Chapter One

Here is chapter one of the novel Chasing Sunsets, by Matthew Osgood

*Subsequent chapters will be posted every two weeks*

I.

“You know, for a writer, you have terrible conversational skills.”

“It’s a semi-true story, believe it or not,

I made up a few things and there’s some I forgot,

But the life and the telling are both real to me

And they all run together and turn out to be

A semi-true story” –Jimmy Buffett

I remember exactly where I was when I decided to make the most important decision in my life. I was sitting at Kono’s Surf Shop, a beach-front Mexican joint that served only breakfast and lunch. The line was excruciatingly long this particular Saturday morning, but the omelets were always well worth the wait.

We sat on the porch overlooking Pacific Beach, the canyon-cliffs of the coastline outlined the northern horizon, Crystal Pier stood just south of us, while fishermen drank their morning beers, clinging to their faith that the bonita or white fish would be biting today. Bobbing over waves were surfers patiently awaiting their ten second adrenaline rush. On our well-hidden perch, we laughed about the night before, nursed hangovers with the strong coffee, and shielded the sunlight from our faces with dark sunglasses.

The super-sized omelets came prepared with fresh avocado slices and Tecate sauce. A pleasure of the Mexicans inhabiting southern California, I think, is to challenge the gringos to consume the massive quantity of food they prepare. Or, at least, to rush them to the nearest bano. But, at least, the food was delicious and inexpensive, and contained an innate remedy for the morning after.

“When are you leaving?” I ask Jonathan, pouring salt onto a slice of avocado, something the Mexicans would cry blasphemy about if they saw someone do it. “You said you were going to leave the beginning of the summer, right?”

“June 1^st,” he replied through a mouthful of the best home fries west of the Mississippi River. I always admired his candid responses, whether it was beautifully disrespectful, or harshly truthful. I liked that he had a date set, something I am known to procrastinate on. My response would have bordered on, “In June, whenever I get the urge.”

The porch was full by now with tourists snapping photographs of the spectacular view of the white sand beaches and rising tides. At midday on the west coast, the sun hangs discreetly to the east of the beach creating a clear view of the waves and ripples that smother the Pacific Ocean. This aspect is convenient and practical when walking the boardwalk looking at the females sunbathing on the pristine beaches. They are unable to see you peering at them without getting a face full of sun.

Our meals were finished, but being the stereotypical San Diego day, Jonathan suggested we get a bloody Mary and keep our spot in the sun. He went to get refills on two coffees instead and I stole a Union-Tribune from the vacant chair next to me. No sports section, God damnit. I was mad because illiteracy and lack of current event knowledge plagues people my age. I was also discouraged because I wanted to, like the person before me, read the sports page. The sports section is the first thing I like to read. The Padres were losing to the Giants last I saw in the 7^th inning, but the night took a drastic turn just as the hometown heroes were rallying. Shots of tequila and a couple of southern California girls had taken over the evening. I couldn’t remember whether the bar erupted with the joy of a win, or moaned at the Giants taking the second game in a row. I lit a cigarette and worked sans writing material on the crossword puzzle instead.

Jonathan came back with two cups of coffee and suggested we head down to Mission Valley, where the mall was. He needed a new pair of khaki’s for work, and I agreed to go with him once I could get a shit and a shower in. That, I thought, would start my day for real. A few cigarettes later, we left our seats for the elderly couple that came walking onto the porch, only to have our plan foiled when someone else stole one of the vacant seats to join friends.

On the way to the car, I picked up a want-ad magazine to continue looking for jobs in the area to help pay rent and some extraneous bills I had accumulated.

Jonathan saw this, and added, “you’re not gonna get nothing from that magazine. Don’t settle for a bullshit job, you know what you need to do.”

The insinuation he made was to remind me that a regular job was only hurting me in the long run of pursuing a career as a writer. When it concerns Jonathan, those types of slight motivational comments were about as blunt as they got. I took the hint.

A kid ran past us from the pier, yelling for his friend, who was leaning against a gift shop with his bike, a fish still dangling from the runners’ line, squirming vigorously for freedom. As I waited for the roof to open on Jonathan’s Mustang, I stretched my arms above my head, arching my body to crack my sore back. A deep inhale and the salty air stung my nostrils in an attempt to cleanse my system from the late night.

I skimmed through the want-ad magazine with the speed of a judge looking over a clean rap sheet. I walked over to the trash and flung the magazine inside. Sacrificing opening the door, I hopped over it into the passenger side seat, eliciting an annoyed look from my counterpart.

“Fuckin’ James Dean over there,” he said.

“You know for a writer, you’ve got terrible conversational skills.”

