As a rule, I don’t work during the summer. Rather, since I’ve been a teacher I’ve spent every single one of my summers exploring, with great effort and personal risk, a myriad of distant lands known for their sublime landscapes, cheap beer and dangerous women.
But deep down I know as we all do, that a man can only concern himself with such trivial pursuits for so long. Eventually he has to get to work, take control, lay a foundation, and with his own two bare hands, build the life that he wants to have.
I’m in my thirties now. So I decided that this summer it was time to stop being the oldest guy in the hostel and start hammering some fucking nails instead. Because while my current career may be “noble” and “brave”, what a lot of people don’t realize is that it also “sucks” and is “pathetic”.
Let’s be real, there is no way I can do this shit forever. I was supposed to be great. And trust me, I mean “great” in the shallowest way, not to become some anonymous martyr in an unmarked grave.
So after six summers in a row of bullshittin’ around the world, only getting myself stuck deeper in this mess I call my life, this seventh summer would be the summer of the Great Escape. No more ignoring the obvious. I have to leave this place, and not just during vacations or in my imagination. I have to get out for real.
So how do I do that? I smuggle a spoon out of the mess hall, loosen a floorboard, and start friggin’ diggin’ of course. And then I keep digging until I get to the light, to my new life – a life like other people have. People who don’t have to live paycheck to paycheck. People who know how to dress good. People who get flown to London on the company dime. People whose job descriptions include attending cocktail parties with beautiful women. People with a plan.
So here’s my plan: Write a Great Book.
That’s right. Watch out Sapphire. The blockbuster movie “Burned Clean: Based on the Novel ‘Between the Bells’ by The Pistol” is coming at you like a fucking bullet.
It’s quite a simple plan, really. After work, during vacations, and on weekends I’ll dig my way out one spoonful at a time, secretly dumping each little pile of dirt in the exercise yard until my tunnel is complete. And then, when the light comes flooding through the prison wall, I’ll make my swift and decisive exit.
THAT is the plan.
Here’s what the plan is NOT: Get Drunk Every Single Day of Summer Vacation and Party My Way Down the Coast of Colombia.
Alas though, I never was much of a planner…