Currently it’s seven in the evening. I’m been up and functioning since three-thirty this morning. I’m not kidding. Consequently, I don’t feel like writing. I’d rather be drinking a Budweiser and eating a bag full of chocolate-covered donut holes. Or sleeping. Sleeping would be nice. But instead I’m writing.

There’s not a donut hole in sight.

I should back up.

Last night I went to bed at eleven-thirty and got up four hours later in order to go with a friend to court–on the other side of the state–for a minor traffic violation. Well, for the accusation of a minor traffic violation, since America and innocent-until-proven-guilty and everything. Anyway, that’s their story.

This is mine.

After getting up, getting dressed, and scarfing down two scrambled eggs, I walked outside at four this morning to look for my friend. And whereas I didn’t see them, I did see the constellation Orion. And not that I’d wish anyone out of bed that early, but you should have been there. Around one in the morning Orion’s just on the horizon, but at four–wow!–he’s directly overhead. And whereas I’m dreading the impending winter, I’m looking forward to seeing this unmistakable figure–The Hunter–make his march across the heavens.

Oddly enough, my friend’s court appearance was in Forrest City, the same city in which my dad spent several years in federal prison. (He was a pharmacist. He gave some drugs away without prescriptions. That’s not allowed.) Anyway, he was originally sent to El Paso, so our visits were few and far between. But when he got transferred to Forrest City, that was only four-and-a-half hours away (228 miles in one direction, exit to exit), so our visits increased. I can’t tell you the number of times as a teenager that I got up by myself or with my sister at three-thirty, got dressed, scarfed down two scrambled eggs, and pointed my Honda Civic down Interstate-40 East toward Forrest City–

To go through a metal detector and see my dad in a visitation room.

I think the last time I actually stopped in Forrest City was that day in April 2001 when Dad was released and my mom, my sister, and I drove to pick him up. It’d been 69 months since he walked out our front door for El Paso. 69 months since he’d started teaching me to drive and someone else had to finish the job. 69 months and oh-so-many miles. How do you even describe such a day, a day you thought would never come? I can’t. All I knew and felt was that my dad was coming home.

Somehow–finally–Forrest City was in my rearview mirror.

Seventeen years. That’s how long it’s been since I last drove to Forrest City, much less at four in the morning, much less for anything related to breaking the law. (Um–for an accusation of breaking the law.) Anyway, this morning brought up a lot of memories, a lot of–um–uncomfortable feelings. On the one hand, I was quite aware–I’m thirty-eight now. There’s nothing intimidating or embarrassing about walking into a courthouse or going through a metal detector. But on the other hand, I felt like that teenager, the one who was in that courthouse the day 12 jurors all said, “Guilty,” the one who used to get up at four in the morning to walk through a metal detector and see his father sitting in a visitation room dressed in all forest green.

It’s funny how time can collapse so quickly. One minute you’re an adult standing next to Orion. You feel–free. The next minute you’re a teenager standing next to a guard with a gun on his belt. “Who are you here to see?” he says. You drop your head and say his name. You feel–intimidated.

This morning I was fully prepared to walk through a metal detector and sit in a courtroom with my friend, but something–heaven?–intervened. “The courtroom is full,” the disgruntled courthouse employee said. So I waited in the car and read a book. Part of me–honestly–was relieved. I hate courts, hate confrontation, and I knew my friend would be contesting their ticket. But then after I saw several people leaving, I thought, There’s more room now. Go inside, Marcus. This isn’t your fight anyway. But again, something intervened. The car alarm went off. Every time I tried to remove the key from the ignition–HONK, HONK, HONK.

So I stayed in the car.

Things worked out for my friend. Today was only an arraignment. Anyway, when my friend got back to the car, they fixed the alarm, but we discovered the battery had died. So we asked a couple for a jump, and they gladly said yes. The man helped my friend with the cables, and the lady sat in their car and pumped the gas. Personally, I did nothing–just stood outside the car, scrolled on my phone, and tried to look as if the whole affair weren’t my fault. Then just as the couple started to drive off, the lady smiled at me. Like, I don’t know, life was all right. I hope I never forget it–

That smile in Forrest City.

I’ve said before that I wouldn’t trade any of my challenging experiences. I mean that. Even the ones that were agonizing, embarrassing, or intimidating–I wouldn’t trade them even if I could. Because this is my story. This is my march across the heavens. (Hum.) Sometimes people tell me that I have a lot of courage–my therapist says I have big balls–to put my insides on the internet, or to dare to live life on my own terms. And whereas I’m not saying my current life is easy–fuck–it’s a chocolate-covered donut hole compared to those 69 months and oh-so-many miles, those 69 months and oh-so-many miles that still manage to suck me in after 17 years sometimes, but for which I am also mysteriously and profoundly grateful. Because of them, today I am strong beyond measure. My head is lifted. I can see the stars. People smile at me, and I smile back at them.