The Curse of Relief

The Persistent, Poisonous Hope of Seeing the Landing Before the Fall

There's a razor's edge where survival becomes indistinguishable from dying—where the roar of adrenaline feels the same as your body shutting down. I lived on that edge so long it became home: a frost-bitten purgatory, all flickering neon and empty parking lots, where I was both the only guest and the night clerk who'd forgotten to leave. But there were moments—tiny, slivered breaks in the chaos—that kept me from disappearing completely, that made the asphalt under my tires seem less like the path to hell and more like a twisted lifeline.

One night—maybe my hundredth drive down from the San Luis Valley—I tore down the empty "Alien" highway while the Sangre de Cristo mountains loomed judgment in my rearview. Buzzed electric. Heart syncopated with success. A quarter million in street value tucked into giant duffels like sleeping giants above and behind me. My chest swelled with the poisoned pride of a man who'd outwitted his own executioner. Again.

The high beams carved sharp white streaks through darkness, catching glowing eyes scattered throughout the sagebrush. Unblinking. Watching. Coyotes? Rattlesnakes? Ghosts of bootleggers who ran this route before me and never made it home? Who the fuck knows.

It was somewhere outside of Trinidad when reality shattered with the eruption of red and blue lights behind me, a lightning strike of terror splitting my false confidence wide open. My fingers clenched the wheel, and for a full thirty seconds, I considered flooring it. Just a tap, a solid burst on the pedal, and I'd be streaking through the night with every cop in the county nipping at my bumper. But there was only the open road and the memory of every failed plan I'd ever had hissing in my ears like a warning.

I acquiesced.

Heart hammering hard. Ten-and-two position. Hands slick with cold sweat. Copper tang flooding my mouth. I wiped my palms on denim thighs gone numb.

The officer—Christ, his slowness was deliberate torture—the car door creaking open like some Halloween haunted house effect. Each footstep in my direction a drumbeat of doom. His flashlight sliced through dark, catching dust motes, turning them to constellations between us. I thought about all those movie lines: "Play it cool. Don't act suspicious." But when $250,000 worth of product sleeps behind you, "cool" evaporates faster than spit on hot asphalt.

"License and registration." His voice—flat, bored, terrifyingly ordinary—made me think maybe—just maybe—he didn't know he was staring at a potential jackpot of contraband. I handed him the papers with a hand so steady I almost impressed myself, and when he shone the light through the back window, it hit the tarp-covered duffels but didn't linger. I held my breath, lungs burning, and waited for the 'step out of the vehicle' that never came.

"Tail light's out. Get it fixed." And just like that, my world un-ended—he retreated to his cruiser, taillights shrinking into darkness, leaving me marooned on the side of the road with my heart pounding like it was trying to escape through my ribs. Salvation in a tail light. A near escape tucked inside a forgettable roadside warning.

The near escapes weren't always solo ventures.

Chico. Kids and our massive Great Pyrenees crammed in the Traverse when apocalypse descended. California fire season—hell's anteroom. 105 degrees. My SUV's temperature gauge inching redward with each Sierra Nevada climb. AC? A luxury we couldn't afford. Not with that engine heat. Windows down instead. Blast furnace air rushing in. My son's cheeks flushed crimson flags of warning. My daughter's hair sweat-plastered to her forehead. The dog's tongue unfurled like some desperate pink carpet across the back seat.

All while the duffels stayed hidden, while I played the role of Dad on a road trip adventure, silently cursing myself for bringing them into danger—both from the environment and from my choices. Each time the engine temperature spiked, my stomach knotted tighter. If we broke down on those remote stretches, with no cell service and that goddamn contraband...

When we finally limped into a rest stop in Weed, California—God's own black joke of a town name—night had fallen. We collapsed. Sleep came like death.

Morning broke alien. Ash snowfall. Orange-red skies like Mars. Twenty-foot visibility. WARNING: RATTLESNAKES signs every ten steps. Breathing felt like sucking wet smoke through a straw.

Yet.

My kids' eyes widened at the otherworldly hellscape, and I felt that twisted cocktail of emotions surge through me—guilt (these children, my endangered cargo) tangled with pride (look what they're seeing, what they'll remember) with sick relief (another night, another load, untouched, undetected, still mine).

These moments of salvation were their own kind of torture—reminders that I was still alive when part of me had already expected to be dead or jailed. Each escape was both relief and curse: evidence that I was special enough to survive, but never quite special enough to learn the lesson.

There were other moments—too many and never enough. Natasha's voice on the phone, half-scolding, half-pleading, telling me to come back in one piece. The kids laughing at something I'd said when I showed up with road souvenirs and a cracked smile. The weight of Moonbeam's handshake when I walked away from another haul, my chest puffed out like I'd conquered something only I could see. These were my respites, my absurd little miracles, patches of sunlight breaking through the storm clouds before I rolled straight into the next squall.

Salvation?

Maybe.

Or maybe just more near misses in a life becoming one long, drawn-out "almost." But out there, on that edge, every near miss crystallizes into victory—proof that even teetering on ruin's precipice, you're still standing.

And as long as you're standing?

You keep going. Blind to the cliff ahead. Deaf to the warnings behind. Fueled by that persistent, poisonous hope that this time—this time—you'll see the landing before the fall.