I felt defeat. My eyelids were heavy, but my thoughts were fully formed and my speech was still intact. I wasn't beyond the ability to drive further into the night, toward a safe place to sleep, preferably with a friendlier face than the stuffed shirt who stared at us while we each formed an opinion about what to do next.
L sat on the loveseat across from the desk. She sighed and said, "The Lord provides."
The stuffed shirt's eyes widened. You could see the flicker of recognition light up his face.
"That he does," he said. He pulled a phone book from behind the counter and handed it out toward me. I resented the assumption that I was a believer; that because my traveling companion had made mention of her faith, I must share the same compulsion. I resented that it took a reference to the popular deity to get the man, who by all means should have been kind to us before because it was his job, to be nice and helpful to two lone travelers on a dark road in a foreign state. If he was a Christian, then wasn't it his duty to be kind in the first place? I felt myself start to seethe a little. Instead, I took the phone book.
"You'll have to drive on into Minot," he said, pronouncing it "My-not." I'd been saying, "Minnow" since I saw the word on the map. Hearing it said aloud by people who'd been there gave me a sliver of insight into what the place was like. French words Americanized meant one thing. I knew it closer to home in Kentucky. Versailles was "Ver-sales." It was deflating, but at least a little more familiar. Like my anger.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
ND 2
We pulled over at a local motel. There was a bar attached. Before either of us even checked the front desk to see if there was a vacancy, I went straight to the restroom. L wandered into the bar.
I looked at myself in the dim light, poorly reflected against dirty white walls. I felt very far from Los Angeles, but closer, right then, to home. I looked tired, but not like myself. My hair was short and my stomach rounder than usual. Once I'd made the decision to leave LA, I started to fill up and fast. I ate all the food. I stopped pacing myself. Instead of a night out for cuban chicken one week and an Indian food feast the next, I started packing them in night after night. By the time I started to drive east, my favorite jeans didn't fit. But, that seemed fitting.
L was standing outside the door, scowling at the petite blond bartender. The girl's eyes were far apart, practically on the sides of her face, and when she turned to look at me, she seemed to be glancing far behind me. Then she scoffed.
"What?" I said.
L shrugged. "She did the same thing to me," she said. "I asked her what was on tap and that's the answer I got."
We walked back into the lobby where the night manager was stood and looked at us. He didn't say "welcome." He didn't say "hello." I was less than a week gone from working for one of the top hotel brands in the industry and this guy couldn't greet two potential guests.
"We'd like a room," I said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "All booked."
I didn't understand how a motel off an interstate could be booked on a weeknight. There weren't many cars in the parking lot. We'd been one of three people in the bar. I made a face, and the manager sighed.
"The owner of the gas station's wife passed away and everyone's in town for the funeral," he explained.
L and I looked at one another. She sat down on the brown sofa in the lobby. Everything in the room was brown. The light was brown. The mood was brown. The night manager's eyes were brown.
It's true that I was headed home, to live near the small town in which I'd grown up. I'd traveled far and wide. But I'd never felt as foreign as I did in that unfriendly motel off the 2 in North Dakota.
I looked at myself in the dim light, poorly reflected against dirty white walls. I felt very far from Los Angeles, but closer, right then, to home. I looked tired, but not like myself. My hair was short and my stomach rounder than usual. Once I'd made the decision to leave LA, I started to fill up and fast. I ate all the food. I stopped pacing myself. Instead of a night out for cuban chicken one week and an Indian food feast the next, I started packing them in night after night. By the time I started to drive east, my favorite jeans didn't fit. But, that seemed fitting.
L was standing outside the door, scowling at the petite blond bartender. The girl's eyes were far apart, practically on the sides of her face, and when she turned to look at me, she seemed to be glancing far behind me. Then she scoffed.
"What?" I said.
L shrugged. "She did the same thing to me," she said. "I asked her what was on tap and that's the answer I got."
We walked back into the lobby where the night manager was stood and looked at us. He didn't say "welcome." He didn't say "hello." I was less than a week gone from working for one of the top hotel brands in the industry and this guy couldn't greet two potential guests.
"We'd like a room," I said.
He shook his head. "No," he said. "All booked."
I didn't understand how a motel off an interstate could be booked on a weeknight. There weren't many cars in the parking lot. We'd been one of three people in the bar. I made a face, and the manager sighed.
"The owner of the gas station's wife passed away and everyone's in town for the funeral," he explained.
L and I looked at one another. She sat down on the brown sofa in the lobby. Everything in the room was brown. The light was brown. The mood was brown. The night manager's eyes were brown.
It's true that I was headed home, to live near the small town in which I'd grown up. I'd traveled far and wide. But I'd never felt as foreign as I did in that unfriendly motel off the 2 in North Dakota.
Monday, December 1, 2014
ND One
It was dark when we crossed the state line into North Dakota. At least, that's how I remember it: out of Montana and into the night. The road seemed to narrow and the landscape widened and our headlights were wholly inadequate to show us what lied ahead.
We kept driving without any idea whether or not we'd stop. I suggested an overnight haul straight through the state. But, my eyes grew heavy and orange barrels and road construction made the narrow road feel smaller, scarier, something almost impossible. We stopped at a gas station to study the map because the dashboard light was too dim to illuminate a useful route. We were still on the 2, that much we knew for certain. We did not deviate. The plan was to continue on. It was a straight shot in the dark, but with pesky orange cones peppering the way. I thought we could get through it. I thought we could make it all the way to Minnesota and skip a night in the wide, blank state between destinations that I cared about.
Ultimately, it was my bladder and my terrible night vision that made us stop. We'd gone to the sun and came back down and then spent the day driving further and further away from the glory. When we stopped at a motel off the only exit for miles, we were about as far away from anything majestic as two girls could get.
We kept driving without any idea whether or not we'd stop. I suggested an overnight haul straight through the state. But, my eyes grew heavy and orange barrels and road construction made the narrow road feel smaller, scarier, something almost impossible. We stopped at a gas station to study the map because the dashboard light was too dim to illuminate a useful route. We were still on the 2, that much we knew for certain. We did not deviate. The plan was to continue on. It was a straight shot in the dark, but with pesky orange cones peppering the way. I thought we could get through it. I thought we could make it all the way to Minnesota and skip a night in the wide, blank state between destinations that I cared about.
Ultimately, it was my bladder and my terrible night vision that made us stop. We'd gone to the sun and came back down and then spent the day driving further and further away from the glory. When we stopped at a motel off the only exit for miles, we were about as far away from anything majestic as two girls could get.
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