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.

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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.