THE SECRET STORM
by Amber Mains
I always choose the same booth every time I visit Mom's Diner. The corner booth close to the back wall next to the payphones and restrooms. Most of the time its vacant, just waiting for me. I slip into the red cushioned seat that feels rather worn from years of devotion toward hungry customers. There's a tiny rip an inch above the opposite end of my seat along the back board where I once dodged a flying knife from a rowdy customer. You can also feel the springs beginning to make their way toward the surface of the cover, but it makes me feel like I'm home, in a familiar setting with the comforts of hospitable people. I know I can sit here alone hour after hour listening to the droning of exaggerated stories, red neck jokes, and the occasional clatter of dishes. I know each waitress by name and in turn they know me as the traveling regular. I walk in and bang, grilled cheese, fries, and a grasshopper shake for one within minutes. Its rather impressive. But still, a place to inspire one's mind.
I travel alone, but with great cause. I'm a writer. A lucky writer if I actually catch a break. A writer's life is no picnic. That's probably why we're all raging alcoholics, with short fuse tempers, and a fist like an iron giant from all the therapeutic stress toys we squeeze the living crap out of all the time. But not me. I wait until I'm inspired with words of wisdom and life changing swells of energy that whip the mind in emotional directions we tend to push away. Some writers are born with the power to move and individuals life with just the use of words. Others, like myself, were born for a greater purpose...to change the world.
Someone once told me that the open road starts with adventure and ends with a story. They were right. The road has a way of calming my nerves. It eases my mind so I can think clearer and taste freedom from the stresses in life. There's a tranquil silence about being alone, to think, to drive without the burden of where to go or who you'll meet. Not a single worry. It's my time, my place, my sanctuary from the storm. I often wonder, if we as individuals, were given a repeat of a favorite memory, how would we react? Would you change the beginning or the ending? Or would you leave it the way you enjoyed it the first time? Maybe you wanted to take back words you never meant to say, or words you wish were spoken more perceptible to the heart. The decision is hard not knowing if change would be any better. It was for me. I was told that your life is full of thousands of stories, built upon your adventures and experiences. Each empty page is filled with the finest detail that one book could not hold in a lifetime. For every memory there is a beginning and an ending. Sometimes we don't know how the story with start or where it will end. Its unpredictable.
I spent the last two years traveling around the world to exotic places. I met thousands of people, drove many roads, and filled page upon page of adventures, but I always ended up on a familiar road, a road I know well. I see it in my dreams and if I were blindfolded I would know every turn until I've reached my destination. But where is that destination that holds such a well known journey for me? One that I can see just by closing my eyes, and letting my heart guide me down memory lane, long enough to picture the ghost of my past waiting for my return. That road right there, just feet from the parking lot. I can see it from the window by my seat. No traffic, no noise, just the black pavement now wet with rain from a passing storm. Its not how you get here but why you're here. Perhaps by the hand of fate ready to aim you straight into the eye of adventure.
Fate brought me down this road with an ill fix of bad luck, a lack in manners, and an ego the size of the Empire State Building. It was the day that fate led me to the most life changing experience. Averyanna. She touched my heart in the precise moment I needed her the most, without even knowing it myself. Her delicate soul touched mine, vanquishing the fear I hid, and giving her courage to face hers. Her story lingers in my mind as an endless prayer to the world, or the forgotten sonnet of a strong heart. Her encouraging words to me will never be in vain. It will be an everlasting memory cherished by the mere thought of her name on my lips. My heart will sing her unforgotten sonnet. My eyes will forever hold her beauty. Her road, is the road I come back to in thought, in dreams, in reality. It's the place I call home. Her courage changed my life. Her story, is the story of courage to fight the unknown. A story of a secret storm.
The best part about putting up with star crazed groupies, with high debt rates, and bigger suit cases when they go home, is the ladies. The beaches are full of them. And that's what makes me such a ladies man. Everywhere I go the women love me. Who could resist the tall dark and handsome. I'm six foot one, athletically built, with short light chestnut brown hair and blue eyes that would melt the heart of any blond, red head, or brunette. I was oblivious to the flaws any normal person would speak less highly of. They were flaws I never noticed before. You see, when a person has money all they see is your wallet and your success. Money makes people beautiful. In my case, it makes me blind to reality. I thought I was invincible. And that is where my downfall began.
Traffic was a snarled mess on the freeway headed into down town L.A. Another suicidal motorcyclist, with an impatient attitude, sped right down the middle of two lanes, and smacked the back of a red Volvo making a right hand lane change. Five car pile up and all I have to say is, "Thanks for ruining my day." They closed the freeway for a good hour just to allow life flight to land and take that over zealous schmuck to the hospital. I had no sympathy for him. I just wanted to get to work. Every minute I spent with idol hands, meant one less dollar in my pocket and one less secretary in my office. While the motorcyclist was on his way to the hospital in style, they had two ambulances and at least a dozen police vehicles sorting out the rest of the damage. I'm glad I'm not an insurance agent. Days like this would be hell.
Traffic finally started to crawl in a forward motion, as a few officers in dark blue uniforms shifted cars to the far left two lanes. I stared at the digital clock on my cars dashboard.
"Come on. I'm going to be late. I can't be late!" The end of my palm smacked the steering wheel to comfort my bottled up anger. I wish I received a quarter for every idiot who caused an accident during morning rush hour. I'd have a personal jet to get me to work by now.
A blue Sedan pulled in front of my car. I slammed on my brakes, and laid on my horn. "What are you trying to do, cause another accident! I'm trying to get to work in one piece!" The guy in the Sedan rolled down his window exposing a rather ugly hairy arm, and gave me the hand gesture that would offend your grandma. I wanted to climb out of the car and hit the guy. But I refrained. I wasn't about to start a brawl on the freeway. I'd probably ruin his masculine reputation by winning anyway. Like the whole David and Goliath story.
