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The burner phone is a necessity when going off the grid. Connections
are hard to keep. Use public
transportation. Don’t use a Fast-Pass or subway card that’s linked to you. No
picture identification. Craving that Mojito or the morning coffee? Reacher
enjoys it in a ceramic cup not Styrofoam. Pay cash, tip well—but not so well
that you make an impression. Flirting with the waitress, maybe. Relationships
are a problem. Unless it’s with another escapee. These sometimes work out. More
often than not they’re a double agent and will flip you.
Oh, for elbow room. City living is stifling. Permanent
residence worked well for Michael and Fiona. An upstairs warehouse if you have
the skills to transform it. Here’s the thing; you can’t escape you. Noir and
novel tell us we can’t leave that guy behind.
Deep undercover, deep in the woods, what drove you then
drives you now. The poets got to publish, the conservator needs a canvas. Memory;
the girl, the disaster, detonation, dad—so hard to outrun. Out run you must.
They’ll come for you or you’ll reach out and save some. No more Muirs and
Appleseeds.
A relentless rigor is required. Sixth sense, gut guided IQ,
the way you interact with art, with people. Captivity keeps you from
connecting. Thoreau took trips into the village of Concord while at Walden. Perhaps
its wiser to establish levels; deep in the wild in the Dakotas and into town
bi-weekly. Maybe messengers visit with news, money and grub. How hard to draw those
lines?
Solo and still you bring all your baggage. Mental health can
deteriorate in quarantine. Can it be done with dogged discipline? Then comes
the knock on the door or the encounter on the street. You step in and offer
help. Your certain-set-of-skills and sense of right and wrong call you out. Saving
society sucks you back in. The cycle starts again.
