Pensive

Authors Note: I love Gilbert Grape's character, it's just so much fun to write a character I can somewhat relate too. Not that it's nothing-ville out here, but the restlessness of just wanting to get OUT, do SOMETHING other than fester away enclosed by four walls and the beauty of the computer screen...

It's something I'll never understand. How can people in this small town of Endora manage to get up in the morning knowing what they're facing? I have enough difficulty opening my eyes to face another day because it's going to be the same as the previous one.

Tourists hardly ever come here, and by the slight chance they do, once they found out that the closest thing to a motel was turned into a diner... they high-tail it out of here as soon as they can.

I woke up in the morning, went down to the basement to bring up a case of beer for the fridge. Dad starts drinking in the morning and doesn't stop until night-fall. It was when I opened the door and saw the silhouette on the floor that I knew nothing would ever be the same again.

I have wanted to travel for as long as I can remember. I'm the only one in the family who wants to get out of this town. The rest of them are happy here, content to stay until fate takes their gift back and we go tumbling through the mist of after-life.

Just imagine, if you will, taking a job at a failing supermarket because it's the only one available. Stacking can after can, seeing the labels flash through your mind over and over again, but not being able to do anything about it.

There are times when I feel as if I'm going out of my skin. If I try to drive somewhere, to have just a minute's peace from all of the constant worries... every waking moment is spent worrying, I'm berated for leaving the family alone.

How could I do that to them, scare them like that? How, indeed. The walls of our house get smaller and smaller, sometimes I sleep out on the porch to try and get a semblance of freedom.

No one understands how bad it is, not even the fields offer any comfort. They stay the same, grass and weed expanding across the land for miles. That's all I see when I wake up, and it's the last thing I look at before I go to sleep. Or try to sleep.

It's always just easier if I force myself to stay awake. Go through the motions during the day, and die a little bit more each time. This is what I'm doing, wasting away into a hollow, sunken shell that used to know what hope felt like.

Now that I look back on what I've written I feel ashamed for it. I sound resentful of everything when really I'm not. Arnie, by far, needs their attention more than I do. Now I sound bitter. On a roll, aren't I. He's my brother and I'll always watch out for him. It's what I do, what Gilbert Grape does. They need me. Ma, Arnie... especially Arnie. My two sisters, I wouldn't have laid this on them for anything in the world.

I made my decision and went on from there, no room for regrets, and no looking back on what could have been. There are many things a person can do, but turning their back on family isn't one of them.

Now I close the notebook and get ready to go and deliver a truck full of groceries to Mrs. Carver. Too much wallowing in self-pity, I don't have time for it. I have to make sure Arnie stays safely at home, Mama won't worry so much then and maybe I can go for another drive tonight.

This is the first time I've looked back at this notebook in years.

At least four, Mama's dead, she died in the house as she always wanted too, and Arnie soon after. Ellen and Amy are attending school, finally, and I'm traveling with Becky. I didn't feel any need to go to a university, I've learned everything I'm willing to learn from experience.

There must be something wrong with me, I knew that soon as I looked back over what's been written. A black and white marble composition book I purchased from the store I used to work in.

I've been all around the United States, I've seen towering red-woods, national parks, and buildings so tall they stretch the imagination. From the tops of bridges, in the middle of the desert, and on the snow-covered banks of the East, there's always something inside me that whispers softly.

Something's missing, but then again something's always not... been there. Becky says it's because I missed out on a child-hood and I'm trying to get it back. She has so many questions, about the way I grew up, what it was like taking care of the family... I ask her just as many. I don't like talking about myself, and she's not shy in the retelling.

It's one of the things I love about her, the ability to change subjects in the middle of a sentence. One minute she can be talking about being chased by bees, and the next she's asking me what flavor ice-cream I want to buy next.

When I'm with her this empty- I've just realized it, empty. That's the word, as in not filled, lacking something vital. --but as I was saying, when I'm with her the emptiness fades away. When I stand by myself sometimes and stare at a sunset or sunrise it's back again. When I lay on the mattress at night, or write, like I'm doing now, it's all back again.

There has to be something wrong with me, this is what I've always wanted. To travel, never have to stay in the same place and worry about things like tax and income. All I have to contribute toward is gas money, and that's not a problem.

We might keep moving, but when we do stay in places to look around awhile, I always manage to find job. Someone can always use a bagboy or a deliveryman. It doesn't bother me because I don't have to stay long enough to fall back into the monotony.

Arnie and Ma's death don't bother me as much as they should, they're happy now, you know? Why would I be sad that they're happy? I am too, for that matter, but I suppose that somewhere I'll always be worried that something will go wrong and I'll be resigned to life as it used to be.

Maybe I should have Becky, what did she call it, psycho-analyze, that's it, me again. Afterwards we'll go swimming, or walking, neither of us pressuring the other.

'So sad, Gil,' she says pushing my hair out of my face, it's what she does, to see my eyes is her explanation, 'you always look so sad.'

I don't know, I'm not sad... just... wary of both the good and bad things in life. If I get too comfortable something might happen, Becky says that parts the martyr complex, whatever that means. If I get too happy I get scared that something bad will happen, is how she clarifies it.

Maybe, but I'm content and we haven't even seen half of the states. There are roads our tires have yet to travel on, and what am I doing? Taking a trip back to memories I let go of long ago.

I'll take this notebook and put it back in the drawer where I keep other things from the house. I don't think I'll need to write again, but if I do it'll be there. I can't throw it out like so many others would force themselves too. It's a part of me, a part that died a long time ago, but all the same.

You can lie to people, but you can never lie to yourself. Gilbert never died, he was here the whole time, there were just things to keep me from seeing that. So I'll put the pen down, go outside and watch the sunset.

Funny how small things like that stay the same without anyone noticing.