The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  He smirked, and I could tell he thought he won. “I’ll give you this job on one condition. You need to be back here in forty-five minutes. If you can’t, I’ll know you aren’t serious and I’ll give your slot to the next girl walking in here who needs to make money,” he said.

  I anxiously agreed and began my rapid retreat to the door, calling over my shoulder that I would be back, not to worry, and to please not give my position away. A tall lanky man slid from the shadows and popped the chains out of their cases without a sound, flipping the deadbolts without so much as a click. We made eye contact and I felt like weak prey in the eyes of a cheetah, waiting to be taken down when he pulled the door opened, setting me free.

  I jogged down the stairs, jumped in to Merle, and hurried back to the Blue Phoenix. I threw my clothes in my bag, grabbed whatever I could, and ran to the front desk. “Here, here’s your key,” I screamed, dinging the bell at the front desk. The same decrepit woman slid out of the saloon doors, frustration scrunched in her eyebrows and drool slipping out of the right corner of her mouth. “Are you high?” I gasped without thinking.

  “What’s it to you? What do you want? I’m not refunding your money if you leave,” she slurred.

  “I don’t care. I’m heading to Paulie’s. He just gave me a job, but I have to get there now before he gives my place away. He said he’d refund me. We’re good, yeah? I can’t be late.” When my hurried words fell forth, a wicked smile slid over her face.

  “Paulie’s, huh? Okay, then. Better go. Don’t want to miss that job. And…congratulations,” she replied.

  I turned and ran out the door, throwing myself into the front seat and flipping the ignition quickly. Through the dingy glass doors I watched the front desk attendant pick up the phone, the same wicked smile on her face, and turn to look at me. I knew she was calling Paulie’s, probably telling them I was on my way. Only I wasn’t on my way. I wasn’t on my way to anywhere in Vegas. I was going to get right back on the highway and keep heading west.

  I thought Vegas could be my answer, but I only found the lights in Sin City were just too bright for me.

  Chapter Twenty

  I felt numb from my lips down to the core of my body. I found myself to be thankful for what I experienced in Kansas, the internal warning signals had been built with a stronger unbreakable awareness of my surroundings. My heart started to shatter when the reality set in these events were happening to girls everywhere. In one-shop stops off the highway, in big cities, even on the Vegas strip, there were girls in situations out of their control, being preyed on by people.

  I wondered how these men and women could sleep at night. I wondered if they had families, or even worse, kids of their own. I wondered what type of person would knowingly take advantage of a young struggling female, and then tuck their own daughter in at night. How does a woman lie down next to her husband knowing what he does for work? Or how do they not know? How do they maintain their blinders and ignorance to the world around them when it’s intertwined with their very life?

  Parts of me wanted to run back to Indiana, to my bubble of naivety, to my blissful ignorance where shaky electricity and bad insulation were the worst problems I thought existed. I wondered if I should report Paulie’s to the police, or if the police already knew and turned a blind eye. What was once overzealous Hollywood fiction now sat in my mind’s eye as a very real possibility. What if I did stop to report them and I was taken back to them? I didn’t know how deep this ran, or how much strength I had to protect myself. I only knew to keep driving.

  My hands trembled and tightly clung to the steering wheel. The fear pushing my foot down on the accelerator kept my eyes consistently checking the rearview mirror. My heart felt foolish; I was sure there was a revolving door of girls who would get swept up in the travesty, meaning there was no need to follow me out of town. I once again found myself heading west without any direction or idea for where I might be headed.

  I pushed forward; willing myself to just keep moving. This whole journey was madness. Everything I’d experienced was madness — but isn’t that just life? The more chances you take, the more places you introduce yourself to, aren’t you more prone to madness? And isn’t the outcome what matters, not the events trying to convince you to stop? Sure, if I’d stayed in Indiana, I never would have burnt my hands to pussing crisps on a massive steal cross, or realized no one cared I was missing, or been manipulated into stripping, or running for my life, or sleeping in my car, or realizing I’d spent years of my life giving everything to my mother only to find out she didn’t need me…or want me.

  I pulled over at the next exit, my breath burning with each short panic induced gasp rattling through my chest. I just needed to stretch my legs, move my body, and exert some energy to dull the memories and thoughts bouncing through my head. I turned right, a desperate attempt to break the cycle of left turns creating drama over the last thousand plus miles.

  “World’s Largest Thermometer,” I chuckled, “on Baker Boulevard, nonetheless.” I was starting to feel like the USA had a law requiring all small towns to have some sort of ridiculous roadside attraction, guaranteeing parents torture their kids with boring stops for years and years to come. Maybe if the World’s Largest Thermometer had been in Effingham, I wouldn’t have touched the burning steel.

  I pulled into the parking lot and climbed out of Merle, trying to steady my shaky knees. A quick pop of my back, a short snap of my neck, and a twist and turn of my arms over my head helped pull me back into a calm place. I stood outside, watching car after car pull up to this curiosity. Children bopped out and ran up, stared, and ran back to the car. Parents pulled out their cameras. Teenagers laughed and flashed peace signs or funny faces, keeping their noses stuck to their phone while they walked back to their car, no doubt posting their ironic stop on Instagram, or Facebook, or whatever cool ap the cool smartphone kids used these days.

