The college crew, as mentioned in chapter three.

*Chasing Sunsets in the as-of-now unpublished novel by Matthew Osgood. Subsequent chapters will be posted bi-weekly*

III.

A writer by horrible misfortune

“I should not talk so much about myself
if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.” –H.D Thoreau
from the chapter "Economy" in Walden

I began to wonder throughout that summer why people chose to move far away from home after college. After all, we had it pretty nice where we were. People my age are the offspring of the Baby Boomer generation; a generation that relied heavily on themselves while parents remained mysteriously absent, mentally and physically, after the second Great War was fought and won. Idealistic suburbs sprang up across the country; kids of that generation became very self-reliant, and became the first real successful and rich entrepreneurs in America. In my opinion, the lack of closeness this generation had with their forefathers produced an overwhelming sense of pride in their desire to hold their children closer than they were held.

Herein lies the problem. My generation has since decided that they are temporarily sick of the family vacations to Disney World, they’re sick of sitting around the table having open relationships with their families, and they’re tired of having to look to their parents when making an important decision like moving or buying a car. I don’t think there is a resentment to the fact that coddling has taken place, I just believe there is an element of wanting to break free for a while and return to the nest when it is necessary. We are expected to take out more loans, live at home longer than our parents did. We are spurned jobs because our bachelor’s degree isn’t a high enough degree of education, our piercings and tattoos disable our abilities to perform efficiently.

With the overwhelming college tuition prices, the extraordinary tax hikes, and lack of affordable housing, America seems like an overpowering force for people of my generation. We feel helpless and cheated that the Baby Boomers are now in charge of the world, making it near impossible to break out on our own. Practicality, be damned, I think my generation has an overwhelming desire to prove that this country is ours for the taking, and we’re determined to prove it by trying to be our own people. Part of that is doing the same exact thing our parents did. That is become more self-reliant.

Was that really the reason I was taking off? Retrospectively speaking, maybe. By now, the ability to articulate theories is beyond the range of emotion I felt. I came to realize that I was a nomad by nature, a journalist by profession, and a writer by horrible misfortune. My brothers and I had spent an enormous amount of time in our lives going on family trips, and with the vast sweep of things to do around us, we got used to seeing different places and exploring them. Suddenly, I realized the ideology that I could now do this alone, finding places unfamiliar. Somewhere along this trip and in the aftermath, I would be able to see where I was going and what I was trying to do.

The trip to Springfield was one that I had taken so many times previously, I didn’t even realize how simple it would be compared to the trips I was about to make. The leaves alongside the roads had started to thin out, the trees glowing with leaves of burnt orange and brown, like an aging wife whose beauty remained intact. Fortunately for me, I had people to stop and see, as the road ahead would lead me to stints of absolute boredom and anxiety. I left mid-afternoon, cursing the sun for being in my eyes.

On the Massachusetts Turnpike I realized the setting sun is what I’d be racing after for the next couple of weeks. I would drive zigzags around the country, stopping for a few days on end, visiting places I’ve never been with people I barely knew. But overall, the theme of the trip, for me, was that I was chasing sunsets. Would I ever catch it? I knew not the answer, but I wouldn’t rest until I went as far as I could to find out. The majestic mountains, the pristine plains, and the setting sun would serve as the metaphor of life inasmuch as we all face the embodiment of an arduous mountain climb, the boredom of a six hour drive through cornfields, or the beauty of watching the sun rise or set. The happenstances encountered on the road are figuratively the same we face in life. Sometimes we climb mountains, sometimes we stumble; it’s how we deal with each lesson that matters.

There were a couple of other close friends who would be making the voyage to send me off on my journey with shots and beers, and a visit with my advisor Marty from college, who steered me into pursuing writing for the rest of my life. His main advice was to remain constantly moving “like a shark” in order to obtain a job in the field of journalism, as it’s easy to get caught up in the waves of the Pacific Ocean, and glancing at some of the finest women in the country. He, like all the others, supported the move, and reminded me that the phone lines are always open for communication.

