V: THE RETURN

REUNITED AT LAST!

     EUGENE, OREGON

     JULY 10TH, 2022

     Morning’s gentle light crept in through the blinds and the world moved slow. I declined the air mattress last night, preferring to sleep on the floor and make a quick getaway in the morning. But nothing was quick about this at all. I sat with my packed bag and counted down the minutes until it was finally time. I hugged Pippin and said goodbye. I accidentally startled Anna and she hissed at me. She’d hid from me for my entire stay. Lydia and I drove to the airport, and without much ceremony, I bid her goodbye as well.

     I stood by myself in front of the sliding glass doors, duffle bag slung over my shoulder, boots pointed towards whatever came next. I was once again all alone. But I’m no stranger to isolation and I quite enjoy the company of silence. I took the first step forward, physically starting the return trip, symbolically commencing the beginning of the end.

     I retraced the steps of the whole frantic song-and-dance of going through airport security, then sat at my gate, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my plane. I watched as the room slowly filled. Passengers from all walks of life occupied the seats surrounding me. It would’ve been a great place to open a conversation, but the books and headphones were a clear sign they weren’t interested.

     The gate agent announces the arrival of our flight. An endless stream of people emerge from the jetbridge. Boarding begins and I take my place in the back of the line. Onboard another propeller plane. The flight attendants are a two-woman comedy show. I can tell they’ve been doing this for a long time. Down the runway. Up in the air. There’s Mt. Hood. Rainier. St. Helens. Notice the big chunk missing from the top.

     Touchdown in Seattle. My layover is much shorter. I don’t get to ride the tram in circles, sadly. I go directly to my gate and call my mom. She can’t transfer money from her account to mine. Some technical error. It’s Sunday, so she’ll have to wait until tomorrow to get it fixed. The money I have is all I’ve got.

     My stomach rumbles. I need to eat. I walk over to the nearest food counter and buy two things: a packaged waffle and a protein bar. The girl at the counter looks too young to be working. She was just a child. I give her my ten and she hands me four dollars. Oh, right. Seattle prices. I have to survive the next few days on these four dollars I have left.

     I slowly eat my tasteless Belgian waffle and read. Its texture is that of cardboard. The plane arrives. I go through the motions until I’m in my seat. The final flight hits the runway and speeds into the air. We cover hundreds of miles in a matter of just a few minutes, but the flight lasts for hours. The plane lands in Boise and I deboard. No sight of my guardian angel, I’m on my own now. I grab my bag. I sit. Now what?

     I have two and a half hours to kill until the bus arrives to take me to Twin Falls. I read, write in my journal, and sometimes just zone out to watch strangers walk around and wonder how they ended up in Boise City. Families with matching luggage sets pass me by. As well as groups of noisy college kids and well-dressed businessmen. A girl who’d fit in just fine in a Twisted Sister music video sits not too far away. I dig the outfit while she ignores me from behind a curly blonde fro. I read until she leaves.

     Half an hour until the bus gets here. I don’t want to miss it. I stand up and lug my bag over to the smoker’s section just outside the front doors.

     “Hey, man, could I get a light?”

     The disheveled and dirty man politely obliges. I hand the lighter back and take a seat.

     “What’s that there on the end of your cigarette?”

     “Cigarette filter. I smoke unfiltered cigarettes, which means I get a bunch of loose tobacco in my mouth. So, this is a barrier against that, and also, it keeps the tar out of your lungs. Watch.”

     I pull the filter apart to reveal a nasty, dark-brown sap collecting on the forward o-ring. I slide the filter back together and take another drag.

     “Smokes clean and easy.”

     “Unfiltered cigarettes. I used to smoke unfiltered Camels, but I’ve since moved on.”

     He flashed a pack of Marlboro blacks from his pocket and dragged his cigarette.

     “Now, there’s a harsh cigarette. I used to smoke Marlboro’s, but never Marlboro blacks.”

     “What do you smoke now?”

     “Lucky Strikes. They draw smooth and hit hard. Never had a better cigarette. Takes me forever to find ‘em though. Only one place in Norman, where I’m from, that sells ‘em.”

     “Yeah, I’ve never seen ‘em. If you’re from Norman, how’d you end up here?”

     “It’s a funny story. I was driving out to Oregon to visit my ex and had an axle snap doing seventy-eight on the highway. They towed me to Twin Falls and I had to fly out from Boise. Car’s fixed, so now I’m goin’ back… What about you? How’d you end up in Boise?”

     The man’s image started to make sense. He looked like he hadn’t washed his clothes in weeks, let alone change out of them. He’d come up here with his mother for an appointment with a specialist. She stayed in the hospital. He stayed in a hotel. Well, the specialist held on to her for longer than they expected and the money ran out. He ended up on the streets. Said he spent three or four weeks bouncing between party houses, doing an unholy amount of drinking and an unGodly amount of drugs. Now it was all over and he was finally heading home. And he said his mother was alright.

     Another person joined us, a lady in a long white dress. She smoked a cigarette with us and talked about how much she loved to travel. She’d been to Oregon. She’d been to Oklahoma. She never thought of either state as extraordinary.

     I never learned either of these people’s names. Nobody ever asked me mine. All we had in common was that we’d been staying in places that weren’t home for the last week. I felt like a bit of an outcast. These people really were hard up. Living day-to-day on the brink of starvation. Whereas I had a safety net. No matter what situation I’d found myself in, I could always rely on my parents to loan me the money to bail me out. After, of course, I had spent all of my own money trying to buy my way out.

     Just buy your way out, it’s as simple as that. And up until this point, that’s exactly what I did. The repair was necessary, as were the plane tickets, and arguably, the food. But I was very much aware that not everyone had the privilege of financial security. And not everyone had a safety net to fall back on once that security was gone.

     These people certainly didn’t. And likely everyone else standing in line for the bus didn’t either. The Salt Lake Express rolled up towing a luggage trailer. I recognized the driver as the same one who took me to Boise a week ago. He was nice enough to let me hold onto my bag. I wanted to get off the bus quick. I’d called Junior earlier and he said he’d meet me at his shop when I got to town. I’d be getting there after closing time, but it didn’t matter because they’re closed all day Sunday anyway.

