You're Here Early

I can feel the cold air buffeting my face, the rough, grime-caked surface of the steering wheel sticking to my palms. My knuckles turn the same pale shade of white as my cheeks. My heavily caffeinated heart thrashes in its bony cage as if trying desperately to escape, and I fear it might. It's been four and a half hours on the road since I last stretched my legs, and I can count the number of fellow travelers I've passed on one hand, even if I were to lop off a finger or two. I entertain the thought for a moment. It entertains me. We entertain each other. My God, I'm fucking exhausted. As if I needed a reminder.

My hand shakes slightly as I raise the paper cup of gas station brew to my desiccated lips. It's ice cold by now. I battle the urge to spit it out and add another mystery splotch to my truck's fabric interior, the liquid’s acrid, gritty constitution now in fierce disagreement with my own. I claim a Pyrrhic victory, and I fear it may be short lived as my stomach begins to churn ferociously, like a barefooted old-timey Appalachian woman after snorting a rail off a milk cow’s ass. “Golly gee, Bessy, what a rush!” she hollers (with apologies to historical purists) as a phantom banjo furiously plucks away. “Ain't we just the finest pair of buxom beauties in all creation! Jedediah's new hussy can suck a fat one!”

“Moo,” agrees Bessy.

I feel my eyelids start to embrace one another lovingly, but a rising tide of stomach contents punches my throat and wakes me, just as the truck is starting to drift towards the left.

Stupid, stupid, stupid fucking idiot. I wipe vomit from my lips as hunger pangs replace nausea. I should have pulled into that last-chance greasy roach motel and collapsed on the crunchy bedspread until morning. I've never been so far from anything and everything in my life before.

Brushing gravel off my knees, I stand on the shoulder of the highway, taking stock of my ever devolving situation. A rusting yellow pickup truck sits beside me, packed to bursting with the bare, excavated roots of the life I'd built with my girlfriend back home, shipping out West in hopes of a successful transplantation.

I'd agreed to all of it, of course I had. She would lead the way, flying out to Oregon with a pair of crammed suitcases, laying claim to the apartment and settling into her new job. Meanwhile, I would putter behind in the overloaded Toyota, meandering through middle America and basking in all its splendor via such scenic vistas as Bumfuck, Iowa, and Shithole, Nebraska.

To tell the truth if it isn't obvious by now, I was anything but happy about it. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Be honest with her? Tell her I had no dreams or ambitions, no drive? That I secretly resented her for the crime of possessing all three in sufficient quantities to drag the both of us up and out of the confines of our one bedroom, brick-walled prison cell on what might generously be referred to as the outskirts of Chicago?

The only reason I ever managed to set rubber to road, admittedly a day later than I had promised, was that I had seen that hunger behind her eyes. I knew the tolerable existence we had scrounged up could never, would never be enough. I knew that if I didn't do whatever it took to help her achieve satiety, she'd realize what a hollow, vapid, man-shaped nothing she'd invited into her life, and before long she would be forced to extricate her joy-consuming parasite and seek real sustenance elsewhere. Either I returned to that pawn shop and hoped they'd take back the ring I’d blown my rainy day fund on, or I offered it to her somewhere she might agree to wear it.

With bile and stomach acid still clinging to my teeth and tongue, I get back on the horse, and continue Westward. My high beams are the only light I see now as a thick cloud cover begins to black out the night sky. Even the moon, which I swear had been blindingly bright only a moment ago has been reduced to a dull, silvery orb. I take the truck into a densely wooded stretch of road which seems to have emerged from nowhere, towering over the featureless plains. The clouds choose this particular moment to descend to precisely eye level. I switch off the high beams and ease off the gas, watching like a hawk on a bender for any brain-dead deer or antelope or whatever the fuck might be out there lying in wait, hoping to sacrifice its body just for a chance at putting a dent in my hood. Rounding a blind corner, I see the road just ahead suddenly turns to gravel, and I'm all the more thankful I'd been minding my speed.

I get an awful sinking feeling in my gut as I realize I haven't seen a road sign in ages. My road map is hardly any use when all I can do is hazard an educated guess at where in the entire Continental United States I presently am. I slow to a crawl as a covered bridge emerges from the fog, stood over what looks to be a dry creek bed.

I can't stomach the thought of turning back, so despite the pointed protestations of my deep-fried nervous system, I pray to whichever god is on call at this decidedly ungodly hour that the rickety, splintering bridge will hold the weight of my overburdened pickup as I creep across to the opposite bank. The bridge groans with obvious displeasure, but as my rear tires leap from the last wooden plank and crash hard on the crunchy gravel, I let myself unclench.

Just as quickly as it appeared, the improbable, incongruous miniature forest vanishes, revealing yet another great expanse of mind-bending absence. Only, far off in the distance, backlit by an eerie halo of yellow light, I see what looks like the silhouette of a church steeple – the first sign of civilization I've seen since Cletus at the Gas ‘n Go handed me the bathroom key and sternly warned me not to flush any toilet paper. I'm cautiously optimistic as the old church draws nearer, but my imagination latches onto that mysterious light source and turns it into everything I could possibly hope to find here, where really it oughtn't be.