I travel alone, but with great cause. I'm a writer. A lucky writer if I actually catch a break. A writer's life is no picnic. That's probably why we're all raging alcoholics, with short fuse tempers, and a fist like an iron giant from all the therapeutic stress toys we squeeze the living crap out of all the time. But not me. I wait until I'm inspired with words of wisdom and life changing swells of energy that whip the mind in emotional directions we tend to push away. Some writers are born with the power to move and individuals life with just the use of words. Others, like myself, were born for a greater purpose...to change the world.
Someone once told me that the open road starts with adventure and ends with a story. They were right. The road has a way of calming my nerves. It eases my mind so I can think clearer and taste freedom from the stresses in life. There's a tranquil silence about being alone, to think, to drive without the burden of where to go or who you'll meet. Not a single worry. It's my time, my place, my sanctuary from the storm. I often wonder, if we as individuals, were given a repeat of a favorite memory, how would we react? Would you change the beginning or the ending? Or would you leave it the way you enjoyed it the first time? Maybe you wanted to take back words you never meant to say, or words you wish were spoken more perceptible to the heart. The decision is hard not knowing if change would be any better. It was for me. I was told that your life is full of thousands of stories, built upon your adventures and experiences. Each empty page is filled with the finest detail that one book could not hold in a lifetime. For every memory there is a beginning and an ending. Sometimes we don't know how the story with start or where it will end. Its unpredictable.
I spent the last two years traveling around the world to exotic places. I met thousands of people, drove many roads, and filled page upon page of adventures, but I always ended up on a familiar road, a road I know well. I see it in my dreams and if I were blindfolded I would know every turn until I've reached my destination. But where is that destination that holds such a well known journey for me? One that I can see just by closing my eyes, and letting my heart guide me down memory lane, long enough to picture the ghost of my past waiting for my return. That road right there, just feet from the parking lot. I can see it from the window by my seat. No traffic, no noise, just the black pavement now wet with rain from a passing storm. Its not how you get here but why you're here. Perhaps by the hand of fate ready to aim you straight into the eye of adventure.
Fate brought me down this road with an ill fix of bad luck, a lack in manners, and an ego the size of the Empire State Building. It was the day that fate led me to the most life changing experience. Averyanna. She touched my heart in the precise moment I needed her the most, without even knowing it myself. Her delicate soul touched mine, vanquishing the fear I hid, and giving her courage to face hers. Her story lingers in my mind as an endless prayer to the world, or the forgotten sonnet of a strong heart. Her encouraging words to me will never be in vain. It will be an everlasting memory cherished by the mere thought of her name on my lips. My heart will sing her unforgotten sonnet. My eyes will forever hold her beauty. Her road, is the road I come back to in thought, in dreams, in reality. It's the place I call home. Her courage changed my life. Her story, is the story of courage to fight the unknown. A story of a secret storm.
Chapter 2
August always brings the last minute tourists to California. Their rushed last minute travel plans make me think of the city of Brigadoon. You know, the town that wakes up, once every hundred years. People seem to panic. California does not become a disappearing magic act once the summer is over. Think of Disneyland at Thanksgiving or Christmas time. Sales soar and profits are good. I would be willing to bet they even have a higher tourist rate around the holidays than any summer season. Just a theory.The best part about putting up with star crazed groupies, with high debt rates, and bigger suit cases when they go home, is the ladies. The beaches are full of them. And that's what makes me such a ladies man. Everywhere I go the women love me. Who could resist the tall dark and handsome. I'm six foot one, athletically built, with short light chestnut brown hair and blue eyes that would melt the heart of any blond, red head, or brunette. I was oblivious to the flaws any normal person would speak less highly of. They were flaws I never noticed before. You see, when a person has money all they see is your wallet and your success. Money makes people beautiful. In my case, it makes me blind to reality. I thought I was invincible. And that is where my downfall began.
Traffic was a snarled mess on the freeway headed into down town L.A. Another suicidal motorcyclist, with an impatient attitude, sped right down the middle of two lanes, and smacked the back of a red Volvo making a right hand lane change. Five car pile up and all I have to say is, "Thanks for ruining my day." They closed the freeway for a good hour just to allow life flight to land and take that over zealous schmuck to the hospital. I had no sympathy for him. I just wanted to get to work. Every minute I spent with idol hands, meant one less dollar in my pocket and one less secretary in my office. While the motorcyclist was on his way to the hospital in style, they had two ambulances and at least a dozen police vehicles sorting out the rest of the damage. I'm glad I'm not an insurance agent. Days like this would be hell.
Traffic finally started to crawl in a forward motion, as a few officers in dark blue uniforms shifted cars to the far left two lanes. I stared at the digital clock on my cars dashboard.
"Come on. I'm going to be late. I can't be late!" The end of my palm smacked the steering wheel to comfort my bottled up anger. I wish I received a quarter for every idiot who caused an accident during morning rush hour. I'd have a personal jet to get me to work by now.
A blue Sedan pulled in front of my car. I slammed on my brakes, and laid on my horn. "What are you trying to do, cause another accident! I'm trying to get to work in one piece!" The guy in the Sedan rolled down his window exposing a rather ugly hairy arm, and gave me the hand gesture that would offend your grandma. I wanted to climb out of the car and hit the guy. But I refrained. I wasn't about to start a brawl on the freeway. I'd probably ruin his masculine reputation by winning anyway. Like the whole David and Goliath story.
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