Wilson's Trip

A Story by NPeeters

A man wakes up and finds himself alone on the planet. Using his grandfather's motorcycle, he starts a journey past places from his childhood.

Imagine waking up in the morning and realizing that you’re the sole living being left on this planet. It seems highly unlikely that such a scenario would occur, but still: think about it for a while. Would you feel lonely? Presumably. Would you go mad? Definitely. Wilson found himself in this particular situation and actually saw it as an improvement. Granted, at first he thought he was the subject of some twisted hidden camera prank, but when he entered his third day of utter solitude he made his peace with the circumstances he found himself in. Quite frankly: he couldn’t be happier. He had the whole world for himself and not a single person to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. His body was trembling with sheer excitement. The possibilities were endless. What should he do first? Just a couple of days ago he had found himself in a dead-end job with a boss whom he despised and co-workers who looked down upon him, but today he was as free as a bird. During his hours at the office he had compiled a list of places he wanted to see before he kicked the bucked, but his hopes of ever visiting said places had always been crushed by his lack of money and a busy work schedule. Not anymore! His diary was vacant for the foreseeable future and he intended to finally start leading the life he had dreamed of for so long. The first thing he did with his newfound freedom was to return to the house he had grown up in. It was the place where his dad had lived after his mom had packed her bags and said goodbye to her old life. He didn’t return there out of sentiment, but because he knew that, hidden in the garage beneath a sizeable, white blanket, was the vintage motorcycle of his deceased grandfather. He threw the cover off the bike and nearly coughed up a lung due to the dust that had been catapulted into the air. There she was, a marvelous piece of engineering. He remembered how he used to admire the beauty of the machine as a kid, when his grandfather was giving it a wash. His grandfather used to clean the bike with a carefulness that betrayed the immense love he felt for it, a love that Wilson’s grandmother could’ve only dreamt of. He had frequently asked his parents if he could join his grandfather on one of his trips, but the answer always turned out negative since they deemed it way too dangerous. That was then, today he was his own man, bound by no rules but his own. He found his grandfather’s leather jacket and a pair of Aviator sunglasses in one of the garage’s closets which he immediately put on. When he looked into the mirror he saw James Dean looking back. “Are you ready for this?”, he asked his reflection. After filling up the tank he started the engine. This was it then. The start of a journey that would lead him to all those places he had thought he’d never see. And still there was this thing. A feeling he felt. He couldn’t really put his finger on it, but he had a feeling that something was missing. He blamed it on the excitement and the energy that was raging through his body. He put his earphones in and selected a Led Zeppelin album on his iPhone. The perfect soundtrack for the perfect trip. He drove off into the dawn of a new day to the sound of "Good Times Bad Times” and he had never felt more alive.