  I watched the next family pop out, each one carrying a clear plastic cup loaded to the brim with delicious milkshakes. My stomach growled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten, or even ingested anything except water since the soda in Utah. I drove all night, anxious to reach Vegas for what I hoped was a future as bright as the infamous neon lining the strip, crashed, and then realized Sin City wasn’t for me before bolting like a bat out of hell.

  “Hey!” I shouted, jogging up to the surprised family. “I’m so sorry. Those look delicious. Where did you get those milkshakes?”

  The dad eyed me from head to toe, cautiously answering with one protective arm reaching over the chest of his two oily haired children. “Just down the road. The Mad Greek. It’s famous for milkshakes.”

  “You’re a life saver!” I replied, trying to flash my friendliest I mean you no harm smile. I broke eye contact to show I wanted nothing more from them except that tiny, tasty tidbit of information. Shielding my eyes from the blazing mid-day sun, I took in the enormity of the giant sign. “Gateway to Death Valley,” I read out loud from the bottom placard. I wondered if the desert was any different than what I had driven through on the way out, or being completely alone with no one else, maybe not even a living animal, around you feels like.

  I wasted no time, skipping back to Merle and setting off for a milkshake. I could smell The Mad Greek before I arrived, and my stomach screamed in protest of the horrors I had driven it through with each intoxicating whiff curling through the air and sneaking into my nostrils. I soon experienced a full assault on my senses upon entering the lobby. There was the sound of pop machines, fry friers, and cash registers. Pictures of some of the most delicious food I’d ever seen hung over the counter and delicious plates of food carried away by customers teased my eyes. My stomach growled in protest and I eagerly claimed my place in line, staring at everything on the menu, trying to figure out what I would eat when I’d never heard of anything they offered.

  “Can I help y
ou?” the cashier asked.

  “I know I want a milkshake. Chocolate. No…strawberry. No, give me both. Give me chocolate and strawberry. And…well…I’ve never had Greek food before. What’s your favorite?” I asked.

  I anticipated annoyance but was instead met with a quick response. “Chicken gyro or the falafel sandwich.”

  “I’ll take them both. And extra fries. And two bottles of the coldest water you have, please. Maybe even a cup of ice.”

  “Is that all?” he asked, looking around, no doubt trying to figure out if I was alone or ordering for a small party. “$42.13,” he requested, hand placed out ready to claim my money.

  I wanted to gasp. I could spend $42.13 at WorldMart and eat for a month, but I deserved this. I deserved something expensive, greasy, and full of new flavors. I handed him a $50, thankful for the ring that brought these gifts of food my way, also knowing I might not be able to tuck in to a meal composed of meaningless spending for a while.

  “What’s Death Valley like?” I asked the cashier, trying not to distract him from counting out my change.

  “Hot. You aren’t planning to go out there with all of this, are you? This is too much and way too heavy.”

  “I’ll probably eat this over the next two days or so. Except the milkshakes, of course. Honestly, I just want to know what it’s like to be alone.”

  “Head south. The Mojave is just below us. You’ll be good there…but don’t go too far out if you’re alone. There may not be another car for a long time if something happens.”

  “Dually noted. Thank you,” I nodded. “By the way, can I have some extra ketchup?”

  I followed the directions the cashier wrote down on the back of my receipt. After crossing some railroad tracks, I found myself on a decrepit side road, once a part of the majestic Route 66. I parked Merle gingerly on the dusty shoulder, making sure there was room to pass in the event another stray car happened to pass by. The soft ice cream slid its chilled thickness into my stomach with ease, and my body rejoiced. I greedily dipped my salty coated fries into the creamy shake, gobbling them eagerly without even breathing before wiping the grease from my fingers onto my leggings.

  “Oh my God, you’re so delicious,” I groaned, eager to let the food know how much I loved every ounce of what it offered me in that moment. Cracking the driver’s side door, I stepped outside with both hands full, popping the door closed with my butt before I slid over the warm hood of my car to have a picnic for one — a picnic easily for three.

  The desert offered a foreign stillness. I’d experienced loneliness many times and was familiar with the pain of isolation, but never before had I felt the peace of a world welcoming you in while remaining still. The only sound was the occasional rustle of dried brush, disturbed by a gust of heavy desert wind. I began to understand the allure of the desert — why the harsh lands speak to people with creative souls, why barren scenes called to people like Georgia O’Keefe for centuries.

  I didn’t pay attention to much in high school, but I did love the various art classes, and I took as many as I could. My art teacher would show up every day in your typical art teacher wardrobe: frizzy over dried hair held back in a gold barrette, floral print reading glasses would hang around her neck on a multi-colored beaded chain, and her woven oversized cardigans always had a bit of fringe or a South West pattern, carefully paired with a front button down maxi length denim skirt. She wore turquoise rings and bracelets, set in hand hammered silver, and would talk about the classes she took every summer in New Mexico. Sitting out here, albeit far away from New Mexico but assuming the desert was much the same, I could understand the mystery and the appeal. The land seemed to have open arms and encouraged you to spill forth your innermost secrets into a safe place.

