on the way.

it was an absurdly normal moment, but momentous in its association.

i stood outside tapping ashes from my cigarette on a busy street downtown and looked up to the darkening blue of a fall evening to see fire falling from the sky.

the reasons i left california and returned here are numerous and complex, but one stands out fresh and clean and simple amid the confusion that i still haven't quite worked out.

a crisp morning in late september, colder than it should have been. we hopped into the cab of his truck and headed south. he could have carried the entire world on his shoulders, they were that broad.

the cd player didn't work so well but it didn't much matter because neither did the muffler. i bathed my face in sunshine and wished he would let me smoke, wished that i weren't too polite to light up without permission.

instead i watched middle america fly by, beautifully austere under the blue sky - cinderblock buildings and empty fields and machines whose origins and purposes i wouldn't venture to guess. we sent jokes back and forth affectionately through indianapolis and into cincinnati, past florence and lexington and on into tennessee.

he drove recklessly 30 miles over the speed limit, passing blind on mountain roads and braking without warning. i loved it. i wore the danger of the day on my sleeve. our destination was remote, peaceful, but it was the getting there that mattered. we got stopped in traffic near pigeon forge so he pulled a u over the median and we stopped for lunch at an unremarkable chuck wagon of a restaurant, barbecue so spicy it made me choke.

somewhere we passed a huge factory in the middle of nowhere, smokestacks spilling white stains against the afternoon, the emptiness of the surrounding countryside only emphasizing the smells and sounds of human innovation. his gaze wandered and i followed it, forgetting about the road ahead and his foot heavy on the gas pedal. he was entranced, and so was i entranced.

he didn't look at me, i'd never seen him shy before. three years later i wouldn't call it shy - just the uncertainty of a little boy incapable of naming his wonder. "i just get all excited when i see something so...industrial. i love industry."

he was a little bit hank rearden, a little bit hank kimball, and entirely charming. i held back my delight and let him have his moment, but i would never forget how his eyes shone over something so simple as a factory.

we arrived in one piece.

tonight i was startled into this memory when it dawned on me that the sky was not raining fire but it was only the product of a man perched tenuously on an exposed beam three stories up, sanding down metal and making sparks drip onto the dirt below him like water.

i put my cigarette out and made my way inside, a little warmer for the recollection of that perfect fall day, fresh home in the midwest and still afraid of occupying space in the world.

it's the inconsequential moments that comprise the bulk of beauty. if i wore a hat, i would have tipped it - to the evening, to the construction, to the life that's been built here in indianapolis.