Series 3, Post 2 Creative Writing Series---A Story About Jones:Part 2

By Kristin Bivens
Catch Part 1 of Jones' story here.

“Try not to become a hippie,” Jones said, as I was packing up my Beetle three weeks later, preparing for my migration to the West Coast.

 “I’ll try not to. At least not a dirty one,” I smiled. 

 Leaving home was harder than I thought. I was leaving everything I’d ever known and moving far enough away that I couldn’t even come home for the weekend.

 “And please send me a copy of every article you write for this magazine.”

 “I will, as long as I can afford the stamps.”

 “Also, don’t worry about me either, I’ll be fine. I always have been,” she looked at me sincerely when she said it, but I still felt a little uneasy about leaving her. Since painting over the awful silver color, she hadn’t touched a paint brush in three weeks. The room was now a bright cerulean with the West facing wall painted Sunset orange, representing my trip to the West Coast. I felt a little better about leaving now that she hadn’t painted in weeks. She had worked off her stress instead by smoking a pack a day, but eventually, I hoped she’d quit that, too. Baby steps, that’s all I asked for. I hoped she wasn’t just trying to fool me into thinking she would be ok. She was still with Clint, of course, and without me there to somewhat monitor their relationship, I feared she may fall right back into her dark hole. She had gone weeks without painting before only to slip up and start the vicious cycle all over again.
       “I better go. I need to be on the road in two hours and mom will probably take three of them to stop crying,” I said, trying to hold back tears. 

  I officially realized how alone I would be in California.
       “Yeeea…I’m not good at goodbyes, you know that. So call me when you get there…” she grabbed me tightly and hugged me. We held on for a good five minutes before she broke away, nodded, took a cigarette out of her pocket and walked back towards her house.
      “Bye,” I whispered to myself.

California was the land of dreams, completely unlike our tiny Michigan sky line. Lake Michigan didn’t hold a candle to the sunset across the Pacific Ocean. I could see why Manifest Destiny was such a big deal. Who wouldn’t want California as part of their territory?

      The job, well, the job was exactly what I had hoped it would be. I got the big bosses a little more coffee than I originally intended to, but everyone had to start somewhere. I was writing stories, stories that would never have presented themselves at home. I was going out and spending Friday nights in VIP rooms with editors from various up and coming magazines. I was living the journalist’s life and I was more excited about living than I had ever been.
       California was my drug; it was my version of painting walls. So, when I called Jones back home once a week and found out she hadn’t painted since I left, I felt relief. Maybe this was going to change both of us. Maybe she’d eventually become restless enough and make a change, just like I had. I didn’t mean to say I was the cause of her improvements, but who knows; maybe I had caused her to take a look at her life.
      “I haven’t given up smoking yet, though,” she said during a Thursday night conversation,”Baby steps.”
       I laughed, “I agree. You can’t take all the crutches away at once.”
      “Your mom misses you,” she said, “She’s been calling me every day, asking me to come over for dinner.”
     “I know. She leaves me a message every morning. She’s ridiculous.”
     “You miss home at all?” Jones asked, almost worried.
     “I do, there’s no place like home, Tin Man. But California is where I’m supposed to be right now, ya know? I can feel it. Even if next month I have to come crawling back home because I drank my life away and spent all my money, at least I know I did something for a little bit.”
     “Yea…” Jones went quiet.
     “Hey, Jones, I didn’t mean anything by that, you know that, right?”
     “Oh yea, sure. I mean, you’ve always known what you wanted to do with your life. I haven’t. So that’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to figure it out. Until then, I’m here.”
     “Just remember, you are always invited to be my roommate. You’d love Cali, I know it.”
     “Maybe I’ll come visit next month. In the mean time, where the hell are your articles?”
     I told Jones I’d send them out as soon as I got off the phone with her. We said our goodbyes and promised to talk in a couple days.
     I was amazed at her spirits. They were completely unlike her. She seemed, content, I guess the word is. Or at least on the road to content.
     I went to sleep that night feeling like the world was in a perfect state and nothing could possibly go wrong.

     “Hey.” Jones called me the next day while I was running to an interview. I was surprised to hear from her.
     “I broke up with Clint,” she said.
     And she wasn’t even crying.
     “You did?” I said, shocked.
     “I did, can you believe it? And I meant it this time.” She seemed so confident, so unlike, well, Jones.
     “What happened exactly?” I said, taking a sip of coffee. The streets were all a buzz this morning.
     “I was over at his apartment last night, watching The Blues Brothers and I looked over at him and, I don’t know, I just saw my future with him and it was dark. I said, ‘Clint, this is never going to work,’ and I walked out.”
     “And he didn’t come running after you?”
     “Oh, he did. And he’s called me every five minutes since I left. But, we’re done. It’s time for me, and him, to move on.”
     I told Jones how happy I was for her, “You’re changing before my eyes, chic.”
     “It feels great. I’m painting canvases instead of walls, though. But that’s more artistic, not angst.” I could tell she was smiling when she said it.
     It was amazing what a break up could do.

     Things continued to look up for Jones. She was looking at grad schools out in California and painting beautiful pieces of art based on her years of painting walls. She was working on getting an exhibit at the art gallery back home.
     This had all happened within a month and four days of me leaving for the West Coast.
     One morning before work, I went to the post office and mailed her all the articles I had written for the magazine so far. She had been nagging me about them for weeks.
     “I need them for something I’m working on,” she said. I figured she needed them for some sort of scrapbook or something. She liked to collect my work and put it in one place for me.                              

     “Would you like me to autograph them, as well?” I teased. I kissed the envelope and threw it in the mail.

      “I love the one about the hippie that sits on the corner reading Jack Kerouac out loud. You really made him sound like someone I would love to be friends with,” she said four days later when she had finally received my package.

      “He’s seriously the coolest guy. I buy him a coffee every Tuesday.” Jones mentioned a couple of other pieces she liked, and those she didn’t care for too much. She was a good critic when it came to my writing. I could always depend on her to be honest with me. 

      “When are you going to be able to come home?” she asked abruptly.

      “Uhm, probably next month. Hopefully.”

      “Ok, well, I better get started on this project then,” she said.

      “It better be good.” 

      “It’s life changing,” she said, hanging up.