Page 16 of Hauling Ashe

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When Mae nears a giant covered wagon minus the cloth and featuring a huge Abraham Lincoln statue in the driver’s seat holding a book, I’m ready to lose it. The silence between us for the fifteen-minute ride has been heavier than the rest of the trip. Thankfully, Mae must read the tension coming off me because she continues onward.

“Your tour will continue for another forty minutes before we stop in Springfield for lunch.” Mae’s announcement, in a voice similar to that of a bus driver, pulls forth all kinds of memories. A van filled with the guys. A list of our destinations. Our excitement. Our failure.

My thoughts rush back to the museum where Mae had stopped, and where I’d refused to exit the car at first. Trying to recall how to hotwire a car, I fought the urge. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done it once or twice in my past. I was never stealing, I justified. Just borrowing the car for a little bit to see some band—a local gig I wanted to catch, a sound I wanted to hear.

If I only heard the music, I could replicate it.

In my head, I see the item that caught my attention in the museum—a rusty harmonica on the shelf. Playing harmonica is a dying skill, a lost talent, and one I haven’t used in so long I don’t know if I could remember how to properly blow out and breathe in as one should with such an instrument. My fingers twitch, curling around an imaginary four-inch sound machine. I only had a 10-hole diatonic harmonica when I was young. It was a beginner’s windpipe, but I could play that piece wicked well.

When I first returned to Chicago, I’d hit that harmonica like a nicotine addict unable to quit cigarettes. Hiding out in the farthest corner of my grandfather’s backyard or in the dark alley behind Rochelle and mine’s first apartment, I’d inhale the sound I would eventually give up. One day the piece I’d prized my entire life as a gift from my grandfather had disappeared, and I took the disappearance for the sign it was. I was never going back to who I wanted to be. My limited career and short stint of independence was over.

My soul feels that heartbreak once again.

To make matters worse, the car fills with “The Piano Man” by Billy Joel and Mae begins her version of singing.

“Turn that crap off,” I snap, more harshly than I’ve spoken to Mae so far as echoes of my past rip through me. Mae huffs and clicks to the next song in her dreaded road trip playlist and loneliness hits me almost as hard as her finger jabbing the sound system for the next selection. I need out of this car, away from the intoxicating scent of my driver, her off-key sound, and the memories racing through my head.

8

Playlist: “When He Sees Me” (from Waitress the Musical) - Sara Barielles

[Mae]

Don’t fall in love with me. What a perfectly ridiculous thing to say to him. His response was just as preposterous. I wouldn’t expect Tucker Ashford to love me even on a good day and he seems like he is having a perpetually bad one.

“What is this?” Tucker asks when we pull up ninety silent minutes later before a white brick building. The name should give the place away: Cozy Dog Drive-in.

“Does that sign say ‘home of the original hot dog on a stick’?” he asks next, and I hear the curious displeasure in his voice.

“It sure does,” I reply, opening my door and stretching my legs. Although we’ve been stop and go, my knees are cramping, and I could use a good walk. Not to mention my shoulders are tight after our last altercation. One minute he’s smiling that off-kilter smile and taking pictures for me, and the next he’s making a joke that dies like a punchline you have to explain to someone.

I don’t understand this man.

The pictures he took of me were not how I saw myself. He must have played with some filter I don’t know how to work on the smartphone camera because I don’t look like myself. I’m smiling and my eyes are bright. They made me look…good.

Then he had to ask me not to hit on him. I could understand if I took things too far. If I was throwing myself at him, begging him to take me on the uncomfortable bench seat of Louie, but I hadn’t suggested anything of the sort. Speaking of bad moods, one minute I want to request a backseat rendezvous, and the next, I want to stuff him in the trunk and pretend I’m not carting a body back there. He is so…frustrating.

He also isn’t pleased with my lunchtime selection, but a deep-fried hot dog is on the menu and this place is classic Route 66. Admittedly, I don’t know how my stomach will handle a hot dog, let alone one batter dipped, but I’m willing to try one for the experience. That’s what this trip is about. Seeing places I haven’t seen. Trying things I haven’t tried. Partaking in activities I wouldn’t normally partake in.

Surprisingly, there is comfort—albeit unsettling—to having Tucker with me. He doesn’t talk much, and he calmed down about the music selection after the “Piano Man” outburst. His sharp command to cut the song left me puzzled, but obviously he isn’t a Billy Joel fan. Maybe the lyrics hold a bad memory for him, but I can’t imagine Mr. Picture Perfect having had bad moments in his life. Except maybe his wife’s death.

Immediately, I realize my assessment isn’t fair. I’m the first to admit you can’t read what’s underneath the skin of another human being. I’d been fooled too often by Adam.

Tucker follows me into the iconic-looking counter service diner. Of note, he held the door for me. Maybe he is a gentleman after all. Peering at him over my shoulder as I head for the counter, I decide against it. He’s too hard-edged. His face too handsome.

He squints at the overhead menu. This is not his kind of eatery, and he looks out of place in his dark slacks and starched dress shirt. With his hands in his pockets, he continues to peruse the menu while I scan his profile.

Slowly, he turns to face me, and I should look away. He’s already caught me glancing at him too many times through the rearview mirror. He’s told me not to hit on him. His expression screams not to even consider flirting with him, and yet…underneath all that pretty skin with fine lines near his eyes is just a man. A man who hates a song and was staring at something in that display back in the museum.

I wonder if it was the rusty harmonica that held his attention. I have no idea how that could connect to anything other than the strong presence of the wind instrument in Billy Joel’s famous song about people in a bar who are lonely and sad.

“What are you having?” Tucker asks me, interrupting my thoughts.

“The Cozy Dog, of course, with fries and a cola.”

Tucker nods and we step forward until it’s our turn. The teenage boy behind the counter who asks for our orders reminds me of my son, Owen. They share similar features—floppy dark hair and bright blue eyes.