The Summer I Left

it was the one thing none of us ever understood about davis. he'd be sitting on the sloping porch of the old dusty schoolhouse where he lived, picking out notes on his guitar, a joint pinched just tightly enough under a string at the headstock. no one ever actually saw davis smoke, but something in the deep brown pools of his eyes confirmed it for us all. i don't need anymore than this right here, he would say in his soft, ragged voice. it was easy for all of us to agree with him. the material life was not for us. but i think we all knew on those hot autumn days as we sprawled out under his slanted awning that while it was nice for now, we were never really content. i knew that if one of the stories i scrawled out in my red, leather-bound binder caught the eye of an editor, i would move out to hollywood and rent a cramped apartment and seclude myself, living away the paycheck, hoping to work together another story that would sell. but davis meant what he said. we could see it in the way the corners of his eyes and mouth would crinkle and hear it in the way his voice would drop, almost inaudible, when he said he didn't need anything but his guitar and a mellow breeze on a warm afternoon.