Home.

A simple story about life, time and the mind

Told in three parts

Entitled

Home.

“I take it not only a day at a time, but a moment at a time, and keep it at that pace. If you can be happy right now, then you’ll always be happy, because it’s always now.”

-Willie Nelson

Authors Note

I set out to write a story on the last four years. To reflect on life spent in a tent/car in Austin to traveling the country building out vans and having absolutely know clue what I was doing. After getting a few pages in, I realized I would never let a soul read it. So I turned it into this. A fictional but honest tall tale. My goal is to dive internally to understand how people feel, as if they have some grasp on consciousness that is not their own. Asking the questions, “Can one human live multiple lives. Where does one's mind and soul go once they die?” I'll tell stories and write poems to unveil an emotional, thought provoking narrative, allowing myself and the reader an engaging, fun, confusing, crazy and honest reflection on thoughts and how they wander when too much time is spent alone. I hope you enjoy.

Part One

Trust in the Lord

Captain & The Gambler

Dogs are barken. Barken real good. The first bit of snowfall started yesterday. Nebraska is a hard place to tame this time of year. After we leave Fort Kearny the night after next we will come on level ground. That wind can be fierce. Always pulling me and the Gambler back like the merciful hand of God. Shit the way it blows you'd be hard bettin to believe in such a cruel myth.

Storms come through those plains often. Worst trouble I’d have had come after Kearny. Rain, wind, sun weren't nothin compared to them blizzards. Luckly this job has given us the time we need to ride hard before them shits come for us.

Narrator

The year is 1861. Captain and Gambler are leaving Fort Kearny, a Pony Express outpost one hundred and thirty miles outside Lincoln, Nebraska. Captain doesn't work for the Pony though. He struck a deal with a stable boy to get some bread and feed, in exchange he will drop an extra package off along his route. This is common dealing for Captain. He works for himself these days. When the Pony started up the year prior he figured he could saddle up and pick up the customers that couldn't handle the steep pricing offered by the Pony. “Not good money, but it's honest and free,” you could often hear him drunkenly spouting at a saloon.

Dreams

Look out yonder son

Ain’t no willin way you’ll stop now

The works to spares and the trough won’t fill

Put your head down & change the sound

Faces look different in a mirror than in a photo

Good thing we all have plenty of em

Don’t call me dramatic I’m just trapped here in the attic

With all the memories I boxed up

Christmas’s of love since passed

Thankfully giving you nothing

Now accepting it back

To lazy to regift so this attic space will do.

There’s a silent tragedy following your actions

A perfect revenge for the words you collect

But don’t worry

all you have is time

So give up now

you have time

Captain & The Gambler

That morning me and the Gambler woke up to banging. There was only one sound that woke me from a grape juice dream. Rifle fire. Peakin out of the broken boarded up stable I could see the ole stable boy and his young friends laying in the dirt. You could smell the death leaking out of the hot red holes in their chests. I’d heard of roughnecks running through outposts and killin these poor boys in hopes of tak’in whatever money had been trying to make its way far as Sacramento. Must not have bothered coming through the old stable cause its patina did’nt offer much interest. Looked more like a beat up pile of lumber all screwed together like screams at midnight. Plain scary type of place. Gambler is quiet. He's learned to be quiet around rifle fire. Figur’in these boys were tear’in up the the big house look’in for hard tea and gold. Me and Gambler snapped a few boards and went out the rear of the ole building. Hate to leave a young man in the dirt but out here in Nebraska you better save your own bacon first. Hell, at least I got no business taken that package down to Laramie now.

Narrator

Not much is remembered about Captain. He kept small journal entries during his time out riding. Most of them are simple, giving us glimpses of how a man had to live and operate in the young west. His entries are sporadic and without real reason at points. Some seem to be broken, almost dreamlike, but far too thought out. I have come to believe they are conscious dreams, however. The kind of mind wandering one experiences when riding alone on the great plain or through the empty deserts of Nevada. We will call them Dreams.

