WHERE ARE YOU GOING? Does it matter when you don't know?
“Wander. Let in the unknown. That’ll make all the difference.”
Mr. Nelson
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In 1962, Mike Nelson's old man was in his sixties. Mike and I were 16 and best friends. If you’ve seen American Graffiti, you know all about our lives: filled with dreams of fast cars and cute girls. Mr. Nelson was the neighborhood's Obi Wan Kenobi in khakis and a flannel shirt. He arrived home about the same time we got out of school, so we followed him into the living room and flopped on the couch to watch his afternoon ritual.
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A Beer and a Smoke
Carrying a cold can of Coors from the fridge, Mr. Nelson slid into his favorite chair, levered two holes into the top and tilted the can. He never just drank it. He savored it, the taste, the bubbles, the significance of it, toasting the fact that his workday was over. It was fun to watch him enjoy a beer like that.
Sitting the can on the smoker’s table next to him, he raised an engraved lid, pulled out an unfiltered Pall Mall and stuck it between his lips. Then he pulled a fist-sized metal drum from the table, inlaid with blue glass. Trailing its power cord, the bottom began to glow red as he inverted it and lit his Pall Mall. Shutting his eyes, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs, he slowly blew a smokescreen into the room. Taking his time, enjoying the quiet.
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Stayers and Goers
We never knew what he’d say. He held the cigarette over the ashtray between his thumb and index finger, and flicked it a few times. Eventually, his voice came out like a load of gravel, "There’s two kinds of people in this world," he said. "There’s the Stayers. And there’s the Goers.” He took another drag, squinting an eye, and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. He looked at Mike. “Which are you gonna be?”
We never knew what he’d say. He held the cigarette over the ashtray between his thumb and index finger, and flicked it a few times. Eventually, his voice came out like a load of gravel, "There’s two kinds of people in this world," he said. "There’s the Stayers. And there’s the Goers.” He took another drag, squinting an eye, and blew the smoke out of the side of his mouth. He looked at Mike. “Which are you gonna be?”
Wow. This wasn’t an everyday observation. I looked at Mike, who I guessed was trying to figure out how deep his dad’s question was. I wondered, too. Was he asking about today or forever? Mike and I talked a lot about what we’d do after high school, but this afternoon I didn’t think Mr. Nelson was curious about the daydreams of two teenagers. He wanted to know how we planned to spend our lives.
Happy with the effect his question had had on us, he slid into a more comfortable place in his chair, took another deep swig of Coors and waited. I could see Mike was thinking. I knew I was next, so I looked at my shoes and tried to divine my future.
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“Me and Sharon are going steady,” Mike finally said, “and I got friends here. Maybe I’ll go to Mesa College and then get a job with the Forest Service, 'cause I like to fish and hunt. So I guess I’m a Stayer.” He looked over at me and grinned, saying, “Hey, I said something grownup.”
Mr. Nelson considered his son’s answer as he flicked more ash off his cigarette, then looked at me. “What about you?” he asked. I didn’t know what to say. Me and Beverly had been going steady since junior high, we had fun at school, and yet, I guess at that age I was just curious.
I thought about it some more and said, "I think I’ll go. This town is nice and all and maybe I’ll go to college somewhere. But not here.” I looked at Mike. It surprised him to hear me say that. It surprised me, too. We both looked at Mr. Nelson, who was stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray, waiting until the last ember flickered out.
Reinvent Yourself
Then he sat back, looked at Mike, and said, “If you stay, you’ll have deep roots here, and that’s good. You’ll know where everything is and end up knowing everybody. But remember to reinvent yourself every so often. If you don’t, you’ll live and die in the same rut and you’ll hate that.”
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Then he sat back, looked at Mike, and said, “If you stay, you’ll have deep roots here, and that’s good. You’ll know where everything is and end up knowing everybody. But remember to reinvent yourself every so often. If you don’t, you’ll live and die in the same rut and you’ll hate that.”
Wander
He looked at me. “Your life's gonna be like a story. Write the end first because, if you don’t know where you're going, you won’t know how to get there. Just don't forget, wandering around lets a guy find the road less traveled. Let in the unknown. That’ll make all the difference." With that, he finished his beer, got up and went into the kitchen.
He looked at me. “Your life's gonna be like a story. Write the end first because, if you don’t know where you're going, you won’t know how to get there. Just don't forget, wandering around lets a guy find the road less traveled. Let in the unknown. That’ll make all the difference." With that, he finished his beer, got up and went into the kitchen.
Time passed. Mike joined the Air Force after graduation, then came back home and married Sharon. The Forest Service hired him a few years later for the same job his dad had retired from. My wife and I saw, at Mike’s 50th birthday party, a happy man.
I left town, wandered a lot, married Michelle and, often, what on Earth we’d do next was completely unknown. But Mr. Nelson was right. That has always made all the difference.
For more on speed bumps, wandering and reinvention, you should read our books: The Prostate Chronicles and Letters In a Helmet.
For more on speed bumps, wandering and reinvention, you should read our books: The Prostate Chronicles and Letters In a Helmet.
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