Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

  “We’ve got buffalo wings and the Lottie’s Burger,” Lottie said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was recommending those things or if they were all they had. “Sounds good,” I said.

  “You heard him,” Lottie said to Leonard. Leonard stood and walked to the kitchen.

  “Troy, get Alan a beer. The special.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Didn’t say you weren’t,” Lottie said.

  Troy staggered over to the bar, returning a moment later with a foaming mug of beer.

  “House draft,” Lottie said. “Courtesy of the house.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Try it,” he said.

  Not wanting to offend my host, I took a drink. It was different from anything I’d ever tasted. Strong.

  “What is this?”

  “Specialite de la maison. I call it Lottie’s Brew.” He looked at me. “Drink up.”

  Stupidly, I took another drink. It burned.

  “Why are you here?” Lottie asked.

  My face felt hot. “The guy at the hotel recommended you.”

  “I mean not in Seattle.”

  “I’m walking.”

  He looked at me with an odd expression, then said, “Drink some more.”

  I’m not sure why, but I again lifted the glass. There was buzzing in my ears. I’ve always been able to handle my drinks, but after just a few gulps of his “brew” I was feeling fuzzy. Or drugged.

  After a moment I said, “I better go.”

  “Your food hasn’t come out yet,” Lottie said.

  I took out my wallet. “It’s okay, I’ll pay. I just need to go.”

  “Need?” Lottie said. “Everything a man needs is right here. Why are you walking, anyway?”

  I rubbed my face. “What?”

  “I asked, why are you walking?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lottie nodded. “Like most of humanity, out looking for something that’s ultimately not worth finding. I’ve been there, the corporate grinding stone. You know what grinding stones make? Powder.”

  “They make flour,” Troy said.

  Lottie slapped him on the head. “What’s flour, moron? It’s wheat powder—like your mealy brain. That’s all men are today, powder. Except us.” He eyed me carefully. “I bet there’s a woman tangled up in this.”

  I took a deep breath. “My wife—”

  Lottie clapped his hands. “Was I right, boys?”

  “You called it,” Troy said.

  Otis grunted.

  “Women are just another grinding stone. We got everything we need right here. Beer, television, lively conversation.”

  “Where’d you say you’re headed?” Otis asked, surprising me that he could speak.

  “He didn’t,” Lottie said.

  “Key West,” I said.

  “What you lookin’ for in Key West?” Troy asked.

  Even without the buzz I’m not sure I could have answered the question.

  Just then Leonard walked out with my food. He set the plates in front of me, then sat back down at the table. With the way I was feeling, the sight of the food made me want to throw up.

  “I’ll tell you what’s in Key West,” Lottie said. “Some good booze, but nothing worth the walk.” He leaned forward. “I’ve never done this before, but I’m inviting you to join us. Right here, right now. We’ve got a spare room in the back. You can help out around the place to earn your board.”

  I felt the room spinning. “That’s generous,” I said. “But no thank you.”

  “No?” Lottie looked offended. “What are you holding on to?”

  “I had a wife . . .”

  “Had?”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Exactly. They all up and leave.”

  “She didn’t leave me. She died.”

  “What’s the difference?” Lottie said. “Either way she’s gone and you’re alone.” He looked into my eyes. “Why are you really walking? Do you even know?”

  I couldn’t think.

  “What you looking for, Alan?”

  “Hope,” I said.

  He burst out laughing. “Hope? Thank goodness you haven’t found it. Hope was the worst thing to come out of Pandora’s box. Hope is what tortures us. It’s what keeps us driving the nails deeper into our palms. You want happiness, then let hope go. Let it all go—forget the past. It’s nothing but regret and pain.”

  I had to force myself to speak. “To forget the past is to erase ourselves,” I said.

  “Well said,” Leonard said.

  “Exactly,” Lottie said. “We are the great erased.” He raised his glass. “And this is the great eraser.”

  “You can’t erase the past,” I said.

  “You’re wrong,” Lottie said. “Just look at Leonard. He has no past.”

  Leonard grinned. “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.”

  The men laughed.

  “It eventually catches up,” I said. “The past is hunting us.”

  “You’re right,” Lottie said. “You can’t outrun the past. But you can kill it. Some things should be killed. It’s the memories that bring pain. Only an idiot would choose pain over pleasure.”

  “Life is pain,” I said.

  Lottie grinned. “What are you, a Buddhist monk?”

  “He’s one of those gimps,” Otis said. “He likes the pain.”

  “It’s our memories that make us who we are,” I said. “Killing them is a betrayal of life.”

  “He’s talking gibberish,” Troy said.

  “No. I’m not.” I stood up, my knees wobbly. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You go out there,” Lottie said, pointing to the door, “and your past will find you. I promise you that.”

  “The past finds everyone,” I said. “Even you. Even in here.”

  He lifted his beer. “Not in here it won’t. In here we drown it with my brew.”

  “You’re wrong,” I said. “The past floats.”

