19A and B must be mother and daughter, a beautiful Hispanic duo. They’re asleep on each other, and it’s actually kind of adorable. So okay, they’re fine.
And . . . blimey, 17C is good-looking. How did I not notice him before? I pass him on my left, careful not to stare. He looks like that guy in Across the Universe. (Gah, what is his name?) Suddenly, my beloved Goodwill shoes and favorite red hoodie seem an odd choice. Certainly, they aren’t my most flattering articles of clothing. My jeans are fine I suppose, albeit a little bloody at the knee. But yeah, the hoodie—hmm. I should’ve put on Mom’s old Zeppelin tee this morning, tight in all the right places. At the very least, I could’ve—
What the hell?
Having reached my seat, I remain standing, frozen to the spot. A paper bag—brown, thin, square—is propped next to my backpack. I sit down, pick up the bag, and immediately know what’s inside. I’ve purchased enough vinyl to know a record when I’m holding one.
Talking Heads’ Remain in Light.
Near mint condition.
Every ounce of blood rushes to my face as this sets in. I raise my head just enough to peer over the top of the seat in front of me.
And there he is.
The perverted-troll-of-a-loafer-strutting-poncho-wearing-motherfucker himself, six rows up, smiling like a hyena.
In the movie of my life, I crack the record in two, open the window, and toss the pieces to the side of the highway. But as the Greyhound windows don’t open, I have to settle for the first part. It’s a shame, because Mom loves all things David Byrne, but I won’t have any piece of Poncho Man sully our time together. I pull the vinyl from the sleeve and crack it in two.
The hyena isn’t smiling now.
Collapsing in my seat, I breathe, think, adjust. It’s possible he’s not following me. We probably just have similar routes. So what, then, I avoid going to the bathroom? Spend the rest of the ride looking over my shoulder? It’s not too late to turn him in, though I would still be sacrificing my Objective.
Think, Malone.
I toss the remains of the record in the seat next to me. Outside, the afternoon sky passes in a blur. I stare at it with my good eye and wonder . . . I have money. I have brains. I have a fount of intuition.
So intuit, already.
I pull out the itinerary that came with my ticket. Next official stop: Cincinnati.
Options.
I could get a cab. Or . . . hitchhike.
Boom.
Yes. What better way to get to Mom, she of the European hitchhiker’s guild?
Ditch the bus.
I pull the bag of chips from my backpack. They’re warm and crisp, and by the time I open the bag, I’ve made up my mind.
I want out. Of all of it: the random stops, the strange smells, the uncomfortable nearness of Poncho Man. I’ll ditch the bus in Cincinnati. At least I’ll be in the right state. Really, there’s no downside, except . . .
Munching, I twist in my seat and peer around the edge.
Crunch.
17C is three rows behind me, across the aisle, pressing a digital camera against his window.
Crunch.
He’s older than me, probably early twenties, so it’s not completely out of the question—us getting married and traveling the world over, I mean. Right now, a five-year difference might seem like a lot, but once he’s fifty-four and I’m forty-nine, well shoot, that’s nothing.
Crunch.
There’s a quality about him, something like a movie star, but not quite. Like he could be Hollywood if it weren’t for his humanitarian efforts, or his volunteer work, or his clean conscience, no doubt filled to the brim with truth, integrity, and a heart for the homeless.
Crunch.
He has longish brown hair and beautiful dark green eyes. His stubbly beard isn’t preteen-ish, it’s I-don’t-know-what . . . rugged, yes, but not only. It’s the stuff of hunters and builders. And carpenters. It suggests outdoorsy intelligence. It’s desert-fucking-island stubble, is what it is.
Crunch.
A navy zip-up Patagonia fits perfectly, wrapped around his upper torso like a . . . well, like something. His shoulders aren’t broad nor are they narrow; his jeans aren’t skinny nor are they loose; his boots aren’t clean nor are they dirty.
17C is just the right amount of himself.
He is my perfect anomaly.
Crunch.