     The guy who tried to talk to me in the bus line was sitting a few rows back. He opened up his mouth and I couldn’t understand a fucking word. His teeth looked like they’d all been removed, then shot back into his gums from across the room by a nearsighted and shaky old man. I think he was talking about his brother in the air force. Or something. I really did try to listen and ask him to slow down so I could understand, but I eventually gave in to just nodding my head and smiling like a fool. And as I lay my head against my bag, eyes shut, yearning for sleep, I could hear his voice echoing from the back of the bus. I’d much prefer the creaking of the springs or the rattling of the windows. But the old familiar noises of the road were now joined by the slurring tones of an energized ex-meth-head.

     “Shut up! Just stop talking!” My friend from the bus station wasn’t having it.

     The rest of the ride was quiet, but sleep wouldn’t come. I was too excited. There were only a few miles left between me and my car. And now only a few hundred between me and Savannah.

     Going over the Snake River, I imagined a flamboyantly dressed biker sailing through the air over to the other side. Once over the river, I was in Twin Falls. I scheduled an Uber to meet me at the gas station. As soon as the air brakes had stopped hissing, I rushed the door and hopped off. I already had the phone up to my ear with Junior’s number ringing. It rang for too long. He didn’t pick up. I didn’t have any choice but to go to his shop anyway: my Uber was here.

     The driver made polite small talk, but I could hardly focus. I was thinking about how much it was going to set me back if Junior didn’t make it tonight. Just as I was warming up to the thought of sleeping in a cold alley, my phone rang.

     Thank God, it’s Junior. He’s on his way to the shop and will be there shortly. The driver dropped me off across the street and offered to let me hang out in his van until Junior showed up. I politely declined and walked across the street.

     It was quiet. Lonely, even. This was small town Idaho on a Sunday night. The occasional car would cruise up the main drag, but for the most part I was completely alone. Just me and the sunset. I sat on my bag and counted the minutes. Part of me was getting impatient. I had waited a week to get back in the driver’s seat and now the only thing between me and the open road was Junior.

     But another part of me reveled in the moment. I’d been blessed with another intimate meeting with the setting sun. The solitude was comforting. Especially after being crammed in with crowds of people for the whole day. The heat was simmering and the breeze could’ve been called “cool.” Though it was too gentle to rustle the leaves of the sapling trees lining the narrow downtown street to my west. The neon light of a tattoo parlor glowed behind me, and long shadows stretched across the pavement.

     Yes, the sun was setting on Eugene and everything I’d had to go through to get there. But tomorrow it would rise in Cimarron and shine on everything that was to come. Here I was, stuck in the middle.

     But it was pleasant. My heart swelled knowing that everything that had happened is over and I don’t have to endure it anymore. But simultaneously, it yearned for what’s inevitably to come. Heaving out a sigh, my heart started to lie a kind of melancholy still as I lived through this lonesome scene. After this sunset, everything would go back to normal. As normal as it had ever been on this long and convoluted road trip.

     So maybe I should enjoy this fleeting moment of serenity. Especially after all the chaos it took to get here. It felt like everything I had gone through was leading up to this: watching the sunset by myself in Twin Falls, Idaho.

     Breaking my trance, a truck pulled in and Junior hopped out. He opened the gate, then moved some cars around on the lot to clear room for my Lincoln to escape. Poor thing. She looks pathetic up there on that lift, her rusty underside exposed to the world. Junior led me inside and said he would meet me at the counter.

     This was it. The keys are practically in my hand. All that’s left is to pay… I slid my card into the terminal. “PROCESSING” was stuck on the screen. The air in the room froze and I held my breath as I waited.

     Declined. I asked Junior to charge it for a lower amount and called my mom. Again, the air became tense. Every muscle in my body seized and held as I watched the screen, anxiously awaiting my verdict.

     Approved. I whooped and gave Junior my mother’s credit card number, and for the final time, the entire city of Boise came to a dead stop. The breeze froze in place. The noise of nearby traffic had vanished. The screen lit up.

     Approved. I let out an involuntary laugh. Junior handed me the keys and a work order. That was it. I HAD IT!

     Forgetting the embarrassment of having to call my mom to borrow money, I strolled confidently outside. There she was, idling in the street. Despite the nasty black film running down the side behind the driver rear wheel well, she was shining bright. In my eyes, she looked as if I had just washed her. I threw my bag in the backseat and opened the driver door. The front seat was just as nasty as I had left it, with overflowing ashtray and half-empty energy drink. One of the mechanics had tracked oil onto the floormat, but in this moment, all was forgiven.

     I returned to my plush leather throne in my four speed kingdom. This car had been my transportation, my companion, and my home for the past month, barring the week in Norman and the week in Eugene.

     And damn it felt good to be back. The windows were already cracked, almost as if the internal machinery of the Lincoln had anticipated my return. From my medical box, I withdrew a special cigarette I was saving just for this occasion. Sealed in a sandwich bag was the last Lucky in the pack I brought with me to Oregon. I never thought I’d find more, but I did. Making the point of saving this cigarette moot.

     Seemingly.

     This bent up Lucky was different. It represented a promise I had made to myself to finish out this trip strong. I wasn’t going to start something in Norman and finish it in Oregon. No way. Smoking this cigarette in Eugene would be a sign of giving up. It would be the end.

     But no. This cigarette had made it all the way from Norman, Oklahoma, to Kansas City, then Des Moines, then Chicago, then survived all the misery of Indiana and Michigan, then Denver, before flying all the way to Eugene. And now it was going home. Would it make it to Norman? Of course not.

     This trip isn’t about getting home. It’s about getting out. And I’d been out for so long and I’d become so broke, home was the only place left to go.

     But I was still on the road. And this was still my trip. And this cigarette that looked and smoked just the same as every other cigarette was representative of that spirit. That it’s not over. Not yet.

     The cigarette lighter popped out of the socket as I put on “Ride ‘Em On Down.” I slowly dragged this golden cigarette and quickly weaved through slow-moving traffic toward the highway. It felt good to be back. Back in the driver’s seat. Back in my own skin. I was back on.

