Just keep riding

An unplayed Elvis Presley bootleg sat on my coffee table for three weeks.

There was a time when something so interesting, so weird, so different from what I usually found would have provoked the need to know what was on that tape right now – commonly referred to as instant gratification.

Not anymore.

The bootleg was in an old shoebox that I bought at an estate sale. That and an old “Kiss My Grits” t-shirt – Navy blue – just like the one I had as a kid made for a perfect day out and about.

Until the phone rang.

“Honey, we’ve got to talk,” the voice on the other end said.

“OK,” I said hesitantly. I’ve come to think of those words as nothing but bad when they come out over the phone or via text or email.

We met at our usual place – and she said exactly what I thought she was going to say.

“Blah, blah, blah. Need time to think. Blah, blah, blah. It’s not you, it’s me. Blah, blah, blah.”

I was so tired from a lifetime of disappointment, this time, I didn’t fight. I took it like a kid getting vaccinated, except I didn’t cry. After she was done, she looked into my eyes, which I’m sure were about as cold as a three day old corpses, and asked “You alright?”

Tipping the last of my beer down my throat, I looked into her eyes. They were worried, but not too worried. “Nah, I’m not alright, but one day I guess I will be,” I said before getting up and leaving. I got straight in my car and just started driving. The rent was paid for a year – a beautiful gift from my publisher – and I had a cool $3,000 in my wallet and another 100 grand in my bank account. I passed the old Big Boss Brewery and started to laugh. It was a defensive laugh, something I’d picked up over the years to hide the tears. To tuck them away until they overflowed and burst.

Eventually, the day turned into night. Two refills of the gas tank and almost needing a third and I found myself in Tennessee. I pulled into a rest area to take a piss. Mountain Dews and Slim Jims had kept me going this far, but now my body needed to expel.

At the door stood a skinny blonde woman – wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt. She seemed to be high, so I stopped at the big state map and watched her for a moment. She was humming a song by Richard Marx and sipping a Budweiser.

“Hey mister,” she said to no one, but obviously to me. “Why are you watching me?”

“You looked watchable,” I replied.

“Fair enough,” she said, going back to humming.

I went into the men’s room and took a piss. I stared at myself in the metal reflection box. These places no longer used mirrors, guess they got broken too often, so instead you had to look at a warped vision of you in steel. Of course, it wasn’t steel, but that’s what always pops into my head when talking about shiny metal.

I washed my hands and used the blow dryer to get rid of the dampness. It was one of those dryers that blow really hard and makes your hands look very strange as it pushes the skin around. I stood there for a moment watching it, even after my hands were dry.

Walking out of the bathroom, I was disappointed that the blonde wasn’t there anymore. Not that I was going to try and pick her up or anything, but because she was pretty and I wanted something to remove the dullness.

My car was waiting for me, so I pushed the door lock on my key and got in. She started up fine, like always. I pulled out and drove away.

A couple hours later, the sun was rising. I pulled into a motel and got a room.

“You know that check out is in two hours?” the guy behind the counter asked.

“Well, I guess you better make it two nights then bud,” I replied.

“How’d you know my name was Bud?” he asked almost mad, but only in a pot smoker’s way.

“Lucky guess, Bud.”

“I don’t believe you, shithead,” he said, reaching under the counter.


“Bud, stop it,” a familiar voice echoed from the office/sleeping place for the desk person.

It was the girl from the rest area. How we ended up in the same place, I’ll never know. I used to believe in fate, destiny and all that shit. But real life had kind of dragged that out of me. I hoped she would come out, just so I would have a vision of her – a fresh one – for when I got into my room. However, she didn’t come out.

“Damn it Tara, what do you know?”

“Can I have my key?” I asked.

“Sure dude,” he said after staring at me for a few seconds. “Enjoy the bed.”

For some reason, I figured he slipped me a bad room. It ended up being a great one. No light. No neighbors. And no dripping faucet. I fell asleep like a baby.

Twelve hours later, a knock came on my door.

“Huh,” I managed to say loudly enough for whoever it was to hear.

“Mister, can I come in?” the blonde’s voice said.

I was in my underwear and not looking all that spiffy. So I wrapped a sheet around me and opened the door. The sun hit me and I winced. She was still wearing that Led Zeppelin shirt.

“Come on in,” I said sleepily.

“I’m sorry, but Bud turned out to be a real dick,” she said. “He picked me up hitchhiking about 5 minutes after I saw you at that rest stop.”

“Really?” I replied.

“Yeah, I wish I’d just asked you for a ride.”

“But you would’ve ended up in the same place, it appears,” I said as I sat back down on my bed.

“Not even close,” she said as she sat down too. “Do you mind if I sleep with you?”

“As long as it’s just sleep, honey, we’re cool.”

She reached over and kissed my forehead.

“Oh course, darling,” she said before lying next to me.

I woke up six hours later, expecting her to be gone. Instead, she was sitting in a recliner watching re-runs of “Welcome Back Kotter” and drinking straight from a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

“Did I wake you,” she asked. I noticed she no longer had the Led Zeppelin shirt on. Now it was a Thin Lizzy one.

“Nope, you sure didn’t,” I replied. “You got a plan?”

“Do you?” she shot back.

“Just to keep driving.”

“Well, then. Just to keep riding.”