1/27/21

         It’s 10:01pm according to the digits in the top right corner of my MacBook and here I am, on a Saturday night, sitting, staring, sinking at the seat at my table. Again.

“It’s not much,” he said. “I don’t want you to put too much pressure on yourselves for this.”

But it’s too late for that. Daylight’s gone and my screen remains empty save a few abandoned threads left in abandoned documents. I’ve gone too far in search for the cure to writer’s block.

Exercise increases blood flow to your brain and the meditative aspect of running alone allows you time to think. So I drive out to the basin road to run my favorite road.

As I lock my car door, carefully tucking the key into my glove, the Ford parked in front of me on the desolate road sparks an endless stream of narratives in my head. As I pass by, the man in the driver’s seat gives me a glance and I try to assess his potential sanity on the scale from benign neighbor to deranged psychopath. He checks out at a hard six. My mind fills in the endings. I get back to unlock my door and he emerges from the bush, grabbing my wrist, key still in hand. Boom. Kidnapped.

What if I didn’t lock my car? He’d break in and drive off. Boom. No car. Better yet, he breaks into my car and hides in the back seat, waits until I’m on the road. In no less than five minutes I’m a hostage, driving to an undisclosed location at gunpoint.

Alternate realities play out in my head and keep me occupied. This could be a story.

But it’s not good enough. I’m not going to let a gimmicky thriller novel of an idea pass as my first assignment in this class.

So I continue on my run. I run down the hill, past the General Store, where the guy who checks out the groceries is the guy who stocks them out back, and the guy who makes the deli sandwiches, and the guy whose name is on the storefront. He’s also the guy who I’ve interviewed tens of times in my mind. I’ve rehearsed my profile: “the Cornerstone of a Small Town: For Watroba, it’s Family Business.” Cheap? Maybe, but he was an intriguing character. He was also the guy who, a few weeks ago, ruined all my plans and reached over the checkout counter to “brush the hair” out of my sister’s face because it was “caught in her mask.” I don’t think I’ve stepped foot in there alone since. It’s a matter of principle. I wish I would’ve slapped his wrist right there in the moment. Anyway, it’s just a story. Life’s full of stories.

I finish my run with no major breakthrough. I’ve succumbed to the ailments of so-called writers’ block. I don’t feel like much of a writer right now. I spend the afternoon driving around old back roads. I tell myself that I’ll stop at the next person I see and profile them – “Life in the Back Country: Why Jeff Burns Made the Move to Rural Vermont” –

He’d begin, “Well, my dad was born and raised in Springfield. Went to school up here. Bought this land nearly forty years ago – I was raised feeding the chickens, so when it came time, me and my wife decided to settle down and take up the work.”

My heart gives a leap and my mind games pause – I see three prospects around a bonfire. Apparently my face lights up and I’m driving a little too slow because they notice and flash me a smile and a couple of waves. But as I slow, my mom’s voice emerges in my head:

“You’re seriously going to stop in the middle of nowhere and talk to these strangers? No. Never alone.” I peek over the walls and decide ultimately that this isn’t the story I need. I drive on.

I turn the corner in the road pulling up beside the farm, checking the glove compartment, making sure I have my mask at the ready. I rehearse my line: “This might sound weird but I have a few questions…” no. “Hi, could I bother you a minute? I’m a student – um… journalist and would like to ask you a few questions.” Yes, that gives me enough conviction to feel credible enough to insert myself into a stranger’s Saturday afternoon. I pull my Airpods out of my ears, preparing my phone. Low battery. But I think it’ll last to capture a memo.

I drive slowly, almost creepily, but still no one. My heart sinks. Disappointed, I drive on. It’s the dead of winter, amidst a pandemic. Who in their right mind would think this a good idea? In the rear view, I am being tailed… which makes me realize how slow I am driving. I speed up, glazing my eyes across the landscape.

Nothing but frozen rivers. Then I see it – my golden opportunity: a middle-aged woman carrying an old Christmas wreath to the front lawn. Rating: 2, a safe score.

I feel myself stutter as if I might talk aloud. I pull my mask up but I keep driving. I turn up the hill, slow almost to a stop and look back as she walks through the front door.

My phone buzzes. It’s my sister.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Yes, I’m … driving home.”

“Okay, just checking.”

A pause, then she hangs up. Thankfully, I don’t have to explain my whereabouts.

I go home and walk down to the river. It’s fast and flowing on the further bank but near my feet the surface is glazed over and icy. I strip down to my underwear and walk in, one foot on the ice and one on the bank, applying enough of my body weight to crack through the ice. My foot touches the rocky riverbed and I wince as the sharp edges of ice cut my feet. When I’m a few feet in, I stomp around to make an ice hole big enough so I can sit down, my body partially submerged. Reflecting on my failed travels of the day, I sigh. My toes burn but this feels like a win.