow, even though I'd like to.

But that, dare I admit it, isn't really the point. The point is that I did something. I did something. Something that looks like a daring, stupid, drastic mistake. Or a nice, spontaneous - even romantic, in a sense - gesture.

I keep asking myself how Black might feel about this, and I remember that another Phi Kappan called me up a couple days ago and asked me if I was free for an emergency trip to South Carolina. I said yes to her, even though the trip proved unnecessary.

Maybe Black will meet me. Maybe he wants to meet me.

But this isn't just about him.

On the road, I felt a spark in me like when I was in London. And even though Birmingham, I'm sorry, is NOTHING like London, I'm very much me right now.

Calling Vic from the road, she sounded extremely disapproving, saying I'd probably scare the hell out of Black by doing this and that it was COMPLETELY ridiculous to drive to Alabama in the middle of the night.

I might scare him. Maybe it's best if I don't see him. I could still act like that phone message was a joke, and he wouldn't find out my reasoning behind this move until he read the blog.

I explained it. It makes sense.

And I think it makes for a really fun story, actually. (And, as you can see, I brought my laptop with me. No luggage. Just an outfit for work and the laptop.)

Since I've been in Alabama, I've seen a Mack truck on fire and a couple misspelled road signs. I listened to Talking Heads' greatest hits CD all the way here, repeating "Road to Nowhere" 15 times. It's been kinda fun.

I wanted to do something, and I did it.

Anyway, I'm here for a couple hours. The shitty hotel room is covered for the night, and my wake-up call's at 9:30.

Please, God, don't let this be a mistake.