Florence

My truck sounds like a creaking tanker when I get in. I can't quite put a finger on the origin of the sound but something tells me it's between the bed and the front end, or at least where they meet. The suitcases are packed with my laundry, dirty and otherwise. The drive home is raging with traffic, it's a five hour drive. The Forever War on audiobook is in my CD player, but I didn't prepare enough material, and soon it turns into early Ella Fitzgerald in some Great Depression sing-a-long. Eventually it's back to Radiohead, with The Separator chiming in just as I enter Friendswood. Two months and although I expect something to be different, the town is right where I left it. "Spring Forward Saturday" is posted on the Friendswood Hardware sign.

My house has no cement driveway, it's a combination of shell and rock. The close edges to the house are starting to grow green and as long as we stay parked far enough, it's likely to keep growing green. It's dark by the time I pull in, and a deep amber glow fills the street. None of that bright white post modern crap. The old standard amber, that made dates all the better because people looked more tan in the muggy midnight. I turn and look at the window where the computer is, and there's Jamie. Her hand is prying open the window blinds, trying to get a look. With a jolt and five seconds she's left through the garage and hugged her long lost brother, the shipwreck that is always college. She takes my bags, most of them actually, as I relish in the laziness of being the big man on campus. My mother and father are watching television. The black couches that were bought years ago show more signs of wear and tear. The house is even more cluttered with coupons and books and CDs and time and time and time. Exhausted from some unseen force I fall asleep.

The time is eight thirty, and I haven't woken that early since my last shift on campus. The light in the guest room is blaring in my face, and for a man who blankets his window for complete darkness, there is a change. First stop is half-price, where I buy books I'm not even sure I'll read this summer. The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler: the story of a private investigator in 1930s Los Angeles dealing with a murder. That's probably all I'll ever hear of it. Rabbit Run, by John Updike: the beginning novel of a series about a man growing up in middle America. My salivation for Mad Men related anything is unquenchable. Half Price at home is a disappointment. It's not the super store in Dallas and it's no comparison to Recycled on the square, but it gets the job done. Best Buy, a place where I would buy everything if I had the opportunity actually does not have what my mother wants.  Taco Bell, the famous seven layer burrito is waiting for us.

Mad Men. I cannot help but convince my mother to watch it. I can't tell if she enjoys it, or just wants me to think she is enjoying it. Either way, my lack of creativity stops Saturday to a halt. It's not that I don't enjoy doing things, it's the cost. So we decide to buy me some new clothes which no one would deny. We hit up Walmart and do what I do best: making really cheap clothing work. I buy some flannel shirts: one which match my eyes and another in neutrals which I love. I buy some jeans. Blah, blah, blah.

There's something about revisiting a place that is big as a kid and small as an adult, and on Sunday after church it's Mr. Gatti's, well known as "a poor man's Chuck-E Cheese." I love pizza buffets. We all win some tickets and we pool together our resources and prizes come out and you wonder why didn't you just cut the middle man and buy the prizes wholesale back at Walmart? Doesn't matter. Maybe it feels more like you earned it.

It's been wanting to rain all week but it only did it Monday, quickly and in a fit of anger. Unlike many other places in the world, the weather here just gets worse, with the muggy Mondays seeping into your sweaty socks and penetrating the new flannel shirts. Battle Los Angeles in the theater was seizure inducing mayhem, but it was fun if you like that sort of thing. The actors all played their cut-outs well and I couldn't see anything of the action because the camera was held by a drug addict who had obviously not taken the drug. Then came Never Let me Go with Zane and his sister Lacie. The movie that will kill your soul with a knife and then twist the blade. It's a movie that is so sad, they probably invented the word melancholy.

The other moments of the week are kept as a secret, but I'll share a little piece that interested me. My grandparents needed yardwork, which was overly paid as usual. I couldn't help but notice as I was about to be fed corn beef, there were little porcelain figures in the back behind the glass. They were perfectly still, and they were old. "Flappers forever" is what I thought as they were dressed in progressive style clothing. They looked youthful and happy, and they were absolutely beautiful. I don't know if they were real but I look down and notice that they say, "Florence" on them. I have no idea what it means but what is true is that those figurines will be young and delicate forever. I don't know what to make of it, but I think of them now, the hat hiding her dark hair. The young women in a "provocative" dress that shows enough to keep your interest. Smooth porcelain on everything.

I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I cannot imagine where the eight days went. I suspect that with time I'll understand visits home a little more, but in this transitional period I have no words to explain it. Does it mean anything? Is there a purpose? I had a dream last night where I visited what I thought was New York, but it was some spectacular city with a massive tower overlooking the coast. I told someone that I wanted to see that while I was here. I did not know why I was there, or what the tower was, but maybe it does not matter. This deal of finding purpose in things may be supremely overrated.