Triumph on the Open Road

I’m standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking San fransisco bay. My brother is kneeling next to me smoking a cigarette and holding the brim of a hat to shade the sun. In between us is an paper grocery bag with greenbacks blowing out of it in the wind. Behind us, a Harley is lying on it’s side.

My brother and I left home one year and 2 days ago, tomorrow. Looking back I’d call this bad life choice, a youthful pursuit of happiness by two kids who wouldn’t recognize happiness if it shit on their feet.

My name is Francis, I’m 23.

I left with my swiss army knife, a suitcase full of clothes to impress people with, a full tank of gas in my Triumph TR4, that I bought with the intention of restoring but never got around to doing, $326 in an envelope, and a woven fidora on my head. I only wear this hat while driving my car. I think at one point in my life I thought that maybe I’d be driving one day and the hat would fly from my head, and that’d be it, it’d just be me and the open road. That hat has stayed on for a while. I like music, I’m somewhat of a closeted muscian though. I can play anything you put in front of me.

My brother is Anthony, He’s 20

My brother is younger than me, he’s a Wildman, he puts me to the test, makes me do things I normally wouldn’t, he doesn’t care about his looks, doesn’t place any value on aesthetics, somehow girls are attracted to this. Couldn’t tell you why. He carries a few things in his suitcase, a drink mixer—he’s 20 years old and 3 months, and he might as well be a certified bartender. He feels no need to impress people, but he always ends up doing it.

So more important than what’s in our suitcase is what’s behind us. About a year ago, Anthony and I got in a fight with my uncle—a power and knowledge hungry, egotistical meglomaniac. Long story short, don’t try to prove him wrong. It was my goal to prove him wrong once in my life. That ended in internal injuries and finding out that my father didn’t defend me.

Fuck that.

A week later, we said by to pop, and in what was probably the worst attempt at a grandiose “fuck you” to my uncle, we left the east coast.

We left the east coast with a couple bucks. I had an idea though so it was all good.

We were going to buy and sell items while traveling, and make a profit off each one.

Simple right. Not illegal. Easy way to make money.

Let’s not forget, this was not a business venture in my mind, it was a means of escape.

For explanations sake I’m going to describe this journey in terms of events:

Items we sold

Banjo

Anthony wanted to jump from a waterfall before he got on the road and he knew of a spring in western Virginia. Why not.

30 miles from the falls, tire blows. We slapped the new one on and got patched up at the nearest autoshop. I was inside the store talking to Bertha, the woman operating the front desk, when Anthony pulls the car around the side. I paid the woman for the patch. And hopped in the car.

A mile down the road, Anthony pulls over the car and motions for me to get out, we walk around to the trunk and he opens it. Inside is a dusty old case.

Inside, a mint condition refurbished banjo.

We've now come full circle

So here we are, on this fucking precipice, overlooking the bay. 2000 miles far gone from where we started.  

My hat blows off.