End of the Road

Among a close set of my friends, the term “end of the road” had a distinctive meaning. “I’ve hit the end of the road!” meant you were leaving our close little circle of travelers. Most often, it meant you were putting your pack down in your girlfriend’s apartment for connubial bliss. We’d sip a glass of fine Irish Whiskey, ceremoniously state another one has bit the dust, and get on with our lives.

So it went till my best friend died in a senseless auto accident – he wasn’t even traveling – just going to the grocery store with his girlfriend. It hit me hard. After the funeral, a few of us snuck back to the grave to ceremoniously sanctify it with Irish Whiskey and Marijuana seeds. It set seeds of doubt. Up till then, we’d been immortal. We determine the direction of our lives, not arbitrary fate.

Eventually, I, too, hit the end of the road. I had a whole raft of stories from the “old days” to tell around campfires, songs about being on the road, and bits of wisdom to spread among the uninitiated. But, except in spring, when the sap rose and leaves emerged, I did not miss it much. I did not miss it at all. Of course, I had to be careful about admitting that. I’d sit with friends and state that I’d cogitate my veritabilites and decide in the morning If I’d bum my way to Toronto.

Then, I settled in and got a degree, a car, and a career. I had responsibilities. I could no longer say I’d go here or there in the morning. Damn! I’d lost my credibility. My ambition had become circumscribed by my family, job, the workshop, the feeding time of the pets, and my own tranquility.

A snide comment at a party hinted that I was a has-been. I responded with a grin, ” in the immortal words of Tiny Tim, It is better to be a has-been than a never-was.”

Daily writing prompt

When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?

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