     There was a bit of skepticism towards the new parts. Not towards Junior or his mechanics. I was very thankful that they were so accommodating in making my car a priority, meeting me late, and working with me on payment.

     But this differential was from a salvage yard. Who knows how hard the last owner had pushed it. Rolling the windows up and pressing the gas, I eased the Lincoln up to seventy-eight. No noise. No shaking. No wheels flying off. I think we’re okay.

     I rolled confidently through the barren wasteland of southern Idaho, watching the setting sun in my rearview burn up and fizzle out. Plunged into darkness, I was more isolated than ever before.

     I proudly passed that fatal spot near mile marker 259. I saw an echo of myself sitting on the trunk of a broken down Lincoln. But looking out the windscreen and seeing that I was well and on my way, I knew everything had worked out. I had survived everything from that pathetic point on and now I was retracing my steps. But only to Salt Lake City. After that, I would NOT take the exit for Denver. And I would NOT be driving back to Indiana.

     I was on a whole new leg of the journey. Salt Lake City to Cimarron. A new road I had never rolled down before. What scenery awaits me in the Utah desert and the high hills of Colorado? How would New Mexico look when approached from the north?

     I kept rolling down as shy stars peeked out of the darkness, only to hide their bright faces again outside of Salt Lake City. I found a rest stop just before city limits and pulled in. It was midnight. Time to call it. I’d only been on the road for three hours, but it had been an exhausting day and I needed to rest. I was hoping this rest stop would give me a place to sleep, but it was dark and devoid. Through the darkness I could see that the restrooms were closed. Which meant I couldn’t wash my hands. Which meant I couldn’t change out of my contacts.

     I could sleep in them tonight, but what would this mean in the morning? No place to pee. No place to wash up. No stall to change clothes. This wasn’t going to work.

     I set the navigation to another rest stop in the southern part of the metro and merged back onto the highway. Through the smog, the mountains stood as silhouettes. Black against the dark night sky. The highway was well lit and there was no traffic at all. I was pushing the speed limit, but I never felt like I was moving fast enough. The metro was endless. The hours were starting to wear on me and I was getting tired. Just a few more miles to the rest stop. Then you can rest. You can sleep until daybreak.

     A mockup of Mt. Rushmore stood just off the highway. The faces of past presidents judged and sneered at me as I turned the music up to keep myself awake. I found my exit and drove to an empty parking lot by a park with a sign clearly stating “NO OVERNIGHT PARKING.” A cop passed by as I was reading it. What would he say? All through the state, the highway was lined by big yellow signs reading “DROWSY DRIVERS PULL OVER IF NECESSARY.” And that was me. Would the pig let me rest? Or would I be woken up in an hour with a flashlight in my eyes and a gun in my face?

     Why risk it?

     There was no restroom at this place anyway, so I turned around and drove to the 7-Eleven by the on-ramp. I gassed up, watching the numbers climb on the clock, and walked inside, expecting at the very least a working toilet, but no. The restrooms were closed for maintenance. This wasn’t even about the contacts anymore, I just needed to pee.

     Frustrated, I hopped back into the car and merged back onto the highway. I routed myself to Cimarron and found a rest stop on the way. It’s almost fifty miles. That’s almost fifty minutes. If I could make it for another hour, I’d have a place to rest outside the metro of Salt Lake City, saving me twice the amount of time tomorrow morning when traffic gets ridiculous. Plus, it’s that many more miles closer to Savannah. I’d drive all the way to her tonight if it weren’t for my eyes wanting to cross.

     Outside the metro, I was driving down a winding road in the valley of the mountains. The speed limit was reduced to something abysmal like forty-five or fifty. It was probably for the best. With how badly my eyes wanted to shut and how much energy it took to focus, I’d probably fly off the road if I were going any faster. But I can’t do that if I want to see Savannah tomorrow. Just a few more miles. Stay awake. You’ll see her tomorrow.

     There it is! An unmarked entrance to a dimly-lit parking lot was my gateway to the Tie Fork Rest Area. The facilities were modern and the restrooms were clean. I took my contacts out, crawled into the backseat, and started writing in my journal. It was two in the morning. I’m setting an alarm for six. A little less than four hours of sleep until I’m back on the road. I don’t care. I’d rather be with Savannah than get a full night’s rest. Funny how she’s keeping me up late even when we’re apart. Just ten more hours on the road. Six hundred miles. You’re almost there.

     I turned my phone’s flashlight off and laid the blanket over me. This was familiar. This was nice. The backseat was like a nest. A place that I felt safe. The dim light of the rest stop beamed through the windows and the faint whistling of trucks on the highway lulled to sleep. Just like every night before, I stared at her picture before I let sleep take me.

597 MILES

     TIE FORK REST AREA, UTAH

     JULY 12TH, 2022

     The cool of the morning penetrated the car. It slipped through the cracks in the doors, and the A/C vents, and the firewall, then settled on the windshield. Same routine as always: Get up, piss, change, put in contacts, brush teeth, eat maybe, and light the day’s first cigarette: a Lucky.

     Cool bordering on cold. Humid. A little wet. I hit the defroster and pulled up to the mountain highway. The defroster was making it worse. I rolled the windows down to look left and right, and looking straight ahead, I couldn’t see shit! I turned the defroster off and the vents started pouring white smoke.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

     I pulled over and popped the hood. Engine’s not smoking. Reservoir is still full. Everything’s normal. So what the fuck is wrong?? I looked up probable causes. It’s A/C related. Water in the condenser, perhaps. It’s not draining properly, so it’s pouring into the car. I had the A/C system replaced a year ago. “State of the art” my ass. I wish Junior would’ve noticed this. Maybe he sabotaged me. But probably not. This is just another freak thing that randomly goes wrong in an old car that’s seen too many miles.

     But the problem’s been identified. So it should be easy to solve. Just don’t run the A/C. I like the windows down anyway. I wiped the windshield off with my bandana and took off again, letting a light mist of white, sweet-smelling smoke blow itself out of the air vents.