Apparently done taking pictures, he dismantles his camera, stows it under his seat, and pulls out a book. Between the hair, boots, jacket, and camera, he’s really working the Pacific Northwest, pre-hipster, post-grunge thing, which I have to say, I just love. Squinting, I try to see what book he’s reading, though I don’t suppose it would really—
Shit.
I jerk back in my seat. Did he see me? I think he saw me.
Crunch.
I need to keep my head in the game anyway . . .
Crunch. (Those eyes.)
. . . if I’m going to see this new plan through.
Crunch. (That hair.)
We’ll be in Cincinnati before you know it.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
I tip the bag of crumbs, aiming for my mouth but hitting my hair and face instead. Thank God for the high seat backs.
INDEPENDENCE, KENTUCKY
(278 Miles to Go)
14
Grammatical Shenanigans
“HOW MANY SCOOPS do you want?”
I stare through the glass at the dozen or so tubs of ice cream. “How many can I have?”
“Umm. As many as you want.”
“Ha, right, okay. Well, here’s the thing”—I look at her name tag—“Glenda. How many scoops I want might kill me. Like, actually, kill me dead. Plus, I don’t really feel like breaking records in this category. So . . . what’s the current scoop record again?”
Glenda sighs. “Seven.”
Jackpot.
Even though Cincinnati is something like twenty minutes away, our driver (whose name I’ve already forgotten, but I assure you is the very opposite of Carl) insisted on stopping for pie. That’s right. Pie. Over the microphone, he’d announced that Jane’s Diner had the best pie this side of the Mighty Mississippi, and that he’d be a monkey’s uncle if he was gonna pass right by without helping himself to a slice, and that if we knew what was good for us, we’d help ourselves to a slice, too, and that we’d surely be thanking him later.
Naturally, I decided never to eat pie again. As luck would have it, across the street from Jane’s was this little place called—I kid you not—Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus. I could not resist. (And really, why would I want to?)
Glenda scoops, I pay, and a few minutes later, I carry my double-chocolate-espresso-chip-raspberry-mint-caramel-lemon waffle cone across the street, the happiest girl this side of the mighty effing Pacific.
A patrol car is flashing lights in the parking lot of Jane’s Diner. There doesn’t seem to be any commotion, but a cop is giving someone a stern talking-to in the back seat.
I lean against the bus and watch my fellow passengers through the window of Jane’s Diner. It’s one of those trailers without wheels, which I never really understood.
Removing a vehicle’s wheels in order to make it a stationary venue makes about as much sense as buying a bed, then using the wood to make a chair. But this isn’t what bugs me most about Jane’s Diner. What bugs me most is the sign on the front door.
“COME ON IN,” WE’RE OPEN
I chuckle mid-lick. People just can’t help themselves when it comes to quotation marks. As if they’re completely paralyzed by this particular punctuation. I guess it’s really not that big of a deal, but it does seem to be a widespread brand of easily avoidable buffoonery.
Through the window, I scan the crowd for Poncho Man, but I don’t see him anywhere. No matter.
In less than an hour, it’s adios anyway.
“I done knowed that, Purje. You ain’t listenin’.”
A couple wearing matching cowboy hats exits Jane’s Diner, their voices covering serious ground.
“I am too, darlin’, but iffin’ you cain’t getter done here in Independence, you cain’t getter done nowheres.”
I choke on a tart lick of lemon.
“Ahhhhh, sheetfahr, Purje, jus’ shut up and listen fer a sec.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Did you say Independence?”
They look at me as if they’d just as soon shoot me. A wad of tobacco comes flying out of the man’s mouth, landing inches from my precious high-tops.
Enchanté, Purje.
“So what’f we did?”
Oh my God, they did. I’m here. Home of Ahab, Arlene’s nephew, the champion swimmer turned gas station tycoon. Across the overpass, there’re at least four gas stations—it could be any one of them.
“Listen,” says the one called Purje, “this here’s one o’th’great frontier towns in all ’merica. I’ll kiss a monkey’s ass ’for I’ll listen to ya denigratin’ Independence.”