  I turned and staggered out of the bar.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-One

  I’ve wondered why the famous congregate with each other. Perhaps it’s to assure each other that they really are as important as they think they are.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I woke the next morning with a throbbing headache. I didn’t even remember walking back to my hotel. I wondered what Lottie put in his “brew.”

  After throwing up, I took a long shower, then went downstairs to the hotel’s breakfast nook. I drank two strong cups of black coffee and ate some oatmeal and toast before I headed out on US 1 through the commercial section of Port St. Lucie.

  Around noon I was feeling human again. I stopped at a Walmart to stock up on supplies. I walked past a faded Volkswagen Jetta with a bumper sticker that read:

  I’M NOT ANTISOCIAL.

  * * *

  I’M JUST NOT USER FRIENDLY.

  I got the usual supplies, including water and disposable razors. I walked another mile south, then stopped to eat lunch at the Original Pancake House. I’ve always been a fan of pancakes, and the Original Pancake House has some of the best. I had Swedish pancakes with powdered sugar and lingonberries.

  Next I walked through Jensen Beach, passing myriad red and yellow signs marking turtle nesting areas. Around twilight I reached the town of Hobe Sound. I couldn’t see any hotels, so I stopped at Twin Rivers RV Park to see if I could camp there. A sign directed me to a small trailer home. I knocked on the door. A voice shouted out, “Be right there.” A moment later the door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a faded blue T-shirt printed with a picture of a marlin.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you allow campers?”

  “Of course. We’ve got lots of campers. Also RVs and trailer homes.”

  “I mean just with a tent.”

  “Just you? Sure, I’ve got a place near the back. Need hookups?”

  I won
dered what he was thinking I’d need hookups for. “No, I just need a place to stake my tent. Do you have showers and a restroom?”

  “Yes. We’ve got a full clubhouse with showers, a pool table, and a dartboard. And a washer and dryer.”

  “Perfect,” I said. I got out my wallet. “How much?”

  He had to think about it. “Hmm. Twenty.”

  I handed him two tens. “How do you pronounce the name of this city?”

  “Hobe,” he replied. “Like hope but with a b. People up north always say Ho-bee, like it’s got a y on the end. Where are you from?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Do tell. My wife’s from the Seattle area. Renton.”

  “I had some employees from Renton,” I said. “I lived in Bridle Trails. Near Bellevue.”

  “I’ve been there,” he said, nodding. “Nice area. Wealthy. If you want to see some real wealth, go up ahead a bit and turn left on Bridge Road. There’s a bunch of celebrities that live up there. Tiger Woods lives there. At least he did; I’m not sure if he’s still there—after all that ruckus in the media—but there’s a bunch of them. Alan Jackson, Celine Dion, a few supermodels, Burt Reynolds . . . You should see it.”

  I thought it a little peculiar that he seemed so proud of the wealthy area when he lived in an RV park.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

  He picked up a map from a patio table near the trailer’s door, marked an X on it, and handed it to me. “You’re right there,” he said. “In back, right across from the club.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Have a good night.”

  It was clear that many of the residents had been there for a while, as there were satellite dishes, barbecue grills, even a few gardens. There was a small swimming pool, but it was plastered with signs saying that it wasn’t open to RV residents.

  I set up my tent, then went to wash my clothes, but there were only two washing machines and they were both in use. I took a shower and shot some pool before going back to my tent to sleep.

  Maybe it was the park owner’s talk of models on Jupiter Island, but as I lay in my tent my thoughts drifted to Falene. I had been so surprised when she told me that she was getting married that I hadn’t even asked her when. For all I knew, she already was. At that moment I recalled the Pentecostal pastor I had stayed with in Pevely, Missouri. He had seen a vision of Falene in a wedding gown. I guess I had just assumed that it would be my wedding too.

  The next morning I ate breakfast from my pack. The park manager’s excitement over Jupiter Island had made me a little curious, so I decided to check it out. I took the turnoff to the island, and the road led me over a small bridge, then through a tunnel of trees.

  I walked around the island for a while. It was an interesting detour but definitely not what I had expected. There were no huge gated homes or spacious mansions with long driveways. In fact, the homes looked surprisingly normal.

  The area was not easy to navigate, and I ended up walking in a circle back to the same road I’d entered from. Returning to US 1, I passed Burt Reynolds Park, followed by massive road construction. I ended my day at a Hampton Inn in Juno Beach and ate dinner at the Juno Beach Fish House.

  The next two days I logged nearly forty-three miles, passing through the upscale city of Boca Raton, announced by its luxury car dealerships, plastic surgery offices, and funeral homes.

  I had always thought that the name Boca Raton meant “rat’s mouth” in Spanish, an odd name for such a wealthy area, but I was wrong on several counts. In Spanish ratón means “mouse,” not “rat”—but the name of the city doesn’t mean that either. In nautical terms, boca refers to an inlet. And ratones in old Spanish maritime dictionaries refers to rugged or stony ground. So the name basically means “rocky inlet.”

  Wealthy city or not, I lived economically that night. I booked a room at a Comfort Inn just a few blocks from the ocean and ate dinner at the Subway sandwich shop next door.