As if plucked from my anemic imagination, plopped down unceremoniously beside the weathered stone chapel is a queer sight – adorned with string lights, the kind you might find dangling in a carnival tent, is a shiny chrome rectangular construction, with a glorious flickering neon sign which reads, OPEN. I may have to rethink my stance on organized religion as a heavenly scent drifts into the cabin through my window. It smells greasy and smokey and in my current wretched state, frankly, orgasmic. Despite the bizarre, too-good-to-be-trueitiveness of it all, I hit the snooze on my fight or flight and drift towards the door like a cartoon towards a pie on a windowsill.

I hear chatting and laughter and music pouring out from the place. Through the large windows which surround the building, my bloodshot eyes trace the outlines of an improbable number of patrons. The entire population of this barren wasteland must be congregated here. At this novelty diner. In the middle of the night. It feels peaceful and calming somehow, though uncanny. The door jangles as I press through it and in an instant everything falls silent.

Every. Single. Head.

Jerks in my direction.

I feel the combined force of a hundred eyeballs slam into me like an explosive backdraft. I... shouldn't be here. This is clearly a terrible mistake. I start to back out of the still open door when a kindly looking waitress in a striped uniform breaks the silence.

“You're here early,” she says, expectantly.

“I, er, uh. I guess so,” I mumble, glancing at the ticking wall clock which takes the form of a black cat, its tail swinging and eyes darting back and forth. Three thirty three AM. That number feels important, but then I'm no longer in any state to think about anything important.

The waitress rolls her eyes with a lofty sigh. “Well, why dontcha grab a seat anyways, hon. I'll get you a menu.” In unison, the diners all return their attention to their food and to one another. The jukebox kicks back in, playing some awful crackly oldie tune like my dad might have enjoyed. It sounds familiar actually, but I fail to place it.

The cracked vinyl booth is deceptively comfortable as I slide in. It feels incredible to just sit down. Sure, I'd done nothing but sit as far back in my memory as I have the strength to reach at the moment, but the change in scenery does my tired, aching ass good. I keep my head down and twiddle my thumbs anxiously. The tabletop is made of old newspaper clippings encased in deeply scratched plastic. My eyes struggle to get the tiny print in focus and before I can decipher any of the text, the waitress is standing over me with a water-stained card stock menu and a steaming mug of light brown coffee.

“You look like you need this,” she says. I have some reservations, but I'm in no state to argue. And besides, as the steam hits my nostrils they're flush with the most intoxicating scent. It smells warm and fuzzy somehow, like a liquefied childhood memory, only one where no one is yelling or crying or unbuckling their belt to teach anyone a lesson. I take a cautious, exploratory sip and am in disbelief at just how incredibly gratifying it is. Smooth, balanced, complex and subtle all at the same time, all the things a coffee aficionado might claim to convince their friends that exotic imported beans and repurposed chemistry sets aren't just a flashy waste of time and money.

I perk up like a thirsty plant given a little hit of sweet, sweet water. And now, the menu beckons to me. All the great American staples are there. Eggs, steak, steak and eggs, you name it. I swear a new item appears each time I scan through, but clearly my mind is made up.

“It all comes with toast and potatoes, hon.”

Rye, hash. Easy. I let myself relax a little, sinking into the booth. A heaping mound of sirloin, scrambled eggs and hash browns garnished with twin slices of rye toast quickly appears. I dive right in, each bite somehow more flavorful and satisfying than the last. The waitress comes back around, probably intending to ask how it's all tasting when my mouth is at its fullest. Instead, she sits down across from me and ignites a cigarette.

“It's not fair, you know,” she says at the end of a long drag. Seeing her now up close, she reminds me a little of my grandmother. Not like, in a weird way, or anything. No, she just looks a little like an old photograph I saw once of that sturdy old matriarch in a candy striper outfit. The way she raised my dad on her own, all while paying her own way through college just so she could go bust her hump at the hospital, her whole life had been spent caring for the needs of others. They tried to spin it as an inspirational tale at her funeral, but all I could hear in the quiet spaces between words, were all the things she'd talked about wanting to do before she died.

I'm still staring at her like I've seen a ghost when she smiles softly and drops her cigarette in my half-drank coffee. “Ope, guess it's on the house. Do me a favor? Don't wait around too long. You've got a long road ahead of you.” She winks at me as she walks off with my mug and disappears into the kitchen, and only then do I realize the crowd has likewise vanished, and the room has fallen eerily silent. Surrounded by a coffee ring, beneath the plastic tabletop, I finally see it. My grandmother's obituary, clipped from a newspaper. I've had enough, and I waste no time departing.

I drive until the glow of the lights vanishes from the rear view mirror, until I can't be sure if any of it had actually happened, but I think about my grandmother a lot. All the dead weight she wore like chains until her strength was gone. I never get it out of my head that time will always be running out until one day it isn't.