The Id and The Odyssey - Episode 1
The Id and The Odyssey
The Id and The Odyssey has sat in my hard drive for nearly eight years. It's been rewritten a few times. And at times completely dismissed. What is it they say, “If you love it, set it free.”
This story is a sequel to the book The Summer of '62. I've made some effort in this online edition to provide necessary background so the reader can enjoy this story without reading it. However, it is available in digital form at this link; The Summer of '62.
As a courtesy to the reader I wish it could be revealed in advance how many episodes the entire story will contain. It is being rewritten as it is being published. So all that can be said for certain is that this story will exceed 100 episodes. Also, each episode will be given a title.
The story is written originally in book form with chapters. And as with previous works the book will be broken down into much shorter episodes that will normally be 500 to 1,500 words in length.
If you are a WordPress reader, I offer an apology for switching over to Blogger. Although both formats have advantages and otherwise, I thought Blogger offered a little more flexibility for what I wanted.
Here is The Id and The Odyssey, hope you enjoy.
Leaving Home Episode
At age 15 Rich Larson was striking out on his own. There was little hope of a nurturing environment that remained if he held to home and family. Anger, confusion, and apathy were the only things that could be cultivated by staying and Rich wanted no part of it. His solution was to go.
Rich put his weight to the peddle of his bike loaded with two backpacks draped over the back wheels like saddlebags. A canvass barracks bag was tied with rope to the seat above the back wheel. Secured to the top of the bag was a rolled pup tent. His sleeping bag was rolled tightly and strapped to the front tire. As cumbersome as it looked it handled easily.
Three/fourths of a mile from home, he peddled vigorously north on Old Route 25 past the green bucolic meadow where once he laid beneath the shimmering willows and passing puffs of clouds and dreamed of distant places. He wanted as much distance from home as possible. The greater the distance the greater the excitement and the warmer his heart.
He entered the small town of Beaverdam, about two and a half miles from home. He leaned into a curve and the wind flapped his shirt tail. It was a common little town, busy with farmers pulling grain wagons to the elevator. There was a tranquil mood in its rhythm as if orchestrated; nothing extraordinary, nothing out of place.
He peddled past the local school. The windows were open. A strange sort of emptiness escaped the windows. It was the odor of old books, disinfectant, and newly varnished floors. As sad loneliness gripped him and threatened his balance on the bike. He quickly dismissed any sentimental feelings that the odor aroused and thrust the peddles harder.
He coasted to a four way stop. Looking west toward the grain elevator, Rich saw Uncle Bob’s tractor and wagon waiting in a line near the scales at the elevator. Naturally, he wanted to go undetected. He strained and forcefully peddled east. He passed the half dozen small shops that lined the street. At the edge of town he steered north on Route 25. He passed through the larger town of Bluffton and turned on to Route103 towards Arlington.
In Arlington he pulled into a gas station and leaned his bike against a light pole. He dug deep into his backpack and pulled out a can of sardines. He sat on the grass next to the pole with the sardines and a bottle of Dr. Pepper he purchased from a grocery a block earlier.
Riding to just before dark, Rich saw an abandoned red brick school house. He thought that would be a good place to spend the night. The bike was laid behind the school house out of sight from the road and the tent erected and from the front of the tent sat and ate small can of corned beef.
He was exhausted. He laid stretched out in the tent and gazed from between his two feet at the empty and harvested farm fields before him. He was used to riding a bike, but never at this pace or distance. After dark the lights from distant farm houses shone across the fields. They brought with them a feeling of loneliness and possibility. “I wish them peace, tranquility, and love,” Rich muttered.
He scanned the road atlas with the aid of a flash light. According to it 60 miles had been covered.. The plan was to average 75 miles a day. At that rate he figured he would arrive at his destination, the coast of Maine, in two weeks.
“Why Maine?” He said to himself and turned off the flash light and laid flat looking at the olive drab tent ceiling. “I’m not sure,” he thought, “I recall looking at the road atlas one night and trying to imagine what it was like to live there. I found pictures of quaint coastal villages and thought they might be a comfortable places to live, where people wouldn‘t pay any mind and one could blend in and not be gossiped about. No questions would be ask for fear you might ask questions in return. I wanted to live in a community where the existence of secrets are known, but never revealed or talked about except beneath the hush of the wind, the sound of the surf, and squawk of the gulls.