My house was quiet. Every creak of every floorboard felt like some kind of giant thundering across the yard. I had been home all day alone, stuck in a funk, a bout of moodiness that hung around everything I did. I couldn’t shake it, so finally gave in, tired of the internal struggle. I called it quits and headed to bed before ten o’clock at night, only to find that now, a sudden restlessness had come over me and every sensory input fed me some kind of energy. I tossed and rolled, but to no avail. Looking for some shoes and loose change, I decided on a late night walk.
I headed to the home of Chris Scappio, night owl extraordinaire, hoping that he could provide me with the release that I was looking for. A soft glow emanated from his basement window, the frame still retained a hint of winter's snow, indicating that Chris was still up and about. I rapped on the pane of glass and headed towards the backdoor, where Chris met me.
"Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d drop by. Whatcha up to?"
"Work. Optimization. I'm almost done" He said, inviting me in, then heading back down the stairs. Chris ran a webpage development business out of his parents’ basement.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah," Chris gave a gruff little laugh, "I was going to stop by your place in about ten minutes."
"Really?" I moved towards an old faded red sofa intent on relaxing while Chris went about his business.
"Yeah, I slept in till like two o'clock today, so I figured I'd maybe go visit Frank or something." He looked at me. "You a game little monkey?"
"Sure. I’m up for that. I was looking for something to do. I had my own Brian Wilson episode today, too." I flipped through one of the many magazines that Chris had strewn about his floor. Waiting, I helped myself to some peanuts from a small jar shaped like a jawbone and watched Chris' fingers dance over the computer keyboard. “Did I mention I might be buying a new truck this summer?” Chris said. I was surprised and congratulated him. “If I can land a few more of these business accounts, I should have enough money to buy my own truck.”
Soon we were picking up slurpees from a nearby seven-eleven, and afterwards I found myself sitting shotgun, inhaling the familiar scent of the interior of Chris’ truck. I tried to recall how many times this scene has repeated itself over the years. How many restless nights had we spent, through all seasons, in this little red pickup, heading for parts unknown? Happiness might be a warm gun, but freedom is a full tank of gas and a set of keys.