Dreams

What have we become

Forgot how to live our life

Felt like something was missing

It's the sharing not the caring that fuels our empty soul

We used call

I used to bawl

Now all I do is run

Now all I do is drive like hell from the daylight

Feeling better in the midnight

Looking for faith in the bottom of every beer glass

Just wishing I wasn’t so low’n soul with no cash to show

I played the part

I burned the art

You always hated that

Captain & The Gambler

We made it to North Platte last night. We rode for Gilmans Station. However my neck oil pour’n gave me a clear ass whoopin last time we had past through Gils. Figured we’d skip it and ride past Gilmans so we could have a day off in North. We liked it here. The nanny shops were cheap round town and there ain't no one in site with them noses up livin above their raisins. Lota Pony folks like to spend days off in Julesburg. Gambler made that hard for us. He’s runnin from some old lady round Overland City. We always get off trail so’s we can skip on by that territory. Even if we could I’d rather not. Folks movin to work in Montana City always rubbed me wrong. Fuckin pennyweighters could’nt keep there eyes of my saddle bags anyway. This damn gold rush has good men turnin damn evil trying to find their fortune. They say Montana City could be the next New York City. Me and Gambler like it better up north with honest work.

Narrator

Captain’s work was lacking real traction. He felt good and right doing what he thought was best. Taking on the Pony Express by trying to undercut their costs, helping people who had less. Well he tried often, but usually lacked the financial ground to make it a pattern. What he did love was riding. He left Virginia as often as he wanted to which kept him (as far as he knew) sane. Riding through the west kept him on his toes and his mind off his family. Long rides and lonely nights kept him singing, talking in his head and painting his nose most nights. From what we know of Captain, he was often alone. He knew a few men around the Pony’s trail and a gentleman in Reno who kept two horses, allowing Captain to swap rides when passing through. Besides that he was more of the drifter type. Shaking up under dugouts, saloons and in some cases with Native Americans.

Dreams

Woke this morning not knowing where I am

Left yesterday from salt lake

Must be on my way to Santa Fe

Dreaming of nights walking in LA

Wish I had said goodbye another way

It’s late now. Didn’t move a muscle all day

The words we spoke and the lies I broke

Only shaped me into unfinished clay

The kiln will be my last place to lay

I’m sorry my love, I’m sorry I made it this way

Driving west is as bitter sweet as I remember

The times in Austin I gave away

I’ve been running in place as the miles I miss only add the wrinkles on my heart

But it’s a race nun the less as I stay in place looking for my part

I gave up the chase

A Letter from Chip Wilson

Dear Bill,

I've thought about you often. It's been three month since you last wrote or were here. I hope to see you with a letter in your hand before winter hits. Lord knows we both need a little silver before them freezes come. If you arnt to return soon Im afraid ill have to sell one of them paints. I aint got much more feed to front you till you return and hell we might lose em all if I don't. Anyway I hope you are riding hard. You still calling yourself Captain? I always haters that shit name.

Very respectfully, Chip

Captain & The Gambler

Well damn near close to right but that aint the way the man up there draws it out. Me and the old Gambler been feeling down right rotten bought them shot up kids in Kearny probly still laying in them guts and blood all caked on em with that winter wind comin in. We hopped down off trail to take that dead kids letter to Laramie. Never got his name. Help me out enough but guess I never asked. Me and Gambler started callin him Corpy though. Little dark, but hell what aint a little dark this far from Kansas City. We figured dropping this slip off might get us right in the Big Mans eyes. I aint to sure but I got the feeling Gambler is worried about it.

Narrator

I've researched Captain and the Gambler for a few years now. Ever since my pa would read me these stories before bed. He would always think of it as a tragedy, but in my older years I look back and see now that most of the lives we live are tragic. Captain never was as kind as he could have been, but he was honest. At least at the end he was. For being on of the same dirt Captain once rode we don't know a whole lot about each other. I drive, some people fly, shit I guess we both run away from everyone we wrong or don't see as immediate value to one another. How come I feel as if I relate to a Captain? We have different jobs and live in different times. I guess we have different lives. Sometimes I’m not sure that's the truth though. It’s been 70 years since Captain and Gambler rode west and I still don't know why Pa insisted on telling me these stories. All I know is that they were more than stories to my old man.

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Part Two

Sound of light

The Year is 1951. The grass is freshly mowed and the sun is finally glowing shades of red, yellow and orange. First time I have felt the energy to go out and grab the mower. Moments of strength are fleeting in this aging body. A body this old shouldn't feel as if it’s gone through two lifetimes of work. Most often I find myself sunk in my Sears Lazy Boy gripping historical novels and poems of the like. Seems life in the past is easier than life in the present is to live.