#

I had come to California a year ago, like most procrastinators, or adventure seekers, depending on how you look at it, to delay life for a little while and explore the cliché of “finding myself.” For me that wasn’t really the case. I felt like I had a pretty good advantage over people my age, and sometimes people twice my age, in knowing who and what I was. I have traveled almost the entire country, seeking clarity and inspiration at the same time. California seemed like a good option. I had just earned my degree in journalism and English, had no inclination to join the “slackers” in graduate school, and I had no family or romantic ties holding me back on the east coast. In ten years, I thought, that might not be the case. I refused to be the person who said later in life, “what if?” In this instance, my “what if” would have been venturing out to the west coast.

My mother wholeheartedly supported my decision to make a move. My older brother had just gotten engaged and my younger brother was going to be entering his sophomore year at the same (expensive) school I had attended. Practically, I figured this would take some of the financial strain off my parents’ shoulders while I took a chance somewhere else. Leaving college to live back at home never appealed to me, as I had grown continually used to coming and going as I pleased without question, and I was fond of having no limitations to how many cigarettes or joints I smoked, or who was coming over to “study” after hours.

Surrendering back to my stuffy room in the basement at my parents’ house would be a step backwards, as I saw it, regardless of practicality. I had grown accustomed to living on my own and saw the opportunity to live across the country as a sign of freedom and independence; a sure sign that I was on my way to beginning a life that was my own independent of the safe havens and familiarity of my hometown.

Before I get to my story, which has already begun, I guess, I probably should pull a Holden Caulfield and introduce myself. My name is Matthew; not Matt like co-workers call me, or Matty like my ex-girlfriend calls me; not Oz or Ozzie like my friends call me. Matthew, like the name I use for a byline in every newspaper article or poem I’ve ever published. Matthew, not because I’m trying to sound sophisticated, mature, or even literary, but because that’s my name, and I like it. It’s rarely misspelled and flows easily off the tongue.

I like to say it’s a Biblical name, not because it actually is, but because people laugh when I say it, especially in groups of strangers because uncomfortable and uncertain laughter is the easiest to provoke. The real reason for my name is not religious, at least not in the ordinary sense of the word, but in some ways it is. My parents had seasons tickets to the New England Patriots around the time I was born and the backup quarterback at the time was a man by the name of Matt Cavanaugh. My mom thought he was cute, liked the name anyway, and without a struggle from my father, my name was decided right there in the old Foxboro Stadium, or as it was called then, Sullivan Stadium right there on route 1 in Foxboro, Massachusetts. I like that I’m named after a backup. This way I didn’t have the pressure of living up to being named after Larry Bird or Raymond Bourque.

I never really knew much about my last name Osgood mainly because my paternal grandfather died when I was young and we very rarely are in touch with his side of the family. What I do know is that there are all men in the Osgood genealogy, so when it comes to my offspring, I hope my eventual wife is okay with having all boys. It’s no my choice, it’s science.

Osgood is an English name. It’s the name of a character in Great Expectations and the surname of a professional hockey goalie – a white man, and a San Diego Chargers wide receiver – a black man. When I met the latter at a bar, he didn’t believe me when I told him that we were cousins, but I’m sticking to my story.

Matthew Osgood has a nice sound; it sounds soft and I’ve never heard it pronounced sexier than when it came out of Sarah’s mouth (you’ll meet her later). I’ve never wanted to change my first name, but I guess if I had the choice, I’d pick something manly and classic, not like the names of babies nowadays like Mason or Ethan. I’d choose something like Jack. Yea, Jack. It sounds like someone who could build a house with his bare hands or run for the White House. Either way, I wouldn’t want to do either of those things, so I’m glad I have the name I do. Back to the story.

To break the fall of my desire to continue my life’s adventure in California, I sat my mother Jeannette and father Steve down at the kitchen table, and proceeded to tell them that I had something to talk to them about. Unfortunately, my family and I had too many of these sit-down talks, as at the time, we had a string of a few years where innumerable tragedies had struck our family and friends.

The kitchen table had become the place in my household to share news that would affect the entire family regardless if the information was good or bad. When my dad was laid off from a job at which he worked 19 years, we learned about it at the kitchen table. When three of my high school friends were killed one night in a car accident, I was told with my two hands gripping the tops of the chairs surrounding the table. Playing the answering machine upon returning from my older brothers’ graduation, I learned of another friend passing away while at the table. When I decided to leave the nest, the kitchen table was the only place I could have broken the news.

“Mom and dad, I wanted to let you know I’m coming out of the closet,” I started. Fortunately, my face remained stoic, awaiting a response.

After a moment’s silence, my mom looked up at me.

“That’s ok, Matt,” she started as I burst out in laughter. She slapped her hands on edge of the table, gripping it as if to make sure it doesn’t run away.

