Highway 59

The Buick hit a patch of ice and slid effortlessly toward the snowy shoulder of the road. Instinctively, Melissa hit the brakes, but then let off as she remembered it was the first no-no of trying to regain control of a skidding vehicle. Tap the pedal lightly and turn into whichever direction the auto was spinning. That bit of wisdom had come to her thirty years before by an even-voiced instructor who had given up on trying to compete with rowdy teenaged boys who deemed themselves comedic geniuses or girls who mistook most opportunities in life for social events.

Melissa Lancaster hadn’t fit in to either of those categories then, or now, and she applied the instructor’s indifferent lesson by pressing her toes gently to the brake. Little by little the car slowed until the passenger-side wheels found the frost-covered gravel and she continued on.

She had to talk with Carolyn when she got back home. These back-to-back lectures would be hard enough for an active, young, go-getter to endure, but for a middled-aged woman trying to navigate a frozen stretch of highway in the far-north reaches of Minnesota, they were more than just a little arduous. Enough, at least, that a travel mug’s worth of coffee hadn’t woken much more than her bladder over the past forty minutes, though; the necessary compensation she received from the colleges and universities she toured was the greatest force that kept her going and somewhere in her subconscious she knew that a call to her agent would not be placed. 

Few people understood that necessity better than a professional writer of poetry.

By the time she’d finished today’s presentation and left Green Lake Tribal College, the sky had darkened to a dusty shade of blue. Over the past hour that color had faded to black and with the aid of her high beams she now expanded her triangular view of the patchy snow that obscured the pavement.

Winter nights in the north came early and though the digital clock of the radio read 6:38, it felt much later. By the time she got through customs, reached Winnipeg and got settled in to whichever motel Carolyn had booked for her it would be close to 9:00—after, if she stopped for something to eat—which wouldn’t be so bad. A nice hot shower and some TV before bed still wouldn’t rob her of a full night’s sleep; tomorrow’s lecture was scheduled for 11:00.

Sleep. Just thinking about laying her body down and letting her head sink into the pillow had her yawning and the monotonous scene she traversed didn’t help, though an approaching sign off the side of the road broke through some of her reverie.

A small spotlight shown up from the bottom of the white wood, allowing the black hand-painted letters to stand out.

Rest Stop Ahead.

2 Miles.

She smiled. Rest stops felt like a thing of the past. They still existed, but with so many gas stations and convenience stores lining the freeways of America there was not nearly the need to wait to relieve oneself or pick up a snack for the road or stretch one’s legs. And GPS systems calculated miles and drive times automatically now. The magic of walking up to large, glass-enclosed paper maps with arrow-shaped stickers indicating “You Are Here” and seeing just how far one had come from the previous stop was all but forgotten. For a moment she let herself be transported back to any of those long, hot family trips, crammed between Heather and Mandy in the back seat of the station wagon while Mom struggled with the cap of a fresh bottle of iced tea and Dad flicked cigarette ash out of the driver’s partially opened window—most of which got sucked back into the seat behind him where the window had been fully rolled down. Air conditioning had been an absolute last resort.

It wasn’t long before the car rolled up to another lit sign, nearly identical to the first.

Rest Stop Ahead.

1 Mile. 

Of all those trying journeys the family had taken, she was most reminded of South Dakota at the moment and the bombardment of signs they’d passed announcing the many wonderful sights and amenities to be found at Wall Drug. Apparently the Department of Tourism had been made well aware of their guests’ summation of the eastern three-quarters of the state.

A third sign became visible farther down the road.

Last Rest Stop.

There was a large amount of space under the lettering, punctuated by black dots. Obviously, the board had held more words at some point—In Minnesota or Before Border—which was good because left alone the phrase seemed ominous. Maybe the additional letters had fallen off or been taken down by bored, local teens or were currently awaiting a fresh coat of paint in whatever small-town administrative building stood nearby. Either way, Melissa didn’t care. She just needed to pee.

The parking lot was small. Five angled spots, one of those painted blue for handicapped persons, were weakly lit by a lone overhead lamp placed along the strip of land between the lot’s edge and the road. The stop was certainly not intended for semi-truck drivers or operators of large RVs to take rest; the entire parking lot would barely accommodate vehicles of such size, even parked across all five spaces.

Melissa pulled into the second spot from the left and shut off the car. Bright yellow light spilled generously through the large, centered window and illuminated two sidewalks, each leading to an entrance door at either side of the building. With her purse in hand, she opened the door and stepped out.

