The Path: A Novel

By JR Hastings

Do you like road trips, hikes, trains, the splendor of nature, or adventures? Then this is the book for you. This book is full of funny, adventurous, and tragic events that make you want to keep reading to find out what happens next. Youll laugh, cry, and be surprised.

Hop on Rachel and Davids path and experience this powerful, transformative, and inspiring tale that is propelled by comedy and tragedy. Let the saga begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532051777

JR Hastings

A native Floridian and U.S. patriot. JR has extensive experience traveling the Eastern sea board of the United States as well as visiting over 20 countries. Currently an art educator, one of seven siblings, parent of four children, and a dog lover. The author is often times inspired by these sources. JR transfers academic knowledge to writing as well. As a renaissance person, JR is well educated, talented, and has knowledge in many different areas of study.

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THE PATH

A NOVEL

JR HASTINGS

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THE PATH

A NOVEL

Copyright © 2018 JR Hastings.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5176-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5178-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5177-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906723

iUniverse rev. date: 06/22/2018

Contents

Book I

Chapter 1     The Vagrant

Chapter 2     Rachel

Chapter 3     The Traveler

Chapter 4     Ronny

Chapter 5     Bill and John

Chapter 6     Rachel’s Story

Chapter 7     The Preacher

Chapter 8     Chuck’s Demise

Chapter 9     Atlanta

Chapter 10   The Funeral

Chapter 11   Last Leg

Book II

Chapter 12   Uncle Bob and Aunt Barbara

Chapter 13   Stocky

Chapter 14   Pocono Mountains

Chapter 15   D. C.

Chapter 16   Brutus

Chapter 17   On the Way to Boston

Chapter 18   Home

Chapter 19   Melissa

Chapter 20   Quitting

Chapter 21   Boston

Chapter 22   The Irish Pub

Chapter 23   S. E. Distribution

Chapter 24   In Jail

Chapter 25   The Traveler Waits

Chapter 26   Stocky’s Hospital Escapade

Chapter 27   The Traveler Waits

Chapter 28   Rachel’s neighbor

Chapter 29   The Traveler’s Neighbor

Chapter 30   Deborah Singer, Esq.

Chapter 31   The Traveler’s ID

Chapter 32   What’s Next?

Chapter 33   Traveler Makes His Phone Calls

Chapter 34   Rachel’s Hearing

Book III

Chapter 35   The Traveler Heads to New Orleans

Chapter 36   Rachel Copes

Chapter 37   David Arrives in New Orleans

Chapter 38   Rachel’s on Her Way to Work

Chapter 39   David Tries to Help

Chapter 40   It’s All Coming Back

In dedication to Herbert Norman Hastings, Sr. and Jr.

Book I

I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time.

It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

Virginia Woolf

Chapter 1

The Vagrant

The rain intensifies steadily. A middle-aged, crusty and thin man stumbles around on the waterfront of Jackson Square. This is no place for a vagrant on a Monday afternoon. However, the rain will hopefully keep the officers in their cruisers, away from the hospitable banks of the Mississippi River. The vagrant’s thoughts are muted by a veil of cheap alcohol. He hobbles over to the sultry, wet grass next to the edge of the sidewalk and clumsily sits on the soggy ground. The boardwalk is a busy place considering the weather. He stares blankly at the patina bronze statue of a seated man and child that appears to be chatting. After briefly joining their conversation, the vagrant abruptly abandons his efforts. Yielding to the solid arguments of the other two, he diverts his attention elsewhere. The vagrant’s sullen, drawn-out facial expression adds to the gray sadness of the entire scene. The rain continues.

The vagrant teeters near the brink of sobriety. He devises a way to get more alcohol. The sooner he can return to his drunken stupor and his bottle of lies, the better. Keeping constantly inebriated is a deliberate departure from his present existence. Since he didn’t have a friend or a relative to call a few years ago, his intoxication has helped him hang on. He remembers that he planned to leave the streets of New Orleans and the year-round tourist snobbery. At this moment, he can’t think of any reason to stay beside the comfort of the location’s familiarity.

