Counting the New Starts
When I left the safety of my childhood home at twenty-five, I wasn’t sure that I would be any better off than I had been before. It was a gamble. I was rolling the dice that accepting my old boss Stanley Gordon’s offer to stay in his ‘remodeled’ studio in Four Corners while I made another attempt to finish my bachelor’s degree would result in success at last. He was sort of fatherly and felt I needed to be in a more stimulating environment.
It was the same day Flight 70 crashed into the 14th Street Bridge, January 13, 1982. I was driving from Lewes in a nasty sleet storm and was too afraid to put on my brakes, so I skated my way to the first turn off that read Silver Spring and made a right turn at the first light. That’s when I learned Maryland has hills. Sussex County is flat. That’s one of the many reasons it’s so great for farming.
Great now I’m skiing, downhill skiing. I was looking for the only commercial lot with lawn care signage.
Fortunately, at the bottom of the hill was Holy Cross hospital and any unfortunate driving mishap would be noticed quickly making it unlikely that I’d die. Yes, I didn’t want to die the first day I was on my own in a place where I had few ties.
It wasn’t another country or a place that spoke a different language. I wasn’t that brave. But I did notice an uptick of multisyllabic words when I visited. I had an aunt and a couple of people my age I knew. It would be fine.
That is if I lived long enough to find my new ‘place’. It was once a gas station, but in a moment of brilliance Stanley simultaneously bought the property and a lawn care franchise. The office was decorated in full-on early sixties’ combination office/customer lounge with linoleum tile and tubular chrome furniture. It had a small back room that Stanley converted into a bedroom and there was a bath with a shower and 25-gallon water tank. He once explained to me that it kept his marriage alive five years longer than it should have. In the end he divorced and became part owner of The Canyon in Rehoboth where we met.
The middle bay is where I was to park the truck, manual truck, that he loaned me so that I didn’t have to make multiple trips to move what little stuff I had.
The second bay had been converted into a paneled room with heating and more electrical outlets than I’d ever seen. Stanley had nabbed two sets of wooden shelves and put in carpet but not much else.
We’d visited two weeks before. Imagine my surprise when he said he was staying with his ex and son so I could have the spare room. Chalk another one up for having decent men in my life. It is something I intended to make a lifelong habit.
I turned off Interstate 495 onto Georgia Avenue. The next road was Forest Glen. Oddly, I didn’t remember how steep the hill was. Stanley had a Mercedes 250 convertible that handled differently than the lawn care truck I was driving. Oh jeez. For a person who hadn’t so much as sledded down a hill for fun, this was certainly an adventure. Adventures cut both ways.
Tapping the brakes gently down the slush covered road I came to a crossroads that could have been in a winter wonderland calendar. I was tempted to stop and admire it but I was more interested in keeping up my momentum to get over the next ridge. I did recall my new home was just over the ridge.
The tires didn’t grip like they should, and I could hear them spinning. Shit. Put the truck in neutral, let it drift back and try not to slow down because it’s pretty outside. And I drift through the empty intersection and up the other slope a good 50 yards. Put it in 2nd and gun it. I got farther on my second try. Not being a quitter, and ignorant of any alternative routes, I try a third time. This was before cell phones replaced paper maps, okay folks?
Rather than drifting I put it in reverse, climb that hill an extra 50 yards and wrap my hand around the gear shift like I’m winding up for a take down. Shwoom. I shove the truck into 2nd again and stomp on the gas pedal like there was no tomorrow. The tires were gripping the road and shimmying its way up the hill. It wasn’t all-out fishtailing but it felt close. Smoke from the exhaust was fading into the cold air in huge bursts with each time I let off the gas and floored it.
When I crossed the crest of the hill I saw the gas station immediately on my right. I didn’t know my arms could move so fast. I swerved into the lot and stomped on the brakes. I ended up a respectable six feet from the cargo bay, luckily.
I turned off the car, went inside and turned on the news. Welcome to Washington. My love affair with the area lasted until 2019.
