----

It'd been tense most of the day here, with moments I shouldn't describe as anything more or less than that. The night wove on, I had a lovely conversation that abruptly seemed to shift--throwing me into confusion about continuity. The anger of it was still heady in my system when I heard a raised voice from the main bedroom.

Given that Dork posted about it, I won't say anything more or less: the former would sensational, the latter unmindful.

I heard "Get the fuck out!" repeated, a staccato mantra from the darkness. More words were sworn in anger, reaching down, deep into the seedy wells we neglect to acknowledge until provocation swallows us into them.

I was used to listening to mother nearly screaming at the top of her lungs, about issues so insignificantly ludicrous I'd laugh--if my natural reflex weren't to get pissed off and (against my wishes) slightly misty eyed. The fact that both of them growled angrily only phased me because they usually seemed so civil.

It is the beating that is memorable. Fists shot down with a dull clack. I stood in the doorway, watching them. I felt the phone in my hand. I threatened to call the police. It stopped. The mantra continued and one of them moved to the kitchen.

I decided to pack all of my bags. I knew Seester was a call and short drive away. For now, I threw on a sweater, my trenchcoat, a beanie and scarf, with my photography equipment laced around me.

Leaving was my only option. I had no idea if either of them was drunk. And if so, how much. I trusted them enough not to do anything to me. Likewise, they were too caught up to pay me any mind at that moment. Really, I didn't want to stay there and feel the aftermath--or try to help. It was not my fight. I needed to get the fuck out of there.

I started out on the service street we're on. I took it to a street we'll call Van Buren. I had one goal in mind: to find the Ram's Horn. Jen and I had eaten there a few days earlier. Somehow it became my goal. If I could make it there, I'd find peace (and a meal).

Only problem was that I'd been driven there by Jen over a few freeways. I decided to follow the line of the 94, making sure that it didn't suddenly change direction. After awhile, I noticed that it stayed close to Van Buren. After some figuring, I decided I just needed to walk.

And I kept walking, scuffling with breath like a satin sheet. Cars honked at me on occasion. The cold only bit me through my trousers. I passed a few scattered 24 hour places: a Super K that wasn't open, a Tim Horton's that I couldn't talk to without police coming, and the first 7-Eleven which had a weird air to it.

I lost track of how long I'd walked. My feet didn't hurt. The night was too calm. I just wondered if I'd make it, if I could say I accomplished my goal on my own. That was somehow very important to me at the time. I wondered if Dork had called Seester, and perhaps they were organizing to find out where I was. I ditched that theory after the first hour. I didn't want to be found, anyway.

The second 7-Eleven had all the answers. The female clerk told me that Telegram was only half a mile up the road I was taking. It seemed like I'd actually be able to make it.

Up to Telegram finally. The scene looked vaguely familiar. I followed to the right. More and more familiar still. Then I saw the sign. It was the sort of welcoming, the kind of feeling when clouds rotted apart and left behind whatever mood had consumed you. Finally, here was my arbitrary salvation.

I stepped inside. Every eye levelled at me and the tripod tucked under my right arm, the camera bag on my left shoulder. After 10 minutes I was seated. After another 10 minutes, I got the same waitress that'd attended me a few days ago. She didn't remember; I didn't care. All around me were curious folk: the elegantly proportioned Jewish college girl pouring over her notes, the bubbly overweight Irish chick and her friends behind college girl. There were of course the fly playas, the white power bikers to my right, and a whole host of jackass college white boys. I was suitably amused and half pretended to look distant and more dead than tired.

The complimentary chili looked like liquid dog shit. It tasted wonderful. I ate the whole cup. The entree was actually less impressive, almost kinda disappointing. I guess the mini-lesson is that even if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, maybe dog shit can taste yummy.

I threw down a 20% tip and left. The walk back wasn't as scary in that "I'm lost in Detroit" sense, but my feet started to hurt by the 4th mile. 1 1/2 miles later, I saw a bend in the freeway and the on/off ramps. My sub-conscious said shot. So I shot. The scene looks like the Second Coming meets a french fur trapper. You'll see.

With that over, I got back onto the service street. I wasn't sure what had happened. Perhaps there'd be a maiming or murder. Perhaps someone needed me to keep their alliby as they fled across to Canada. I assumed the worst and readied my tripod as a club accordingly.

The house was just as is. The dogs thankfully didn't make too much of my entrance, with only a little yelping. I found a note on my bed. I skimmed it without bothering to think about what it meant. I didn't want to think about it at all, not this morning.

And to this moment I don't know what to think. On the one hand I logically know that something like that was bound to happen, given the circumstances. On the other hand, I hadn't seen either man ever look that ferocious. It's more or less a clash between reason and instinct. I think love will eventually win out over both, but for now I want to purge it from my system. That was partly bathed in fire by eating. The rest will be burned by a good sleep.

And Adam: don't worry about me.

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