The End

C’mon Pete think…it’s got to be one of these roads.

Pete Kodrasov had been driving through the Pine Barrens so long that the cool shadows of night crept from their hiding places within the surrounding forest. Usually, the sensations of this type of moment would fill him with joy. The high heat of a summer day bleeding away into cool darkness, a breeze biting through opened car windows, the rich smell of pines and mile after mile of isolated byways; these were things that brought Pete a sense of peace, helped him unwind and refuel his creative reserves. But today, with only one small corner of the book left to complete … today they were obstacles to his goal.

I’m at the end of the story.

To make matters worse, the bar he sought kept teasing him from different vantage points. Its bright lights would pierce the gloom from across a dark cedar lake, peak through the less dense areas of the forest, blink briefly around the black tarred curves of the narrow roads, but always, madly at an indiscernible direction he could never quite place.

You shouldn’t have named it The Hideaway idiot.

Pete did a U-turn; the tires crunched the gravel roadside before humming again down the Lost Indian Cabin Road or Sweetwater Path or other such quaint dribble. A small choking sound from the engine drew his attention to the dashboard. The gas gauge needle fluttered briefly before dying on E. The engine shuttered, stalled and with the last of its momentum, Pete guided it onto the sandy shoulder.

Well, that’s not good. What’s it been an hour, maybe two, since you saw another person?

He stepped out of the car. With the sudden absence of the manufactured breeze gone, the thick humid heat of a Jersey July beaded his head with perspiration. Pete was shocked at how loud the forest was. Its choir of frogs, chirping crickets and bird calls sung from all sides.

No! More than that, listen!

Pete cocked his head slightly and heard the twang of an electric guitar, a snatch of garbled lyrics.

There, down there! How could you forget the dirt road?

He grabbed the book and his pen and traipsed down the hard packed dirt to The Hideaway.

By the time he exited the path, the night had fully overtaken the day. But even in the darkness he could see that The Hideaway had changed considerably. What was once a small, ramshackle dive bar tucked away in the heart of the Pine Barrens had become a thriving business.

The owner…was his name Coyle, yes…Chris Coyle…Coyle, had left the physical structure of the bar unchanged but added outdoor tents and tables. Where the grass once ran to the Mullica River, a small marina had been built and every one of its slips seemed to be filled. A covered stage sported a band playing beneath strings of uncovered bulbs. A sizable crowd cheering their rendition of … Pete had to laugh … Creedence’s version of ’Midnight Special’ but I wrote it coming from a jukebox.

Dekker had warned him that this was the way of things. That once he wrote … created … something it would often take on a life of its own. It was his for only as long as it took to put the idea to paper, for once the words were put on the page, no matter what his intent was, the will of the world would have its own way with it.

Dekker. Christ How many hours did we spend talking about the craft of writing?

He wasn’t sure the last time he thought of the man, but there he was in the vivid Technicolor of memory; long meetings in bars like this one talking about story, structure, thematic intent, then when they closed or when he needed to smoke, walking and talking in parking lots long past prudent hours. He wondered how much of those lessons from his mentor … more than that Pete, friend … shaped who he was today.

Well, if nothing else, the notebook certainly shaped you.

He ran a thumb down its thick leather spine. How long had it been since it arrived? A mysterious, almost suspicious package wrapped in plain brown paper. The vague instructions relayed by a phone call from a frantic Dekker. He was no longer sure if it was seven or eight years, just that he hadn’t been home since.

It seemed so daunting then, you never thought you’d reach the end. But here you are.

Pete weaved between the cars and countless motorcycles. He avoided the tent bar and headed into the relative quiet of The Hideaway.

Wow, you were such a hack!

He viewed his creation with a critical eye and wondered what Dekker would have said. How many deer heads would a dive bar need? That’s probably the first thing he’d say to you. Neon signs in various fonts adorned the wall all saying one thing. Not a brand, no, just the word “beer” over and over. Beer. Beer. Beer.

