The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  I looked around, disappointed to see this new state looked exactly like Kansas. Where are the mountains? Where is my Rocky Mountain High? Where is my John Denver worthy song inspiring scenery? This is the same flat and colorless scenery I had been driving through for days, and days, and days on end. My body was craving something new like a smoker craved nicotine, and my mind was telling me all of the photos adorning the internet were all a lie. There was no such thing as snow capped mountains or wild rivers full of salmon being tamed by beautiful bearded men in waders and suspenders.

  I kept moving along, following the signs for Burlington, thankful my next stop was just a touch over the state line. Mile marker 437 approached, indicating I was almost due for a much-deserved stretch. A sign indicating Burlington officially started at an elevation of 4163 feet greeted me; I was still on flat land despite being in Colorado. Yet another stereotype that the open road broke wide open.

  I passed fast food outlets and cheap hotel chains, small side streets of even smaller houses, and wound through the town for around thirty minutes before desperation took over. I rolled my window down, motioned like a spastic mime to the car next to me, and after they finally got the hint to roll down their window, asked them how to get to the Kit Carson County Carousel. I somehow managed to get myself to the other side of town, almost to the next highway on ramp. While I previously would have taken my inability to find a major attraction as a sign to keep moving, I really wanted to see what was so special about a circle of moving wooden horses.

  By the time I made my way to the parking lot sitting in front of a subtle white building with a charcoal grey tin roof, the sun was high in the sky, I was sweating, and the reality I hadn’t slept since the nap in Chrome’s cab the day before was starting to settle. For the first time in a while, my eyes felt heavy and my body felt weak. How long had it been since I actually had a good night’s sleep, or even a full night’s sleep for that matter? I could only think of Tyler’s couch, which by this point in time, might as well have been years ago. I was exhausted. I would have to sleep somewhere, somehow, sometime soon. But, for now, I was going to spend a few of my precious dollars and ride a carousel.

  “Welcome to the Kit Carson County Carousel! I hope you’re having a beautiful day today. Are you riding and visiting or just riding or visiting?” the jolly man behind the ticket office called as I approached.

  “Well, I’m not sure exactly. I’m on a road trip and a friend told me I had to stop since this was on my way to wherever I’m going. What exactly do you mean by riding or visiting?” I asked.

  “Riding means taking a spin on the carousel, visiting refers to the museum. Do you have little ones with you?”

  “No, Sir. It’s just me. Well, I do need a break and to stretch my legs. I think I’ll do a ride and visit.”

  “Our most popular package,” he laughed. “That will be one-hundred and twenty-five.”

  “One-hundred and twenty-five?” I gasped. “Oh my goodness, is the carousel made out of platinum and semi-precious stones?”

  He was getting a good chuckle out of my shock. “No, that’s pennies of course. We give prices in 1920s currency around here. Oh man,” he said while shaking his head, “I never get tired of that joke.”

  “I bet you don’t,” I chuckled. “But you almost gave me a heart attack.”

  I paid my $1.25 and was given beautifully printed tickets adorned with images of carousel horses and small flecks of metallic foil. I took a photo with the ticket booth attendant and he directed me back to the round barn housing the carousel.

  “Welcome to the Kit Carson County Carousel!” I was greeted by an elderly woman who was so tiny a small gust of wind might blow her over. My eyes adjusted to the interior with each step and I paused, giving a loud gasp. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Isn’t she just the most stunning carousel you’ve ever seen?”

  I looked down to see a plastic horse etched with the name, ‘Emma’. This was the perfect name for someone who may be the cutest grandmother type I had ever seen. I desperately wanted a grandmother like her, but mine had been crass and vulgar, just like her daughter. She was more likely to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes a day while drinking Dr. Pepper like water in a turquoise silk track suit than to bake me pies or knit an afghan.

  “I’ve never actually seen a carousel in real life. I’ve only seen them in movies or photographs. I never knew they were so beautiful,” I replied.

  “You’ve never been to a carousel? Even as a child?” she asked, surprise written over her precious, dainty face.

  “No, never. This is my first time. I thought this was a little silly, to be honest. But one of my friends told me I had to come here on my drive out west. Are all carousels this beautiful?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. I may be partial, though. They just don’t make them like they used to. Are you going through the museum as well? If so, you’ll learn about the artwork of this beauty.”

  “I bought the ticket, but didn’t think I’d go. I have definitely changed my mind,” I said, watching the carousel rotating slowly around with the previous riders.

  “Well, which one do you think you’re going to ride?” she asked.

  I watched the mix of horses, zebras, giraffes and camels bounding past. To say the creatures were immaculate would be an understatement. The artist somehow managed to capture emotion and personality; something I didn’t know was possible to accomplish with paint and wood. I felt like I should ride a horse, it was my first time, after all. I definitely didn’t want to ride on a bench, that didn’t seem very fun, and I wanted to ride on an animal that moved up and down — that’s what a carousel is about, after all.

  I gasped. “I’m going to ride that one,” I proclaimed when a dapple-grey horse rolled past.

