writing practice

[just_cyd]

[Part 1]
"This is exciting!" she exclaimed. "I've never been south before!" Angel was to my right, ensconced in road trip flotsam taking up the passenger seat. In her current form, she looked like a baby doll a child might have, but just a bit more bright, a bit more ethereal. She fairly bounced in excitement, looking all around, taking it all in. As I settled myself in, mentally checking off things before starting off -luggage? check. snacks? check. EZPass transmitter properly installed? check- another voice startled. "Aren't you forgetting someone" the voice said, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Devil. Dev, as she, I mean THEY, prefer to be called. "no, Dev, I didn't forget you," I replied, keeping my annoyance in check. There was a cackling turned to a quack, and another voice rang out a little too loud: "That's NOT who they meant!" Violet. Fuck. Well, now that the gang's all here, I guess it's time to get this show on the road.

I pointed the car south ever so briefly before picking up US 35 to head southeast out of Ohio. Once through excess that is Beavercreek, the highway opened up into a vast wasteland of brown winter fields, poverty and drug use, Biden-bashing and MAGA praise. The towns we pass through are too far removed to be influenced by the Big Five (Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, Dayton, and Toledo). Evidence of the damage wrought by Dollar Stores abounds, to the point there is no going back. But not me, I can still go back; I have not yet hit The Point of No Return.

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The Point of No Return is the point in any road trip/walk/journey where you from being closer to home than closer to your destination. While am acutely aware at all times, I doubt most people even think of this. The halfway point for most might be a reason to celebrate, a milestone. For me, it's the point where I have to decide if I can keep going. Can I do this? Will I be OK? A million what-ifs flood my brain. Sometimes that point is not halfway, but the state line, the city limits. the door to my car. The threshold of my house. For years and years I meagerly planned to do things that my brain would never allow. "I can't afford it," was my usual excuse. No one questions the financial burden, but I can see them silently judging me for the life wasted. So what changed?

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The four of us settled into our trip, Angel on the seat beside me, mindful of the rules of automobile safety; Dev lounging in the dash, looking like a enby hipster Elf on the Shelf, stretching their legs out to where they think the speedometer should be; and Violet, flitting around, fussing, acting the fool rather than the well-traveled anas platyrhynchos that she is. Me? I'm holding it together. Right? Right.

As we cross the river, Google Maps announces our arrival in West Virginia, which immediately prompts a chorus of "are we there yet?" It was so well coordinated, I'm not entirely convinced they didn't rehearse this. "We're only going as far as Beckley tonight. We'll be there in just over an hour." The non-Homo sapiens settle back in for the drive, while I straighten myself, flip over to my Girl Power playlist on Spotify, and pretend that driving through the mountains at night (and a million other things) doesn't scare me.

In the dark, I'm not distracted by the views and the drop-offs and the various directions the rock layers point as they were thrust up by colliding tectonic plates millions of years ago. I don't face the woozy feeling of the twisty-turny roads and the need to rubber-neck over guardrails rather than keep my eyes on the road. In the dark, I can't tell exactly how close that rock wall is, and if new boulders have fallen, or how far down to hit bottom. And it's there, rock bottom. I turn the radio up a bit more.

We have to do more than fall off the highway to reach our hotel in Beckley. I have finally done the grownup thing and swore fealty to Choice Hotels, and while my selections here were not extensive, I managed to book a room that was not outrageously expensive in a place that had free hot breakfast. The cheaper place without breakfast didn't save me much, and was farther afield. I checked in and dragged my luggage and menagerie in with me - Angel and Dev inconspicuous on my shoulders in their usual form, Violet in her rightful place in my shoulder bag, as she has done for years. She's muttering about it, but it's all for show - she's as surprised as I am by Dev and Angel tagging along, and I suppose it's her right to assert her seniority. In our room, I recall that the only option was one bed, not two. whelp, this will be an interesting night. Before I set about my evening ablutions, I firmly reminded everyone that tomorrow was going to be a long day, a BIG day, and I needed my sleep. "please don't make me angry," I state; "You won't like me when I'm angry," and finish with a stern gaze that leaves Violet laughing, Dev yawning, and dear sweet Angel utterly terrified. Mental note: dial that back a bit. We're going to need her on her A-game tomorrow night.

Sleep comes quickly, but is anything but restful. The Wonder Twins invited the brain weasels to a rave, so instead of the pedestrian Calvin and Hobbes projection room with disorganized film reels being tossed about, I get Technicolor visions of in-your-face madness, stopping just short being nightmares, with a soupcon of whimsy just for kicks. Think Steven King meets Jodi Picoult meets Shel Silverstein, all in visual form. Instead of waking up to my usual "and you were there! and you!" a la Dorothy at the end of The Wizard of Oz, I'm clawing my way to consciousness with a determination I've not felt since my last surgery. As I rub my eyes to clear the crud, I hear snickering. I sneeze into my arm, then look down: is that Silly String?

[part 2]
While the littles fuss about with the TV remote and taking the microwave turntable for a ride (NOT YOU, VIOLET!!), I decide to see if lightning will strike twice in the form of a Good Hair Day, and head for the shower. The drive from Beckley to Hillsborough should be ample time for my hair to dry unbothered, allowing me to look Teh Hawt just as I did in Atlanta last month. This musician I'm seeing is married with kids, but that's no excuse to be sloppy. It's Greensboro-adjacent, as well as Durham/Chapel Hill-adjacent, so maybe the cool kids will come out on a school night to support their friend. Maybe Darren and Zach will show up? This is Zach's hometown, after all. Showered and dressed in my travel clothes (respectable sweats & tshirt, hoodie at the ready), I pack everything back up and then usher the menagerie down to breakfast. It's the usual Hot Hotel Breakfast Affair: eggs, sausage, fresh fruit, breads and pastries of questionable freshness (or temperature; my bagel is still frosty), yogurt and cereal and juice and coffee and, the piece-de-resistance: The Machine That Makes Pancakes. I'm relieved to see this, and not the waffle makers, which have safety hazard and giant mess written all over them. The Pancakeonator is self-contained and touchless, so there's no risk of Dev or Violet luring Angel into some
mishap in the name of "adventure." I start my bagel to toasting (or rather "toasting" - just hot enough to melt the ice cold butter) and add a couple egg rounds and sausage links to my plate. I eye the mini-fridge in the corner to determine the flavors from a distance. If there's strawberry or peach, I'll snag one for the road; berry or something-banana? Pass. The budget for this trip is rapidly evaporating, but my willingness to let go of these specific food aversions will not be swayed.

I nod and smile at the other guests, make faces at a baby, and get Violet set up for a selfie when I hear someone speak. "Is that your Flat Stanley?" a woman asks. My instinct is to call her middle-aged, when she's probably 15-20 years older than I. I smile up at her and offer "yes! This is Violet Duck. She's got her own facebook page, and gets into all manner of trouble when my back is turned." "is that how she got the scribbles on her?" "oh, those aren't any old scribbles. Girlfriend threw herself at the members of Better Than Ezra and demanded they sign her chest. can you imagine?" Her eyes lit up at the band name, and we shared a moment of fan-girling. I assured her they still had it, even closing in on 60. Just as it got awkward, I felt a tiny foot kick me under the table, so I excused myself and dragged us all back to the room via the mini-fridge. Peach - score!