Marty’s influence, I realized, was not restricted to just the classroom. He was also as a friend. We’d laughed and talked over beers and pizza, and he quickly became someone I went to for advice, all the while keeping him updated on my professional decisions and aspirations. Eventually, when journalism turned out to be a field at which I would temporarily cease pursuing in hopes of enhancing my creative writing side and becoming a teacher, his voice reigned with support and encouragement. It was on this final trip to Springfield College before my move that I knew I had made a lifelong friend, someone that the gap of ages were defied by common bonds and understanding between two very similar people.

I glanced over the campus green, which is a stereotypical collegiate atmosphere, but unique. The grass is green and untainted, as it is tradition to not tread over the grass on the way to the dining hall or to class. The wind shook the fading leaves towards the ground, destined to keep the maintenance crew busy raking for the next couple months. Frisbees zoomed around the adjacent green while students languidly sulked toward their last few classes. Just four years ago, I was an 18-year old know-it-all who swaggered onto campus. Now suddenly I became humbled after realizing that after 16 years of schooling that experience was, and still is the best teacher.

Looking over the halls on campus I used to roam, I realized for the first time since graduating the effect that learning in that particular college environment had on me. I did just enough to get by in my required classes, mainly because I knew the people who read what I would eventually pen wouldn’t care that I had no idea how to add fractions or explain photosynthesis. I was smart enough to understand those things marginally, but too lazy to study what everything really meant or how it worked. That fact still does not bother me. I’ve always been able to distinguish the major difference in the workings of the mind of someone who understands math and someone who understands the arts. I don’t need to memorize the first 16 lines of Canterbury Tales to have an opinion on its meaning and succeed in class (though I do have the majority of those 16 lines embedded somewhere in my brain), but I do need to memorize the Pythagorean Theorem in order to get an A in Math. I found, though, that I can still converse with people about Geoffrey Chaucer’s masterpiece, though I don’t know it line for line, while I remembered the mathematical theories just long enough to pass the test.

I have always enjoyed learning. I liked being in a class where I could raise my hand and ask questions in addition to answering them. English classes, for me, were like that in college. Unlike most of my high school teachers, my college professors wanted us to attack each question with fervor and gusto rather than just listen to themselves talk. For many, going to class was a chore in between the 10am SportsCenter and the first of two Simpsons episodes. It was even an excuse for not being able to pick up the kegs at the local liquor store. “Sure, you can use my car, but I have class,” was a popular excuse in lieu of risking bodily harm, administration consequence, or leaving the couch.

There is something strangely satisfying about learning something new. And college was a completely different place to study and learn than what I had previously known.

“And don’t come late to my class. I don’t need that shit,” my professor concluded in his first monologue to my class.

Did he just swear? The intro to journalism class perked up behind sleepy eyes and hot coffees, nervous laughter hummed audibly just below the sound of the computers. My teacher laughed at the class’s reaction. Is this what college is like?

“Here’s your first exam,” he continued, waving a stack of papers like he was a newsboy holding the daily news with a juicy piece of gossip on page one.

Oh, now this is what I expected from college! The whole class sunk in their seats, but didn’t moan in faux-agony because, after all, we were mature college students now. This was to be expected. Were we supposed to like tests now?

“And if you get 100%, which no one ever has,” he said, “you’ll win the Tilly’s Fellowship Award.”

At this we laughed again. Despite our relatively newness to campus, we knew Tilly’s was the place that everyone went to drink at night. Now our teacher was telling us if we aced his exam, we could accompany him to the bar. This place is great, I thought.

Naturally, of course, no one aced the exam. No one ever has.

Once college ended, I knew that I wouldn’t stop reading or writing since school had ended, just as I knew that I wouldn’t stop searching for the hidden meaning in poetry and literature. Even if there are no concrete answers, I revel in the fact that, unlike mathematics, my interpretation is as good as the next man’s. I would miss reading and discussing in groups what a passage meant to each individual, just as I would miss re-reading old stories, and concluding my previous translation was a pile of horseshit. Ironically, after 16 years of wanting to graduate into the working world, I found myself eager to learn more.