     Castle Gate, Helper, Carbonville, Price. Rolling through without issue. A long straight stretch on highway 191. I cracked open a can of cold chicken and rice and tipped it back. A proper breakfast. I laughed as I passed cars, drinking my soup. Was I finally losing it? Or just happy to be back on the road?

     Green River, Thompson Springs, the Colorado border. Eventually, Fruita. I pulled over at the welcome center and called my mom. She had transferred an extra four hundred into my account last night and asked how much I thought I had before.

     “Three hundred, maybe.”

     “A little over seven hundred, actually.”

     Much more than I had expected. I could’ve paid for the entire repair, but I would’ve had to make it home on two hundred dollars. I was starting to realize how impossible this was. She told me I should have called the bank beforehand. I’ve got a limit to how much I can spend in one transaction. I thanked her and promised to pay her back after I got home.

     Nine hundred and eighty seven dollars. This would take months to pay off. Until next year. I tied the bandanna around my forehead and carried on.

     More desert. More fucking nothing. My mind went blank. I thought of the last time I was in Colorado. I listened to the music. What the hell is even playing? Farmland. Mountains in the distance. How many hours to Cimarron? How many miles between me and Savannah?

     A country road. What the hell is this? I cross a river into Delta with a quarter of a tank. Maybe time to fill up. I pull into a small Conoco off of Main Street. An old cart sits out front. My old cart sits under the awning. I wash the windshield and continue with Meatbodies’ first album on the stereo. Rolling fast to “Disorder.”

     Olathe. Montrose. A plane takes off to my left. I wish I could just fly to Cimarron. It’d be so quick. But no. I’ve still got six hours. Turn left. Left again. I do what Siri tells me to. She knows the way. I’m fucking clueless.

     The road opens up. No cars. Blue sky. Clear. I push the gas. As fast as I can go, safely. Safety is key. On some of these turns I can hear the tires start their quiet screaming. No need to put stress on the new axle already. I just want to be in Cimarron. Blink and I’m there. Holy shit. It’s Cimarron.

     Cimarron, Colorado.

     I’m tempted to pull over and screenshot my map, asking Savannah, “am I in the right place?” Obviously not. This place has a post office, and a trading post. In other words, not shit. It wasn’t worth the delay. I’m ahead of schedule, why push it?

     I followed a black Tahoe that took the curving turns at a speed that made me, a speed-junkie, would-be stunt driver, say “You’re insane!” Maybe I was just being coy. A novice to this road desperately trying to keep up with someone who runs this track daily. No chance. And this is hardly an opportune time to drive off the side of a mountain. I have a place to be, damnit!

     The SUV disappeared, and I found myself stopped dead in the road behind a line of cars that disappeared around a bend. The traffic jam from Hell. Drivers of trucks pulling campers hopped out of their cabs and assessed the situation on foot. Yep, we’re stopped alright. And every second I spend here is a second lost with Savannah. The wait is killing me.

     I had lost reception. I had lost music. I could only listen to the first twenty seconds of some song off of Meatbodies’ second album. “Alice,” maybe. I looked to my left and on the side of the road was a sprawling patch of wildflowers. I fidgeted in my seat, tempted to run out and pick some to make up a bouquet for Savannah. Imagine delivering that.

     I’d walk up to her in front of the St. James hotel. The sun setting to our west, casting an orange light on our faces. We’d take a step towards each other.

     “I’ve missed you.”

     “I’ve missed you too.”

     Another step.

     “I brought you something.”

     And then I’d lift up a loose bouquet of half-wilted flowers, tied together with nothing. Shit. What did I have to tie this together? I racked my brain, coming up with absolutely nothing. I had day dreamed for too long anyway. The drivers were piling back into their trucks, ready to move after this extra long holdup. Traffic moved, finally. I started the car and inched forward. Traffic passed me in the opposing lane to my left. I counted the cars until losing count somewhere near seventy eight. A construction worker waved us through and I followed the truck in front of me.

     The road was all fucked up. It was only gravel in some areas. The thirty thousand dollar trucks towing their thirty thousand dollar trailers did not like this. They rolled slow through the whole construction site. High mountains bordered us on both sides and “CAUTION: BLAST AREA” signs lined the road. I suddenly became eerily aware of falling rocks and debris and the itch to get the hell out of here grew exponentially.

     The construction finally ended, and I was back on the road. The open road. I wanted nothing more than to open up at full throttle and make up for the time I just lost. How long would this set me back??

     But I couldn’t. There are no opportunities to pass in the mountains. And it’s only safe to pass one camper trailer at a time. I leaned out the window, looking for an opportunity that would never come. Frustrated, I drove on, past a lake and over a river. There was so much beauty to take in. The clouds were thin and wispy over the bare, green hillsides.

     Into Gunnison. A doe and her fawns wandered across the road. Colorado really is a beautiful place. I had been through before and never understood until now. Mountains. Forests. Deserts. Prairies. Colorado has it all.

     Tall conifers pop up through the fields of green grass. Now I’m surrounded by forest. Just as I take a hairpin turn, I swear I see drops of rain on the windshield. Up and up and up. Finally, at the crest. No longer having to hold the gas, it’s all coasting now. Coasting and brakes. I wish I could fly down this mountain. Just hug the turns and blow through at eighty or ninety or so. But it’s starting to rain and I’d really hate to wreck with just four hours to go.

     I pass chalets and snowboard shops, abandoned for the summer. Over cracked and faded highway, I drive to Poncha Springs. Then neighboring Salida. A billboard advertises 97.5. “Hippie Radio: Heart of the Rockies.” I could use a break from being in control of the music for a bit, so I tune in to some of the more obscure hits of the seventies as I exit the town, speeding up outside of city limits. I follow an old, slow moving Cadillac through the valley pass following the Arkansas river. The hills to my right quickly rise and I lose Carly Simon to the static. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

     The hills give way to more idyllic prairie. Cute little houses stand alone in the vibrant, green grass. Cotopaxi. Turn here?? Into this alley?? Okay, Siri. You know best. I follow the old, desolate, cracked road, to the junction of highway 69. Which takes me through more prairie valley to the most beautiful little town I had seen yet. I turned left onto a main street lined with cute little shops, painted vibrant colors, but hiding shyly behind small trees, which shaded the tourists moving down busy sidewalks. Cars were parked at every curb.

