Day One/Day Two
Day One
“No, no, no, come on, come on, come on”, I chanted superstitiously, hoping that the old Bronco would not coming to a rolling halt. But, it did. I got out slamming the door with a blaring thud of frustration. The road that the old girl stranded herself on was that typical dust covered stretch from some hokey traveling westward film. My sneakers already had a dusty film settling on them, and I could hear the constant hum of the cicadas deafening my judgement. Seeing the few houses off in the distance alerted me to the fact that I would be sweating by the time I arrived.
“Well, all ashore that’s going ashore”, I mumbled to give myself a kickstart. I left the keys on the passenger seat, not caring if someone decided to steal her, that was the last straw. Then again, I wasn’t sure whether it was the man or the machine that was to blame. If it were me, I would conclude that it was on account of the fact that I never paid attention in auto shop class.
After kicking up much dust, and shedding much sweat, I had arrived at the small collection of houses, that had been on my horizon. I looked around, surveying my options, hoping that one of them would lead to some sort of remedy to my current problem.
“ ‘scuse me!”, a man said jollily behind me.
“Shit!” I said with my voice breaking, as I was quite startled. I fell onto the dusty road, soiling my shirt.
The man began to chuckle, and show the grin of his yellowed teeth that were tightly locking a piece of dried grass between them, “Din’t mean ta shock ya.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” I said quite embarrassed as he he reached a paw out to help me gain leverage to return back to my perpendicular relationship with the earth.
His fingernails were black with dirt and use, he wore no shirt, only overalls that exposed his heavily burnt shoulders and matted chest hair, that was presented like a peacock’s plume. I would imagine it were used in his younger days to court local bachelorettes.
Scratching his chest hair and his scalp simultaneously, which I observed as being quite apeish, he asked me what I was doing in a place like this. He must have seen my brand name sneakers and the glistening product in my hair, and clearly concluded that I was well out of place.
We mumbled occasional words on our short walk to the only mechanic’s shop in town. Most responses were given with a long head scratch, shrug, or awkward silence. It was an oil in water type of experience, whatever was poured into the conversation had stood out for sometime and floated as if it would never become incorporated. What seemed like moments later I found myself in the only available bedroom in the entire town, an old childhood bedroom, of course. My feet stuck out over the edge of the bed, and my sneakers were laced tight.
Day Two
Morning.
I am already looking at the town behind me as it gets smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror.
I let my palms tighten on the old hard leather steering wheel. I run my fingers over each bump accentuated for grip. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap. My fingers are anxiously striking up and down on the leather.
I look back in the rear view mirror and the town has already disappeared from sight. Attempting to turn on the radio, I remember that it hasn’t worked since I bought the damn thing. So, I guess it’s my turn: “It’s more than a feeling, more than a feeling”, I make sure to belt out both the call and response of the classic rock hit, “I see Marianne walk away”.
Yeah, Marianne. It’s always a Marianne, or a Camille, or a Sandra. Whatever her name was, and whatever her name will be, there will always be another. Oh, shit, here comes the best guitar part. I get my fingers ready and mimic the pitch changes on the steering wheel. I imagine a craning shot leaving my Bronco and letting it pass with slow trailing speed. As I meet the horizon and the credits roll, I still have no idea why I didn’t untie my shoes in bed last night.

