So intuit, already.
I pull out the itinerary that came with my ticket. Next official stop: Cincinnati.
Options.
I could get a cab. Or . . . hitchhike.
Boom.
Yes. What better way to get to Mom, she of the European hitchhiker’s guild?
Ditch the bus.
I pull the bag of chips from my backpack. They’re warm and crisp, and by the time I open the bag, I’ve made up my mind.
I want out. Of all of it: the random stops, the strange smells, the uncomfortable nearness of Poncho Man. I’ll ditch the bus in Cincinnati. At least I’ll be in the right state. Really, there’s no downside, except . . .
Munching, I twist in my seat and peer around the edge.
Crunch.
17C is three rows behind me, across the aisle, pressing a digital camera against his window.
Crunch.
He’s older than me, probably early twenties, so it’s not completely out of the question—us getting married and traveling the world over, I mean. Right now, a five-year difference might seem like a lot, but once he’s fifty-four and I’m forty-nine, well shoot, that’s nothing.
Crunch.
There’s a quality about him, something like a movie star, but not quite. Like he could be Hollywood if it weren’t for his humanitarian efforts, or his volunteer work, or his clean conscience, no doubt filled to the brim with truth, integrity, and a heart for the homeless.
Crunch.
He has longish brown hair and beautiful dark green eyes. His stubbly beard isn’t preteen-ish, it’s I-don’t-know-what . . . rugged, yes, but not only. It’s the stuff of hunters and builders. And carpenters. It suggests outdoorsy intelligence. It’s desert-fucking-island stubble, is what it is.
Crunch.
A navy zip-up Patagonia fits perfectly, wrapped around his upper torso like a . . . well, like something. His shoulders aren’t broad nor are they narrow; his jeans aren’t skinny nor are they loose; his boots aren’t clean nor are they dirty.
17C is just the right amount of himself.
He is my perfect anomaly.
Crunch.
Apparently done taking pictures, he dismantles his camera, stows it under his seat, and pulls out a book. Between the hair, boots, jacket, and camera, he’s really working the Pacific Northwest, pre-hipster, post-grunge thing, which I have to say, I just love. Squinting, I try to see what book he’s reading, though I don’t suppose it would really—
Shit.
I jerk back in my seat. Did he see me? I think he saw me.
Crunch.
I need to keep my head in the game anyway . . .
Crunch. (Those eyes.)
. . . if I’m going to see this new plan through.
Crunch. (That hair.)
We’ll be in Cincinnati before you know it.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
I tip the bag of crumbs, aiming for my mouth but hitting my hair and face instead. Thank God for the high seat backs.
INDEPENDENCE, KENTUCKY
(278 Miles to Go)
14
Grammatical Shenanigans
“HOW MANY SCOOPS do you want?”
I stare through the glass at the dozen or so tubs of ice cream. “How many can I have?”
“Umm. As many as you want.”
“Ha, right, okay. Well, here’s the thing”—I look at her name tag—“Glenda. How many scoops I want might kill me. Like, actually, kill me dead. Plus, I don’t really feel like breaking records in this category. So . . . what’s the current scoop record again?”
Glenda sighs. “Seven.”
Jackpot.
Even though Cincinnati is something like twenty minutes away, our driver (whose name I’ve already forgotten, but I assure you is the very opposite of Carl) insisted on stopping for pie. That’s right. Pie. Over the microphone, he’d announced that Jane’s Diner had the best pie this side of the Mighty Mississippi, and that he’d be a monkey’s uncle if he was gonna pass right by without helping himself to a slice, and that if we knew what was good for us, we’d help ourselves to a slice, too, and that we’d surely be thanking him later.
Naturally, I decided never to eat pie again. As luck would have it, across the street from Jane’s was this little place called—I kid you not—Aces Dairy Dip Mart Stop Plus. I could not resist. (And really, why would I want to?)
Glenda scoops, I pay, and a few minutes later, I carry my double-chocolate-espresso-chip-raspberry-mint-caramel-lemon waffle cone across the street, the happiest girl this side of the mighty effing Pacific.
A patrol car is flashing lights in the parking lot of Jane’s Diner. There doesn’t seem to be any commotion, but a cop is giving someone a stern talking-to in the back seat.
I lean against the bus and watch my fellow passengers through the window of Jane’s Diner. It’s one of those trailers without wheels, which I never really understood.
Removing a vehicle’s wheels in order to make it a stationary venue makes about as much sense as buying a bed, then using the wood to make a chair. But this isn’t what bugs me most about Jane’s Diner. What bugs me most is the sign on the front door.
“COME ON IN,” WE’RE OPEN
I chuckle mid-lick. People just can’t help themselves when it comes to quotation marks. As if they’re completely paralyzed by this particular punctuation. I guess it’s really not that big of a deal, but it does seem to be a widespread brand of easily avoidable buffoonery.
Through the window, I scan the crowd for Poncho Man, but I don’t see him anywhere. No matter. In less than an hour, it’s adios anyway.