The epic tale of Tour de Family was five years in the making: breakdown, alcohol, illness, outcast, tragedy, ruin, all leading up to what was to be the final chapter: the triumphant journey home. After a lifetime of us each struggling with inner demons that refused to be slayed, we would reunite to collectively discover our inner
St. George, or our inner
David, or something that would make it all right. The power, we would come to learn, lay in a family united, and together, as one, we would leave our fractured lives behind and move forward with homogenous resolve. We would help each other out, we would support each other, and we would discover in each other all the good things that so many years apart had left unrealized. The music would swell, tissues would discreetly appear, and whispers of
Oscar would buzz.
What the fuck was I thinking? My family wavered between extinct provincialism, supreme ignorance, and hating me. My tragedy was a black comedy, and we all know Oscar doesn't embrace the comedy, not even one as true as mine. Two weeks into Tour de Family and I was screwed. After five years struggling with too many woes I was coming to terms with the reality of my place in the world, and that reality would not have its Hollywood ending. Nor would it include my family.
I got on the train in Trenton and I watched clouds out the window.
(Actual clouds from actual train to NY.)
(editor's note: after posting this I went home, opened the book I was reading, and read this:)