  “I do have some secrets, Mr. Mojave,” I whispered. “I have quite a few, and if you have some time, I’d like to tell them to you.”

  A soft warm wind caressed my legs with a dusty heat. I took this as a sign to start talking. Even though I was alone in the middle of nowhere, on a crumbling side road, surrounded by dirt, dry brush, and rocks, I felt vulnerable. I took a bite of the chicken gyro, my first ever taste of Greek food.

  “Oh my goodness,” I inadvertently spat as little crumbs of meat, cucumbers, and pita flew forward. “So damn delicious. How is it even possible to create something so delicious with simple ingredients?”

  Up until this point, my life had been one-pot box meals you just had to add meat to, or canned ravioli, soups, and veggies. We ate what we could get from a food pantry, what was on the monthly 10 for $10 sale, or whatever ended up almost free with bulk coupons from Dollar Market. I’m not even sure I’ve had spices other than salt and pepper before; I knew for a fact we didn’t have any in the house. In fact, the first time I went grocery shopping by myself, I stood in the spice isle for a good fifteen minutes, mesmerized by all of the choices.

  Curiosity grabbed hold and I wasted no time, furiously tearing the aluminum covering off the second sandwich I couldn’t pronounce. I bit into the soft pita, crying in happiness when the bread gave way to the crispy covering of a smooth patty. The white cucumber sauce on top, yet another thing I couldn’t pronounce on the menu, combined with the thick fried patties in yet another explosion of flavors. “Oh my GOD,” I yelled. “What is this amazing treat? Where have you been all my life?”

  I took another bite of what I would later learn to be falafel, another bite of the gyro, a mouth full of shake dipped fries, and so on and so forth until my body was screaming for a break and some water. When I finally came out of my mouth-shoving marathon, I had eaten almost 2/3s of the food I thought would last me two days. I didn’t care. I took this trip knowing I had to take chances, and for the most part, I’d been responsible. I hadn’t been loose with my money, I had fallen into friendly fortune a few times, helping me to get farther along the highway than I ever thought possible, and I deserved something new and positive in my life.

  “Okay, desert, I’m going to tell you my deepest darkest secrets now,” I groaned in between satisfied belches. “I’m not quite sure where to start, but I suppose I’ll start where it’s easiest. I knew I had to leave. I knew I deserved more, Mr. Mojave. I did. But I was scared, and I’m not sure why. Isn’t it funny? Someone who had never done anything found everything to be scared of. Why?” I sighed, leaning back on the hood of my car. “Why do you suppose a person can go from day to day, doing the same thing over and over again, crying the same tears on their pillow at night, making the same promises to their heart to start fresh every morning, but force themselves into the same cycle? Does it make sense? I don’t think so.

  “I think Tyler’s paper was put into my life on purpose. I think the universe was saying, ‘Enough, Blossom Springtime Weatherby Franklin! Today is your day, and we’re going to push you, you big coward’. I think I stayed so long because I pitied my mom. I really did want her to sell a book, but her writing was shit.” I laughed. “I’m sorry, but her stories were absolute shit. And she always used them as an excuse for why she couldn’t take a job. You know, you watch all of these Hollywood movies, all of these families supporting each other through what they call thick and thin, and I felt like my job was to be them. And, deep down, I didn’t want to be my mom. I guess I was afraid if I left, since I didn’t know how to take care of myself, even more ironic since I took care of her, I would become her.

  “I suppose leaving was pretty stupid. I could have just packed up my bags and moved down the street, but you and I both know that would have never worked. She probably would have just moved in with me. I’ve really struggled with leaving the last week, I think, because shouldn’t I be thankful I can say I knew my dad? There are so many girls out there without fathers who would die to be in my shoes. I know, because I wanted to be in my shoes. And then I was there, but I walked away. Was I wrong?”

  A crow circ
led overhead in sync with a massive buzzard, cawing a loud throaty announcement in response. I watched them circle and then dive to the ground before shooting back up.

  “If you’re coming for me, I’m not dying out here, you fools,” I yelled to them. “Years will pass before anyone gets a hold of these bones. I’ve made it through more than I thought I ever could, or would ever have to, and I’m just going to say this. I’m a bad ass. Go swarm somewhere else and buzz out of my conversation.

  “So, Mr. Mojave, like I was saying. I wondered if I should tell my mom about the other women, and I wondered if he knew I knew. I saw them leaving when he tried to sneak them out the side door when Mom was out of the house, heard them calling, saw the text messages. I’d like to think she was clueless, or now that I know who he is, I want to think she had some self-respect. I try to not judge my mom too harshly. I’ve never been in a real relationship, much less a potato sack full of failed ones. I don’t know why someone wants to cling so desperately on to something they let every ounce of their self-preservation go on one sliver of hope.

  “Or maybe I do. I clung to her for quite some time. I refused to let myself dream, I refused to let myself have any ambition, or even push my limits. How sad it is to be so confined by someone else’s self-destructive behavior you force yourself to remain hidden…” I trailed off with a deep sigh. The warm desert air continued to softly tussle its fingers over my face and I welcomed the soft caress.