  “Interesting. For some reason, I thought you’d pick a zebra or the horse with armor. The animal you choose to ride says a lot about you, it’s been said.” She winked and chuckled while I stood there with my mouth agape, taking in the stunning murals that rotated on the center of the carousel and marveling at the ornate carvings hiding the mechanics.

  When the carousel stopped rotating and she told me to go, I didn’t waste a single second. I jogged over to my desired horse and hopped on, staking my claim, even though I was the only one riding. I contained my excitement when a slow jerk pulled the wooden platform forward, calliope music carrying down from above my head, and my horse jostled forward. In my mind, I was on a fox-hunt. I was galloping through open fields with a pack of beagles, hoping to find the fox first so I could let it go before my hunting mates killed the little red critter.

  I pulled my camera out of my front jeans pocket, almost sliding off of my horse, and began snapping photos. When I circled around closer to Emma, I screamed out, “Smile,” and laughed when she obliged. I’m sure the image would come out blurry, but I didn’t mind. The horse made six more rounds, I counted each and every one, before slowly grinding to a halt.

  “What’d you think?” she asked as I climbed down.

  “That was magical!” I exclaimed, a smile spread from ear to ear.

  “I figured you would say as much. I gave you three extra rounds. Just don’t tell anyone. I really like my job.” She winked.

  I spent over three hours in the museum asking as many questions as I could. The staff members were some of the friendliest, most patient people I had ever met. They truly loved their jobs, were passionate about the preservation of the carousel, and proud of the history the wooden animals contributed to their town. I learned this part of Colorado was known as Colorado’s Central Plain, but I should be getting closer to the mountains with just a little bit more patience. The main guide even offered to give me a four county tour card that would let me stop by other places, like a ghost town and winery, but I politely declined. I was anxious to keep moving west and I
wanted to get as close to the mountains as I possibly could before calling it a night. I knew as soon as the sun set, my fatigue would return and the excitement from my second wind would fade. I couldn’t let fatigue overtake me while I was driving.

  Thankfully, I also learned Burlington had a WorldMart. They were everywhere. WorldMart may be America’s favorite past time, but since I was starting to smell worse than a dog who’d rolled in a pile of deer droppings next to a stagnant creek bed, I had zero complaints about how Americans chose to spend their dollars.

  I welcomed the cool breeze sneaking out of the doors when they opened upon my approach. I was also thankful no one was behind me to catch any stray stench drifting their way.

  A few steps past the line of trollies was a stack of bottled water priced at $2.79 for twenty-four bottles. These could definitely come in handy, and while the water wouldn’t be cold, I could buy twenty-four for the price of two bottles at the gas station. I would sacrifice temperature for money. I heaved two packages into my cart and noticed the next pallet had a half-gallon of peanut butter for $4.99. I was shocked to know that anyone could possibly eat such an enormous amount of peanut butter, but on the flipside, the tub would get me far with my budget. I would only need to occasionally buy some bread and maybe some fruits or vegetables. WorldMart was shining down on me with their prices, which I hoped meant I would find good deals on some clothes.

  I perused the clearance racks, realizing I couldn’t afford to be picky, but still managing to find some jeans and a few shirts. The next rack had $1.50 spaghetti strap tank tops and yoga pants. I chuckled with joy knowing I could drive in comfort. I was lucky to also stumble across a few stray zip up jackets that could work with the jeans or yoga pants, meaning I had options.

  I was recovering from a choking fit after seeing that a package of Hanes panties cost $15 when a small voice called out from behind me and asked, “Are you homeless?”

  After figuring out $15 for eight pairs of panties was cheaper than buying the pack of three, I wasn’t sure if my face was confusion or anger. I turned around and came face to face with a thigh high human topped by a mop of unruly hair, dried snot on his freckled face, ketchup stains on his shirt, and mismatched shoes. I wasn’t sure how to respond. This kid looked like he hadn’t seen any parental supervision in three weeks and was asking if I was homeless. My mouth hung open, unsure of how rude my response could be to a child.

  “Oh my God, I am so sorry,” a woman frantically apologized and rushed over to move him on. Now I was even more confused. She was immaculate. Her hair was perfect, and one of those expensive salon blondes, not the bottle blonde highlights I always sported. She was wearing a clean and perfectly pressed white button-down shirt tucked into jeans you could tell were expensive by the deep coloring. “Boys, you know? You can’t control them. We had an hour fight just to try and get him to bathe today and then he decided to dress himself. I don’t even know how he found these clothes because I was positive they were in the washing machine. That’s why we’re here, to buy at least four more shirts. It’s the only damn thing he’ll wear.” I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I am so terribly sorry,” she said again.

  “No, it’s quite alright. He had every right to ask with how bad I smell. I’ve had a bit of bad luck. Someone broke into my car and burnt all my clothes — I’m moving cross country — and I haven’t slept for two days because I’m pretty sure I just escaped human trafficking. I’m trying to just get as far away from Kansas as I can.” The words rolled out of my mouth effortlessly and I realized just how sweet Emma and the other staff at the Kit Carson County Carousel were. No one said a word or gave me even the slightest glance of judgment.

  Note to self: Send them a note of thanks, tell them how much happiness they gave you after a horrendous few days, and tell everyone you can in the future to stop by and spend $1.25 for a magical ride.