“Oh, mom,” I sympathized, “you’re so fucking tolerant!” I have begun at this point to consider myself “adult” enough to use profanity in front of my mother. My father was shaking his head either at the sudden rollercoaster of emotions, or the fact I casually dropped the f-bomb in front of a woman. He’d taught me better than that.

I changed my tone. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to move to California.”

When I look back at the situation, I applaud my own willpower to tell them rather than to ask them. After all, I was 22 years old, considered myself an adult capable of making my own decisions, and had complete faith in myself, a recent college graduate, to follow through with the adventure I had planned.

Happily, they told me through tears that if that’s what I wanted to do, they would support me. Being the organizer my mom is, she barraged me with questions. With whom? When? How? Where is the money coming from? Of course, I didn’t know the answers to these questions because I’m the type of person to just pick up and go, living life nomadically and ten feet at a time.

Despite my claims I was unorganized at the time, I did have some facts already set in stone concerning my move. My roommate from college would be my roommate post-college, since he was born and raised in San Diego. In addition to that, there were friends of mine from home who were also planning to make the move. Having friends out west made me comfortable knowing I would rarely be alone. All that was needed now was money and a map.

Life that summer filled with nostalgia. I thought there was a chance I may never live in these parts ever again. On top of that, I was moving out of home for good. My friends teased me that I was going to find a girlfriend way hotter than I deserve, which I claimed impossibility, though they turned about to be one hundred percent accurate. I spent most of the time that summer reserved, and trying not to grow too emotionally attached to the people around me.

My friends and I hadn’t exactly lost touch throughout college, but since I was the only one to go away from home for school, I lost touch with the minor things like who’s working where, who’s dating who, and who had withdrawn from the group. Those things piled up and it was tough coming home at the end of semesters because I felt out of touch with the many inside jokes. I got ragged on mostly for not coming home unless I was forcibly kicked off campus when classes ended for break. Looking back, I don’t regret these things as much as I do cherish the notion that college, for me, was lived to the fullest, reasonably realizing the time – and money - spent there was a draining well with each second that passed.

Driving through the city in which I was raised throughout the course of that summer season, I found myself realizing exactly what I was leaving. My home town offers it all: from two-family apartments on the east side of town to the half million dollar homes on the developing west. The neighborhood I grew up in was nestled somewhere in between the two, a small cul-de-sac with the neighborhood basketball hoop still standing strong despite years of rain, winds, snow, and the occasional dunk contest off of trampolines on the curb a few houses down. I remember racing through town on my bike with friends as a kid, and later in high school doing the same in my first car, a 1986 Ford Bronco.

I was never one of those people who complained about where I lived. The ones in high school who couldn’t wait to graduate and go away for good, but always seem to come back. Sometimes I wonder if these overzealous wanderers do and say the things they do for show, and why they don’t cower coming home. The petty drama that came with being a teenager never really bothered me. I loved my town; I had a tremendous amount of gratitude for being what it is, which is an average, middle-class community with small town values and large city dreams. My parents were both born and raised here by their parents, and, after they fell in love and were married, continued their life here. The people are humble and the schools are good. There is a wonderful amount of pride in the people who have left here and succeeded – the 2003 Ms. America - on both ends of the spectrum, from the admiration of that person from their neighbors to the appreciation of where they came from. It was not for that aspect that I wanted to leave. I knew I would make it back eventually because every road that leads away is sure to also lead you back to where you started. I just knew that somewhere out there was something special that could elicit whatever was yearning to get out from inside of me. Along the road somewhere I could find the answers from the sounds of the world.

There are two stories from my childhood and teen years that have significantly shaped the way I look at what I do and how I live my life. The first story took place when I was twelve.

The first day of summer vacation started with the freedom adjacent to such a monumental annual event. These were the days before high school when we as children would wake up as early as we could in order to spend an entire day in the sun. I remember the heat and the sun being incredibly present this June day, only because later I can recall carelessly plunging into the pool in my backyard that afternoon despite the presence of police officers and trauma intervention workers hovering over the crime scene that was my driveway.

My friend Cara lived up the street from me. She was a girl with whom I shared many experiences. We grew up together, shared our first real kiss, and she is someone whom I will always remain fond of despite the waning correspondence of our adult lives. Cara, her brother, and I were in the woods behind my house searching for worms to attach to the hooks on our fishing rods. My first dog, a beagle named Wags, was assisting the three of us.

Around lunchtime, I retreated to my house for lunch. My parents were both working. I don’t recall where either of my two brothers were, so I had the run of the house. My knowledge of cooking was limited to grilled cheese, so that’s what I made for myself. Midway through the process of finding culinary delight, Cara came bolting into my kitchen.

“I found something,” she said out of breath.

Prepping for my meal, I didn’t take much of what she said into much thought. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “I’m scared.”