     This was a slice of heaven. I wanted to stop here, but I had a place to be. Someone to be with. And I only needed one more tank of gas to get there.

     I pulled into the Westcliffe Shell station and filled up. I went inside to use the restroom and took a look at myself in the mirror. I looked like a stereotype of a stereotype. A costume of a costume. Red bandanna, white tank-top, and black jeans. I wanted to wear blue jeans, and dress in the colors of the American flag for the last stop on my Great American Roadtrip. But black was better. It went with what I was going to wear on my date tonight.

     I checked off on the coolant before taking off again. The reservoir was dry. I went back inside to buy an extra bottle, passing a Mennonite family eating at the Subway in the gas station. I poured it in and got back on the road. Just two more hours. Then I’m there. With her.

     Thirty-two mile later and I came into Gardner. It was far from Westcliffe. Tiny, dingy shacks line the road. The only life is a dog that trots along the gravel sidewalk. No gas station. No hotel. Nothing. A ghost town. Beyond city limits, I noticed something wrong.

     “Holy shit!”

     Just outside of Gardner, my long-standing paranoia had paid off. The temperature gauge on the left side of the instrument cluster climbed up by one bar. It shone a bit brighter than the bars below it, from not being lit up all the time. Instead of the individual bars indicating some vague level of engine coolant temperature reaching up to the “M” in “NORMAL,” it rose up to the “R.” I pulled over and popped the hood. That same white smoke permeated through the vents. The unmistakable smell of burnt coolant. Something was definitely wrong.

     I felt like a fool, standing under my hood in the sun. The reservoir was dry again. I dumped the rest of the coolant I had bought not an hour ago into the tank and started the engine. It drank the whole bottle. Damn it! This must have been karma for not picking up that hitchhiker and his dog a few towns back, or maybe it was the curse of the pioneers; to be stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Shit. What are my options? First, I could call a tow truck. Get brought to some town near the New Mexico border and have Savanna pick me up. Without my car I wouldn’t have shelter or transportation. I’d have to hang out in Cimarron until the car was fixed, and this meant calling in to work on the day I was supposed to start back. I had already broke my promise to myself to not borrow any money, and I had made a promise to make it back on time. So, this was out of the question.

     My second option was to push on. Risk it. Get to a town that had coolant and fill up. Get to Savannah. Figure everything out tomorrow morning. Worry about it then.

     My third option, was to just die. Dehydrate and become another corpse in the Colorado scrub. This option didn’t seem so bad. At least I had picked a pretty place.

     NO! God, please. If you just let me get out of this awful desert. Let me get to Savannah, please. I slammed the hood closed and prayed for the best. It’s too late to give up now. I’ve made it this far and not given up yet. This trip started out rough, but what did I do? I found a way to DO IT. It’s more important now than ever now to make it to Savannah. Whatever comes, I can handle. I hopped back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Sam had suggested a band a week and a half late, so I cued them up and “Bad Nerves” gave me the confidence to continue on.

     I was permanently skeptical of the Lincoln, but the engine kept its cool. My eyes were glued to the gauge for the next sixty miles. I missed an hour’s worth of beautiful Colorado. Farista. Normal. Walsenburg. Still good. Trinidad. Just fine.

     I cruised down the highway and reached the border of New Mexico. FINALLY. It wouldn’t be long now. I texted Savannah letting her know that I wasn’t too far out. We agreed to meet at the St. James Hotel. She had a part time gig at the restaurant downstairs.

     Overcast was moving in. I approached the exit for Raton; my last chance for coolant. Stopping here would give me peace of mind for the remaining forty minutes, but I had already lost so much time and I couldn’t bear to stifle my momentum. Subconsciously, I had made my choice long ago. I pressed on and took the exit for Cimarron. The final stretch. If it weren’t for the scare earlier, I would’ve torn down this road at full throttle. Anything to be with her again. The necessary conversation nagged me, but that would be a minor part of seeing her. A tiny detail of the afternoon we’d spend together.

     Though, it still nagged me. I was soon to become the villain in her story. A careless heart, driven by lust.

     I waited at the light of a construction zone that reduced the road to one lane. I don’t remember this from when Sam and I rolled through. I moved beyond the construction zone as rain fell from the sky. The windshield fogged up green. I set the wipers to full speed, but it was no use. I still couldn’t see a damned thing. I frantically wiped the windshield with my bandanna and pulled off onto a side road in town. The St. James Hotel was just a left turn away. I popped the hood to check on the coolant. The situation didn’t look good. I should’ve stopped in Trinidad or Raton, but it was too late now. I knew the risks and I had accepted them gladly, if just to see her.

     I cleared the windshield and continued down the gravel backstreet. Left onto south Collison avenue. The rain lets up. There it is.

     The pale, two-story St. James. Old. Allegedly haunted. But Savannah didn’t believe in ghosts. I backed my car into a space and dug out the shirt I had picked for my date: the black pearl snap shirt with the roses embroidered on the back. It was a gift from her. I’d rushed to have it tailored before she left Oklahoma. It’s a bit wrinkly now, but I’m sure she’d understand. I snapped the last button in and put on a spritz of my new syrup-scented cologne. She doesn’t like sweet. She’s going to hate it. But anything beats the smell of coolant and sweat I’ve been wearing for the last ten hours.

     I walked in, standing tall. Confidence filled me from my snub-toe black boots up to my button-up black shirt. From the neck up, I was nervous. The upcoming conversation tried to break free from the back of my mind to the forefront. I shoved it back.

     The host led me to a table within view of the front door. I sat down with Ken Layne to steady my creeping nerves, but it was no use. I ordered a Corona (no faith that they’d have PBR here) and took a big slug. Cold and refreshing. As a beer should be. Another swig and my head was buzzing. One more and my vision was crossed completely.

     Why is this Corona hitting so hard? This isn’t a normal altitude high. Could it be that I hadn’t eaten a substantial meal since this morning? Maybe the coolant fumes were getting to me. Either way, I was on my way to “falling out of my seat” drunk. Savannah would walk into the restaurant of the St. James and I’d be sloshed. I’d slur through our date and embarrass her in front of her coworkers.