A gust of wind came at her like an arctic blast, nearly pushing her back against the car. Jesus, it was freezing. The air just an hour south had been cold, but nothing compared to the icy atmosphere surrounding her now.

She quickly slung her bag over her shoulder and wrapped her arms around her torso as she ran toward the closest door. Inside she was met with immediate and blessed warmth and she stood, continuing to hold herself, while her body shed itself of the onslaught of shivers brought on by the short run from car to building.

Minnesotans were a different breed. How anyone could live in such ridiculous conditions was beyond her grasp of reality.

Finally, she let go of herself and walked toward the long wall in front of her. The doors to the bathrooms were located at opposite ends, but before she headed toward the women’s side she stopped to gaze upon the rest stop’s star attraction—the good old fashioned map she’d envisioned just minutes before. The sticker indicating her current location was not an arrow, but rather a small, smiley-face. She returned the gesture.

The main area she stood in was sparse, but clean. Immaculately so. The few pamphlets and travel magazines the place boasted were all neatly tucked into acrylic holders plastered to the right side wall near the women’s room. The clear plastic had yellowed with time, but any other traces of age were non-existent. No lint or dead bugs in the bottoms of any of them. Save her own wet tracks, the linoleum floor was spot-free and gleamed as though recently waxed and polished. Even the corners of the large, picture window looking out at the parking lot were free from any dirt or spongy cobwebs.

Against the left wall of the building sat two, old-school vending machines—cash and coin only—while a third, skinnier machine stood closer to the door she’d come in. A change machine for larger bills, but no ATM available for those frustrated modern travelers who paid with nothing but credit. A cigarette machine would have rounded out the group perfectly and have her wondering if the rest stop hadn’t been hermetically sealed sometime in the mid to late eighties. A slice of simplicity perfectly preserved.

Nature’s call spoke up, reminding Melissa of her intended purpose, and she stepped over to the women’s door. It was dark inside and she ran her hand against the wall to her left, in search of a light switch. What she found instead was a round dial and she cranked it to the right, anticipating the familiar zip sound the mechanism would make as it ticked past each minute. The lights and showers at Summer Camp had run using the same, timed source.

With more yellow light now shining over the stalls, she looked at the unit and saw that the timer allowed for a maximum of thirty minutes. She wouldn’t require even half that, but she turned the dial up fully regardless.

The floor inside the bathroom was tiled and lined on one side with an old-style baseboard radiator, while the three available stalls were encased by brown-painted metal. Again, clean as could be. No puddles of water around any of the sinks. No wads of toilet paper littering the ground. No dents or dings in the painted metal. The mirror gave a pristine reflection of the room, no streaks or smudges to mar the image. 

Someone had to have spent a good portion of the day giving the building a detailed cleaning, though she couldn’t imagine even the most dedicated city or state employee braving the temp outside to scrub down such an out-of-the-way facility.

Melissa chose the last stall—a habit formed years before—and almost laughed when she saw the toilet inside. An honest-to-god porcelain commode with manual flushing lever. Not the motion-sensor, automatic models that flushed if you so much as leaned forward to pull up your underwear, but then left you having to push the small black button next to the sensor when the damned thing wouldn’t work after you’d stood up.

She wiped the seat down with a few squares of bathroom tissue and then removed the clothing from the lower half of her body. The seat was chilly, but only momentarily, and soon her body was relaxed enough to let things begin to flow.

While she sat, she heard another sound she recognized. The preemptive hum of a heater beginning its operation. The metal plates that lined the inside of the wall-length register rattled gently, just as those in Grandma Evie’s radiator always had, before giving way to a continuous stream of muted blowing. The glorious heat rushed across the floor and surrounded her feet and ankles like a wave of warm water.

The smell the heater quickly produced was familiar too, that of dust burning against hot metal. Just like Grandma’s.

Never in her life could Melissa have imagined that a bathroom stall in a country rest stop might give her the greatest sense of comfort and security, but here she was. The sounds of the gently ticking dial. The subtle whoosh of the radiator. The heavenly heat filling the small room. Even the smell that was somehow both unpleasant and not. It was amazing, Surreal. And she was glad to be alone in it.

Let no one come in. Let nothing penetrate this unconventional sanctuary.

She leaned against the back of the toilet and closed her eyes, absorbing the peacefulness that caressed her. The serenity that spoke to her soul, lulling her to stay. To remain.

To rest.