The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  “Well,” I started, breaking eye contact with the kids, “I think I’m going to go hit the trail. Thank you so much for the spoon, wet wipes, and the buns. That’s very generous of you.”

  “It’s not a problem at all. Wait a minute, yes, here,” the mom said, handing me another bag. “Take this. It’s all chocolate. We’ve had enough and this has to go or else my thighs will start to rub a hole in each other, not just these jeans.” She paused again and squinted at me, her voice now taking on a bit of a southern accent. “We’re about to go on the trail ourselves. Why don’t you just hike with us? The great outdoors is always better in groups. You know, bears and bobcats, that kind of thing.”

  I looked at the kids and noticed their faces instantly brightened up a bit. The dad gave a head nod and quick hand lift that seemed to say, ‘Why the hell not’, and the mom just smiled. Her eyes were kind and clear of doubt. She didn’t think of me as an intruder, and I only had challenging contact the past few days.

  “You know what? I think I’m going to take you up on that offer. It would be awfully nice to just chat about nothing and maybe chat about something. I’m Blossom, and it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Oh, good!” the mom said excitedly, clapping her hands. “You know, for the past two weeks, I’ve only talked to this motley crew. I wouldn’t mind some girl to girl bonding, even with a complete stranger. I’m Jane, the pleasure is all mine. My husband’s name is Jack, and get ready for this, the kids are Jeremy, Joseph, Jasmine, Jackson and Jake. His mother’s idea. She thought since we are Jane and Jack, and I wouldn’t change my name to Jill, we would save a bundle on monogrammed things if we all just kept the damn J. You can’t argue with that woman, or even have a discussion. It’s her way or the highway,” she rambled.

  I noticed Jack didn’t say anything and turned a slight shade of red around his edges. He clearly agreed with Jane but was embarrassed at the prospect of saying it out loud. As Jane kept rambling, I already shut her voice out. I realized this was going to be a long walk.

  “So, honey, you’re going to walk in those shoes? Those aren’t shoes. Those are just bits of spare tire hanging off a fishing line. Flip-flops are not good for your feet, either. Especially here. You know, rattlesnakes and poison ivy. You should keep your feet covered at all times.”

  “I certainly appreciate the sentiment, Jane. I have sensitive nerves in my feet and when I wear shoes, it presses on them too hard. It’s almost crippling,” I lied. What should I have said? All of my shoes were either burnt or covered in dried vomit and I was mortified after an interaction in WorldMart of all places that caused me to forget to buy replacement shoes? That even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford the damn replacement shoes?

  Jane bought my lie: hook line and sinker. Unfortunately, my little white lie also gave her ammunition for discussion. We took off down the path, leading the way while the red headed children stayed in a perfect single-file line with Jack pulling up the rear.

  Over the course of our hike, I learned dinosaurs had massive feet. The fossils we passed and preserved footprints were easily half the length of my body. I learned from one of the older boys if I was alive during the time of dinosaurs, and one happened to poop on me, the pile of dung would be so heavy and so big I would essentially drown in dinosaur poop. The oldest then proceeded to tell me all of the ways Jurassic Park was not factually accurate, and he seemed genuinely disappointed it was still one of my favorite movies — and would always remain one of my favorite movies.

  Jake, the youngest, had fallen asleep and was being carried in an oversized backpack by Jack. Jackson, the second youngest and thankfully tiny little thing, was also exhausted and wound up on my shoulders for the second half. He did an excellent job of letting me know when to duck for tree branches, when I wasn’t walking fast enough, and his dad’s shoulders were much more comfortable because mine were too bony. I am certainly far from bony, but I’m also not as cushy as his father.

  “Are you okay?” Jane asked, concern growing on her face.

  “Yeah. I don’t know, but during the last twenty minutes, my legs really started to itch.”

  “You said you don’t hike a lot, yeah?”

  “No,” I replied. “I’m not a hiker. Not my thing, to be honest. I never really even walk much. I’m surprised I didn’t pass out on the trail since this was my second one today.”

