The Long Walk

This essay has a total of 1844 words and 7 pages.

The Long Walk

Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It
is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so
far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind's fury: when
did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped
away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes
smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, "splat-snap". Where did the sun go? It
gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a
still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in?
Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I
would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in
bed.


It was a sunny day. The leftovers of last week's snowstorm still blanketed most of the
surrounding area. I decided, after straggling about the house for nearly two hours,
lethargy slowly creeping in, that I would go for a drive. I leaped in my trusty old
Maverick and roared away. The Maverick, which I bought in 1975, was dark blue, (my
favorite color). It was a steal and only ten years past its prime. It was a good,
trustworthy car and until today, I had not had any problems with it. This was a
spontaneous kind of getaway, so nothing was planned, no basket of food prepared, nor did I
make any other preparations. Living in the city can be depressing so getting away from the
concrete jungle for a few hours was a welcomed escape. I have not lived in this city for
very long, although I knew the names of the adjoining towns, there were a few that I did
not know. However, being the adventurer that I am, I drove off in a direction that I have
never been. I do not know why I did not think to look at the gas gauge before I left
perhaps I was too preoccupied with the thought of fleeing that I did not care.


After two and a half hours of Driving, on an old narrow country road, maneuvering the
Maverick to its full potential I began to sense the problem with my car even before it
actually happened. As if telepathically connection to the machine, enjoined. I started to
feel the thrashing and lurching, almost as soon as the thought burst into my
consciousness. I did not worry, at least not right away. Since over the last twenty years,
I have become proficient at troubleshooting mechanical problems with my car. If it can be
fixed, I can fix it, at least the basic things anyway. However, this situation was
different, because I was out of gas. I knew that because the car sputtered along until the
very end. Luckily, I was on a long stretch of road and not beside a curve. I parked the
car, and exited (being careful of oncoming traffic) and went to the trunk to get the spare
gallon of gas that I always kept there. I opened the trunk and instantly realized that
while cleaning the car out the other day I forgot to fill and put the gas back in
afterwards.


Hence, there I was, stranded on this narrow country road, with my broken down Maverick,
imprisoned by the exploding foliage. At my best recollection It was two hours drive from
my, "Welcome Home" mat. I reached for my wallet only to find that I too, had left that at
home. Although, I did not really know what I was going to do with money. I mean, after
all, I was in the country; it is not likely that a McDonald's was nearby. Being sure to
lock up my car before I left, I started walking. Almost instantly, It started to get cold
and a happening of dark clouds began to form through the thick canopy of trees, I assumed
that my heading was correct, but I had no way of knowing it for sure. Minutes passed,
turning into quarter hours, then half hours as I shuffled forward. The day had been nice
when I started out late this morning, however, now, it was spinning out of control.
"Stumbling forward", a vision from times past is signaling the child, knocking on the
awareness of ancient times, asking for a minute. I give in. I had been bad one day (had
screwed-up), and as punishment was halfhazardly escorted into the cellar, or basement if
you will to spend the night. I was afraid. It was night and I was only six years old. I
remember it so clearly. There was not much in the way of comfort in our cellar. A rusted
old water heater, which clanked and banged to life, (every hour on the hour), sat in one
corner surrounded by cotton candy cobwebs thick as rope. It nested in its own spot,
perhaps planted a thousand years ago, bolted to the very core of the planet. On the other
side of our dungeon sat an old worn workbench dusty from lack of care standing there,
emotionless, with canning jars placed indiscriminately here and there. In the middle of
the subterranean crypt was the play area where us kids usually had to play during cold
winter days. Here sat a rectangle crib framed squarely by steel padded poles with
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