“I done knowed that, Purje. You ain’t listenin’.”
A couple wearing matching cowboy hats exits Jane’s Diner, their voices covering serious ground.
“I am too, darlin’, but iffin’ you cain’t getter done here in Independence, you cain’t getter done nowheres.”
I choke on a tart lick of lemon.
“Ahhhhh, sheetfahr, Purje, jus’ shut up and listen fer a sec.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Did you say Independence?”
They look at me as if they’d just as soon shoot me. A wad of tobacco comes flying out of the man’s mouth, landing inches from my precious high-tops.
Enchanté, Purje.
“So what’f we did?”
Oh my God, they did. I’m here. Home of Ahab, Arlene’s nephew, the champion swimmer turned gas station tycoon. Across the overpass, there’re at least four gas stations—it could be any one of them.
“Listen,” says the one called Purje, “this here’s one o’th’great frontier towns in all ’merica. I’ll kiss a monkey’s ass ’for I’ll listen to ya denigratin’ Independence.”
I take a second to appreciate the fact that this man can’t pronounce America but knows the word denigrate. The woman sticks her right hand in her vest pocket, and for a minute, I’m legitimately afraid she’s packing heat. Instead of a gun, she pulls out a flask, takes a long swig, passes it to Purje.
“Of course not, sir. I would never. Independence seems like a charming little town. I just . . .”
The land of autonomy.
“You jus’?” says Purje, eyeballing me.
From the relative comfort of my bus seat, the decision to ditch the Greyhound had been a fairly easy one, the prospect of hitchhiking to Cleveland sounded downright adventurous. But gazing around rural Kentucky, the realities of my plan settle in my stomach like a brick.
“Th’ hell’s wrong with her, Purje?” whispers the woman.
Purje shakes his head.
I toss the rest of my ice-cream cone on the ground and start toward the bus door. “Thanks, guys. Keep it classy.”
Hopping up the steps, I picture Arlene—a grande dame from the old school, mistress of geriatric panache, and my friend—clutching that wooden box for dear life. And a dear life it was. Now I have the opportunity to deliver that box, to finish what she started, to honor her dear life.
I have the chance to complete Arlene’s Objective.
And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna take it.
I grab my backpack from the overhead compartment and start back down the aisle, when a voice stops me on a dime.
“You skipping out?”
At the top of the stairs, I turn and see 17C (heart be still) propped on his knees in a seat toward the back of the otherwise empty bus. He’s holding his camera next to the window; it’s obvious I’ve interrupted some kind of photo shoot.
“What?” I whisper, suddenly wondering what the hell I’d been thinking, cutting my own hair.
“I asked if you were skipping out,” he said.
I step into the aisle, pushing my bangs out of my eyes. It’s a simple question requiring a simple answer, but for the moment, my tongue seems vacuum-sealed to the roof of my mouth. I’m pretty certain I need a nose job, and my armpits itch, which—what the hell?
Pull it together, Malone.
I nod and smile, and he nods and sort of half smiles, and oh God, if that’s only half the smile, I can’t imagine the whole one. He has a black eye, which I hadn’t noticed before. Even with the shiner though, the eyes are a warm green—bright, stunning, unforgettable. His eyebrows are thick. Not bushy, just thick, as if they were drawn using the broad side of a marker.
“Well, good luck,” he says.
Outside, the cop car is in his direct line of vision. He follows my eyes, then blushes and puts the cap back on the lens.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good luck to you, too.”
He leans back in his chair, closes his eyes and whispers, “Thanks.” Then, almost in a breath, “I’m gonna need it.”
In the movie of my life, I have scenes and dialogue, rather than experiences and discussions. Instead of friends, a cast; instead of places, a setting. At this moment—a definite movie moment—I blink in slow motion. The camera zooms in on my eyes as I drink in the enigmatic 17C. The audience sits in silent wonder, a combination of hope, sadness, and wistful longing for romance stirring in their bellies. Alas, the girl is leaving, and the boy is staying, and ’twas always thus. The likelihood of their stories intertwining again doesn’t make for a very believable plot. Though I suppose that depends on a person’s definition of believable.
From a thousand metaphorical miles away, a sweet voice rings in my ears. You’d be surprised what I believe these days.
Channeling the faith of Arlene—and with her precious wooden box strapped to my back—I step off the bus. More than anything, I want to be with Mom right now. Whatever her sickness is, she needs me desperately, and I know this. But all my favorite movies have one thing in common: a singular moment in which you can feel the director telling his character’s story as well as his own. It is beautiful, poignant, and appallingly rare.
I don’t know what’s in this box, but I am part of its story, as it is part of mine.
Making my way back across the street, I consider the role of 17C in my movie. It’s a hard sell, our characters meeting again. But I won’t count it out just yet. Because there’s nothing I hate more than a predictable ending.