With difficulty, the tall man uprights himself and waits out the predicted dizziness with his eyes closed. It’s a long walk to the trains at the rail yard; he thinks to himself as he peers around. F-Fuck it; he slurs sloppily towards the statue. With his head down, committed, he begins his agonizing hike towards the rail yard to find his way out of town. Hope and time; those two things he has lived on over the past few years. Drunkenness from the former never failed in being followed by the sobering slap of the latter.

The vagrant looks in his front, baggy, dirty jean pocket-sure enough, more alcohol. He doesn’t remember how or where he got it. It’s not a necessary thing for him to remember right now. The only point of any interest is the fact that the alcohol is now in his possession. The part he can’t remember is if he’d safely entered a grocery store that would supply him with more liquid courage. He lifted a cheap bottle of whisky quickly then completed his trek to the train-yard. On his way to the trains, he paused outside of a shop window momentarily and watched the news that was playing on the television set. The news anchor was discussing new photographs from a super powerful government-funded telescope. The reporter explained that the photographs solidify the theory that our universe will collide with the Andromeda universe in five billion years. When the universes collide, it will cause such extreme heat from the friction the new mass will burn for thousands of years, the reporter commented. For a brief moment, the vagrant was sure he knew what the broadcast was all about. He mumbles out loud to no one, If it’s all going to end, why bother with politics, cultural wars, religious wars, bickering over rights…why care? He concludes that we’re just passing the time to ensure the continuation of life while there is a planet to occupy. He couldn’t remember the entire broadcast. However, even if he had, his argument would still be the same.

The vagrant continues his argument with himself. His thoughts wander off topic, and he continues his rant, Out of balance than out of control. With difficulty, he thinks, should the government support the community? If a village raised me then, well…the government should pay for my state college tuition. The vagrant surmises the news’ prediction of a collision in space billions of years from now is a better and more humane way to end civilization. Communists, he says out loud to no one. Realizing that he has a headache, he decides, of course, that he needs more alcohol. He retrieved the whisky bottle from his dirty jean pocket.

Finding the freight yard, the faltering casing of a man wildly guesses as to which train to hop. Woozy, he haphazardly decides to travel north. He focuses on the Burlington-Northern freight line with several comfortable-looking cargo trains. He momentarily stumbles over the rails as he fights a dizzy spin and grabs a nearby wet safety rail. The sight of the rails immediately draws back a memory from a year ago. There are some things a person can’t un-see. Last summer, the vagrant saw a well-dressed young man place his head face-down on the inside of the track with only his neck resting on the rail, the rest of the young man’s body laid on the ground. An oncoming train quickly continued its route without a glitch. What the vagrant saw was the remains of a limp, lifeless body of an unhappy man. No matter how drunk, a surprising, horrific, and disturbing sight like that is a memory one doesn’t forget. He shakes his head. What a waste, he mutters.

The rain subsided a few minutes prior to his bout. The sky subsequently brightens and speeds up his recovery. Trying to avoid the peering eyes of the man, the vagrant makes his way for his chosen train. He steps carefully over the gleaming silver track towards a large space across the train yard. Amazingly enough, the vagrant escapes the watchman’s gaze. Reaching the parked trains and finding an appropriate car for his Northern journey, the vagrant climbs awkwardly up into a cargo car that is of an unidentifiable age. Although well-used, the exterior is well-kept, clean, and tidy-looking. The inside, however, is a mess. There are old newspapers, empty plastic water bottles, crushed soda cans, candy wrappers, and dried leaves cluttering the flat surface of the interior. A few used prophylactics are glued and hardened on the wooden planked floors which reeks of stale urine. Seemingly oblivious to the filth, the vagrant sits in a convenient corner and is only bothered by his memories.

Waiting patiently in his corner, a rhetorical question crosses the vagrant’s mind, Am I finally moving? To me! the vagrant holds up his bottle and toasts to the jingle of railroad ties. His body thrashes as the train moves forward. His left arm acts like a painter’s easel, helping him brace himself as he takes a few healthy swigs from the small, glass bottle of spirits with his right hand. The bottle’s contents cause an approving sensation that passes through his bloodstream immediately. The vagrant is barely able to hold bodily attention with the amount of alcohol currently permeating in his veins. He shuts his eyes after draining the remaining whisky from the glass bottle. Still holding the empty bottle, he sits down and leans back, he enters an alcohol-induced sleep immediately. The vagrant is now a Traveler.