Ever since I was discharged from the war all I've done is dream of another life. I was stationed at NAS Midway in August of 1941. I was sent there to help build a base, the farthest base west in the pacific. It was being built to play an important role in trans-Pacific aviation during those years we were building up defenses from the Axis powers at be. Fighting in the world was getting scary back ‘41. I signed up to try and do my part to keep the USA safe. We all thought we could do something big in a small way back in those days.

Didn't take long till the symptoms came back to the conversation once I arrived. Back in 1932. I woke from a dream. That dream felt like a lifetime. A lifetime of hurt, sorrow and blistered fingers. Shit. Most days the blisters feel like they never really left. You believe that? Ghost blisters? Ghost sorrow? Hell I thought I was crazy. Only difference between now and then is I know I’m crazy. I pushed those memories back for years before ‘32 and and then after. 1941 was different. I woke up in cold sweats strangling my bunkmate. I would have killed that poor son of a bitch if it was for my cursing and yell’ in bought some stolen horse stories. After a few months of being court-martialed they let me off for schizophrenia. Months later on December 7, Midway would be attacked and most of my corp would be killed. Sure Pearl Harbor was the same day but you ain't felt nothing as bad as leaving your men on an island to die because you had a bad case of the night terrors.

It would take me years to get over and learn what happened that night. Every moment of everyday I have been trying to understand that feeling. The feeling of being in two places at once never left me. I knew it wasn't a dream and I knew I wasn't schizo. I would spend the rest of my life reading and learning history. The stories of our fathers would captivate me. I was looking for that life I had lived. The life I had glimpsed while I attacked my bunkmate. The sorrow would continue to control my life till today. The day I finally got the energy to stand up, walk outside and mow my neglected yard. The day the darkness left and I was set free. The day I found my second life.

- William Wilson

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Part Three

Close Your Eyes and Pull the Trigger

Captain & The Gambler

Tomorrow we will ride into Larrime. Gambler aint acting right. He seems a little spooked. Not eatin or drinkin as much as usual. He's done this once before but only once. It was two years back after I found him outside Overland City. He was acting all skittish and was running a darn nasty fever. Took me five days to convince him I was his friend and for him to eat a hearty meal. Shit animal aint hardly worth a damn lest were in a pinch. Tonight is a different story. Tonight we're staying with Natives. Months back I would get some blankets sewn by savages. Got them as payment for bringing a mother and her kid through the Eastern Sierras. I keep them under my saddle just incase I found myself held up by them Navajos. We got tied up by these fools just before we passed Buford. The Lakotas were tough savages but friendly if you knew how to work them. I offered the blankets and tobacco leafs for passage and in return they sheltered me for the night. They even offered me an invitation to a ceremonial sweat. That experience is not writable. It is just a moment plucked out of life. Cut, crafted, scorn, crumbled and cracked like some egg yoke back into my heart and soul for me to fry in my own imagination of memory. All you need to know is shit aint been the same since them Lakotos put there hot rockin in my head.

Dreams

Wind on the flat plains

Dreams blowing through our minds

Emptiness creates them both

Won't you leave

I am forgotten

The breath i spill falls flat and false

As little as I try and as perfect as you do

I am abiding

An arrows true when you pull the rope but the man who draws it has know clue.

He finds it late. It has missed the prey.

Our problems real but our troubles toile in self regret as an old man looks down with a grin.

We don’t need much in this life but a hand.

Some may sit in sin, some may be trapped but we all punch the card. We all clock in.

A horse rides hard. Caring us along. What happens when we arrive.

Narrator

I always felt like Captain when I was a kid. When my Pa would tell me those stories I would sit up on my bed and act like I was riding off to Sacramento with Gambler. His character felt so similar to me even as a boy. A man who wanted to help whoever he could, but was trapped by his own circumstances. You have to feel for a man like that. Even now in 1931, we wish we could help those in need. Life ain't been easy since ‘29. Pa passed quickly after Black Tuesday. Doc said, “Some people can't take a crash.” That wouldn’t land till a year later when Mamma died in an automobile accident in Jersey. “Guess some people can't take wrecks neither,” I would tell the same doc. It was easier to put these stories away in the past. Pack them up for later or never, anytime but now.

