The Idyllic Chaos of My So-Called Life

by Amy-Noelle Smith

  My eyes caught a glimpse of something in the driver’s side door panel. Among the various CDs was a red flip phone. YES! I snapped up the phone and dialed without any actual forethought as to whom I was going to call. I stopped dialing after the first set of three numbers. I didn’t want to call Audrey; she’d freak out and say I told you so about the phone. I clicked the back button, dialed information, and asked for the number to any towing company in the area. The operator gave me the number to Mike’s Towing Service, and I called as soon as I ended the call. When I called I made them aware it was a flat tire and it could be fixed out on the road, hopefully saving me a few dollars. I was assured by the dispatcher that the truck would arrive in approximately forty minutes. Forty minutes seems like an eternity when there’s a slew of people passing you by and staring. I hopped inside of my car, locked the door, and waited.

  I took the red phone into my hands, and dialed Will’s number. I heard it ring a few times, and decided to hang up before he answered. “Hello,” I heard on the other end.

  Caught off guard I stammered out, “Um, hi. It’s me. Astrid.”

  “What’s up?” he said in a jovial tone.

  “Oh, I’m just hanging out, in my car, on the side of the road.”

  “What happened?”

  “I have a flat tire. I’m just waiting on a tow service. I couldn’t change it myself. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

  “Stay right there,” he demanded. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “No, no, you don’t need to come. I—I just was bored and wanted—” I realized that there was no one on the other end to listen to my protest. I took a deep inhalation and pursed my lips as I blew every ounce of frustration out. He was coming.

  Fifteen minutes had elapsed when Will pulled up behind my car in his antiquated truck. It sputtered and spewed and finally it let out a horrendous backfire shot, as though it was trying to put itself out of its own misery. The tow truck had not arrived, and I was hoping to be able to cancel it so I could save a few bucks.

  I could see Will in my rear view mirror strolling up to the car.

  “Hey trouble. Let’s take a look at this flat you got going on.” Will took the jack and what I termed the cross bar thingy, and quickly jacked the car up and took off the lug nuts, as he referred to them (I’d been calling them the bolty thingies). “You should call the wrecker service. You’re not going to need them,” he said without any hint of doubt in his voice.

  I’d written the service number on a scrap piece of paper. I was paranoid that if I relied upon the outgoing call log on the cell phone that the number would have disappeared. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, and dialed using another half-life of battery power (I’d hoped Audrey hid the charger somewhere). The dispatcher who was a female answered pleasantly. I gave her my name, and told her that I’d been able to change the tire myself. I lied. Feminist Theory must have overtaken me at that moment on the phone because I didn’t want to admit to the archaic fact that a man had come and “saved me.” She replied in a less than pleasant tone, as if she’d driven to meet me on the highway herself. I hung up the phone, elated that I could keep a few more dollars in my pocket for the long trip ahead.

  Will had the donut on the Volkswagen in less than five minutes. Impressive. I thought there must have been a biologically-based hormone deeply ingrained in females that made it impossible to resist a guy who fixes things.

  “You aren’t going to make it all the way to Kentucky on this donut. Do you have enough money to get a new tire?” he said.

  New tire. I was in a state of panic. I thought I’d bypassed the emergency and had saved my money. I had barely enough money to get the spare tire put on by the wrecker, let alone buy a whole new tire.

  “I only have a hundred twenty-five dollars; seventy-five for the hotel, and fifty for gas and food. I’d only planned on staying one night, and then coming back the next day. Crap.” The pitch in my voice became strained and squeaky. I felt the dread rise in me like mercury in a thermometer on a sweltering day.

  Will must have been acutely aware of my building anxiety because he laid his hand on my shoulder and began to pet me like I was an overexcited pet.

  “What am I going to do? I guess I’ll just turn around and go back. You know, I just wanted to get this thing over with. Goddamnit!” I slammed my hand on the hood of the VW.

  Will, leaning like a tall reed against the car with his tanned arms crossed in front of him, made a suggestion that I should have refused but didn’t. “I can drive you down, if you want.”

  My head whipped around as my eyes met his. “What,” I snapped.

  “If you don’t want to go back, that is. I can—we can drive together.”

  I thought for a moment, studying his face, trying to uncover an ulterior motive. I was poised to say no, but what came out instead was simply, “Okay.” I think I took him by surprise with my lack of resistance.

  “I saw a restaurant up the street. We can park your car there. It should be safe for a day or two. I’m hungry. You wanna eat?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind a bite,” I said.

  We both got into our cars and made our way up the highway to the restaurant. When I reached the diner, I parked around the side of the red brick building, and locked the lopsided VW up. I prayed no one would break in to it—it wasn’t paid off yet.

