Page 12 of Hauling Ashe

For some reason, my sister’s warning returns to me. “I don’t think it’s safe for a woman of your age to drive across the country.”

A woman of my age? What did that even mean? Was I incapable, uneducated, disillusioned? I was forty-three, not six feet under. Forty was the new twenty. I could do whatever I pleased, when I pleased, how I pleased and be proud. Snap-snap-snap. However, my worried sister had planted a seed of doubt in my head. Should I really drive across the country alone? Would it be smart? Would it be safe? What if I did get that dreaded flat tire? Then again, that’s what AAA is for.

“I’ll be fine. This is just what I need,” I’d argued back.

“I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just saying I’d feel better if you weren’t alone.”

Her wish came true. I am not alone. A stupidly good-looking man sits behind me, staring at his laptop as the country air whirls inside the car and the scenic view of slowly growing crops whizzes past him. He isn’t on a journey of discovery. He knows very well who he is, and I bet women do throw themselves at him all the time. He doesn’t have trouble being friends with those women. Friendship doesn’t get in the way because sex is all he thinks about with them. They have sex with him.

I heard what he said to his partner on the phone.

Jane’s sister. She owes me a suit. Not interesting. She’s from hell.

Well, he’s no picnic and strangely, I feel even more alone with him in the car than if I’d been by myself.

As we pass through Joliet, Illinois, where an infamous prison is located, an iconic blues song fills the car. Made popular by the characters Jake and Elwood Blues in The Blues Brothers, a classic 1980 film, the song feels appropriate. I’ve been sprung from a cage around my heart and it’s time to be free. I will no longer be a passenger in my own life. The steering wheel is in my hand.

“Why aren’t we on the highway?” my riding companion asks as we travel a portion of Route 66 covered by the modern path of I-55, which overlaps and interweaves with the original highway. In 1985, the original Route 66 was decommissioned to allow for the faster-paced interstate expressways instituted to connect city to city from Chicago to Los Angeles. Unfortunately, small towns paid the price. Quaint locations turned into abandoned vestiges of days gone by and I wanted those forgotten hints, those mysteries of the past. It was difficult to explain why, and I definitely did not think someone like Tucker Ashford could understand.

“We’re headed for the Gemini Giant.” One of three gentle giant structures, nicknamed Muffler Men, exist across Illinois, and I was in search of each one. The first was located in Wilmington in front of a diner, and I was almost giddy once again with the prospect of seeing something authentically antiquated from the old highway.

Tucker huffs at my explanation but doesn’t ask for more information.

“Are you a blues fan?” he asks instead. Curiosity rings through his voice along with a touch of surprise. For once, he isn’t snapping at me. My window remains at half-mast after his earlier outburst and the car warms with the rising heat of a Midwestern summer day. Outside the major city, the land is flat. I’ve turned down the music, after he insulted my singing, but he no longer seems bothered by my playlist.

“Not really.” I don’t know much about the sound attributed to Chicago. I recognize drums, horns, and throaty voices, but nothing more, and I briefly consider asking my passenger if he’s a fan, but I don’t. After his earlier comments about my singing, I decided against speaking to my traveling companion. I don’t know a single lyric to this song other than the title but something about the sound makes me want to dance and I never dance in front of others.

Tucker returns to his phone and I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs noise canceling headphones. I’d consider purchasing a pair at the next major service station, if I didn’t think they were dangerous to wear as I drove. Besides, I don’t anticipate a gas station with a convenience store anytime soon and I’ll need to keep that in mind as I travel.

In the silence that continues between Tucker and me, Aretha Franklin belts out “Think,” emphasizing her warning to a man about his decisions, clarifying their need for one another, and asking him to consider her feelings. For a moment, my thoughts drift to Adam and my upset that he called me selfish with regard to this trip. I’d never known a more selfish person and the audacity of him accusing me— Nope. Not going there. Adam was not allowed head space on this journey.

Following the GPS, I weave toward a small town and almost miss the green giant I’d been seeking. Slowing, I pull into the parking lot of the diner where patrons are urged to take photos with the fiberglass man. Parking the car, I hop out while Tucker ducks his head, staring out the side window after me. The astronaut, reminiscent of space age dreams in the 1970s, is dressed in a Kelly-green outfit, with what looks more like a welder’s hood on his head than an astronaut’s helmet. He holds a silver rocket in his hand. For a moment, I breathe him in. He’s nostalgic although I can’t decide why. Turning around, I do my best to take a selfie, which I have not mastered. My arms are too short, my face always too close to the camera and the angle can’t really capture both me and the large statue.

“Well?” Tucker questions when I return to the car.

Assuming the single word question wonders what I thought, I tell him the truth. “I thought he’d be bigger.” Noting once more the rocket held in the statue’s hand, I snicker to myself, my mind resorting to the twelve-year old boy inside me. “And that’s what she said.”

I snort, laughing at my own joke because the tension between me and the man in my backseat is getting to me. Going into this trip on my own, I accepted I wasn’t going to share things I encountered. I’d been prepared for the singular experience. I’d been prepared to think my own thoughts and see what I sought, and then enjoy them—or not—on my own. Expressing my disappointment to a man clearly disinterested in our journey was equally disappointing and for a half second, I consider turning around and returning him to Chicago. We’d only gone a little over an hour and a half. I’d still have time to spend the weekend with my sister and Tucker could find another ride to California. I could start my quest on Sunday as initially planned.

Instead, I sigh.

“Would you like something?” The restaurant behind me is your classic drive-in, an original fast-food counter, and I envision a chocolate milkshake made with ice cream.

“I’m good.” Tucker’s disgruntled tone pisses me off. He’s missing out, but I decide I’ll pass as well. Pancakes and bacon from this morning have left my belly full, and I don’t need the stomachache milk products give me as I age. The sad fact is I can’t handle things like cheese and ice cream like I did when I was younger. There are a lot of things I don’t handle as I had when I was in my twenties and thirties, and one of those things is pouty men.

Tucker’s indignant silence unnerves me, and I start the ignition, reversing out of the parking lot and returning to a strip of Route 66 running parallel to the interstate. Eventually, I pull into another small town and park in a public lot.

Welcome to Pontiac.

“Now what?” Tucker mutters.

“This is one of the more famous Route 66 museums along the way. I’m not stopping at every one of them, but I’ve picked a few and this one wins in Illinois. You can stay in the car if you wish.” The statement reminds me of bickering boys and their whining while I ran errands. When my sons were little, leaving them in the car was never an option. As teens, they could just sit and stew. As my passenger wants to be an adolescent, he can do the same.

“How long will you be?” he asks, reminding me once more of my grown boys.

“Not more than an hour.”

“An hour?” he huffs.