The Road Trip

I-40 West — Somewhere between Amarillo and Albuquerque

The seatbelt rubs uncomfortably against my collarbone. I sling it behind my shoulder like I used to do as a child. The passenger is not amused and takes the opportunity to educate me on grim road death statistics.

Satisfied we’re now law-abiding citizens, she rummages through an assortment of snacks in the backseat, organizing the sweet from the salty.

I turn on the A/C and adjust it to the best setting: feet and face.

The passenger scrolls to a hip hop playlist and turns the volume up to 60 — a number my grandmother’s Toyota Camry speakers didn’t know was possible. The rearview mirror blurs with each thump of the bass in Rihanna’s “Needed Me.”

Now it’s freezing. My forearms prickle with goosebumps and I shut off the air.

I deftly navigate around a shredded tire only to obliterate a mangled raccoon.

The passenger cracks into the bag of teriyaki jerky and offers to share. I chomp into a piece and stare out at the brown landscape dotted with cows. I imagine riding a black stallion, bareback — my hands gripping his mane as we thunder across the plains.

My underarms feel clammy and I can feel the pit stains growing. I turn the air back on (face only), uselessly pointing the vents at the growing circles of sweat.

I’m feeling the first urges of having to pee but vow to press on for another hour.
A red F-350 with a Texas license plate barrels past at an ungodly speed.
The elderly woman in a Lincoln Town Car cuts him off to slowly maneuver around an RV. It’s the little things.

Gazing out the window, I’m now a discount Elizabeth Bennet, striding through fields in an empire waist frock, effortless waves brushing my face. The daydream ends when I roll over a rumble strip.

I notice the passenger has filled up on jerky and M&Ms and is now sleeping peacefully in a neck donut.
I think back to the last time I had a donut, remembering how instantly gratifying it was before the self-loathing kicked in.

The Wal-Mart semi lumbers into the fast lane, forcing me to disable the cruise.
I mumble obscenities and think for the thousandth time that semis should have their own dedicated lanes.

Ignoring my bladder earlier proved to be mistake. You passed a gas station five miles back and this is getting serious.
The scene from Dumb and Dumber pops into my head, when Lloyd relieves himself into beer bottles while Harry drives. This option would never be feasible, I admit, unless…I stare at the passenger’s Big Gulp cup. Out of the question.

The speed limit increases to 75 as I set the cruise to 84, reciting the line from an officer who pulled me over: “Nine you’re fine; ten you’re mine.” I try not to dwell on the fact that other officers might disagree.

I begin to feel resentment towards the passenger, dozing in the sunshine while I’m held responsible for our safety. Hmph. I wouldn’t mind having a nap right about now. I remember the outset of our trip where I insisted on driving for 12 of the 16 hours.

I turn on the radio, only to be met with static, country, or preachers shouting at me for some reason. Click.
My bladder feels like it may burst. I tell myself to pull over at the next available stop no matter what.

Surprise! It’s a dilapidated rest area with a single Johnny-on-the-Spot. I open the door with a napkin and hold my breath. I swat at a monstrous fly and peer into blue water mounded with various atrocities. I hover above the seat in a half-squat, thighs trembling. The hand sanitizer is empty.

The passenger is confused and bleary-eyed when I return, having awakened from that annoyingly peaceful slumber. Despite my advice to hold it if possible, she takes the risk. Now we both need to shower.

We merge onto the highway behind the Wal-Mart semi. The passenger digs in to the “gourmet” snack bags of Ferrero Rocher and expensive nuts.

Only eleven hours to go.