  She stopped and stared, her eyes opening as wide as silver dollars. I started to stammer out my own apology but she cut me off before I could get a single word out. “Oh my God. Jake, come here sweetie.” Her voice got louder, heavily dosed with fear. “JAKE,” she hissed. “NOW.” He took a few slow steps towards her before she yanked his arm and plunked him into the shopping cart, pushing the squeaky wheels away with the speed of a NASCAR driver.

  “I didn’t say…” I stammered. I wanted to tell her I didn’t say I was involved in human trafficking, I ESCAPED from what I was pretty sure was human trafficking. Instead, I stood there in my filth, embarrassed, and fighting tears. I should have just said I was homeless.

  I grabbed a pack of panties and quickly scooped up two elastic bras where I didn’t have to hunt for the right size. I prayed the lines weren’t long and I could make a quick escape.

  Luck was on my side and I managed to get through a self-checkout line without any further embarrassment, exiting the building at a slow jog. I didn’t even care if security thought I stole something and sent the cops for me. At least if I was taken to jail, I could get a shower and a bed.

  Unfortunately, the cops weren’t called and I made my way out to Merle without being stopped. The sun started to set and the sky was a bright blood red, but nature wasn’t bleeding for me. I unlocked the trunk and tossed my bags inside, eyes blurring with tears as I heaved the two cases of water inside. I stumbled back to Merle, unlocking the driver’s side door and falling inside, where I cried myself to sleep.

  A gentle tapping at my window woke me from my deep sleep. I gagged when I took my first breath of stale air deeply infiltrated by my foulness. I needed to find a shower soon, or at least someplace that had a bathroom I could lock behind me to do a sink bath.

  My embarrassment wouldn’t end there, however, because I turned to look over my shoulder and met eyes with sweet little Emma rapping on my window. I shut my eyes for an extended blink, convincing myself this was just a dream. When I opened them she would be gone. To be safe, I only opened the right, but she was still there. She was real. Damn.

  “Hi, Emma. Great to see you,” I lied, and I rolled down my window.

  “Sweetheart, did you sleep here in this parking lot all night?” she asked in that sweet voice making me homesick for people I didn’t even know.

  “Well, um, yes. I had planned to drive a little bit more before pulling over, but, well, this parking lot got me for the night,” I replied.

  “Oh, darling. If you would have told me you didn’t have anywhere to sleep, I would have let you stay in my guest room. I keep the room made up in case any of the grandchildren ever stop by. They don’t, of course. It’s not really cool to sleep over at Grandma’s once you’re over the age of five. I would have loved to have a guest. I could have made you a killer French toast.”

  My stomach growled on queue in response. I hoped she hadn’t heard the deep rumble and luckily, I believed I was right. “Thank you, Emma. That would have been really sweet. Like I said, I didn’t plan to stop here but I was just so tired. I must have fallen asleep in my car as soon as I climbed in. I had reservations down the road a ways. I hope they didn’t charge my credit card since I didn’t show up,” I lied.

  Judging by the slight raise of her right eyebrow, she knew I was lying. But, being a polite woman, she chose to not say anything or question my little fib. “What are your plans for today? Any good roadside attractions?”

  “Well, let me look at my list,” I replied and pulled out the sheet of notebook paper starting to wear thin from being folded and unfolded, tucked and untucked from my purse. “It looks like I should see The Continental Divide, Buffalo Bill’s Gravesite, Echo Lake Park, and a dinosaur museum in western Colorado.”

  “Look at you,” she said with pride. “Don’t you just have your stuff together. You have a whole list of places you researched. Good on you. Well, listen, I have to get inside and get my bananas. Good luck on your drive. I will pray you
get there safely.”

  “Thank you, Emma. Means a lot to me,” I replied I watched her toddle into WorldMart before starting up Merle, seeing fI needed to fill up with gas, and heading back out to the highway.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mile markers ticked away: 430, 425, 424, 423, 422, 421, 419.9. I paused. 419.9? That’s an odd number — pun not intended. I would have to ask someone about that at the next stop. Thankfully, the last gas station was small and had an external bathroom. I was able to lock myself inside, take a bird bath, and change into some fresh undies and clean clothes. Just because I could, even though it was wasteful, I threw the old clothes into the trashcan.

  I pushed on, inching closer to the mountains still out of reach, letting my stomach make the mating call of an orca. In my rush to escape WorldMart, I forgot to pick up bread or any sort of utensil. Fingers in peanut butter did not create a car friendly snack, I quickly found out. The air flowing through my windows started to take on a new scent, a floral freshness with a hint of chill beyond my underdeveloped scent factory. I was thankful there was no lingering smell of greasy cheeseburgers and eagerly gulped the fresh air.

  My paper said to exit at mile marker 256. I let out a small groan when the miles refused to fall away quickly enough. I not only wanted food, I wanted to see mountains for real. I wanted to touch a mountain. I wanted to do more than look at them in a painting or photograph in a book. I patted myself on the back for staying disciplined and not pushing the gas pedal to the floorboard. The last thing I needed was a speeding ticket.