Michelangelo, at the end of a long, successful life as an artist and philosopher, stated the famous, “I am still learning,” as if even though he’s had an enriched life as a scholar, he is impervious to the notion that he knows all there is to know. This philosophy always intrigued me. No one has all the solutions, not books, not people, not ancient scrolls tucked away in a casing at the bottom of the ocean. I have been taught that good questions elicit good answers, so the best attitude would be to continuously asked questions. In a way, though, it is a bit unsettling that all life offers cannot be figured out until our lives are withering away. I could have read books about traveling across the country, or watch documentaries about it on cable television, but the answers to what my trip would be like had to be found through the doing.

And if books and television weren’t going to teach me what I wanted to learn, the places I’ll meet and the people I will experience across the country will be an exquisite substitute.

Traveling to Springfield would allow me to see Marty one last time and also my friends, but I was also happy about the ability to spend one last night drinking and hanging out with my younger brother Tim, with whom I had grown closer to since he enrolled at Springfield my senior year. His formative days as a high school student were spent largely bonding with my older brother Jeff because he had graduated college and was living at home while Tim was still in high school. They spent a good amount getting to be friends on top of brothers. I was happy to have my turn in college (a time I spent largely with Jeff around) to get to know the sibling three years my junior.

Like most siblings who get along well, my brothers and I have paradoxically been each others best friends and biggest antagonists for our entire lives. The three of us are closer than any other set of brothers I’ve ever known. We laugh together; we fish and drink together, and have an incredible amount of fun every chance we get some time to spend in each other’s company. This rings true especially on Christmas morning at our parents house opening gifts and generally acting much younger than our ages would suggest we acted. We get along very well and that’s mostly attributed to our parents.

Jeff is two years my elder. Throughout my life, through little choice of my own, I’d be following his steps. My academic career has been trying to emerge from a rather large shadow that he cast as I followed him along the way from kindergarten through college at the same institutions. I’d like to think I succeeded in going my own way despite similar locales. Jeff is the serious one. He’s formal with strangers and generally concerned with other people feeling comfortable when they’re near him. Despite the “I don’t give a shit” façade is a truly caring person who would be upset if he hurt someone. He is the brother who tends to get the drunkest at family events, sporting events and concerts, and proudly names himself the M.V.P. the following day. He is the one with whom the brothers can have a serious talk.

As I am a middle child (and possess all the symptoms that come with middle child syndrome), I have a younger brother. Tim is a couple years younger than I am. He’s the gregarious one. He’s outgoing, funny, and has a knack for having a girlfriend at all times. He may be the most independent of the three Osgood boys. Since he was younger, he’s always march to his own tune in a way that doesn’t make him ostensibly weird; he’s just a little wackier than normal. Tim is the brother with whom serious talks about Jeff are made.

A good friend of mine likes to place the Osgood’s into an over-simplified description: Jeff is the smart one, Tim is the handsome one, and the novelist is the funny one. I’d like to believe we all possess a variety of the three, but the formula is complete.

While my brothers are I get along very well, there is antagonistic side to our relationship. We tend to warm-heartedly rag on one another to an extent where it makes up most of our conversation. When it comes to my being a writer, I get the brunt of most of the insult. They make up fictional titles for fictional things that I “wrote” and if I’m upset, grumpy, or angry, they won’t hesitate to tell me to “write a poem” about it. Now, I’m all for a good jab here and there, but it is frustrating to have something I’m passionate about be the focal point of insult. I can’t have a conversation about books or authors without looking over my shoulders to see if I’m going to be called some slang of the word “homosexual” for the thought of having that kind of conversation. The other brothers “flaws,” namely marriage for Jeff (he gets made fun of for being old, married, and never having fun anymore) and an endless yearning for Christmas mornings, puppies, and all that comes with being cinematically in love for Tim (“girlfriend man”) seem full of jest and mundane in comparison.

#

“Shots on me!” cried Justin the second his foot hit the tile floor of our favorite bar, JT’s. The trip tomorrow would be another easy one, three or four hours down I-95 to New Jersey. So tonight I wanted to live it up one last time with my friends.