  “Well, your problem is obvious then,” she started. “The itching is just the circulation adjusting around in your legs. This happens when you’ve been sedentary. Your poor veins don’t see as much action. Now you’re pushing blood to that tissue.”

  “I see. Well, the body is certainly interesting,” I said, scratching my ankles.

  “Yup!” Jeremy said with a smirk. “Interesting because it’s science.”

  “Biology,” I replied.

  “Biology is science. But, fine. Biooooologyyyyy,” he droned.

  By the time we returned to our cars, which was around two and a half hours later, Jane thought I was terminally ill and only had days to live — her own deduction of course, I didn’t say this. Well, I hadn’t said this verbatim, but I could see how she inferred I may be in bad shape if my lies were true.

  I bid the family adieu, which ended up taking another thirty minutes to actually complete the adieu portion since Jane was still positive I was dying and the itchy ankles turned into further evidence that my body was defective. And, every time I went to take a tiny step away, one of the boys thought of a new dinosaur fact they were sure I needed to know. I ended up learning more in the parking lot than I learned in high school. But, then again, I didn’t exactly pay attention to dinosaurs in high school. My obsession started much later thanks to Pinterest and do it yourself spray paint projects.

  Note to self: You don’t need to make up lies for stupid situations. Just tell the truth. Then, you don’t have to create another lie to bury the other lie that buried the other lie that lies on top of the first lie.

  Now, I needed to tackle an all too familiar challenge. I needed to find a place to sleep, and hopefully, a place where I could snuggle up in my backseat and get a good night’s rest.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Sorry, Tyler,” I said and threw the battered and smeared list into a trashcan that had also seen better days. I walked away without looking back. Truthfully, that list was becoming a pain in the butt. I knew it had a purpose, I knew it existed for a reason, but life had become so much more than fun stops, wishes for a better life, and rose-colored glasses. I had to get where I was going, and I had to get there fast. Time kept passing whether I moved or sat, and if I kept going, I could always come back on a more thought out vacation when I had enough money to book a proper hotel room. The little kid in WorldMart asking if I was homeless and the terror on his mom’s face when I blabbed about my misfortune would forever stay with me.

  I stumbled back to Merle, scratching furiously at the redness creeping up my ankles and calves. At first, I thought it was just basic swelling from sitting down so long while I plugged through Colorado. Possibly, swelling from sleeping in my car. But when the little blisters started to pop up, I knew I had made a really bad mistake by wearing flip flops on a hiking trail, and most likely, jumping into those bushes to avoid my childhood. I should have confronted her. I should have given her a piece of my mind and told her what a wretched person I thought she was. Instead, I hid in the bushes and acquired an ever-growing case of poison ivy or poison something.

  At least my hands had finally given me a break. After forcing the pockets to pop on my ill-fated pole swing, they dried up and were now just crusted thick flakes of skin projecting from my palm, making people think I had no idea how to use lotion. I could deal with hygiene over trying to explain why my hands were bandaged and leaking fluids that neither looked or smelled pretty.

  I was becoming p
roactive, which I assumed was part of turning into an adult. I stopped for gas, filling up when the gauge showed a little less than half a tank, and checked my oil and windshield washer fluid. The windshield washer fluid was completely by accident, let’s be honest. I just wanted to look like I knew what I was doing and started pulling caps and dipsticks out of place until the old man next to me informed me the car was too warm to be doing this and I may blow my face off if I pulled the wrong one. I thanked him while deciding if I had a real dad, I would know these things.

  I felt the anger inside of me build and was surprised at how little time I dedicated to resolving the internal struggle surrounding the reason I was running in the first place. I had mentioned him to a few people, but overall, I slept just fine — when I could sleep. I ate just fine, I went about my day just fine, and I was breathing just fine. Had his deceit really impacted me or my life? Mom made it pretty clear they didn’t want to associate with me anymore, and I was more upset they wouldn’t send me any sort of help than I was about losing her.