His first real stop was Paris. It had been just over 20 years since he had last visited ‘The City of Light’. He remembered himself as a youngster, standing in awe in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral with his grandparents. It had been his first trip to another country and he hadn’t closed an eye the night before his big trip. Memories of said trip filled his head when he drove along the Champs-Elysées. During the day they had visited the Louvre, where his grandfather had told him all about the Old Masters and the magnificent paintings they had created. He remembered how puny and insignificant he had felt when he first saw ‘The Wedding at Cana’, the largest painting in the Louvre’s collection. It had been a humbling moment, even for a kid that had yet to celebrate his 10th birthday. When darkness had fallen over ‘The City of Love’ they had visited the Eiffel Tower. Standing on top of the magnificent and imposing structure, little Wilson couldn’t believe his eyes. The city stretched out in every direction as far as the eye could see and it had seemed as though there were as many lights in the city as there were stars in the midnight sky. The image had stayed with Wilson as he grew up. Each year vowing to himself that one day he’d go back. Finally that day had arrived. After parking the bike, he commenced his way through the city. His eyes started filling up with tears as he passed by the places he recognized from all those years ago. Walking on the quay along the Seine he envisioned a younger version of himself strolling next to his grandparents, tightly holding on to their hand, afraid to get lost in this immense, yet magnificent city. Sunken into deep thoughts he wandered over the Pont des Arts. He felt like he needed a break from all the walking and sat down on a small, wooden bench. He took off his backpack and fished a bottle of wine and a corkscrew out of it. Meanwhile the sun had started its descend. He took a gulp from the bottle and stared over the surface of the river. The sun had given it a warm, golden colour. The side of the bridge was covered with padlocks. In his mind he heard the calm voice of his grandfather explaining their meaning. “People who love each other very much come here to attach a padlock with their names engraved on it to the railing. After that they throw the key into the river. Some say that as long as a couple’s lock remains attached to this bridge, their love for each other will never fade…” All of the sudden he had a strange feeling that he wasn’t alone on that bridge. For a second he could’ve sworn that he had seen someone out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head, there was no one to be found. He panicked. This wasn’t right. And for the second time he felt like something was missing. For a moment he thought he had found out what it was exactly, but he couldn’t hold onto it. The vision of what was absent faded quickly, like the memory of a dream it had vanished before he could realize the meaning of it. Rather than breaking his head over it, he finished his bottle of wine and continued his path (albeit rather drunk). A couple of hours later he found himself on top of the Eiffel Tower, drunk on wine, searching in vain for the lights he remembered from that memorable evening so many years ago.

When he woke up the next day, laying on the grass of the Champ de Mars, he was so hungover that he could barely walk back to his bike, so he decided to keep laying there until the world stopped spinning around him. Two empty bottles of wine and a half empty bottle of whiskey lay next to him. He felt embarrassed, but he didn’t know why exactly. The sun made its way past the Parisian sky, mocking the tiny human who was so far away from home (if he ever had one). With great difficulty Wilson finally rose to his feet and started hobbling in no particular direction. Six more months he stayed in the city he had longed for for some many years. Never feeling completely at ease. He left Paris on a cool, damp morning. Riding his bike through the misty light of the morning sun he wondered what would be next. For a couple of years he discovered France. He came across idyllic landscapes, which he tried to capture on canvas. With every day that passed it became harder for him to resist the urge to down a bottle of wine. Day after day went by. He absorbed his surroundings and translated it into paintings, never truly satisfied with his work. After a while France started to feel empty to him. It had lost its grandeur, its mystery. The time had come to cross the Alps.