     This would not do. I asked for the washroom, and through a set of saloon doors and then a big wooden door, found my solace. I sat down in a stall and got my head together. Boisterous boy scouts chattered and laughed just outside. I did my best to ignore them like I was ignoring everything else. Especially the Conversation. Hey! I’d forgotten the conversation!

     This magical brew was working. Now the trick was to maintain. I washed my hands and looked myself in the eyes. The mirror reflected a man who could pass as sober, so I went with the act. I stepped out of the restroom and onto the stage. I set my shoulders back and held my head high. Each step was carefully calculated. Through the saloon doors. There she is. Showtime.

     We met at my table. “Desert Oracle” still sitting next to my bottle. She had a blue bag in hand.

     “Hey.”

     “Hey.”

     “How are you?”

     “I’m good! You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get here.”

     She thrust the blue bag upon me and implored me to reveal its contents.

     “Open it!”

     Item one was a little black journal. She remembered. From the idle talk on the bed of our room at the Hilton, she remembered that my journal was running out of pages. It wasn’t ringed like all of my previous journals, but that would set it apart.

     Item two was a pair of navy blue pants. Wool flares. Another idle mention. Not even I remembered. I held them up to fully take them in.

     “You have to try them on!”

     From the table next to me, an older lady looked over and joked:

     “Are you going to try them on here?”

     “Well… That all depends. How many ones do you have?”

     Savannah and the lady laughed. The lady’s son just looked embarrassed. I put my new favorite garment away and focused on my date.  I got everything she did since our last call, which wasn’t much, then caught her up on my drive to Cimarron. Then I encouraged her to go off about how much she hates boy scouts. She’s bothered by them at camp in the day, then bothered by them at the restaurant in the afternoon. They’re a plague. A loud, obnoxious plague that sings “Country Roads” every night. And we’re surrounded by them on all sides.

     The burger I ate leveled out my first Corona and softened the blow of the second. We moved outside and the clouds were starting to clear. I put my gifts in my car and hopped into her passenger seat. I lit a cigarette and let the euphoria envelop me. I was finally here. I made it. Don’t forget- nevermind that. Just enjoy this moment.

     She drove me to Philmont, then back to my car, then back to Philmont so I could try on my pants.

     “If anyone asks, just say you’re a ranger. But they won’t ask.”

     “Alright, I’ll trust you.”

     Through the gate, I was in foreign territory. I didn’t belong here. I was trespassing. I tried to fit in by looking straight ahead and walking confidently towards I-don’t-know-where. A van with “SECURITY” printed on the door sat right in our path. This was it. I was busted for sure. And Savannah would get thrown out for sneaking me in. Just as a guard turned his head toward me, a random man in a cowboy hat approached us ecstatically. He hugged Savannah and went to shake my hand. She introduced me to the man, who told me my outfit was giving “emo cowboy” but said I wore it well.

     I guess we pulled it off. And the guards never knew a thing. I was in. I walked with authentic confidence now, as opposed to the forced confidence of earlier, knowing that no one would stop me and no one would question me.

     She led me to her tent on the girls’ side, and the confidence checked itself at the gate. I wasn’t supposed to be wandering around Philmont, but I sure as HELL wasn’t supposed to be in a “girls only” area. And now I was in her tent! Even further off limits!

     She showed me her locker and her desk, plus the little area for storage under her bunk. Looking at her bed, I wondered if I had made the right decision that night at Eagle Lake.

     “Aren’t you going to pull the tent flaps closed?”

     “Why?” she blushed.

     “I have to try on these pants, don’t I?”

     “You can’t try them on here! I’ll take you over to the costume shop!”

     The “dressing room” of the Philmont wardrobe was nothing more than a sheet hung over a laundry line at the end of the room. I slipped out of my jeans and into the blue flares she sewed me, out of the same fabric I’d helped her pick out in Denver. I stepped out and stuck poses like some kind of redneck supermodel.

     “There’s a few places I need to bring it in. I knew there would be.”

     “They don’t look bad! They waist fits really nicely, but-”

     She grabbed the pants by the belt loops and hitched them up.

     “They’re a little tight in the crotch,” I squeaked out.

     She let them go and laughed at me.

     “Sorry!” She carefully pinned the seams of my pants and rushed me out of them so she could resew them tomorrow. We sat in the wardrobe for a long time while she showed me all the different clothes and hats and told me about a nightmare pair of shorts that she had to resew. I was sitting on her desk, listening to her talk and watching groups of boy scouts wander around outside. The skies were still cloudy, washing the trees and grass outside a shade darker. A little rabbit scampered about just beyond the screen door. I watched it with a great amusement that Savannah did not share.

     We talked for a bit until a voice came to the door. The unseen man talked with Savannah as I sat perfectly still and out of sight. I figured it was her boss or someone who knew the camp well enough to know that I didn’t belong.

     “Where’s Tate?” the man asked.

     “He’s right here. I’m having him try on his pants.”

     I nervously leaned forward expecting anyone else but her father. It was only him, thank God. With this, I was fairly confident that we would never be stopped by anyone. And after bidding her father goodbye, we took off on a tour of the camp.

     The last rays of sunlight were peeking through the clouds, lighting up the oak trees surrounding us on the path. We walked slowly down as she pointed out the different outdoor churches and ranger cabins and maintenance facilities. Then we came back to the parking lot.

     “There’s not really much to do around camp, but there’s a place where all the cool kids hang out called cell phone hill.”

     “Show me.”

     We drove up a short, windy road to a gravel parking lot overlooking the prairie. The different shades of grass moved gently with the breeze that was moving in under cloudy skies. We sat in her car and listened to old doo-wop, leaning over the middle console to hold eachother. Just like at Eagle Lake. “Wicked Games” comes out of her speakers.

     And now it’s sunset again. Just like it was before.

     BECKHAM COUNTY, OKLAHOMA

     APRIL 5TH, 2022

     The sun was sinking in a mellow and serene way. But my stomach was sinking in a way that made my guts turn and my heart ache. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I pulled out onto the road and started driving.