  The next morning I ate the hotel’s complimentary breakfast, then I donned my pack and walked east over the bridge to US 1.

  I was able to walk on sidewalks for most of the day until I reached Fort Lauderdale, made famous by the hordes of college students that overran the town every spring break. As I reached the city I wasn’t feeling all that tired, so I decided to push on to the next city: Hollywood.

  Hollywood is a resort town, beautifully landscaped and aesthetically pleasing. Even the town’s water tower, above Hallandale Beach, was painted to look like a giant beach ball.

  I walked along Hallandale Beach Boulevard, then followed Ocean Drive north until I came to the luxurious Westin Diplomat Resort & Spa. I decided to live a little, so I booked a room, which was available only because of a last-minute cancellation.

  After dinner I changed into my swimsuit and went down to the pool area to soak in the hot tub. The sun had set, and the air was moist with the ocean’s cool, dark breath.

  In the midst of the luxurious setting I was more troubled than I had been for months. Oddly, I wasn’t sure why. At first I blamed my anxiety on the usual suspects: McKale’s and my father’s deaths, and Falene’s rejection. But as I peeled back the layers of my discontent, I realized there was something different at the core of my pain. Fear. Fear of completing my journey. My walk was winding down, like a spinning top losing power. My wobble had begun. What was I going to do when my walk was finally over?

  It’s been said that every new beginning is some other beginning’s end. Perhaps my transition would be more tolerable if I had any real idea of what would come next.

  You would think, after all this time on the road with nothing to think about but my next step or the next town, that I would have thought of where I was going. But I hadn’t.

  I had always thought of my walk as an escape from the past, but now I could see that it was also an escape from my future—a future that I wasn’t any more prepared for now than I had been when I first set foot outside my house in Seattle.

  Would I ever be ready? Could one really ever be ready for the unknown? If the road has taught me one thing for certain, it is this—one never knows who or what the next mile will bring.

  I dried myself off, then went back to my room and lay in bed. The next day likely wouldn’t be any better. I disliked walking through big cities, and I was headed straight into downtown Miami.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-Two

  Thoreau wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” But on the road, desperation is not always so quiet.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Not surprisingly, the next morning I was in no hurry to leave the hotel. I easily rationalized that I had pushed myself the day before so I deserved a lighter day. Besides, the room was paid for until noon. I ordered room service, then, after breakfast, went to the pool area and relaxed in the hot tub. I decided to ignore the questions that had troubled me the night before. I still had plenty of miles to torture myself.

  It was a little after eleven when I left the hotel. Donning my pack, I walked west on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, west over a coral pink bridge, then headed south again on US 1.

  At the first stoplight there was a group of men standing around the intersection collecting money. They wore pink T-shirts that read HOMELESS VOICE. I must have looked homeless, because they didn’t ask me for a donation. They didn’t offer me any help, either.

  After several hours, I stopped for a late lunch at the Dogma Grill—which was basically a fancy hot dog stand. I had a Reuben dog, with melted Swiss cheese and sauerkraut, and an El Macho dog, with spicy salsa, brown mustard, melted cheddar, and diced tomatoes and jalapeños.

  When I looked around the place I noticed that as a white man I was a minority, which I’d gotten more used to in the South. Since walking through this part of the country, I’d had some thoughts on America’s racial makeup.

  In Travels with Charley John Steinbeck wrote:

  Americans are
much more American than they are Northerners, Southerners, Westerners, or Easterners . . . California Chinese, Boston Irish, Wisconsin German, yes, and Alabama Negroes, have more in common than they have apart . . . The American identity is an exact and provable thing.

  I don’t know if this is still the case in America. I may be wrong, but it seems that there may be some unraveling of the American tapestry. I see people getting so caught up in celebrating diversity that they are neglecting their commonality. I don’t see this as a good thing. The Chinese culture has survived for more than five thousand years in part because the Chinese have embraced the same language and culture.

  I hope I am wrong about this, and that the flame is still on beneath the great American melting pot. Americans need each other, and a house divided, no matter the color of its occupants, is still divided. And divided we all fall.

  I finished my meal, then headed back out to the street. Like those of most American metropolises, Miami’s outskirts were scattered with the homeless, and I walked past people sleeping on benches and underneath overpasses.

  Around four p.m. I entered the heart of the city. It was close to rush hour, and the traffic was thick. The roads looked more like parking lots than thoroughfares, and, for once, I had an advantage over the car-bound.

  I didn’t log as many miles as usual, but I’d gotten a late start, and city walking was always slow. I spent the night at the outskirts of the city at Hotel Urbano—a funky little sixty-five-room hotel in a residential area. I had promised Nicole that I would let her know when I reached Miami, so just before going to bed I called her.

  “Hi, handsome,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Miami,” I said.

  “So what day will you cross the finish line?”

  “I’m about eight days out.”

  “Today is the fifth, so you’ll reach Key West on the thirteenth. That means we’ll have to fly out the afternoon of the eleventh, spend the night in Miami, then drive down the next day. That will put us in Key West the evening before.”