I looked in the mirror this morning. Really looked.
I didn’t see the 57-year-old Project Manager with the gray in his beard. I didn’t see the “Diabetic Alcoholic Loser” my ex wrote about.
I saw the kid.
The 8-year-old boy. The one before the divorce, before the chaos, before the world told him he had to be small. He was the kid who played Army in the backyard, who built race tracks on the living room floor, who dreamed of being a soldier, a crazy guy, an adventurer. He was the kid who thought life was supposed to be a goddamn movie, not a spreadsheet.
I sat down with him. In the quiet of my own head.
“We’re leaving,” I told him.
He looked at me, skeptical. He’s seen me promise this before. He saw me promise it when I bought the tequila bar. He saw me promise it when I moved to Hawaii. He’s watched me trade one cage for another for fifty years.
“For real this time?” he asked. “No more meetings? No more women who yell at us? No more pretending we care about the Homeowner’s Association?”
“No,” I said. “We’re going to Vietnam. We’re going to ride motorbikes. We’re going to eat weird food. We’re going to be the crazy guy.”
And I saw him smile.
It wasn’t a big smile. It was the quiet, satisfied grin of a kid who finally got what he wanted for Christmas, even if it arrived forty years late.
“What took you so long?” he asked.
“I got lost,” I said. “I got scared. I thought I had to be what they wanted me to be.”
“You’re an idiot,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
This trip isn’t about running away from my problems. It isn’t about finding a wife. It isn’t about retirement.
It’s about keeping a promise to that kid.
He wanted an adventure. He wanted to be free. He wanted to look at the world and not feel afraid.
I owe him that. I owe him the last chapter.
So, kid, buckle up. Pack your GI Joes. We’re getting on the plane. And this time, we aren’t coming back until we’ve seen the whole goddamn show.
