Akron For Halloween
From The Nomad Chronicle
Akron, 1995. A detour, not a destination. It was an intense, temporary pocket of time that burned brightly before fading into the rearview mirror. This wasn't a main chapter in the Nomad Chronicle, dear reader; it was a side quest, a brief but vivid story that unfolded after a summer spent sleeping in a tent in Magnus Park in Petoskey, Michigan. The bus ride to Akron felt like a jump into the unknown, a stopover on the way to New Orleans, where I had a whole new adventure waiting for me. I was there for the remainder of the summer and part of the fall, a time defined by a post-industrial city and a tumultuous love affair.
In those days, Akron felt haunted by the ghost of its former glory, the one-time "Tire Capital of the World." The city had a certain gritty, post-industrial feel, and I landed a job as a line cook at a quirky restaurant called Bilbo’s, named after the hobbit because, well, why not? It was a simple gig, just a way to make some cash while I navigated my chaotic journey. The real reason for the stop, though, was Allison. She was a beautiful Brazilian woman, and the physical memory of us is still incredibly vivid. In the humid Akron summer, the contrast of her brown skin against my own white body was a landscape all its own. She had these perfect breasts with tiny brown nipples, and a way her butt jiggled when she walked that was just so damn sexy. Our time together, in Akron and later during a sweaty, ill-fated visit she made to me in New Orleans, was defined by a raw, overwhelming passion that felt as intense as it was fleeting.
But it wasn't all just confined intensity. I remember one perfect, simple day. We were on a trampoline in someone’s backyard, jumping and laughing to the sound of old 80s songs blasting from a boombox. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated joy. The sun was out, the music was nostalgic, and for a little while, everything was weightless. Nobody got hurt, and for a selfish man on a chaotic path, that was a rare and precious thing. Then there was this burger joint I loved, a place with a cool 50s diner vibe. I took her there because I liked it. It's an important distinction. It wasn't really a special place for us; it was a place I liked, a small detail that, in retrospect, reveals a much larger truth. I wasn't in Akron for her, not really. I was in Akron to explore the intoxicating possibility of this relationship. It was a self-centered time in my life, a fact I've had to come to terms with, and a fact that ultimately led to the end. I had once gained her father's approval, but I completely ruined it with my self-serving actions and disastrous choices.
And like most things built on a selfish foundation, it came crashing down spectacularly. The end wasn't a quiet fizzle; it was an explosion. Her father, a man whose daughter I had thoroughly wronged, came into my workplace at Bilbo’s. He stood there in the middle of the restaurant, a towering, enraged figure, and threatened to beat me within an inch of my life with his cane. The fear was cold and absolute. He scared the shit out of me, and in that moment, as the reality of my actions came crashing down, I knew it was over. Just like that, the Akron chapter slammed shut. I decided it was done, packed up my things from the youth hostel down the Eerie Canal, and left. It still amazes me when, if I think back, she still came down to New Orleans to visit me for a month or so.
After I left Akron, I headed back up to Petoskey to purchase my parents’ Ford Escort for a symbolic $1. It was a small car for a big journey, and with the title in hand, I embarked on my journey south to New Orleans. The trip, however, started with an unfortunate detour. In Kalamazoo, Michigan, I had a mishap that required me to stay with my "Goo," my sister from another mother. She opened her home to me while I waited for the quarter panel on the Ford to be fixed. It was a brief but necessary stop, with an adventure with LSD to boot, and a reminder of the kindness of others, even as my own life felt like it was careening out of control. With the car patched up, I finally pointed the Ford Escort south again, leaving behind the ghosts of Akron and the kindness of Kalamazoo, driving toward whatever chaotic, glorious, life-altering, DNA-rewriting future awaited me in the Crescent City. The Akron side quest was over: a short, intense, and unforgettable detour on the long, winding road of the Nomad Chronicle.