Besides Justin, joining us that night was my brother Tim, a host of his friends, my college roommates Gary, and Brian, whom I would be living with in California, my friend Tara from Albany, and my friends Greg and Gina. We stayed at one bar the entire night, doing shots, playing pool, and generally rebel-rousing throughout the night. The evening ended with Greg, an EMT, speeding around Springfield with his siren and lights on as we got high off our surroundings.

The night was not any different from others we had experienced in college. While not the most ideal location in America, Springfield, high in crime rates, a major city in the middle of surrounding rolling hills and farms, was our own playground. We spent four years getting to know the city, where were the best places to eat, regardless of what type of neighborhood it is in, which bars to go to, which strip clubs were the best. We learned that the cops were less concerned about drivers with a little too much drink in them than they were where the latest stabbing had taken place, which was, and it’s up for interpretation, good for us. Our school was also very closed-minded about where we drank. While trying to stiffen up on on-campus alcohol consumption, they closed their ears to the fact that, if not allowed do those things on school grounds, students would be jumping into cars to go downtown. Unfortunately, even with an alcohol-related driving death, the school remained too public-image weary, risking students lives for the own public relation success. We broke a few rules at college, but our standing as students and student leaders was a more valuable asset to the college community. We got away with a lot more than we should have, including a real-life Donkey Kong game, in which kegs shells were thrown down a flight of stairs while someone tried their hardest to run up the same set of stairs. Good for laughs, bad for ankles.

With the sun outlining the western Massachusetts horizon the next morning, I said my goodbyes to my friends, and Tim. Life wasn’t going to get much easier since graduating college, but being around the Bay State my entire life, save for vacations and an internship in Orlando, Florida, wasn’t good for my karma. I needed something new, but first I needed to look back around campus and see what, and who, I was leaving behind.

“We’re going to miss you, Oz,” Gary reminded me, looking upon a campus scene much different, at least structurally than we left it.

“I will see you on the other side of the country,” Brian told me. In a way, we both envied each others journey. While I knew my trip across three time zones would be exciting and adventurous, I also understood that the trip would be much easier to make in a plane alongside Brian. From the other vantage point, for someone who is built tall and lanky like Brian, a six-hour plane ride can be a very difficult thing during which to stay comfortable and sane. I embraced my roommates and best friends of four years, and started on down that highway.

Besides the keg stands and the raucous parties, which included, but didn’t limit themselves to fist fights and random hook-ups, what I knew I’d miss most about college life was the camaraderie of friends. Having the ability to remain in bed or on the couch in sweatpants and still maintain an enviable social life is not a very difficult task to master. Since most of my homework as an English major - and soon to be struggling and starving writer - was reading and writing, two things I enjoyed anyway since I was a little kid, I considered myself to be prepared for the real world. Scraping together money for food and beer while spending a considerable amount of time on the couch, laughing it up with friends while reading and writing remained socially acceptable for those who aimed to pursue life as a scribe.

The time spent living on my own was influenced, good and bad, by the constant presence of friends and casual acquaintances, most of whom were continuously open for causing trouble, skipping class, or going downtown to the bars for happy hour. One of those options, if not all, was selected more often than not. The college friends are the first ones to actually live night and day with one another. In all of the years leading up to our higher education, everyone has their school friends, but when the bell rings or the final practice whistle blows, everyone goes home to be their own person. Many times we find out people are entirely different on their own than when they’re surrounded by their peers. It may be annoying the way the kid sitting behind you in 12^th grade history brushes his teeth, but you’d never know, not being privy to his sanity habits. In college, you get to know the kid who doesn’t necessarily shower every day, the kid who talks to his mother three times a day, or the guy down the hall who smokes entirely too much pot. That is why I’ve always felt like college is the first time we really test ourselves in a social arena. You find out what kind of person you really are through the process of figuring out the type of people you choose to be friends with in college.

Chapter 2

The Car that took me the whole way, Marcus Camry

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

*Subsequent chapters will be posted every two weeks*

II.