     I didn’t know what was gonna happen to us. I figured she’d cut me loose or move out to New Mexico permanently. My newfound fascination was slipping away like the sun was slipping down below the plains of Beckham County. Like sand in an hourglass. I couldn’t help but glance in the rearview mirror. It’s still fading. I look again. It’s gone.

     And now it’s dark. Clouds move in to smother the stars and I start to wonder if I’ll ever see the sun again.

     CIMARRON, NEW MEXICO

     JULY 12TH, 2022

     I can’t see the sun now. Even if it weren’t for the clouds, the sun is hidden behind the mountains to our back. A muted sunset. One that comes so slow, you don’t even realize night is upon you. And now it’s dark.

     We hop out of the car to meet some friends of hers, but they don’t seem too interested in talking. She takes me back to the St. James to retrieve my car, and suddenly I’m riding alone with all of my problems again. The coolant temperature gauge glows brightly against the darkening night. My eyes are fixed as it steadily rises and maintains. As soon as I start to climb the hill, it creeps up toward overheating. I coast into the gravel lot and immediately kill the engine. The lights on the dash go out. I switch off the headlights. I’m plunged into darkness.

     The last few grains of sand rush towards the chokepoint as she comes around to the passenger side. This is it. No backing out now.

     I rifled through my bag until I came across the bottle of Kraken. It had kept me good company since Denver. I took a swig and passed it to her. She doesn’t like rum, but in this part of the country, you take what you can get. We sat there for a long time, watching the clouds way off on the horizon light up and dump rain on the mountains near Raton. We crawled into the backseat and I thought about nothing other than what had to be done. I spent all of my energy dancing around it. Brainstorming if the auto shop at Philmont could help me, or if I could get coolant at the gas station in town. But I couldn’t avoid it any longer and it was time to have a serious talk. By now we were laying down in the backseat, squished right against each other.

     “Well… I think there’s a conversation you and I still need to have. The one we started in Santa Fe.”

     “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that.”

     “So… What exactly are we?”

     “I don’t know. I’m alright with anything. It’s whatever you want to do.”

     “What do you want to do?”

     “I want to do whatever you want to do. Really, I’m okay with anything.”

     I knew we wouldn’t get anywhere if we kept this up. One of us would have to make a decision, eventually. I truly wanted to be equitable and give her the choice, but something inside me was screaming. A deafening shriek that I couldn’t stifle. My stepdad had told me in Oklahoma. It was my heart screaming to speak.

     “I want to be your man.” The words came out before I could think about them, but it was so natural and effortless that I knew it wasn’t something I had thought about consciously. It was a desire from deep within me. One I couldn’t deny I wanted.

     “And I want you to be my woman… I know it’s a bit of a strange situation because we’ve only been dating for so long and you’ve been away for the summer, but… I can’t help that I want you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I really like you and I want you to be mine. And I want to be yours.”

     She said “okay” and that was it. She tried to warn me about her being unstable and “damaged.” All it meant to me was that she’d need a little more care. Guilt still plagued my mind and I knew I’d have to bring it up eventually. I had to break her heart. If I hadn’t, we could probably live a happy life together, with that lie always present in my back pocket. But I couldn’t do it, I had to tell the truth.:

     “There’s something else I should admit. We never finished this conversation in Santa Fe, so I didn’t know if it was okay or not, but… I flirted with a woman in San Francisco.”

     Before I could even get the “co” out, she waved her hand down at me and started laughing.

     “And? That’s just flirting, that’s nothing… I can’t believe you worried about that.”

     “It’s kinda funny, now, I guess. I was too drunk to realize at the time, but the lady I flirted with turned out to be a prostitute.”

     She broke out laughing, then we went back to cuddling and kissing, occasionally stopping to tell each other how we felt and how happy she made me and how much I meant to her. She opened up to me and started tearing up, which made me tear up. We laid in the backseat and silently cried there for a bit. Just holding each other and letting the tears flow until I cracked a joke and split the tension.

     We spent the rest of the night cuddling, then kissing, then kissing hard, then we took each other by the hands and held them close to our hearts. It was a perfect imperfect romance. After all the hype, heartache, and uncertainty, I was finally at ease.

     I had myself a girlfriend. Someone to hold after countless torturous months of loneliness interrupted by the occasional fling that would just leave me as brokenhearted as I was before. And the pain from those breakups never subsided until I moved on to the next fascination. Heartache to heartbreak, to heartache again. I thought of myself as a doomed romantic who wanted nothing more than for someone to care about me the way I cared about them.

     And now I had it. Looking up at those stars peeking through the clouds was like looking at scenes from the past. Each moment a different period of misery. A lonely night with no one to hold. A prospective romance leaving in silence. Seeing a notification on my phone and sensing that the end was near.

     But if this was the outcome of all the heartache and misery and toil and pain, it was well worth it. Had any of those girls loved me, I would never have met Savannah. I could’ve lived the rest of my life with one, maybe even a happy life. But knowing what I know now, I would have just been wasting time. And realizing this, those stars started to shine a little bit differently. They glowed a little brighter and a little warmer now, reflecting blissful memories instead.

     I hadn’t seen it yet, but I was sure it would come. No matter how dark it is even after the most spectacular sunset imaginable, the sun will always rise in the morning. And when it sets again, I’ll always have those heavenly stars to shine above.

THE LAST SUNRISE

     CIMARRON, NEW MEXICO

     JULY 13TH, 2022

     I fell asleep in Savannah’s arms. She woke me up so she could go back to her tent for something early in the morning. I tried to continue my slumber, but resolved to wake up when it was too cold to sleep. So I sat up in the backseat, put my legs on the front armrests, and lit the day’s first cigarette. The sun glowed just beyond the horizon and reflected little strips of orange and pink on the bottoms of dark gray clouds. She came back for me and crawled in. I offered her a cigarette and she declined.

