The Rocker
by
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He drove on, hour after hour, until it was close to midnight and the final stretch of road lay ahead, close to a hundred miles straight across the most desolate part of the desert. As was his habit, born of long years living in the region and the practical part of his nature, he scanned the instrument panel of the car, well aware that there would be no services nor support in the miles ahead. It was then that he noticed it, a rhythmic pulsing of the volt meter needle. A bad gauge? A normal fluctuation due to the heat of the engine being enveloped in the rapidly cooling night air? Nothing to worry about. Once more he glanced over at her, immediately noticing the pale sheen of her skin glowing softly in the diffuse illumination from the dashboard lights. Perhaps a failing voltage regulator or a loose connection somewhere in the wiring harness? Could the alternator itself be failing, sending a signal through the gauge that its mechanical life was near ending? Ahead, just at the edge of the last foothill before the featureless flatness of the desert floor stretched into a formless void, he could see the green glow of a neon light. What was it -- he pulled at his memory, trying to recall this section of the highway. Even as he reached down and disengaged the car’s cruise control, he remembered. Yes, there it was, a tiny motel, far enough from the edge of the road that it would have been lost except for the fluorescent glow of charged glass tubes outlining a ten foot high plywood sign. Shaped like its namesake, the most well known flora of the desert, it proudly, if somewhat tiredly proclaimed, "The Cactus Motel." Making the decision quickly, a trait required of his profession, he carefully steered the car from the highway, passed under the plant which he could now hear merrily buzzing its electric tune into the still night air, and pulled to a stop in front of the motel’s office. Shutting off the motor, he glanced back at the sign and then down the length of the one story adobe structure. He remembered this place, now, but couldn’t for the life of him recall why. Had he ever been here, or was it familiar simply because he’d passed it so many times while heading out of state on his frequent inspection tours? Why did it seem so --"
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About the Book
In a time and place far distant, Patrick’s childhood friends would often be heard to say, "Someday, Patrick will be a writer." Then, as if in an endless dream, years passed and his life became complicated with the complexities and concerns which had been incomprehensible to those tiny children. He stopped writing. It wasn’t that his imagination ceased to produce poems and stories -- rather, it was that from his pen came only checks and lists and notes and papers, and little else. He blames nobody, of this he is oft heard making perfectly clear. What happened wasn’t a consequence of error or fault, but, as near as he can determine, was, and is, simply the way things sometimes happen. But, while he didn’t write much, all this time he was still a writer; and, after a process that many who have lived it would rather forget, the visions that played out across his mind once again he began to put to paper. Patrick knows his own courage, and is not so modest as to deny its importance. But he also knows that this, his first book, is in great part the result of a voice from his youth -- sweet words that had long faded from his tired ears -- the serendipitous song of a friend that came to him, came back to him, "Patrick, you’re a writer -- you’re a writer -- you’re a writer --" What is this book about? Ah -- Patrick has taken his risks, now it’s your turn. But, if you’re willing, and you do, Patrick hopes that you will find yourself as happy as he that he listened.
About the Author
Patrick L. Groleau currently resides in central Maine, where he divides his time between helping his students learn about American History, having fun with his two daughters, and trying to figure out the next part of his life.