I take a second to appreciate the fact that this man can’t pronounce America but knows the word denigrate. The woman sticks her right hand in her vest pocket, and for a minute, I’m legitimately afraid she’s packing heat. Instead of a gun, she pulls out a flask, takes a long swig, passes it to Purje.
“Of course not, sir. I would never. Independence seems like a charming little town. I just . . .”
The land of autonomy.
“You jus’?” says Purje, eyeballing me.
From the relative comfort of my bus seat, the decision to ditch the Greyhound had been a fairly easy one, the prospect of hitchhiking to Cleveland sounded downright adventurous. But gazing around rural Kentucky, the realities of my plan settle in my stomach like a brick.
“Th’ hell’s wrong with her, Purje?” whispers the woman.
Purje shakes his head.
I toss the rest of my ice-cream cone on the ground and start toward the bus door. “Thanks, guys. Keep it classy.”
Hopping up the steps, I picture Arlene—a grande dame from the old school, mistress of geriatric panache, and my friend—clutching that wooden box for dear life. And a dear life it was. Now I have the opportunity to deliver that box, to finish what she started, to honor her dear life.
I have the chance to complete Arlene’s Objective.
And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna take it.
I grab my backpack from the overhead compartment and start back down the aisle, when a voice stops me on a dime.
“You skipping out?”
At the top of the stairs, I turn and see 17C (heart be still) propped on his knees in a seat toward the back of the otherwise empty bus. He’s holding his camera next to the window; it’s obvious I’ve interrupted some kind of photo shoot.
“What?” I whisper, suddenly wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, cutting my own hair.
“I asked if you were skipping out,” he said.
I step into the aisle, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. It’s a simple question requiring a simple answer, but for the moment, my tongue seems vacuum-sealed to the roof of my mouth. I’m pretty certain I need a nose job, and my armpits itch, which—what the hell?
Pull it together, Malone.
I nod and smile, and he nods and sort of half smiles, and oh God, if that’s only half the smile, I can’t imagine the whole one. He has a black eye, which I hadn’t noticed before. Even with the shiner though, the eyes are a warm green—bright, stunning, unforgettable. His eyebrows are thick. Not bushy, just thick, as if they were drawn using the broad side of a marker.
“Well, good luck,” he says.
Outside, the cop car is in his direct line of vision. He follows my eyes, then blushes and puts the cap back on the lens.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good luck to you, too.”
He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and whispers, “Thanks.” Then, almost in a breath, “I’m gonna need it.”
In the movie of my life, I have scenes and dialogue, rather than experiences and discussions. Instead of friends, a cast; instead of places, a setting. At this moment—a definite movie moment—I blink in slow motion. The camera zooms in on my eyes as I drink in the enigmatic 17C. The audience sits in silent wonder, a combination of hope, sadness, and wistful longing for romance stirring in their bellies. Alas, the girl is leaving, and the boy is staying, and ’twas always thus. The likelihood of their stories intertwining again doesn’t make for a very believable plot. Though I suppose that depends on a person’s definition of believable.
From a thousand metaphorical miles away, a sweet voice rings in my ears. You’d be surprised what I believe these days.
Channeling the faith of Arlene—and with her precious wooden box strapped to my back—I step off the bus. More than anything, I want to be with Mom right now. Whatever her sickness is, she needs me desperately, and I know this. But all my favorite movies have one thing in common: a singular moment in which you can feel the director telling his character’s story as well as his own. It is beautiful, poignant, and appallingly rare.
I don’t know what’s in this box, but I am part of its story, as it is part of mine.
Making my way back across the street, I consider the role of 17C in my movie. It’s a hard sell, our characters meeting again. But I won’t count it out just yet. Because there’s nothing I hate more than a predictable ending.
15
Effing Attitude
“GOING FOR NUMBER eight?”
I smile, but it fools no one. “Good one, Glenda. Seriously though, how have you been?” How have you been? My problem is, I never know what to say to people. I clear my throat and press on. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find a gas station owned by a guy named Ahab.”
Glenda leans behind the counter, reappears with a spoon.
“I know it’s a strange question,” I say, “but it’s important.”
