Into the Wild

Mom!

Mom! Help me.

What is it?

I wasn't dreaming, Walt. I didn't imagine it.

I heard him. I heard him. I heard him. I heard Chris.

-I heard him! -I know.

No. I wasn't imagining it, Walt.

No, I did. He's... He's...

-I heard him! -Billie.

That's about as far as I can get you.

All right. Thank you.

-You left all your shit on my dash. -Keep it.

Suit yourself.

Thanks again.

Hey, hold on a minute.

Here, take these. They'll keep your feet dry.

If you make it out alive, give me a call. My number's inside the boots.

Thanks.

Hello?

Is there anybody here?

Guess not!

Two years he walks the earth.

No phone, no pool, no pets,

no cigarettes.

Ultimate freedom.

An extremist. An aesthetic voyager

whose home is the road.

"Hey, listen, old man. Now, don't psychoanalyze me, all right?

"Shut up. I'm taking you out to where we're going."

"Where you going?"

"I told you. We're going nowhere!"

So now, after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure.

The climactic battle to kill

the false being within

and victoriously conclude the spiritual revolution.

No longer to be poisoned by civilization, he flees,

and walks alone upon the land to become

lost in the wild.

...hard work and manifold contributions to our community during their time here,

we salute you and offer all of you

one more round of applause and congratulations.

Nina Lynn Lockwynn.

Vanessa Denise Lowery.

Christopher Johnson McCandless.

Regina Victoria McNabb.

I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges.

I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch,

the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head.

I see my mother with a few light books at her hip,

standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the wrought-iron gates

still open behind her, its sword-tips black in the May air.

They are about to graduate.

They are about to get married. They are kids. They are dumb.

All they know is they are innocent, they would never hurt anybody.

I want to go up to them and say, "Stop, don't do it.

"She's the wrong woman, he's the wrong man.

"You are going to do things you cannot imagine you would ever do.

"You are going to do bad things to children.

"You are going to suffer in ways you never heard of.

"You are going to want to die."

I want to go up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it.

But I don't do it. I want to live.

I take them up like the male and female paper dolls, and bang them together

at the hips like chips of flint, as if to strike sparks from them. I say,

"Do what you are going to do and I will tell about it."

Here they are, Walt. Okay?

Who wrote that?

Well, could have been either one of us, couldn't it?

Why is he letting Carine drive his car?

There's a lot of great poems in here.

I have to speak to her about it.

Sit down.

Excuse me. I'm going to get my son.

He just graduated today from Emory College.

I'll get it. I'll get it.

Chris, hi! We've been waiting and waiting.

You scared me half to death jumping up there on that stage like that.

-Hi, Dad. -Congratulations, Son.

-This is a big step. -Thank you, Dad.

All right.

You're not supposed to be driving in Georgia.

You're not supposed to be driving in Georgia.

Why? I have my permit.

'Cause it's against the law for a learner's permit

to drive in another state from one's home state. That's why.

I didn't know that. I thought that if I was with a legal driver that it'd be okay.

Well, let's...

-Are they going to continue? -No.

I guess everybody's celebrating today.

-They're going to stay in the bar, right? -That's right.

My grades are good enough, I think, to get into Harvard Law.

Chris, that's wonderful.

That is a big deal.

How much do you have left in the college fund?

Exactly $24,500.68.

Well, that's specific.

I had to go to the bank this morning, Mom.

Your mother and I will be glad to contribute the balance for Harvard.

That's right.

I've got to figure out what I'm going to do.

I've got a lot of things to pack and organize here first.

Your father and I, we want to make a present to you.

We want to get you out of that junker.

What junker?

That.

-We want to buy you a new car. -That's right.

A new car?

Why would I want a new car?

Datsun runs great.

Do you think I want some fancy boat?

Are you worried what the neighbors might think?

Well, we weren't gonna get you a brand new Cadillac, Chris.

We just want to get you a nice new car that's safe to drive.

And you never know when that thing out there just might blow up.

Blow up. Blow up? Are you guys crazy? It's a great car.

I don't need a new car. I don't want a new car.

-I don't want anything. -Okay.

-These things, things, things, things. -Okay.

-Everything has to be difficult. -Thank you.

-Thank you. -Maybe that's not what he means.

Maybe he just wants his old car. It's not such a big deal.

Thank you. I just don't want anything.

Chris measured himself and those around him

by a fiercely rigorous moral code.

Bye, Chris!

He risked what could have been a relentlessly lonely path

but found company in the characters of the books he loved

from writers like Tolstoy, Jack London and Thoreau.

He could summon their words to suit any occasion,

and he often would.

I forgot to ask what quote he'd have picked for his graduation dinner,

but I had a good idea of who the primary target would be.

It was inevitable that Chris would break away.

And when he did, he would do it with characteristic immoderation.

"It should not be denied that being footloose has always exhilarated us.

"It is associated in our minds with escape

"from history and oppression and law and irksome obligations.

"Absolute freedom.

"And the road has always led west."

I need a name.

Toward the end of June,

Emory had mailed our parents Chris' final grade report.

Almost all A's.

A in Apartheid in South African Society.

A-minus in Contemporary African Politics and the Food Crisis in Africa.

And on it went. Clever boy, my brother.

But by the end of July, we hadn't heard anything from him

and my parents were becoming unsettled.

Chris had never had a phone,

so they decided to drive down to Atlanta and surprise him.

When they arrived at the apartment, there was a "For Rent" sign up

and the manager said that Chris had moved out at the end of May.

Oh, yes. He left two months ago.

So when they got home,

I had to hand them all the letters that they had sent Chris that summer,

which had been returned in a bundle.

Chris had arranged for the post office to hold them until August 1st,

to buy himself some time.

Did you know about this?

He didn't say anything.

I understood what he was doing. That he had spent four years

fulfilling the absurd and tedious duty of graduating from college,

and now he was emancipated from that world of abstraction,

false security, parents and material excess,

the things that cut Chris off from the truth of his existence.

Hey!

-Hey, man. Step around. Jump in. -Okay, great.

We barely saw you there underneath that crazy hat of yours.

This door's a little tricky. There you go. Hop in.

That's Rainey.

-Hi, Rainey. -Yeah, I'm Rainey.

-I'm Jan. -Hi. I'm Alex.

Alex with the hat on.

-Yeah, I know. You said it, man. -Yeah.

So you're a leather now.

I'm a leather?

Yeah, a leather tramp. That's what they call the ones that hoof it, go on foot.

Technically we're rubber tramps.

Because we have a vehicle.

-You don't have to push me away. -Come on, please?

Yeah, Alex could have a vehicle as well, but he decided to burn all of his money.

And why did you do that?

I don't need money. Makes people cautious.

Come on, Alex. You gotta be a little cautious.

I mean, that book of yours is cool and everything,

but you can't depend entirely on leaves and berries.

I don't know if you want to depend on much more than that.

Where are your mom and dad?

Living their lies somewhere.

You look like a loved kid. Be fair.

Fair?

You know what I mean.

I'll paraphrase Thoreau here.

"Rather than love, than money, than faith,

"than fame, than fairness,

"give me truth."

From as long ago as Chris and I could remember,

there have been daily bouts of rage in our house.

Violence that we were forced to witness. It was very real.

But it was also like theater.