The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  I laughed at the ridiculousness of what I considered possibility, but at the same time, for once, I was free. I felt freedom with the amount of choices I had under my fingertips. I felt freedom because I could reinvent myself and if reinvention didn’t work, I could just pack my derelict suitcases up and try again. I could live a quiet life where no one would find me or I could really ham it up until the world knew my name.

  Ridiculous, I know. Years of pent up anger fueled my decisions and before going too much farther down the unknown road, I would need to tame myself before my mindset tamed me. The chances of me becoming a movie star were realistically next to nothing. I’m white trash. I come from a long line of white trash, and for now, I just needed to escape the world.

  I looked up in time to see the first road sign pass me by, taunting my progress, or lack of as I had no idea what I was actually getting myself involved in. Two hundred and thirty-seven miles until Effingham, Illinois.

  Effingham.

  Effing. Ham. Effing ideas. Effing crazy ideas. Effing family. Effing history. Effing life. Sounds like the perfect effing place to make my first pit stop and stretch my legs.

  Hi-ho, hi-ho. It’s off to Effingham I go.

  Chapter Three

  Two hours and forty-five minutes later, we arrived. We as in myself, my inhibitions, my conscience, and my “can’t miss me I’m dirt poor” automobile. “Hello Effingham,” I muttered. I looked around with my left eyebrow cocked in severe disappointment. My first pit stop landed me in exactly the same style of town I just left. The exact same type of town constantly haunting my dreams and making me wonder, “Isn’t there more to life than this?”

  Is there? Can you tell me? Can anyone tell me?

  Surely this small town Americana wouldn’t be what every single stop on this trip of insanity would unveil. This had to be the universe throwing me a cruel joke, trying to encourage me to turn around by making me face the fact no matter what town I might land in, those two lane gravel and oil roads would always be paved with the same tired old stories and the same tired old excuses.

  I turned in to the first gas station I found. Small town? Check. Nice gas station where the door smoothly opened and a little ding sounded? Yes. I crossed my fingers welcome chimes also meant a nice bathroom.

  “Hey, Dipshit, wake up,” a burly voice called out, snapping me back to reality while I feverishly calculated gallons of gas vs. small town gas prices vs. estimated miles per gallon.

  “Excuse me?” I belted defensively. “Who are you calling Dipshit?”

  “That would be you, because you’re overflowing your gas tank, Dipshit.”

  Damnit. He was right. Gas bubbled out of my tank, onto my jeans, and over the only pair of shoes I brought not from a bargain bin — my favorite hot pink Chuck Taylor high-tops bought off internet classified ads from someone who decided pink was out of season. Forever.

  “Son of a bitch,” I moaned. “This can’t be happening. It’s my first stop!”

  “First stop, ay? Where you headed?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for nosey people who thought they could label me a dipshit immediately — even if they were right.

  “No where special,” I answered. “Anywhere except for where I came from.” I realized a little too late I may be giving away too much information. For all I knew, this burly man may be on the FBI’s most wanted list and might be staking me out to slit my throat and harvest my organs. If I was going to make it as far as I could make it, I need to be more careful. “Damn blessings. They show up and end up just being a crock of shit,” I muttered.

  “Blessings?” the burly man questioned.

  “Gas is cheaper here. I thought a few pennies saved here and there would get me farther down the road. God, if he’s up there, must be taunting me with this bullshit. Cheaper gas, overflowing gas tank.” I let out a scoff and opened the trunk to dig out some new clothes. I was going to have to wash these jeans and my Chucks in the bathroom sink, or else drive to my next stop with a major migraine.

  “Sometimes blessings are hidden, you know. Maybe you’re only meant to go so far on this road and God is telling you what to do.”

  “You got my attention by calling me a dipshit and now you want to lecture me on God? Okay, burly man. I’m warning you, if you’re trying to earn my trust by seeming friendly while you’re sizing me up to murder me and stuff me in some small locked box you dump on the side of the road, I know kung-fu.”

  “The name is Pastor Bob Bellamy, my friend. I promise not to cut you up or kill you. I think my congregation would get a little pissed with me over that one. Speaking of, I have places to be now, so I gotta go.”

  “You’re a pastor? You called me dipshit, and you just cursed. Sort of ironic, isn’t it?”

  “I’m a pastor, yes, but I’m also a person. It’s the great thing about life and one of the largest misconceptions of life. We aren’t meant to be perfect. I could think of things I could do worse than cursing.”

  I stared him up and down. He was a big and burly man with worn in jeans and black leather patch covered vest. He was standing in front of a beat up red Chevy truck with a white roof, bucket seats covered in those old 1970’s Native American inspired woven carpets and the stereotypical white-faced old Labrador Retriever in the back. While the dog wagged his tail, you could hear the empty beer cans rattling with each gust of canine tail wind. I cocked my head and tried to figure out what to say to this interesting creature.

  “Okay, you got me,” he laughed. “I’m just called Pastor Bob because I like to give advice, but I am definitely more sinner than saint. My congregation exists of my fishing buddies and ol’ Rocky back there.”