Captain and The Gambler

Its dawn break and we are in Laramie. Haven't found the owner of this letter yet. From talk at the saloon they are out of town and will be back this evening. We didn't ride this far out of the way to leave this with some low life drunk at the bar to forget about. My intent to deliver this mail was unwavering. At least Gambler wont let me not. On the upside I had the best rest of my life last night. Leavin that sweat seemed to untangle some yarn in my noodle. Shook the frost off you could say. I'm ready to get back on trail for some honest work. I've collected quite a debt in these years and I need to pay it off before the Big Man cashes it out. I ain't never written this down. Aint never told a soul how I got Gambler. Sees he belong to a young buck near Overland City. Kinda boy that would cross all fingers soon as you put iron in his face. Real pussy type man. I was in real bad shape, just got burned off a job in Montana city. The kind that leave a man with hungry eyes. Saw the boy outside his stable shoveling hay at dawn. Spooked him a little, asking about food, money and all. Looked at me with those treblin eyes like he’d never seen a carriage withouta horse. Pissed me off really good looking in them eyes. So’s I shot him twice in the leg. Not sure why. Maybe it was the anger from that job that burned me or the lack of water or a good lay. Could’nt tell ya. All I know is after that second hammer fell all hell broke loose. I grabbed the first horse I saw by the mane and took off back towards Reno. Long ride back with that wild thing but once he accepted me I never went by Bill again. My name was Captain and me and that wild horse Gambler would never part.

Narrator

That is the last entry anyone has from Captain. He seemed to just disappear without a trace. So unlike the man who despite his simple ways wanted nothing more than to be remembered. To be a wild west character to rival the tall tales of the day. Luckily through my family's obsession with this story we did find the man named Captain. The evening of his last journal entry Captain would find and deliver the letter the young man in Kearny had given him. Unlucky for him the recipient was a one legged gimp from Overland City who had moved up the year prior to invest in the growing beef industry. The gimp recognized the Captain immediately. Some say it was a set up, some say it coincidence, either way what took place next is fact. The gimp pulled the biggest piece of iron Captain had seen. The kind that waves an invisble “fuck off see you later” flag from its tip. And shot the Gambler clean through his gut. Captain would leap from his saddle to only take one in the right shoulder, nearly detaching his red, pale flesh from the unwanted bones that made up his arm. Captain would escape to the plain.

Dreams

I feel like I’m living with my hands asleep

Waiting around till it’s time to eat

Hoping it will be soon before I’m to beat

The time we have is drying up

Don’t forget to pack

The time is to short

But I waist it amply

Just to to watch it dry indefinitely

As I fade to sleep

You can tell it’s all collapsing

Let’s hit share so we look like we care

The time we get is just to hard to bare

I’ll just keep swiping till I’m numb

Soaking up selfishness like used rag

Ring me out before the rest

I surely won’t last in this town with this try hard class.

Breaking free, disruptive cry’s, bloodshot eyes

The only way to keep alive

Close your eyes and pull the trigger

Disregard your tainted dreams

The purpose is shrouded you just need to let go to grab back on

Lord i think I’m about to grab back on

If not I’ll just stay gone.

Narrator

Months later Chip Wilson would be traveling home to Kentucky. Leaving Reno and a failed stable behind. He was on his way to Laramie in hopes along the way he could hear the news of his friend Bill. Just six miles outside of town he found Captain, Bill, and his friend. Laying in a dugout near the trail with a half mangled arm blood around his mouth and a grin. Stunk like late fortune. Between the finger of his good hand a crinkled up letter lay. Being so captivated by this moment of seeing his rotten friend mangled in a hole, Chip vowed to never let his late friend die. Vowed to name his next son after this stiff broken man. His promise would be fulfilled in August of 1899 in Lexington, Kentucky. Chip Wilson would have his second son. His Name would be William G. Wilson. I would learn these events long after my father's passing and just in time for my own. The year is 1951 and I am Home.

-William Wilson

Captain’s Last Dream

I have looked for you

Dreamed of you

Prayed for you

Cried for you

Craved you

Yet you evade me

I cry out not now

But you have a plan

Set me free and I will never leave

Lay me to rest

To walk again

This is not my Home.

This is but a moment

All moments end

But you do not

You are infinite

Just like Home

I am finally Home

The End