  These thoughts sunk their razor-sharp talons deep into my mind. Was I heartless? Was I just as disgusting of a human as I thought they were? I made my way through two and a half states before I even called to check in and allowed myself to be shocked because they didn’t want anything to do with me? But, I didn’t owe them anything. I didn’t owe them even one ounce of me. I didn’t owe them my mind, my heart, or what little bits of my soul they hadn’t already destroyed.

  “You’re thinking awfully hard about something,” the old man said, interrupting the great war in my mind.

  “I feel dead inside,” I replied. I startled, wondering where my answer came from and why I was still comfortable sharing intimate details with complete strangers. “I mean, no I don’t. I was just deep in thought.”

  “Right. You young kids, always looking for a reason to be unhappy. Always something, somebody done you wrong, somebody hurt your feelings.”

  I stared at him and tried to bite my tongue. Respect your elders, I reminded myself. This man didn’t know me and yet here he was with his crotchety old wrinkly self, having the audacity to judge me from one sentence. And yet those thoughts strolled through my mind like the city park on a sunny Sunday afternoon; I knew he was right. “What does someone do to stop looking for reasons?” I asked.

  “Why does anyone need a reason to stop looking for reasons? You all spend too much time lookin’. Not enough time livin’, breathin’, appreciating. Whatever happened, you’re still movin’ on, ain’t ya?”

  I shrugged and let a smug little smirk creep onto my face. I was staring at years of hardened wisdom and trying to formulate an argument I knew I couldn’t win based on logic and wisdom of the ages. I hoped he didn’t take my silence as disrespect.

  “Well, there ya’ go,” he said and dropped my hood. “Fluids are good, car’s in real good shape for being such a bucket. I’m assuming since you didn’t know how to check your oil that someone’s been takin’ care of ya’.”

  The reminder materialized again: in his quiet, snaky way, Raymond Jennings had been taking care of me. He would never tell me to my face, he would never let me have my father as my father, but somehow, he found the time to keep Merle running and keep me safe. Yet, he didn’t have the time to love me as a daughter should be loved, to make me feel safe, or to welcome me back home ever again.

  I snapped out of my misery. This old man was right. I made this bed and I was going to sleep in it, and sleep in it very well. “Thank you, very much. I’m thankful I didn’t blow my face off or cause damage to anyone around me. I guess I didn’t realize cars were so explosive.”

  “They’re machinery full of flammable liquids,” he deadpanned while wiping his hands on the dirty orange garage rag he pulled from his back pocket.

  I had nothing to say in return. I really wanted to like this old man, and I knew he had kindness buried somewhere inside since he helped me, but people skills must have been something different in his day. Or, maybe he was right, and my generation was a bunch of stupid idiots who couldn’t make heads or tails out of a pot of boiling water. I thanked him again and told him I had to carry on. He muttered something about not stopping me from doing anything and trudged back to his old Chevy truck.

  I counted the money I had remaining - $211.32. Getting to California would be tight, but I knew I could get close. I still had four smashed buns for peanut butter sandwiches, a good spoon for dipping peanut butter when those buns ran out, plenty of water, and just the open road standing in my way.

  The lush greenery of Colorado wound into Utah, slowly turning to dry and dusty vistas I was sure had been used in a Mars movie set. The tan pavement matched the landscape, and I found myself frequently shaking my head to refresh my vision. If I didn’t blink enough, the road would disappear in a blur of wavy heat lines. I didn’t make it this far to turn into a fiery statistic, but I was starting to understand what they meant in Driver’s Ed when they talked about highway hypnosis. In an odd way, I found Utah to be quite beautiful. The landscape was foreign to my recognition and therefore, could have easily been an out of the way trail in Mongolia.

  Subtle vibrations under my tires lulled me forward and I fought to focus. I found myself wishing I had kept the list of places to go, if for nothing else, to have an excuse to go somewhere. Without Tyler’s itinerary, I had no idea what was around me.

