On
June 2nd,
2020, at ten am in the morning, I started driving out of Long Beach,
California, where I had lived for several years, toward a friend’s
house in Millsboro, Delaware, not far from the city where I grew up
in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. But Philly, with relatives of mine
still stuck in 20th
century thinking, wasn’t my ending destination. I wanted to go
and be of help, service, and what I thought was to be love, to a
friend who had suffered some very personal losses in her life. She
was an unmarried woman in her thirties with three kids by two
different fathers, and the love of her life had done her wrong in a
very big way. I, in thinking that now seems clouded, thought that I
could somehow fill the void in her life, and be a companion, lover,
and maybe, if fate favored me, a spouse to her. That was at least,
one of my most coveted reasons for driving 2773 miles across country.
I had lost all three of my part times jobs to the COVID-19 pandemic.
And since I didn’t think I’d be finding anything soon on
the employment horizon, and after I had signed up for unemployment, I
decided that I would start life anew closer to where I was born.
It
would take 116.64
miles before I crossed the border between California into lazy
Arizona. I knew before I began the trip, that I would be hotel
hopping all the way across country, but I had hoped to drive for ten
to twelve hours a day, and put as much distance into each day as
possible. But little did I realize that the Black Lives Matter
protests that were going on all across the country in majors cities
would spill over onto interstate highways. Shortly after arriving in
Arizona, I passed an over-highway sign that said the highways had to
be evacuated at eight pm due to curfew.
I was astounded that a state
could put a curfew on a highway, but I didn’t want a run in
with the highway Patrol, so I calculated in my head how far I should
go before beginning a search for a hotel or motel in which to stay
for the night. Somewhere along the way, my check engine light came
on, and fright gripped me. ‘Oh no, not now on a cross country
trip’, I thought. I had no idea where to find a reputable
mechanic outside of the Los Angeles area. It had been coming on and
going off every once in a while, but now was not the time for it to
terrorize me. I tried not to pay attention to it, and maybe, just
maybe it would go away. I had purposely been paying attention to how
far gas stations and lodging were between long stretches of highway,
and at 5:15 pm, not knowing how much further I could drive before I
would find a hotel, I stopped and found a Motel 6. I’m told
they are called Motel 6 because when they first opened years ago,
they only charged six dollar for a night’s stay. This
particular Motel 6 should have been called Motel 86, because that’s
how much a night’s stay cost. But it was luckily located just
across the parking lot from a diner, so after checking in, I had a
leisurely dinner before retiring to an evening of news about BLM
protests on the nightly new stations. I drifted off to sleep that
first night of the drive, feeling content.
The
next day, I got
on the road at 8:15 am, half an hour later than I had planned,
because I wanted to have a substantial breakfast for what I
anticipated would be a longer drive ahead. I made it to I-40, which
according to my Mapquested directions, I’d stay on for 1202.60
miles. I don’t recall ever being on I-40 before, but it felt
like an endless set of landscapes that had absolutely nothing on
them. Just weeds, rocks, and presumably lizards lurking across the
hot desert floor. At the end of the day, not only did the check
engine light go off after me silently meditating it away, but I
crossed over into New Mexico, and the landscape changed somewhat. The
highway was wider, and it seemed both brighter and cleaner that what
had come before. There were many more hues to the passing
backgrounds. Literally trees, and what looked like mountains, had
muted reds and slight grayish-yellows to them. It was fascinating in
a nonchalant sort of way. New Mexico also looked like a nicer place
than was Arizona, but since I had topped off my gas before I left the
Motel 6 the night before, I didn’t even stop at all in New
Mexico. I stopped in the state of Texas at about six pm. I wanted to
travel until almost eight pm and stop, but not knowing what lodgings
were located ahead of me, I was forced to error on the side of
caution. Some of the road signs did tell me how far the next gas and
lodgings were, and thus, I was constantly calculating in my head, how
far I could go before refueling principally, but also how far I could
go before I was forced to exit the highway to stay in line with the
nightly curfews. I did notice that the radio stations were all
broadcasting music and commercials from the Texas Panhandle. That
night in the hotel, I brought up a map of Texas on my laptop, and
found out why they called the area the Texas Panhandle. It is shaped
like a handle. I was thankful that I wouldn’t have to travel
through the thick of Texas. Being Black was bad enough at the time,
but being Black in a red state during the BLM unrest didn’t
make me anything but nervous.
The
next day, after
a hearty Texas breakfast, I refueled and started out again across
more of I-40 and crossed into Oklahoma. Now before entering Oklahoma,
I had nothing bad to say about it, but that would all change before
the end of the day. Oklahoma has highway tolls that cost me three
dollars to pay all the way across the state. And since there was
literally a highway closure and re-routing in my path, I had to get
off on an exit to ask for directions. Both the off ramp and the on
ramp had tolls. I think it was just fifty cents to exit and enter,
but still, REALLY? I think it was the John Kilpatrick Turnpike that
turns into I-44 that had the re-routing, and three nice women at a
business whose name I didn’t even bother to find out, told me
how to get back to where I wanted to go. I didn’t want to spend
the night in Oklahoma, so I pushed on to Missouri, and found a hotel
just as I was getting restless from sitting upright all day. It was
almost six pm. The skies had turned somewhat gray and I could smell
rain in the air, but it just hadn’t started yet. Before I
closed my eyes that night, I heard the torrential rain come. Under
different circumstances, it might have kept me awake. I however, was
too tired to care.