  My sense of smell was infused with the aroma of bacon grease and hickory. The walls were filled with sports memorabilia that extended from the 1940s to the present. There were pictures of hockey players (a big sport in Michigan, which just seemed like soccer on ice to me), basketball, baseball, and just a few devoted to the state’s favorite heartbreakingly bad football team, the Lions.

  We found a booth near the back of the diner covered with thick red vinyl that had a gash in the center of the seat. The waitress, who looked to be about my age, had a ratty white shirt that had a red arrow pointing downward toward her swollen belly. Above the arrow were the words, Baby on Board. I immediately hated her. In her face I saw my mother, young, stupid and destructive. While I acknowledged that, yes, I was young and destructive, I had not ever been stupid enough to bring another life into this world. Dumb bitch, I thought as I looked casually over the menu.

  Will ordered a burger and fries, and I echoed his order to the fat-bellied waitress with the scarlet arrow on her stained shirt. Our burgers came quickly, and we ate them in near silence. At first I hadn’t noticed that there wasn’t much conversation as I shoved the beef patty into my mouth; however, I soon became self-conscious over the lack of dialogue, and began to stumble for a topic of conversation. “So, thanks for helping me out. I—I really appreciate—”

  He stopped me. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad I could help.”

  “Are you for real?” Suddenly feeling that the censor for appropriate conversation had lapsed.

  “What do you mean?” He looked over at me defiantly taking a fistful of French fries from my plate.

  “Never mind,” I said shaking my head, then continued, my censor still off-duty. “It’s just that you’re so, n-i-i-ce. I mean nobody is that nice all the time.”

  “I’m not that n-i-i-ce to everyone,” he said, mocking my southern accent.

  “Oh, just to me then. Yeah, right.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know if you’re stubborn or just stupid. I like you Astrid. I—I...more than like you. Don’t you know that, dummy?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and peered down onto my plate as I took a French fry in between my fingers and made a figure eight through the leftover ketchup. “Thanks. Thanks for everything. I’m really glad we became friends.” Knowing full well I wanted to be more than friends; that we had already crossed the threshold of friendship that night on his boat.

  As we crossed from the flat lifeless terrain of the Midwest into the gently rolling hills of Northern Kentucky my heart started pounding. I’d brought myself down here to fulfill an obligation, an obligation that I wasn’t looking forward t
o.

  Will drove the entire way, making me feel a little guilty every time he craned his neck to either side trying to relieve the pressure of the drive.

  It had been a seven-hour drive from Saginaw to Cincinnati, the longest part being in Northern Ohio. At one point, I thought I had been sucked into some type of Farm Aid black hole. The scenery was repeated over and over and over for what seemed like hours and hours and hours. I was convinced there was no escape, and that Willie Nelson or John Mellencamp was just around the bend.

  Along one of the seemingly endless stretches of farms and trailer homes that lined the expressway in Ohio, I’d seen a billboard that had marked us all for death. It was a huge white board, and it had a clock with fancy black Roman numerals drawn around the face. It displayed the time—eleven fifty-five—and it said, “THE END IS NEAR!” That apocalyptic message was about an hour before we came upon the Church of the Rock, with a gigantic statue of Jesus (looking like he’d been carved from a slab of butter) submerged halfway into a manmade pond. Annihilation and resurrection, all within fifty square miles. Nothing like a little light religion for the road, I thought.

  Florence was only about fifteen minutes or so once you crossed the bridge that divided Ohio from Kentucky. I’d reserved a room at one of the hotel chains that stressed value over luxury. I’d planned on staying the night, and then going to the halfway house the next day to meet with A—. I’d sent her a letter a few weeks prior confirming when I’d be coming, and that it was a brief trip, and most probably the last trip I’d make to see her.

  I was nervous about two things. One, seeing A—, and two, sharing a room with Will.

  We arrived at the hotel around six o’clock in the evening. I checked in at the front desk and made my way around the building to room 206. Will parked the truck and I pulled my overnight bag out of the back. There was a nervous energy in the ether that I vigorously tried to ignore. We entered the room and I carefully placed my bag in the closet area, making sure it was still zipped up tight. I glanced around the room and spotted the large king-size bed that stood in the center of the room. Would we share the bed or would he sleep on the floor?

  “You don’t have a change of clothes, do you?” I realized as I unpacked my toothbrush.

  “No. I’ll be fine. I do need to get a toothbrush though. Hey, let’s get something to eat. If I don’t do something I’ll probably fall asleep.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry and tired. Actually more hungry than tired.”

  Skyline Chili was what I considered to be the best chili in the world, and Will had never even heard of it! I introduced him to the world of the five-way chilli: spaghetti, chili, onions, cheese, and red beans. It was one of the few things that I missed since I left Kentucky. We both ordered a five-way chili and a side of coney dogs. The coney dog was a remarkable feat of food engineering. It was a small hot dog about one quarter the size of a regular one, on a small bun loaded with chili, mustard and cheese. The ratio of cheese to hot dog is about three to one. It made me moan when my teeth sank through the cheese, chili, and finally, the hot dog. Will laughed at me until he took a bite and let out the same orgasmic moan.