  I remembered that I might still have coupons for BurgerBarn. I eagerly veered off the highway at the next exit and pulled into the parking lot of the first gas station I saw. To an outside observer, I must have looked like a raptor in a cage. I flung my glove box open and tossed papers out in a fury that would have made Edward Scissorhands jealous — another movie they played repetitively on the free stations. Growing up, I thought I could be an Avon lady like Winona. I would go door to door in freshly laundered suits with perfect hair and women would love me because I was so beautiful. When I turned 16, I went to an Avon meeting and was sorely disappointed by the lack of glamor. My first, and only, dream of being someone was dashed in the conference room of a Holiday Inn Express.

  “Ah ha!” I screamed, yanking out two pages of coupons. There would be no peanut butter for me tonight. A greasy, artery blocking, thigh increasing, cheap, greasy burger and fries with enough salt to dehydrate my body would be in my future.

  With the fervor of a platoon of men marching off to war, I bounded through the doors of the tiny gas station, internally cheering when a tiny ding announced my presence.

  “Hey!” a withered old lady called out. “Those doors are attached and we want to keep them that way, please.”

  I ignored her and skipped to the counter, paying no mind to anyone else inside. “Can you tell me where is the nearest BurgerBarn? I am literally dying for a cheeseburger,” I chirped. My inner brain was saying, Why does she need to know you are dying for a cheeseburger, and no, you aren’t LITERALLY dying you drama queen. You are figuratively dying, and when did you become so dramatic?

  Note to self: Don’t listen. You are not a drama queen. Maybe a little, but you deserve it for once in your life.

  I carried such heavy anticipation for the clerk’s response I didn’t realize a hush had fallen over the gas station. I looked around and could feel the air thicken with disappointment.

  “Why in the world would you want to go to BurgerBarn?” the clerk replied. “We don’t have any of those big chain stores drowning out the heartbeat of America out here, my dear. Oh, no. If you want a cheeseburger, you’ll need to go down this road and stop by one of the stores putting money back into our community.”

  “There’s no BurgerBarn?” I trembled. “You have GOT to be kidding me.”

  Drama Queen, my brain whispered.

  A rotund woman dressed like Steven Irwin interrupted my tantrum. “Why are you so set on BurgerBarn? Those freeze-dried patt
ies don’t even taste like food, and no cheeseburger is that thin and that perfectly round.”

  “I have coupons. I’ve been eating peanut butter sandwiches for days, everything I owned was stolen from my car and burnt in a parking lot, I’m pretty sure I was almost trafficked, I slept in a strip club for almost a week, and I have just enough money to make my way to where I want to go if I only pay for gas. I just wanted to use my coupons,” I cried.

  Dra. Ma. Queeeeeeen.

  “Well, that’s too bad. Looks like you’ll have to keep on going to find your Burger.”

  I scoffed. But, what did I expect? These people didn’t know me. This town owes me nothing, and I had gotten pretty far on the kindness of strangers. I had taken for granted all the good fortune silently coming my way, even the good fortune disguised as a sticky back room of a strip club in one of the darkest moments of my life.

  I forced a smile on my face and tried to talk myself down from this newly entitled and pitiful personae creeping into my life. I didn’t want to be this type of person, and I refused to develop into someone I didn’t want to be after making it this far. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I really don’t feel like driving anymore. It’s been a long journey. Is there anything to do or see around here? Anything to take my mind off the road and refresh for a bit?”

  This was the right response, and I knew immediately when the tension lifted. Small towns sure loved their heartbeat. Sure, we had a Jefferson’s, and a BurgerBarn, and a Taco Stop back home, but Main Street was full of small cafés with bad singers and out of tune guitar players every Friday night, Mom and Pop breakfast joints willing to put you in a gravy coma and get you addicted to stale coffee, and restaurants where the finest thing on the menu was a thawed out filet cooked in a skillet and called a steak. Our local places were always busy, even if they weren’t award winning chef quality, and for no reason except they just felt right, on the off chance we did get a night away from Ramen Noodles and store brand one skillet meals, we never went to Jefferson’s, or BurgerBarn, or Taco Stop.