Chapter 2

Rachel

I lick my teeth, lift my damp, tangled hair from my neck, wipe the sweat from my face, and flip my soaked pillow. I slowly allow my dry eyes to adjust to the annoyingly bright light. The early morning light peeks through my bedroom window’s plastic mini-blinds. His hot, moist breath pounds against my face. There’s no asking him to stop breathing on me; he enjoys waking me up at sunrise. He loves me, and if he could speak he would beg, Wakey, wakey! I want eggs and bakey. He’s a tall and skinny black Lab-looking mutt. His father is a Labradoodle, and his mother is Lab and Border Collie. I’m not positive what that makes Brutus? Anyway, I’m in a cold sweat thoroughly convinced that I had swallowed my tongue. I throw off my lovely, heavy, and now damp covers. I think to myself, half pleading, already knowing the answer, but in my half-sleep state, I choose not to remember. He is not here anymore.

Sitting up on the side of my bed, I slowly gain some composure. It’s only 7:45. I push the snooze button on the alarm clock for the second time. Why is it so hard for me to wake up on Mondays? A dark wooden nightstand dons two white intertwined water rings created last night by the condensation of a cheap diet cherry cola can. On the corner of my nightstand is a new canister of wasp spray, the cap is loosely placed back on its top, so it’s ready to use on any prowler. Its ten-foot stream of toxic pesticide is no match for any intruder or pest for that matter.

I’ve got to get out of this bed. I lift my tired body from my warm and comfortable bed and notice the reflection in my dresser mirror. I’m displeased, to say the least. Oh, my God. Is that me? Jeez. Who is that? It can’t be me, but it is. I continue to stand in front of the mirror in disbelief. I stare back at my reflection. That can’t be me, when did I lose my bloom? My once long straight hair is now frizzy, my face is void of any color except the dark circles under my eyes, and my boobs are not that perky anymore. Luckily, I have a lot more to offer the world than my looks. I suppose that’s what bras, curling irons, and makeup are for.

Down a short hallway leading to the bathroom, I drag my bare feet on the vinyl floor. I swallow one of the small white pills my doctor prescribed last week. After I take my anxiety medicine, I pee like a racehorse. Then making my way to the kitchen, I pinch a small number of dried flakes and drop them into the five-gallon aquarium where three little fish break the water surface excitedly. Part of my normal morning routine, I heat up a large mug of strong instant coffee in the microwave. Striping the spotted peel away, I throw the ripe banana down my throat in three bites. Feeling slightly better, I return to the edge of my queen-sized bed and place the steaming coffee on top of the white circles on my nightstand. I reset my alarm and retreat under my bed covers for ten more minutes. Brutus seems confused.

His not being next to me in bed isn’t the sole source of my troubles anymore. However, the twisting of my insides is a result of longing for him to be close to me again. I guess this recent bout of depression is due to many things. Sitting up on the side of my bed, I lean over to open my blinds and look out my bedroom window to see what the Connecticut weather has in store today. I can’t see much, so I raise up the window sash. Better. Nothing could match the feeling of seeing him suddenly appear outside my window; so soft in the subdued light of the early morning sun yet crisped by the softness of the waves smacking against the nearby break wall.

He was perfection; not just physically, but relation-wise, too. He was everything I wanted and needed. Even if my imagination isn’t real, I will give anything to live perpetually with the feeling I feel at this moment. This feeling is so intensely real that the mere imagination of his statuesque image and the recollection of our past brings back powerful emotions. I continue to stare out the window for a few more minutes before I lean back into my empty bed. Looking at my cell phone to check my emails, I suddenly realize that it’s Labor Day. Yeah! No work today. Maybe I can fall back asleep for a while. I set my alarm again and drift off to sleep.