The
ground was still
wet, and it was partly cloudy when I woke up, but since rain was
still heavily forecasted for most of the day, I refueled, found a
place to eat quickly, and was on the road again by 7:45, hoping to
beat another round of the rains. I was thus, exceedingly proud of
myself for the early start. But my preparations were in vain. I drove
at ninety miles an hour trying to outrun the impending storm, as the
skies darkened and the rain began behind me. It caught up to me and
dumped buckets of water onto the two-lane highway strewn with
tractor-trailer trucks speeding along, seemingly oblivious to the
torrential rain. I had to slow down to twenty miles an hour, but was
still getting passed by double and even triple trailer trucks happily
throwing water up onto my side the highway, and drenching my
windshield such that I couldn’t see a thing. I contemplated
pulling over and stopping, but the incessant rain blinded most
vehicles such that, I would probably get plowed into from behind if I
parked anywhere on the asphalt surface of the highway. I continued on
with high beams and constant prayer.
The
rain continued
for almost two and half hours, at times lightening up and at times
getting strong and heavy again. I could see lightening in the
distance, but heard no thunder. Near the end of the day, I had passed
into Illinois, but I stopped for the night in Indiana. The rains
stopped but the skies stayed gray. For June weather, it was
surprisingly cool and windy, but I loved the way it felt. I found a
motel almost a stone’s throw from the highway and ate at a
local diner, while reading their city newspaper before returning to
my room, and dropping immediately off to sleep. I woke up once during
the night at about three am to check the weather, and a light rain
this time, pelted the area. It was oddly soothing. The next day
before starting out, I updated my friends on where I was and what was
happening, since they were expecting me to materialize much sooner
than I did. They were worried and I was mildly stressed.
I
was almost three
hours into my commute when I noticed that my breaks were acting up,
and I had hardly been using them the whole trip. They felt like they
were threatening to lock up as I was decelerating from high speeds to
make highway changes or exits. I stopped early in the day in Ohio to
search for a hotel, a place to eat, and a place to get my breaks
checked. I found the hotel at 4pm, and a Meineke brake shop
immediately thereafter. They replaced my brake pads and shoes for a
modest price. I was relieved. I went right from the brake shop to a
restaurant and treated myself to a large, sumptuous meal. I had
formerly been eating rather light, since I wasn’t getting much
exercise getting fat behind the wheel from all of that driving. The
heavy meal didn’t make me sleepy since I knew I was far closer
to my destination than I thought I would have been with all of the
highway closures and inclement weather. I slept not quite as well as
the previous nights, probably due to excitement. I hadn’t been
back on the East Coast in many years, but I was most certainly close.
In
the morning, I
left after a light breakfast and quickly passed from Ohio in
Pennsylvania. Lush green trees and forested areas dominated the
landscapes. I thought I would recognize some of the areas, but I
didn’t. I was back in the state where I was born, and it was as
foreign to me as Italy had been not long after I joined the military,
and to which I was posted as a first duty station. The circuitous
route of my directions took me toward Morgantown, West Virginia, and
then into Maryland. I was close to, but never entered Washington D.C.
Finally, near the late afternoon, I crossed the state line into
Delaware. Now, instead of long stretches of highway driving, I was
turning onto and off of local highways, crossing bridges, and passing
along one-lane roads that were becoming increasing packed with
vacationers. It was June after all, and the start of the summer
vacation season. I didn’t enjoy the crowded roads as much as I
loved many of the lonely highways that ushered me along the way. I
made it into Millsboro, Delaware along back roads new to me, but
obviously well known to locals. At five pm on June 6th, I called my
friends while I was sitting in the parking lot of the community
center at the front of their housing community, because on the last
mile of the trip, I got lost. I was inside their housing community
but I couldn’t find their house. After driving around in
circles for half an hour, they heard my voice on the phone telling
them that I was lost. My friend sent her kids out onto the streets to
look for me, and on a third or fourth circuit around the complex,
they recognized me, and told me where to turn to find their
cul-de-sac. I arrived at their house with gifts in hand and with a
weary smile, excited that I had made a somewhat perilous journey
across fifteen states.
I
am a Queer woman of color veteran, who writes fiction short stories,
non-fiction essays, screenplays, novels, poetry, and reconditioned
well-known, European fairy tales into those with African-American,
Native-American, Hispanic American, or Asian-American tints. She is
an avid supporter of the Disabled, Academically At-Risk, and LGBTQ+
communities. She lives in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware where she writes
prolifically and dreams without cease.
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