Some people dream of mansions in
Malibu, I dream of a truckers bar in Texas.
Some greasy spoon roadside cafe that plays rockabilly music where
I can be a waitress. Smile
at all the travelers, have co-workers named Barbara or Shelly, and a
steady stream of cowboy boyfriends.
I'd live in a trailer, I’d get off work at eight o'clock, and
go drink Miller Genuine Draft at some other hick bar.
I’d stare at the mountains in the distance and think that I
couldn’t do any better on the other side than I could do here.
I could be content. I
could have a sister who worked at a bank, and was constantly badgering
me to open up a saving account with a 7.5% savings rate.
I wouldn’t understand, but I’d trust her so she could make
her quota, and everything would be fine.
I’d be among the normal people, where a guy could look into
your eyes and tell you “I love you,” and you could tell that he
meant it, not that he was a really good actor.
||I could let the twenty-five years
fade into some distant sepia toned memory of who I used to be, a long
time ago. And I could be
content. Which, when you
get right down to it, if it was a toss up between content and happy,
well, content would do just fine. Content
includes happy. Content is
happy plus time. Happy is
nothing further than this hour, than this moment.
If happy is measured in hours, content is measured in months.
Maybe even years. I could be happy in L.A. for one night. One magical night, one night that would be the stuff that
dreams and legends are made of. I
could be content anywhere else. What
the hell am I still doing here?