Part 2

 

The winding backroads finally give way to a main highway, and the murky blue of dawn seeps upward from the horizon. There are more cars now. I find myself grateful for the soft roar of of traffic. I weave gently through the other cars, pressing forward, always onward.

I just twist off the lid of my thermos and grimace as I sip my lukewarm coffee—I guess it has been awhile since my last stop.

I attempt another dismal sip, but reflexively gag. How is lukewarm coffee orders of magnitude worse than both too-hot and too-cold? There’s something Christian-y about that, right? Because my coffee is lukewarm, I shall spew it out of my mouth. I put the coffee away and rummage around in the passenger seat for something to eat—beef jerky, trail mix, anything.

My fingers graze cold steel. I tense up instinctively and glance at the snub-nosed pistol in the seat, surrounded by empty packages of assorted food and snacks. Once a shiny silver, it’s now dulled to a grubby gray. It seems small and innocuous.

It is one of those things.

I stare at it a bit longer and feel strangely relaxed, but feel a fresh wave of panic as I find myself suddenly unsure of how long I’ve not been focused on the road. I jerk the wheel, instinctively, but I’m not veering toward the edge of the highway. I’m fine, actually; the car gliding smoothly along the endless black river. Something in the mind takes over for us, I guess.

I blink slowly. Too slowly—my eyes stay closed for a few seconds too long. My stomach shifts uncomfortably and returns me to my senses. I’ve gone too long without eat or sleep again. I keep an eye out for road signs. Where is the next town? All these cars have to be going somewhere.

I don’t need a hotel. Just a gas station, or a rest stop with a snack machine. I can lean the seat back and doze for a couple hours.

The sun peeks into view and sets the highway ablaze with fire colors. I pull my visor down; it doesn’t help much. Why don’t I own a pair of sunglasses? I drive on in near-blindness for a few more miles before a lonely gas station appears in view.

I glance fruitlessly at the fuel gauge—it doesn’t work. Hasn’t since I bought the car. I fish a pocket-sized, spiral-bound notepad from a small enclave next to the cigarette lighter and check the mileage number from my last gas-up: 513,412.

I glance up at my mileage counter: 513,722.

Cutting it close. And I’m out of food, save for a pack of almonds, which I can’t eat, because I’m allergic to tree nuts. Which makes me irrationally angry, because almonds—like pecans—aren’t even nuts, technically speaking, they’re drupes, which is a kind of fruit. Goddamn food classifications.

I drive past the gas station.

But why? I need to stop. I need food, and gasoline. And a cheap pair of sunglasses. And a place to pull over and sleep. I drum my fingers nervously on the wheel, anxiously fixated on the gas station as it disappears in the rearview mirror.

“Where are you even going?” Comes coarse, staticky whisper from the empty hole my radio once occupied.

I don’t bother answering.