Like breaking up, peacefully, with a girlfriend

“It should not be denied … that being footloose has always exhilarated us. It is associated in our minds with escape from history and oppression and law and irksome obligations, with absolute freedom, and the road has always led West.” –Wallace Stegner, American West as Living Space

The first issue I had to contend with when leaving was my automobile situation. Sadly, we no longer live in the times of being able to hitchhike anywhere without fear of danger from both the passenger and the driver. As unassuming as I look, at this point in my life I was a chain-smoker and incessant curser who was still showing the after-effects of four year bloating in college. Jack Kerouac could pull that off to kick off the Beat Generation, but today’s generation strikes a little bit of weariness thanks to the assholes that make the local and national news nightly. Sprinkle that with the exaggerated fear of second-hand smoke, and we’re looking at a losing situation for our generation struggling to make a good name for ourselves.

I scraped together the money I had saved painting houses that summer, utilized the lucky $1000 I won on a lottery ticket and bought a used gray four-door sedan. The winning ticket came with a stroke of luck, or maybe it was ingenuity. Some may even call it “seizing the moment.” I was working 20-25 hours a week at a local liquor store to make a little spending cash for myself while I put my check from painting houses away for my trip. Since we sold lottery tickets at the store, it became increasingly hard not to try my luck every once in a while on the scratch tickets. One particular day I had a bunch of money on me – we got paid in cash – and I was working the late shift. There was a customer, who was a regular in the store, consistently losing on the $10 tickets. The $10 tickets are a waste of money, in my opinion, because there are way more losers than there are winners. Some people just like the risk for the possibility of scratching the million dollar winner. The gentleman had lost over $150 playing one particular ticket, sure that the next one would be the big winner. Eventually, he conceded defeat and left angry. Seizing the opportunity, I bought the next ticket. The result? Ten $100 signs. I never told that guy I won. “No, sir, that ticket didn’t win while I was here.”

I cashed my ticket and took the winnings to a used car lot. My truck was rendered useless through wear and tear of the New England winters and the reasonable commute to college and work. It wasn’t the reliable hunk of metal it used to be, and it was time to trade it in.

Parting with a car is a difficult thing. I had that truck, black and gray, through high school and college. The upholstery had been witness to unbearable heat and unfathomable cold because neither the heat nor the air conditioning worked. “Bo Jackson”, the name of my car, and though the name is a man’s name, I gently referred to the automobile as a she, had seen me top 100 MPH and run over rocks in four-wheel drive off the beaten trail in New Hampshire. She had caught me making out with girls who weren’t my girlfriend, and maybe even saw a couple girls without their tops on. She had coughed up smoke, and provided ample trunk space for kegs in college. I’ve always said, “If this car could talk, I would try to keep it mum around my family and future employers.” Bottom line, this truck would not have made it across the country. Before I left the truck, we took one last ride. I made sure to let the car salesman know that the gas petal sticks, so go easy, and that the oil needs to be changed every 1,000 miles rather than 3,000. Just keep some extra oil handy in the trunk. It was like breaking up, peacefully, with a girlfriend.

I was pretty aware, too, that this new car of mine was going to be witness to some antics as well. I was, after all, driving across the country. A small, mid-sized car, it was perfect for the trip I was making, big enough to fit all my stuff, small enough so that I wouldn’t have to spend too much on gas across the United States. I’m a pretty easy customer, too, when it comes to cars. Since I know very little about the inner workings of automobiles, I was mostly concerned with whether or not the car had a CD player, air conditioning, and power locks and windows. Check, check, check. I was good. This car would be my home for the week and a half voyage that I was about to embark upon. It would double as a suitcase, and a shoulder to lean on when the trip got lonely.

My car was packed and ready to go. It was a clear Monday morning and my trip for the night wasn’t far. I was headed just a couple hours west to Springfield, Massachusetts, where I had gone to college. Some friends were still living in the area, including my younger brother. I laugh when I refer to him as my “little brother” because since 7^th grade, he’s been a lot taller than me, rendering myself no longer as a bigger brother. At least I’m still the older one and without question, I would still win in a fight.