I followed her immediately outside into the woods. She was like a sister to me. And despite the fact we had some experiences beyond such a relationship, Cara was the closest person to me. There was no way I wasn’t going to follow her into the woods behind my house.

“There.” She pointed to a pair of faded blue jeans floating about five feet from the shore of the Spicket River, which flows directly through my backyard. Looking back, I think we both knew exactly what was bobbing up and down in front of us. The problem was that neither of us really knew how to tell the other. Instead of following our urge to go to the police station, we needed to investigate. We each took a handful of rock and began firing from ten feet away at a relatively small, unusual target. I don’t remember which one of us finally hit the target, but I remember the sound that it made. It sounded like a hard stomp of a rotting wood bridge: sturdy, but hollow. This sound sent Cara into tears.

Not enough to be convinced, I waded into the water and looked over the mysterious object. It was the body of a 47 year old man. Out of our visual range from where we were was the skin of his ankles visible above two running shoes, and orange shirt, and long brown hair floating on the surface. The image will forever be etched in my brain. Seeing this loss of life was numbing. We ran to the nearest neighbor, who wasn’t home. We then hopped on our bikes to the police station, which isn’t far from my house.

We ditched our bikes at the entrance and sprinted inside the building. No one looked willing to entertain the two twelve year olds until one of us declared, “There is a dead body in the river.”

The cops escorted us home. The man had allegedly too much to drink the previous night and fallen off the bridge about 100 yards upstream from where we found him. To this day, I’ve thought about that experience many times, but I’ve never once had a dream – or rather nightmare – about the man we found that day. I’ve retold this story to friends, family, and even strangers countless times. It remains my Stand By Me moment.

The most sobering experience of my entire life happened my junior year in high school. Few moments in a lifetime define the character someone will become. These are transcendent moments to be relived for the entirety of a life.

The Methuen High School football team, of which I was a part, had come off a major victory in the final moments of a close game. Spirits were high as the Rangers were yet to lose a contest in the season. The weekend just a usual weekend, parties and dates and girlfriends. There was no sign that my life and outlook on it would be changed in an instant.

My bedroom was upstairs in my parent’s house and the stairs were old and they’d creak when someone would climb or descend them. This made it especially hard to sneak in passed curfew. My father, hearing these sounds, must have known I was coming.

I turned the corner toward the kitchen where my dad suddenly blocked my way. I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but by the look on his face I knew something was not right. His countenance had devastation written all over it. He told me the news. Three of my friends were killed the previous night in a car crash. They were driving to visit a friend at the University of Massachusetts – Amherst when the lost control of the car, swerved into the opposing lane on route 2, and had their car split in half an 18-wheeler. All three girls, and another girl whom I didn’t know, were killed almost instantly.

A vigil was held within walking distance from my house that night. There were hundreds of mourners and candles, dozens of signs, and a million wails; the toughest of people were reduced to tears. A car radio played – over and over – the song “I’ll Be Missing You” by Puff Daddy.

Then there I saw Cara.

I hadn’t cried yet until then. I held her as tight as I could as she told me she was supposed to be driving with the girls, but she elected to drive herself earlier in the day. I can’t imagine how the pain would have been magnified had my father listed her name in the morning.

One of the girl’s cousins is a very close friend of mine still. We’ve taken trips on the anniversary almost every year to place flowers on the site of the crash. When I saw her that night she looked as if she was off in space. Not a very emotional girl in terms of hugging people, she’d probably been embraced hundreds of times that day. She didn’t say a word as I embraced her to express my condolences until she let out a giant sob and sniffle combination. She pulled away from me with an apologetic grin on her face.

“I got snot all over your shirt,” she said. I’m convinced this moment produced one of the only smiles she could muster that day.

I can remember the hugs, I remember the community that the town felt that day, but more than remembering, I will never forget the sounds of sobbing people, mourning the loss of friends, girlfriends, and family. During a moment of silent prayer, I watched one of my best friends in the world keeled over wailing and being held up by friends. These things stick on the back of your eyelids at night. They permeate your eardrums at mundane moments.

The town was in disarray. The school hallways on Monday were packed with students still shocked, teachers and friends consoling those affected. Hundred of people attended the wakes of the girls, the last vision of whom being the family-chosen portrait sitting atop closed caskets.

Every year in the spring, I receive an invitation to the scholarship benefit banquet for the girls. What kills me is not the memory of the tragic event, but the pictures of these young ladies, pictures I’ve seen hundreds of time; They will be 17 forever.

My life has changed drastically since these moments. My first real funeral was one where the caskets contained the bodies of three kids. Three of my friends. Three people just like me. Three people seemingly impervious to death, their whole lives in front of them. That week in my life determined my loss of innocence. I grew up a lot that week.

These two stories have taught me two very important things that have followed me thus far:

1. Tomorrow may never come.

2. Never underestimate the power of a good story.