Wilson breathed in the balmy Italian air. It smelled of opportunities. A fresh start to his journey. He had left the bottles of wine he had still with him at the border. France had turned out to be a bit of a disappointment, but Italy would be different. The country that had been the home to the emperors so many years ago wouldn’t let him down, this time he’d be the emperor. For the first time since he had left home, he felt in control of his fate again. He drove his bike south along the Italian coastline, enjoying the change in scenery. His paint and brushes had made place for a typewriter, his bottles of wine for bottles filled with clear spring water. He felled reborn. His skin turned darker under the Mediterranean sun and his hair and beard grew long and shaggy. A new man with old memories. Memories that resurfaced as he entered Rome, the capital of the ancient world. He parked his bike near the Colosseum and tried to remember the route towards a place from a lifetime ago. The spot he was looking for was a tiny pub which he used to frequent during a holiday he made with some friends. He had very fond memories of that particular trip. There were five of them. Five lads, eighteen years of age, who had only just graduated from secondary school. During that trip friendships were made that would last a lifetime. But as with so many friendships, they all lost track of each other when they started making careers and families. Life doesn’t always turn out the way you want it to. He wondered what would’ve happened if they had stuck together a bit more. Daydreaming he passed by the Spanish Steps. Suddenly he couldn’t move an inch. The mere sight of the steps had triggered a powerful flashback. He saw himself sitting on one of the steps, sobbing, surrounded by his friends who were trying to comfort him. It was here that he had learned that his grandfather had passed away. He still remembered the shock, the feeling as if the world had disappeared beneath his feet. That night he had drunk like he had never drunk before, but no amount of alcohol could fill the hole inside him. He had lost the one person he had looked up to, the person who had taught him so much. Forever gone. The last three days could’ve been so terrible if it hadn’t been for his friends. Their silly attempts to cheer him up kept him sane. Each day they would visit the little pub and raise their glasses to their mate’s deceased grandfather. Three days later they packed their bags and returned home, just in time for the funeral. Wilson shivered and continued his search of that pub. He had a vague idea of its location, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to find it after all these years. He planned on staying a while in Rome, using the pub as the ideal place to work on his novel. A novel no one but him would read, a sad thought. He passed street, after street, after street, but the old pub was nowhere to be found. The sun had reached its highest point and it was scorching hot. Drops of sweat dripped down Wilson’s agitated face. “Where could this blasted pub be?”, he thought. He sought through his memories for clues, but he found nothing. As a matter of fact, the memories he held of the trip were a lot hazier than he had thought. Filled with disappointment he fell to his knees and burst into the tears. A frantic roar escaped from his throat. The memories he held of his childhood and puberty had been reduced to nothing more than ruins and in time even those ruins would fade. He had nothing anymore. He tried to remember his grandfather’s face, but the image in his mind was unclear. How could this happen? Bereft of all his memories he sat in the shadows of a building. Had there even been a pub? What were the names of his friends? Had he even been in Rome before? He staggered back to his bike, confused and on the verge of insanity. Just when he was about to crawl back onto his bike he had that feeling again. The feeling that someone was standing behind him, but as soon as he looked around there was no one to be found. Wilson screamed and threw his typewriter to pieces. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”, he cried, more to himself that to anyone else. No one answered. Again something appeared to be missing, but Wilson couldn’t be buggered. Like a maniac he drove away on his bike. Never to return again.

The traveler became a drifter. Always on the run from nothing, towards nothing. Time lost its concept to Wilson. Every day seemed to go on forever and the nights were so short that there was barely time to sleep. There were only two sounds to be heard on the entire earth. One being the wind blowing through the sky, the other being the sound of Wilson’s bike. Years passed by, but Wilson hardly noticed. He kept drifting, his insanity being his sole companion.

One day Wilson rode into a city, not knowing he had reached his final destination. He rode through the streets looking for a spot to rest when all of the sudden his bike broke down. At first he thought it was in need of petrol, but after a while he realized that it had just died. The bike was all he knew. He didn’t knew how he came to have it, all he knew was that it was his. He stepped off of it and started kicking the machine. “You goddamn piece of s**t!”, he screamed. His voice sounded raw, hoarse and betrayed the tiredness inside of him. He sighed, from now on he’d have to make it on foot. As night started to fall he made his way through the deserted city. He passed a bridge and for a moment he felt a weird sense of recognition. He blamed it on his lunacy. He walked a couple of streets farther until it became too dark to see. He would have to find a place to spend the night. He broke into a house by smashing in a window and made his way inside. It was pitch dark inside, but he had candles and some matches with him to solve that. He found himself in a small kitchen. This time he was certain, he had been here before. His heart skipped a beat and he started shaking. He felt ill at ease. How could this be? He grabbed a candle and made his way through the house. When he entered the bedroom it all came rushing back. Memories of a girl from long ago. He remembered laying on the bed, the same as the one he stood next to now. He remembered as if it was yesterday. The golden rays of the sun shining through the window, falling upon her sleeping face, bouncing of her golden locks. Where had she gone? Where had she been all this time? As he tried envisioning her opening her eyes and greeting him with an enchanting smile, he heard the door close behind him. A sudden gust of wind blew out his candle. he wasn't the least bit startled when a soft voice spoke from behind him. “So you’ve finally figured out what was missing this whole time, have you?”, she asked. “I have”, he answered, he had never sounded more tired. “Come back to bed, honey”, she requested. “Okay.” Wilson climbed into the bed. He had finally found his peace. “I missed you,” he whispered, “you have no idea.” He closed his eyes, never to open them again.