Confused Pete opened the notebook to the beginning pages and read, “…the stuffed deer heads matched in number the beer rings on the stained bar top, each lit to their own spectral color by a nearby neon beer sign.” He grimaced at the clumsiness of the sentence as well as the precision … humor maybe … in which whatever magic drove the book followed his vision.

Don’t be too hard on yourself, after all it was your first try.

When it was created Pete was so confused, so scared, that he ran from this, his first born. But now that he had just one final square, on the very corner of the final page left to fill, he found it a fitting place to finish. He wished he could take a second crack at the bar, rewrite it into a better version.

Yeah, that didn’t pan out so well last time. Remember the pyramid that ended up in Long Island?

He let the thought go and instead searched his surroundings. Using the book as a guide he could find the traces of his creative fingerprints alongside the blanks that the book chose to fill in. The jukebox, an “…old Wurlitzer special glowing softly as it flips the 45 on a spindled arm, dropping the needle in place, freeing into the night the soft electric guitar strum of Creedence Clearwater Revival’s ‘Midnight Special’.” On closer inspection, Pete could see that every single record in its rolodex was that one song. Though strangely, no one seemed to mind.

Even the “…young man in a CAT Diesel power hat…” who “…nervously threads a pool cue between his fingers and glances between a week’s worth of wages sitting on the table’s edge and the long bank shot he is not skilled enough to make.”

Pete watched as, true to form, the eight-ball stopped short on the edge of the corner pocket. As “…the old lady in the ‘I Love Gramma’ shirt took her position and quickly sunk the opportunity left to her” Pete wondered if this same scene played out between these two players forever. It was a horrifying thought that somehow, he may have unintentionally created a purgatory where CAT man and Gramma played over and over, always to the same predetermined outcome.

Maybe it’s a Schrödinger’s cat thing that’s only happening because you’re watching? Either way what did Dekker tell you?

All writing no matter how small should be done with intent.

Pete took a seat at the bar. He was surprised that the bartender who quickly walked over was a woman. But a quick glance at the book told him that Chris Coyle’s sex was never determined.

That’s some great intention right there Pete.

Female Chris did a show of wiping at the rings worn into the bar that Pete was now certain would never fade.

“You know,” she said “in all my years tending bar here, no one, no matter how crowded it’s been has ever sat in that seat or the one next to it”

“I’m not surprised,” Pete said with certainty. That was one intent he did manage correctly all those years ago. He imagined that someday he would walk into the Hideaway, Dekker in tow and over a couple of beers look at what he created; critique in reality that which previously only existed within his mind’s eye.

If only I knew then how the book worked.

“Well, my mother used to say everything has to have a beginning sometime,” Chris said, and then added, “What can I get for you?”

Pete waved his hand around towards the neon signs, “A beer…draft. Any kind will do. And one for yourself if you’d like.”

Chris returned with the two beers that, if memory served would “shine like the sun through stained glass” whatever the hell that meant.

Chris raised hers, “To new beginnings.”

Pete smiled ruefully and added, “And the very best endings we can manage.” Chris clinked her glass to his, took a polite sip, and left him to his musings.

Pete opened the notebook to the last page. He was tempted to read it from cover to cover again, but knew the time had come to let go. His life had been full, his every dream a waking reality and yet, here at the end, there was something wrong … no missing … no better yet Pete, something lost.

But how can a man who pursues his dreams and sees his life work become a literal reality have something lost? Easy dummy, by paying too much of a cost.

There were few times in his practicing of the craft of writing that Pete actually had epiphanies. Times when he knew the exact words, emotions, and desires he needed to spill out on the page. But this time, he knew the exact moment in time he needed to capture. It was a moment in the amber of memory between opening the package and writing his first passage in the book.

As the words flowed out of him, he could see the lines of words above his begin to fade. He imagined all of his creations disappearing with them. The jukebox stopped playing its single song and the clicking of the pool balls abruptly stopped. In his peripheral vision, the beer signs began to dim and though their loss obscured the page he didn’t dare stop writing the words.

Pete walked to his son’s room to kiss him goodnight. He could see by the soft glow under the door he was using the storm lantern that he purchased for him.