A Thousand Miles Away

Austin, Texas on a Saturday night

The heat of the day melts into the velvet black of nighttime easing the temperature down a handful of degrees. It is here where Texas music past, in the form of steel guitars and twin fiddles is sampled with the more modern rat-a-tat-tat rhythm that drifts out from the dives, hide-a-way holes and remodeled and remade buildings lined up in a neon row down Sixth Street intersecting at Congress Avenue. Those looking for a good time find their way here and stay long into the night, the loner wanting to get away from it all in the midst of a crowded somewhat controlled chaos, the stoner waiting for the next round, the frat brothers and the sorority sisters spending their youth like a reckless rich man spends money, the good ole gal from a bit further out in the hill country, the poser with the expensive Italian shoes and designer jeans ripped at the knees and the tourist struggling to process everything that is going on all around.

Work takes me away from home and brings me here, a thousand miles away, for a few days. And now it brings me back to my hotel room for the night.

In the distance, the party roars. Next door, the fighting, between a man and a woman, begins.

First came the pounding on a nearby door. That was followed by raised voices. Then came the demand, drenched and dripping in anger and hurt, for an apology. Doors were slammed. Denials offered. Through the walls, words were spoken, unintelligible on my side but clearly with enough attitude from the other side to sound accusatory.

Then it grew quiet. Then more of the same with the volume turned down a notch.

I cannot tell you anymore about what went on next door other than what I just described. I’m not so sure I really want to know more. And I’m not so sure what I would have done in case things escalated past the point where they seemed to end.

As the fighting quieted, I was left with its echoes. I wondered if the fighting couple loved one another or claimed to love one another. I wondered what made them get that crazy, that seemingly out of rational thought to set into motion slamming doors and yelling at one another revealing details which are probably best left unshared with total strangers sharing a floor of a hotel for a short time. I wondered if constant crisis and drama were the norm for this couple. I wondered if rattling cages and stirring up stuff is the way they "get along" with one another. I wondered if either one of them at some point thought they deserved better than what they were receiving or were really above what they were dishing out.

Away from all the wondering, my mind goes to what I do know. Here, I hear other echoes, echoes from a thousand miles away in Tennessee. These echoes come from a certain place where the velvet black of the nighttime grows deep and dark and where the only noise from the outside is an occasional car radio played too loud, a howling dog or the whistle of a passing train a few miles away. It’s the place where I share life with my wife, the woman I love, the woman I miss not just now, not just tonight, but whenever we’re away from one another. It's there where life sometimes feels humdrum but where the everyday world we live in feels comfortable. So comfortable in fact that I know without any doubt, it’s where I belong and where we belong together.

For the next few days though I am here until the work I have to do is completed. I close my eyes and search for slumber trying to balance all these things in the back of my mind.

Next door, the fighting seems to have stopped. In the distance though, the neon burns bright enough to light the edges of the window frame and the music propels itself across the way enough to form a low rumbling backbeat that lulls me into a night’s sleep where I dream of how life is a thousand miles away.