Dipping her spoon into a vat of cookie dough ice cream, she comes up with a generous scoop. I give her a second, thinking she’s thinking. She’s not, as it turns out. What she is doing is eating the ice cream with orgasmic vigor.
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. “S’pretty good, yeah?”
Glenda smacks her lips. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Unless you’re talking about Moby-Dick.”
I imagine myself scrambling over the vat of cookie dough, grabbing her by those split ends, and shoving her face in the tub of ice cream. It could be my thing, what I’m known for: a Mim-swirly. Staring at Glenda’s self-satisfied expression, I choose to murder her with kindness instead. I raise both hands and put air quotes around my next three words. “Thank you, Glenda.”
Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus is within walking distance of all four gas stations. They’re in a little cluster on the other side of the overpass—my best bet at finding Ahab. I grip my backpack and walk across the bridge. Every time a car zooms underneath, the whole thing wobbles a few inches, and here are the things I imagine: the road crumbling under my feet; the bridge caving in as I fall to the highway below; a chunk of cement crushing my head; a monstrous cloud of debris like the videos from nine-eleven . . .
WTF, Malone.
I need to cheer the hell up. I should do whatever happy people do when they’re being happy.
I try whistling.
Nick Drake.
Impossible, as it turns out. I might as well be tap dancing to the theme from Jaws. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I’ve always thought Nick and I would have gotten along so well. I bet he had zero patience for the kind of thing where someone just oozed their good mood all over the place. (RIP, Nick. RIP.) For the rest of the walk, I strike the perfect balance bet
ween happy and miserable, which is, surprisingly, a narrow margin.
The nearest gas station has a sign out front that’s so faded, I can’t tell if it’s a BP or a Shell or a Marathon or what. Probably something preposterous like Ed’s Place. God, I bet that’s exactly what this is. Like a Saharan cactus, a dusty pay phone stands forgotten in the corner of the parking lot, which reminds me of my cell phone, which reminds me of Stevie Wonder, which reminds me of Kathy, which reminds me of Dad. They’re probably worried. They’re probably sort of freaking out by now.
Eff ’em.
The door jangles as I push it open.
“Afternoon!” says Man Behind the Counter.
I almost drop my backpack when I see his name tag: HI, I’M “ED,” AND I’M HERE TO HELP YOU. My brain explodes into a thousand pieces of incredulity.
It’s an Ed. In quotes. Congratulations, Universe. You win.
I turn on my heels and walk out of the gas station; I don’t even care if that was Ahab’s boyfriend or not. Henceforth, I have a new policy, and it is unflinchingly rigid: no Eds, no mo’.
The next gas station is owned by a guy named Morris, who is pretty frowny and tragic. Luckily, he answers my questions in short yeps and nahs, and I don’t have to spend any more time with him than is absolutely necessary. The third gas station is owned by some-guy-who’s-not-Ahab. The last station is an actual Shell, and the young girl behind the counter blows a giant bubble with her gum and offers me free cigarettes. (Sometimes I think Shell might be taking over the world, and I just can’t believe everyone is okay with this. I mean, pretty soon we’re going to have gum-blowing girls offering free cigarettes to underage kids on every street corner in ’merica, and I would like to state for the record, I am not okay with this.) Somehow, I end up under the very bridge I’d envisaged collapsing, watching my Greyhound speed by, northbound sans Mim.
I raise a hand as it passes, not in farewell, but in good riddance.
And that, as they say, is that.
Alone in Independence.
How terribly fitting.
I pull out Mom’s lipstick, twirl it in my fingers, and try to think what to do next. Maybe it’s the unseasonably warm weather, or the sinking realization that I just waved good-bye to 17C forever and ever, or the residue of Glenda’s third-rate spirit, or the shortage of sound sleep I got at last night’s motel, but I’m feeling decidedly insurgent and exhausted. All these Eds and Morrises and Guys Who Aren’t Ahab, and Young Girls Who Blow Gum and Offer Free Cigarettes, and unending disappointments, disenchantments, and a hundred other disses have just drained me.