This is my reoccurring dream: I’m running through a dark, wooded forest; reality only exists within a twenty-five-foot radius around me. This reality moves with me as if I am in a sphere. I can suddenly see an opening ahead of me. I can’t slow down. I try to slow my pace or turn around, but some force grasps my legs and forces me to move forward at an ever-increasing speed. I come within six feet of the wicked chasm; my movements are in slow motion. I can see that the abyss is a shale cliff of a reasonable grade. This relaxes me for some reason. My right foot slips over the ledge, but I can feel the presence of forgotten friends blankly staring and questioning my fall. I slip onto the shale. I try to grasp for the ridge and the few small roots that jut out toward the top, but I’m unable to find anything substantial enough to hold my weight. I continue to fall. I slide to a stop about fifteen feet down and try to make my way back up the slope, but the shale crumbles under my weight. Every time I try to grasp the shale, I slip down another five feet. Soon, all I can see is the shale slope. I can still feel the eyes of my forgotten friends at the top of the ridge. They are laughing at me as though it is a joke or gag. I am petrified, but I join them and begin to laugh my nervous laugh. My friends start to cry—for some unknown reason. I can sense their sad emotions. I’m not scared but feel alone and, helplessly, I slip even further downward. The shale continues to crumble beneath my weight. Then Brutus wakes me up. I’m usually drenched in sweat and completely exhausted. I really wouldn’t mind such an occurrence if it didn’t repeat itself so often lately, but alas, I’m not well enough versed in the subtle meanings of dreams to render a diagnosis.

Chapter 3

The Traveler

Slowly awakening from his drunken slumber, the Traveler is pleasantly surprised to see the misty evening countryside. It is spectacular. He admires it for an instant until his head starts spinning. He hasn’t moved from his original position yet, just opening his eyes set off the realm within the train compartment to revolve slowly around his filthy temporary residence. The train is moving slower now, the Traveler looks out the door of the moving boxcar and prepares to jump off at first sight of civilization. He jumps. His legs buckle as he hits the hard surface and falls. The fall knocks the breath from his lungs. He tightens the laces on his worn boots before he stands and brushes the dust off. Without the benefit of road signs, it is difficult to tell where he is, but the train has been moving northeast all day. The Traveler walks to a nearby secondary road that leads to a small truck stop. He sobers as he walks and the pain grows in his throbbing head and scraped hands. The highway is now immediately above him. Under the highway’s obscure overpass, the Traveler can barely make out the graffiti that has been crudely, yet eloquently inscribed in red spray paint.

It reads: "We can determine ways to solve our own problems."

He doesn’t quite understand it, but he agrees just the same. It is easier that way. He just agrees and moves on and doesn’t argue. He is too tired to bother. He looks for a place to rest, away from prying eyes. Tonight, he will try to sleep behind a bush on the hard ground near the overpass. The dry spot next to the overpass looks good to him. He’s used to it, over the past few years he can count on both hands the places he’s slept indoors. Easily.

On his closed eyes, the sun’s glow wakes him up. He is frustrated, slightly hungry, and anxious for more alcohol to quench his desire. Covered by a layer of morning dew, the Traveler strides on his path as though he is in a spell. He walks towards a welcoming oasis with a convenience store, liquor store, and self-service gas station. Nothing seems to be open yet.

Reaching the small metropolis, the Traveler inadvertently makes a path for the rear of the liquor store. He peers inside the screen door of the back of the establishment and joyfully marvels at his rescuer—a fire alarm displayed in the rear hallway and the smoke detector above it. He quietly cracks open the screen door and walks away from the building across the rear parking lot. He heads towards the wood line. The Traveler gathers both hands full of dried-out branches and weeds. He then proceeds to squeeze through the rear of the building through the opened and battered screen door. Once inside, he tries to see through the morning haze down the hallway and into the main store.

He can see two employees. One is a stout woman in her late forties who is kneeling behind the counter and can only be seen when she stands up to inspect the cash register. The other employee is a skinny, unshaven man in his late twenties counting the drawer. His facial expression is of one who looks like he would rather be anywhere but