     An unusual move. She was jittery too. Her nerves must be getting to her. We didn’t sleep much last night. How long did we sleep? I silently pondered these questions as the sun steadily rose. We’d miss our hike to Lover’s Leap. I didn’t really want to hike anyway. I need to get the car fixed. Philmont can’t help me. Maybe the gas station in town will have enough coolant to get me to Raton. Then, I can find a parts store and get a heater core bypass.

     I blew out another stream of smoke and she abruptly excused herself to pace around outside. What do I do? I sat in the car for a bit, letting her have her moment, then as she took off towards the fence, I figured it was time to act. I grabbed the jug of water and let her finish vomiting. She came over and washed off her hands before apologizing and repeating the same motions. She had warned me.

     I didn’t care.

     She started to feel better. We talked a bit more, then she left to have breakfast back at camp. A bit of kissing and a hug later, and she was gone. No long, drawn-out, ceremonious farewell. Just a “see you later” and I was again alone.

     I turned to the car.

     “Just you and me now.”

     The engine would be cold, so I could make it the few miles to Cimarron without having to stop, hopefully. All the way, I was monitoring the temperature gauge. It rose slowly, but didn’t go over until I was within sight of the gas station. I got there right at opening. The two cashiers were still stocking merchandise as I approached the automotive shelf. No coolant.

     No coolant. Shit. Did they have any in the back? Not a chance. Thirty eight miles to the AutoZone in Raton. Thirty eight minutes. Would I last that long? It doesn’t matter, they don’t open for another hour.

     Here’s that same construction site. I sat nervously, waiting, praying, that the light would turn green and the radiator fan would suck in more cool morning air. As soon as it turned, I was off. I kept a close eye on the gauge, again, missing the beautiful scrub grassland surrounding me. It finally started to go above “normal” right outside the Raton airport. I pulled over and hopped out, not wanting to breathe in the toxic mist seeping from the vents. After being passed by countless cars, I was back on the blacktop. A few minutes later: same thing. The sun was getting high and pretty soon it would start getting hot. I didn’t have much water left. I knew it wouldn’t make a difference in the dry radiator, but those last few sips might buy me a few minutes before succumbing to dehydration or heatstroke. What I had could surely get me to town. Or close enough that I could hitch a ride.

     She’s cool again. How far can we go? I nervously pressed the gas and got up to speed. The gauge bumped up and I pulled over again. The interstate is just over that hill. Maybe now I’m close enough to call an Uber. But could I afford to spend the money it would cost? I’m already out of pocket for the axle, and I never anticipated THIS. Any dollar spent would have to be absolutely necessary. Only gas and water from here on out. Maybe food if I need it.

     Let’s try again. One more push. A little over two and a half miles of interstate to Raton. The parts store is just off the highway. The air is moving faster through the radiator, so we should last a little bit longer.

     Nope. I pulled into the emergency lane as a big rig passed right by. I counted down the seconds, checked, then took off again. I made it to the off-ramp. I sat there for awhile, watching cars pass by and wondered if the highway patrol was going to check on me. And would they be sympathetic? Or tell me to move on? I didn’t hang around to find out.

     I didn’t even last a mile. I pulled into an empty driveway that led to nowhere and waited. I had the windows down to vent the sweet, noxious smell of coolant out, but that couldn’t save me from feeling nauseous. The parts store was just up ahead. Maybe I could walk it from here. It’s not worth it. Just another mile and you’re there. I limped into the lot and asked the clerk inside for a bypass kit. I got them right at opening.

     “It doesn’t look like we have any in stock right nowwww, but I can have one here from Denver tomorrow.”

     Tomorrow? I didn’t have tomorrow, I had to get home today! I politely declined and paid for my two jugs of Prestone. I topped off and went up the street to O’Reilly’s. They didn’t have a kit either, but the cashier said I could just as easily make my own. So I bought a hose fitting. I couldn’t bend the two hoses under the hood enough to fit together, so I went back in for another fitting and a hose. I plugged it all in and it looked secure. I pulled on the connection with all the strength I had.

     The hoses were on snug. Still, I doubted. I’d hate to get caught out with so little time left to get home out in the middle of nowhere over a dollar’s worth of screw clamps. So I shelled out the money for those too.

     I slammed the hood closed, filled up at a gas station, then nosed the car east. Everything was fixed, in theory. All I could do now was keep an eye on the temperature gauge and hope. The road trip is over. Now it’s just a long drive home.

     My trip may not be immortalized anywhere but here, in this story. I wouldn’t carve up the land as the Grand Canyon did, and my tire treads wouldn’t become fossilized like the dinosaur tracks. No matter how monumental I thought this last month had been, it would leave no trace aside from memories and miles on the odometer. Even those would disappear into time like the foamy waves of the Pacific, rushing back into an infinite sea of lived experiences.

     The sad country songs weren’t doing it for me anymore. Ah, that’s better. “Baby Drummer.” You know what? Despite all the bullshit with the axle and heater core, I had a good time. I’m doing 78 away from here with a quarter bottle of Kraken, half a pack of Lucky Strikes, a girlfriend, and a helluva story for the folks back home. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror to see if my teeth looked as gritty as they felt and- sonuvabitch. I’m still wearing her lipstick!

AFTERWORD:

These events took place across the American West in the pre-apocalyptic year of 2022. After reading “On the Road” and being financially stable enough to pursue my own adventure, I was prepared to head out with one of my closest friends on a trip to the cultural epicenters of the western US. Though, it would never have come to fruition had my romantic interest not been the catalyst, getting me out of the house and on my own strange and terrible journey. 2022 was an odd year of my life, almost liminal: I had just broken up with my long-time girlfriend and met another woman who my heart felt had the potential to be the next one. Though, she was playing a major part, she was not the focus of my trip: the focus was to get a raw and somewhat unperverted view of American culture in a transitional time in my life, where I’d long been critiquing conservativism, but now the failures of neoliberalism were making themselves obviously apparent in the post-pandemic. The events of this epic were painfully recreated from a journal that I kept and updated on a daily basis, and were transcribed into the rough draft of this novel as soon as I returned home. This story has gone through four years of revisions, additions, and subtractions. Some of the conversations are approximated reconstructions, but I can guarantee you that everything else you just read is the insane, repulsive, and absolute truth.