  I answered with a loud sigh of relief. My intuition wasn’t too far off on this one and I wasn’t an idiot after all. I wasn’t in some alternate universe and God was likely still taunting me.

  “You know what? On your way out of town, before you hit the exit, take a left and go visit the Effingham Cross. Sounds like you need to do some thinking before you take this trip. If you don’t do some thinking, at least do some people watching.”

  “The what? The Effingham Cross?”

  “The big silver cross right next to the interstate?”

  “I didn’t see any large crosses,” I replied. “Is it hidden?”

  “Girl, it’s 200 feet tall and 137 feet wide. It’s made out of shiny silver material and is right next to the interstate. Are you sure you should be driving?”

  Normally, if someone recommended I stop next to a ridiculously tall cross that was undoubtedly either a show of “fuck you” money or the government wasting money, I would blow them off. Something about Pastor Bob and the fact I missed a 200-foot tall cross the first time around made me curious. I thanked him for his advice, and suggestion, and hopped into my car, forgetting all about the gas that would serve as my perfume the longer it sat close to my skin.

  “Oh my God,” I said a little too loud as I stepped out of my car.

  “Watch your mouth! There are children here, and look where you are,” I was swiftly cautioned with an evil glance by a lady with hair down to her knee caps in need of a good conditioning and a skirt in a print I hadn’t seen anywhere except curtains in the 1980s.

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, please forgive me,” I replied semi-sarcastically, which was not missed in the glare she shot my way when she huffed and hurried away.

  Pastor Bob was not kidding around. Not only was this cross 200-feet tall, the shiny metal behemoth was literally right next to the interstate. As in right next to the interstate and I had to drive right past it to take my exit the first time. I let the fact I had tunnel vision tell me I needed to take a longer break before I hopped back into my car, and I needed to stop daydreaming while I drove.

  I walked up the perfectly manicured gravel pathway leading to the base o
f the monument. Is this what they consider “Americana”? I’d heard about weird roadside attractions but since I’d never left Indiana, I wasn’t quite sure what was meant by ‘Americana’. All of the sights looked so small on TV travel shows — the kind of shows hosted by perfect people in perfect outfits with perfect hair who were paid to stand in front of mundane attractions like I am right now, making the ordinary seem so extraordinary you’d hop in your car and go for a visit. I picked up my fake microphone, straightened my hair, and stared into my fake camera.

  “Here I am in beautiful Effingham, Illinois. We are standing in front of the world’s largest waste of money, also known as the Effingham Cross. Be careful not to come here if you are a harlot, a gambler, a meth head, or lost and trying to escape yourself, or else God may smite you and use this money sucking testament to crush you to death.”

  “Nice,” a voice said behind me. I swiftly turned to find a man handsome enough to make me blush, plucking dandelions out from the side of the path. “It’s not often people come here and actually have an honest take on what they’re looking at.”

  “A colossal waste of money?” I replied.

  “Yes, a colossal waste of money. But this colossal waste of money needs its shrubs groomed and lawn manicured, which puts me through college. If people want to bleed money, I’m happy to line my pockets,” he said with a sharp nod of his head.

  “Well, I suppose that’s one way to look at the situation,” I sighed, walking up to the base. I felt slightly ashamed I had happily mocked something that meant so much to people or provided them with an apparent multitude of opportunities. Who am I to judge others when my life was such a mess? I pressed my hands against the base, hoping to feel some sort of sign there was a God after all.

  “Stop!” the gardener yelled, seconds too late. A searing pain ripped through my palms and up my arms. I screamed out in bloody horror. “Don’t touch it during midday,” he laughed. “It’s silver, well metal, in the sun - during the hottest part of the day.”

  “It’s not funny,” I cried. “Well, okay. Maybe it is.” A small giggle slipped out in between hiccups of pain and I looked at the little round blisters starting to form over my hands. Here it was, my sign: a stupid girl without a plan, without a purpose, without a shred of common sense, who was destined for a lifetime of pain, and even God didn’t want me kneeling at the foot of his cross. “Oh fuck it,” I sobbed before falling to the ground. Part of me hoped the hot gardener would come over and give me a hug, tell me it would be okay, and then we would fall in love and tell our children about the ridiculous way we met when their mother ran away from home like a fool.

  That’s not what happened. He picked up his tools, told me his shift was over, wished me luck and advised me they have the cheapest ice in town in a cooler with a polar bear sticker on the white cobbled doors outside of the gas station I just left. Icing my hands should help heal the blisters, he advised with a bitter laugh of judgment and no doubt placed me for the moron I was. While he walked away, he looked over his shoulder in what I hoped would be a change of conscience and the start to the rest of my life - but it wasn’t.

  “When they start to really bother you, don’t pick at ‘em,” he cautioned. “They could get infected and that might be a hard injury to explain to a doctor. And I don’t know what you’ve been in to, but you smell really strongly of gasoline. You might want to get that checked out.”

