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I was almost at the border, reaching Texas. I was coming from Macon, Georgia, and had traveled over a thousand kilometers in two days in my bright red Cadillac. A few stops along the Louisiana coast, three packs of cigarettes, and a cheap bottle of Canadian whiskey that I discreetly took a few weeks earlier from Emmet's place, a dear friend from youth now a bartender in Kentucky and a whiskey enthusiast.
We spent our adolescence together in a ghost town in South Carolina. We were like two peas in a pod, and we spent our time playing in his brother's band, the legendary Abandoned Lovers. When we weren’t playing, it was just some beer, a few Velvet Underground records, and a few girlfriend lovers who passed from member to member (of the band, mind you).
At the end of the eighties, following the departure of Floriana, who migrated to Saint Francis Xavier University in Canada, Emmet, with a broken heart, moved to Lexington. Since then, our friendship changed forever; nothing was the same. The last strong emotions we shared were our goodbyes, our faces masked with glaring sadness.
Our relationship was not what it used to be, but occasionally we would meet. We talked about this and that, traded a few mundane criticisms of the Lexington administration, and after a few hours, we would part with an honest handshake and a heartfelt pat on the back. Most of the time, I would be the one to come to his area, and I did it on purpose, with pleasure. But when his talks got on my nerves, I didn’t hesitate to express my dissent by taking something from the back of his bar that might come in handy. That’s how I retrieved that whiskey.
My destination was growing closer. The sun beat strongly on my bald head, and in the Cadillac played a tape of Federico Fiumani and the ghost of his Diaframma. "The future smiles on those like us (2001)" I deciphered on the label when I extracted the cassette to change sides. This one also came from Emmet's backstock. I found it next to his satchel. It was probably one of the proceeds from his trip to Italy in 2002. "I wonder if the future smiles on those like me?" I thought to myself.
I had never heard of Diaframma before then, but the poetry of Federico Fiumani came with disarming timeliness: "My Lord forgive me, my Lord forgive me, for I have left my heart and everything else there". I thought of Annie and was convinced to return to Texas, reclaim my heart, and everything else.
I was there. I was at the border. Between one memory and another, I made it. Meanwhile, Fiumani’s words became more providential, when, before the tape ended and I was invaded by the noise of reality, he began to recite: "Today is a balmy day/these roads lead nowhere anymore/these roads carry away debris and solitude with them/there must be ways to forget quickly". Once the tape ended, the vertical signage informed me of my entrance into Texas. I abruptly stopped the car. I got out, lit a cigarette, and loudly asked myself for the second time if the future smiled on those like me. Now I knew the answer.
I got back in the car, flipped the tape, and turned around. I went back, in perfect solitude.
Credits: Carlo Cimmino, to whom this writing is inspired and dedicated.
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