Chicago

The preparations are underway.

I have a copy of the apartment lease in my hands. One bedroom, one bathroom, and one huge kitchen. Hardwood floors so that if my puppy has an accident, it’ll be easier to clean up. All I’m waiting for is the signature of my co-guarantor. I’ll get that tomorrow and then, starting Feb. 26th, I’ll have a place to crash in Chicago. I’m debating whether I should rent a U-Haul and drive the 18 hours myself or just fly up there with a few suitcases filled with clothes and try to find furniture on craigslist.

It feels weird. Surreal, even. As if I’m starring in my own indie film. This is partly due to the fact that we all like to compare our lives to movies and partly due to the fact that I just finished a book comparing life to film. Essentially saying that what makes great movies great can also make a life great. And it makes sense. Kinda. I don’t know. It made sense when I read it, but then I tried to explain it to Delma and found myself stumbling over my words. I’m terrible at explaining things.

THE POINT IS that I’ve been driving around town listening to my iPod (because my stereo was stolen a few months ago). I’ve been driving a lot. Mainly to places from my memories. Nothing too important. Actually, for some reason I’ve been driving to locations in which I had the most random experiences.

I drove to the first elementary school I attended. I was only there for a few weeks. Nothing significant happened there. Or, at least nothing that altered the course of my life. I remembered that they put me in an ESL class because I was very quiet and I made a friend there. I think his name was Esteban. Or Emilio. Eric? I want to say it was something with an ‘E’ and he was wearing a blue sweater, but for all I know his name could’ve been Humberto. Humberto wearing a beige turtleneck.

THE POINT IS that one of the memories I remember most about that school is that Esteban/Humberto showed me a book he was trying to read. It was in English and he was having a hard time reading it, but that’s not the point. There was a photo of a canyon, something that seemed like it was taken in New Mexico or Arizona. It wasn’t a particularly memorable photograph. What WAS memorable were the two sentences Esteban/Humberto uttered after he showed me the book.

“This is where the devil lives. He dances and steals children.”

At the age of five, the first image I had of Satan was that of someone who lives in Mesa and kidnaps kids while dancing.

I drove to the park my uncle Carlos would take me to. He used to play basketball with a few friends there. Once, I stood under a basket and he made a shot and the basketball smacked me on the head. It hurt hecka bad.

Another time, we were there for a birthday party. My mom told me to offer some cake to some kids sitting on a bench. I walked over to them and asked “Would you and your brother like some cake?” The kid looked at me and shot back “He’s not my brother, asshole. He’s my friend.”

I drove around 610 twice.

I passed the flea market where an old Asian man with a yellow shirt accused me of trying to steal some Ninja Turtles. I wasn’t. I just wanted to show them to my mom in hopes that she would buy them for me.

I passed Astroworld. Or what’s left of Astroworld. Once, my dad promised to take me if I behaved. So I did. On the way back, I asked my dad if we were still going. “Yeah. Yeah.” he said, not really listening. I asked again, because we were dangerously close to passing the exit. “Yeah, some other time,” he replied. “YOU PROMISED!” I shouted as I grabbed the steering wheel and tried to make a U-Turn on the freeway.

I passed lots of places and the memories came flooding in. Gulfgate Mall, where my mom bought me the first Power Rangers video game. The Toyota Center, where Delma and I saw the robotic dinosaur show. My old middle school, where some guy tried to steal my Nike’s. The baseball field I threw up on when I was seven.

I passed by the zoo. My mom used to take me to the park to feed the ducks. Once, I was chased by this one particularly fat duck because I was holding an entire slice of bread.

I passed by the Engine Room, where I met Delma. I passed by the diner we went to after the concert to share a milkshake.

I thought about driving to Galveston, but didn’t feel like spending more money on gas. I had been driving a lot.

I passed lots of place and had lots of thoughts and remembered vividly quite a few memories.

My entire life, I have lived in Houston, Texas. There were weeks or months where I temporarily lived somewhere else, but I’d always end up coming back home to Houston. Nearly all of my memories involve this city. Everything that has shaped me to become the person I am happened here. My entire family lives in this city.

So this feels weird.

It’s not like I’m going to Austin. I won’t be able to come back every weekend to see my family.

Nor am I going for a set amount of time, like when I went to California to teach summer school. I’m going to be in Chicago for as long as it takes.

It feels really weird.

It’s that pivotal scene in the movie where the protagonist is about to embark on a long journey. Frodo hiking to Mordor. Johnny Five trying to retain his cognitive abilities. The Jamaican national bobsled team’s debut at the 1988 Olympics. Something like that.

I’m starting to have doubts, but it’s too late now. The deposit has been paid. The classes have been registered for. The cows are coming home. The bird’s in the hand, not in the bush. The pennies have been saved and thus earned.

It feels really, really weird.

But at the same time, there’s this electricity coursing inside of me. Sometimes I just start screaming. Happy screams. Happy screams for happy dreams. I’m bundled up with energy and not even an intense upper body workout focused on the rear deltoids and latissimus dorsi can stop it. I’m bubbling with optimism.

Which is scary. Because there’s also those moments where, from the back-left corner of my mind, there comes this hushed voice, trying to plant seeds of doubt, asking

“What if you’re not funny?”
“What if your mind goes blank and you can’t think of anything?”
“What if you can’t take the cold?”
“What if you miss your family too much?”
“What if you fail?”

And I know that the voice comes from that guy in Mesa who dances and steals children.

And I also know that those are reasonable questions. What if I’m NOT funny? What if it IS too cold? What if I DON’T make it?

Well, “things happen for a reason,” right?

The Jamaican bobsled team had high hopes for the 1988 Olympics. They ended up losing control of their sled and crashing. Then their story was made into a movie. A movie, might I add, that currently has a 73% rating on rottentomatoes.com. How’s that for inspirational? If I fail, maybe my life will be made into a movie.

If I fail, I’ll know that I’ve given it my all. And that’s what’s going to make this different from me trying to be an engineer or technical writer. I’m going to go all out. Balls-to-the-wall effort. 110%. We are Jamaican bobsled team, mon.

THE POINT IS there’s no guarantee that I’ll succeed. And that’s fine. I’ll figure something out. I think I’m mentally prepared for failure. Not that I’m expecting to fail, mind you, but I understand that in the grand scheme of things, it isn’t THAT important, you know?

…But to me it’s important.