Jenner comes to us as in a dream, a beautiful wide spot in the road held softly by the Russian River and Pacific Ocean. A sign tells us that the population is less than 150 – 136 to be exact – and we feel a perceptible shift when we hit its town limits.
“It’s different
here,” Rob says, and I agree, though I’m not sure why I agree, because at first
I don’t feel anything, but that quickly changes. Soon I understand. The air
here is cleaner, quieter. There is a certain slowness here, the pace endemic to
small towns where you can call Information, ask for Buck, and not need to offer
a last name.
When I roll
through places like this, part of me wants to pull up stakes at home and move.
Totally change my life, my existence, my everyday. Come to a place where
anonymity is just a listing in the dictionary, where they know where you are.
You’re held hard by the tininess of the place. Your license plate, memorized.
“You’d hate it,” Rob
says now.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Like you had to?”
Marriage, too, is
a bit of a small town. You can’t hide in this universe, can’t duck or dive. You
can keep secrets, but they will be detected. Just give it time.
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