justwrite 30 november

It takes Rob a long time to get home. That is, he takes the long way home on purpose. The way that he takes is so long that no one would ever describe it as the way home, in fact.
He’s driving away from Maya’s house, from Maya. He’s thinking without thinking, listening to the radio in that beautiful way where you feel the music without even having to recognize the song, the artist, the anything specific. It’s loud, and it’s good.
Summer’s gold in the air, green in the trees. Rich colors and smells haze gently through the view: parks with miles of ongoing walk-taking, snug little brick houses getting ready for dinner, wide roads roping through the neighborhoods of bike-riders and stroller-striders. He sees people he knows. He sees houses that have changed since he was little, and he knows what’s changed. Farther out, there are used-to-be fields, switched now into strip malls and grocery stores. Here are farms, there are orchards. He knows what grows, where to buy it. “I have traveled extensively in Concord,” said Henry David Thoreau. This is true for Rob, though he does not live in Concord.
He keeps driving, heading nowhere. He ends up at the library. It’s a good place to go anytime, of course, but especially if you’re looking for answers. Is he looking for answers? Not really, but it wouldn’t hurt to find some.
I think the same is true for all of us. I’m just saying.
When he picks up his wallet from the passenger seat, he sees the harmonica. More accurately, he sees the light blue plastic bag in which the harmonica is wrapped. Picking up the bag, he flips it upside down to let the harmonica slide out into his hand, studying it closely for the first time. It’s a comfortable weight, smooth, and nearly irresistible. Somewhere between the red and silver shine there lurks some sort of magnetic power. Surely it can’t be too hard to play such an instrument, right? He glances around the parking lot, sees no one. Worth a try.
It’s a little harder than it looks, as it turns out.
A little red in the face, he picks up his wallet, pops the harmonica into his back pocket, and heads into the library.

It turns out that there are exactly no books in the library about how to play the harmonica. However, in Jonestown, there’s one, and if he’d like, the librarian will order it for him. She’s got a terrific smile, flashing bright with braces and the whitest, straightest teeth he’s ever seen.
He would like.