UNIVERSAL COUNTRY ROADS

BY SKD

In the year leading up to the day I went to prison, I spent about four months living and working in Sydney. I opted for an apartment in a neighborhood called Glebe because it was close to my job downtown, and I wanted to avoid driving on a side of the road different than the one I'd grown up driving on. I believe that's the politically correct way of saying "Aussies drive on the wrong side of the road." While there were several routes which would bring me to Horvath Pty Ltd offices on Market Street, I often chose one for its long walking tunnel used by droves of fellow commuters each morning. Its semi-circular roof/walls were the home of thousands of colored tiles and the space had phenomenal acoustics. Why should acoustics matter in a tunnel such as this one? Good question. Musicians busked for change and small bills; you could hear them long before you saw them. One, I liked more than the others; he was a large Aborigine man who played guitar. On a certain morning, no different than the rest, I entered the tunnel and heard some notes on the strings but couldn't make out the tune. Then I heard his voice, "Almost heaven, West Virginia …”

I thought of turning back, knowing what was about to come, but I pushed on. Something was drawing me inward, deeper into the tunnel. I started singing to myself; as I looked around, all these bodies were moving so close to me, yet I'd never felt more alone — estranged from my family thousands of miles away. Drinking every day, staring at black screens with green text for hours on end, not doing so hot in the eating and sleeping departments. Some might say I was experiencing symptoms of depression.

A few years later, during trial, I remember hearing that my dad thought I was about to kill myself, after he saw how I was living during a short visit. Little did I know then that this was merely the puppy love version of loneliness that I was going through. Eighteen years locked up is the grad school where one can learn the higher levels of abandonment and desolation. The incarceration itself could be tolerable, if only I wasn't forced to commune with so many mean-spirited people, all crammed into this bright and noisy place.  But I digress, enough of my wallowing about in the muck and mire. Back to the tunnel of colored tiles and music.

So, I was walking alone, singing to myself, looking around at all these worker bees hurrying along, briefcase in hand, or running shoes worn over panty hose with a smart business suit. No one's singing. They don't know John Denver. John's not from the Blue Mountains; they don't get it. I'm a stranger in a strange land, surrounded by all these foreigners who can't possibly know what I'm feeling. Where's this all coming from? Why am I going all Holden Caulfield on these fakers? I'm no flag-waving red-blooded American. I'm a traveler, not a tourist, like Anthony Bourdain or Samantha Brown. I like brown bread; yes please, have butter on my sandwich. Good on you.

Although I've turned down most all their invitations, my Aussie coworkers and bosses have been super friendly and encouraging. Why the scorn for these innocent commuters?  Maybe it was a futile attempt to prolong the inevitable. The chorus was near; I was about to be in a very bad way. Why didn't I turn around when I had the chance? Could've been one of those gluttons for punishment situations. The tunnel was so crowded; no amount of speeding up would result in me exiting in time. I was about half-way into the tunnel, almost on top of the giant troubadour when it came, "country roads…” it was so loud, "take me home..." too loud, "to the place..." much, much too loud, "l belong…” and then it hit me — many, many people are singing with me, the long chamber filled with voices. I belong. Here. Now. I'm bellowing out this song, sobbing. They didn't know the verse, but of course these beautiful people know John Denver. John is from the Blue Mountains.

Tears were streaming down my face. I was so happy, singing with all those strangers. I went from feeling so alone and despondent, to feeling so together and hopeful. None of us in that tunnel were home, but we all wanted to be. It started me thinking about what is home?

Home isn't a nation on a map; it's not a zip code. Home isn't some house with a master bedroom and marital bed. Home is a small group of people, my near and dear, who I love and love me. That's home. I was out of the tunnel now, into the light, and felt a moment of clarity, or maybe it was just a flash of mania; so hard to tell the two apart.

Before reaching the office, I received a message I was needed elsewhere. I so badly wanted to call my family but am not a fan of phones on trains. So the long ride to Waitara Station gave me time to process and prepare what I wanted to say. You won't believe what happened in this tunnel. The Aborigine man, colored tiles, playing guitar, John Denver, all these Aussies singing Country Roads. I love our family and they love me; that will never change. What I thought of as home is different now, and I'll have to learn to live with that.

I called from the station platform. No answer, straight to voicemail. Damn international date line. Why can't it be the same time everywhere? | SKD

SKD HAILS FROM DA KINE, HE DESCRIBES HIMSELF AS A HIGH-FUNCTIONING (FILL IN THE BLANK.)