  Chapter Four

  My hands looked ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. My palms were tightly wrapped in torn layers of a half-rotten jersey knit t-shirt pulled from the gas station window, previously proclaiming the wearer’s visit to the famed Effingham Cross but mainly serving as a late night meal for moths. Underneath the tattered fabric, the bubbled skin was slathered in a thick and smelly cream I squeezed out from an expired tube found on the gas station’s bottom shelf. Steady droplets of cold water from the melting ice tucked into the second layer carried little bits of ointment down my forearms before dropping off on to my jeans. And to top it off, I still reeked of gasoline.

  When the gas station attendant asked me what had happened to create such a dramatic injury in only a short period of time since my previous visit, I lied. I told him I wasn’t sure. I was standing in the parking lot of the Effingham Cross and I was taken in by a large light. I couldn’t remember what happened, how much time had passed, or what the grey men had done to me before I landed back on the gravel drive with blistered palms. His eyes widened to the size of the fake flying saucers he probably thought I had just escaped from and his hands started to shake. Small spots of foam started to form in the corner of his mouth from the furious grinding of his teeth.

  “It’s true!” he shouted. “The cross is blessed. We’ve all heard those fairytales but we ain’t think they’re real. You — you are blessed. You take this shirt and you wear it with pride. It’s my honor to give it to one of the blessed ones. I can’t wait to tell my momma”

  I cringed at his slightly rough grammar bordering on decently educated but unable to drop learned language patterns. I didn’t turn down the moth eaten and sunshine faded free shirt, though. The burn cream and “cheapest ice in town” had already set me back $11.32, which was about 9.5 gallons of gas, or about 180 highway miles. One t-shirt could be the difference between Malibu or Mojave. One t-shirt could be the difference between a decent town and dying of exposure broken down on the side of the road while being eaten by coyotes.

  Maybe the burns were a sign I needed to turn around; maybe my pain was a sign I was meant to die a horrible death and qualify for the Darwin Awards. After all, I had no idea where I was going, what I wanted, or for that matter, who I even was.

  Who was I? Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin — who was she? Why was she in this world and why should anyone care she shared their air? If I was going to change my name, I would pick the most boring and typical name I could think of. Jane. Sue. Kate. Kristin. Sarah. I wanted the type of name someone yells out in the mall to get their friend’s attention and half of the women shopping turn around to see if the shout was meant for them. That’s who I wanted to be for a little while — the boring girl who just blended in.

  The road continued to stretch out before me and I was becoming convinced Middle America was never going to change scenery. I prayed out loud something would eventually pop up and provide a much needed break from the monotonous dashed lines running down the center of the highway. There was the occasional hill, the occasional turn of the blacktop, the occasional construction barricade taking up an entire lane of traffic, and more than enough road hogging assholes who were in a rush to get somewhere other than where they were at that moment.

  I watched the road signs showing the mileage left before I reached each upcoming city, slowly ticking the numbers down like a countdown clock for where I could stop, realize my insanity, and turn around with my tail between my legs. Each grass green rectangle proclaimed a set of names that might provide opportunity or be laced with disappointment. The not knowing teased my mind and I ate each city name with care, letting the unfamiliar settle over my tongue and slide down my throat, feeding my need to keep going. Martinsville, Montrose, Chicago (tempting, but too cold), Memphis, Pocahontas, Granite City, and Saint Louis.

  My hands were burning inside of their ratty confines and I could no longer see what was a blister and what was just wet wrinkled raisin skin. The smell of my gas soaked clothes wafted through the interior despite the windows being rolled down, resulting in a banger of a headache. My super fine, somewhat wavy, dirty dishwater blonde, box-dyed, tiger striped hair looked like each strand had just gone through a Texas tornado. In other words, I looked like even more of a hot mess than I felt.

  Six and a half hours of highway threaded from my windshield to my rearview, as mundane as the no name towns continually passing by, their only acknowledgement being reflective white letters on oversized signs. I was exha
usted, I had been smitten by God, I had taken advantage of an innocent gas station attendant, I lost my first chance to find my super bathtub romance buddy by being an idiot, and I turned my favorite shoes in to flammable missiles of toxic scented death. Saint Louis sounded like a great stop.

  The road opened up to a stately iron bridge over an opaque muddy river, and I looked to my right to see yet another towering silver roadside attraction. “Good lord,” I muttered. “Is everything in the Midwest towering and made of burning hot steel?” (The answer to that, by the way, is no. Not everything is made out of burning hot steel. Some are made out of other materials I don’t fully understand but lump into the only word I know to describe building material other than wood.)

  First mission: find somewhere to pee, unwrap my hands, and maybe crawl into a tiny hole between some bags in my backseat for a nap. My preference would be a nice well-lit parking lot of a large truck stop also frequented by weary travellers, thus resulting in a lower creep factor than just horny old men.

  I pulled into quite possibly the largest BurgerBarn I had ever seen: double drive through lanes, double speakers in each double drive through lane and a parking lot that could easily serve as backup parking for a stadium. As much as I hate to admit, I was in awe. I suppose it wouldn’t take much to entertain me, and I don’t know what that means for my mental or emotional age.