My parents and I shed some tears upon my leaving. They knew I was following my heart to see the country, and they supported my trip. My father had made a similar excursion in his twenties to Arizona, and confided in me that he would love to have stayed out there. I promised to call at every stop, as I was traveling alone until Chicago, where I would meet up with a couple friends to travel with me the rest of the way.

My parents have consistently been a rock in my family. We’ve had some struggles, emotionally and financially, but every step of the way, they’ve been able to make things work by emphasizing that the most important thing we have in this world is one another. For the disagreements and fights, the first person to back you up in any circumstance in life would be family. I had chosen a rather difficult path in life by becoming a writer. It would be a struggle just to get a job, to not remain stagnant, as pursuing this craft as a profession can be a tough thing to do. It’s fairly easy to go a few days without writing anything down, but however grueling it may be, inspiration comes from the unknown, and it’s not uncommon to do a week’s worth of writing in a single night. For some reason, and I believe it’s faith in their son, my parents understood that for the days spent on the couch, there were cogs moving around constantly in my head on what to write, and how to get a job. Few realize that even when staring at a blank spot on the wall, or out the window, a writer is working. Words can’t even begin to understand or describe how thankful I was to my parents for supporting the pursuit of my creative dreams, never mind doing it on the other side of the country.

My mother had grown up on the edge of town in Methuen near the New Hampshire border as the fourth child in a large family of seven. Personable, smart, and attractive, yet unreasonably self-conscious, she’s a voracious reader and critical-thinker who majored in psychology at the University of Massachusetts – Lowell. I get those last two traits from her. Also a middle child like I am, she’s sensitive, loyal, and caring.

Eventually, she spurned the career as a psychologist in order to become a full-time mother to her children, in addition to the other children she cared for during her many years as a day care provider out of our home. Along with my father, they’ve welcomed numerous people into their home, whether it was a down-on-her-luck younger sister, or a college friend needing a home for a stint of time. For all the troubles of having three boys, I’ve decided long ago that she will forego the line for admittance into the Pearly Gates of Heaven. It had to be hard for her to let go of a son with whom she has so much in common. Alongside that, about six months prior to my departure, a baby in her care at the daycare run from our home died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS). Upon retrieving the eleven month old boy from his nap, she realized that he was not breathing. Her valiant attempts at resuscitation failed, leaving her permanently scarred. Subsequently, the Department of Social Services threatened her with jail time should she ever try to run a day care operation again. Unable to live off just my father’s income, my mother returned to work at an entry level position she wound up hating for menial wages. For her handling of that extremely complicated time in her life, she became a model of strength for the entire family.

Likewise, my father was born and raised in Methuen. He is the younger of two boys – there are no females in the Osgood genealogy. The son of an extremely hard-working mother and an alcoholic, but devoted father and ten years his brothers’ junior, he fended a lot for himself growing up. Compassionate yet stubborn, he cares for very little other than the people around him. He forgives, but doesn’t forget very easily and those attributes have, throughout his life, weeded out the unnecessary things and people in his life. He had an exceedingly loyal core of friends, a small but enduring set of relationships.

A master story and joke teller, my father can make a whole room look his way and pay attention to the words exiting his mouth. His enduring legacy will forever be the extent to which he’s instilled family values into my brothers and I. When he lost his job, his sons were 12, 10, and 7. To us, he was the epitome of strength with how he dealt with the situation. We were too young to see him unquestionably wonder or confide in us how the family would manage, so what we saw was a man who told us that the chips were low, but this was the time that our family needed to stick together. Family vacations may have had to be sacrificed, as with some of the other little things, but we never went without things we needed. We never saw him down. For the rest of my life, I will always see the way my father led the family out of trying times with his attitude alone. He kept us afloat by being positive and keeping in our heads the idea that if we all stick together as a family we can overcome any obstacle.

#

A honk on the way out signaled my goodbye to the neighborhood that I grew up in. I had a mini-goodbye party during the Patriots game the night before with close friends, which ended up being a late-night affair. My car was packed with a couple packs of smokes, some with a couple pre-rolled blunts, and dreams of figuring out how the west was won.