  “Good, huh,” I said, laughing at him as he inhaled the coney in two bites.

  “Ohhh yeah,” he said, savoring each bite of the coney.

  He had chili dribbling down his chin, and I waved a napkin at him. He bypassed the napkin and used the back of his hand, wiping it cleanly from his chin, and then licking the back of his hand. I suddenly became very aware that he was a teenage boy, not the god I’d invented in my head. He ate like a teenage guy.

  “Are you nervous about seeing your mom?” he asked as he finished off his last coney and grabbed a spoon to start on his chili.

  “You’re gonna need a fork to eat that,” I said as I motioned to his chili and continued. “I just want to get it over with. You know, rip it off like a Band-Aid. Let her tell me how much better she is, and—well, it’s not important—this isn’t the first time she’s told me how reformed she is. Whatever.” I shook my head to signify that I didn’t want to think or talk about it anymore. I knew that this visit would be the last time I’d ever have contact with her. I wanted her out of my life. No more letters, no phone calls, and absolutely no visits. I needed to get her out of my life. I hated her. I loved her. I needed to hurt her.

  After stuffing ourselves to the point of nausea, we returned to the room. I slid the magnetic card into the slot, and waited for the red light to turn green. All I wanted to do was to brush my teeth and lay down. I felt sick to my stomach. The combination of chili and nerves made my stomach rumble. I’d hoped that I didn’t have gas. That would be mortifying, not to mention physically painful, trying to hold it in all night.

  I flopped down onto the bed and held my growling stomach as Will grabbed his keys and went to the store for a toothbrush and a few other toiletries. After he left, I slowly heaved myself off of the bed, locked the door behind him, and then double-checked it to make sure the lock was secure. I went over to my bag in the closet, pulled out a brown paper bag, and took it over to the bed. I turned the bag over, and dumped the contents onto the bed: a man’s black belt with cracked leather, a tarnished gold buckle, a tattered red scarf dined on by moths, and a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Reds. I examined the contents of the bag again, then satisfied I put everything back into the brown paper lunch sack and placed it back into my overnight bag.

  I walked into the bathroom, took out my soap and vigorously washed off the film of the day that had accumulated on my face. I pulled out my sweatpants and my T-shirt. These were my sleep clothes. If I’d known Will was going to be here I might have chosen something a bit more feminine. I took the time alone as an opportunity to change free from embarrassment and let out a few farts. I thought about leaving my bra on so that Will couldn’t see through my white shirt, but felt the uncomfortable pressure of the elastic pressing against my diaphragm constricting my inhalations and exhalations, and decided I’d rather be comfortable than modest.

  Just as I was finished changing my clothes, I heard a knock at the door and a voice. “It’s me, Will.”

  I walked over to unlock the door. “Thanks for clearing that up,” I said jokingly. I opened the door and let Will inside.

  “Oh, your in your jammies.” I watched his eyes go straight to my chest as he formed a lazy smile.

  “Mmmhmm,” I murmured as I crossed my arms in front of my chest, trying to block his view. “I’m tired. I think I’m going to lie down.” I waited to see his response in regards to the sleeping arrangements.

  “I can sleep on the floor if you want me to,” he said, opening his toothbrush from the package.

  “I don’t care,” I said, not wanting to offend him. I wished that he’d been more assertive as to where he was going to sleep. He seemed to leave it up to me, so I did the dance of the indecisive.

  “It doesn’t matter to me either,” he insisted.

  “Well, I guess we can share the bed.” I didn’t want to be the one to put him on the floor, but if we shared the bed I had an idea of where it would be headed. I didn’t know if I had the strength to resist something that I clearly wanted.

  I crawled into the king-size bed and folded back the sheets so that my arm came over the top. I switched on the television and laid there, eyes closed—heart thumping. I heard the water running in the bathroom, and supposed Will was brushing his teeth. I guess it was a good thing Will was here because my attention, which otherwise would have been focused on my meeting with A—tomorrow, was not at the forefront of my mind—holding in my chili dog gas was.

  I felt the other side of the covers lift up as Will slid his body into the bed.

  “Good night,” he said softly.

  “Good night,” I returned.

  “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he whispered.

  “A little bit,” I said, looking up at the ceiling illuminated by the glow of the television.

  I felt his slender yet muscul
ar body slide up behind mine, as his hand stroked my hair away from my face. He gently kissed me on the cheek as he whispered, “Everything will be fine. Try not to worry. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  “Thanks,” I said, letting out a restrained yawn as I turned my body around to face him.

  If you had told me four months ago that I’d be lying across from this boy in a bed appreciating every ounce of him, I would have probably laughed in disbelief. But here we were, together, wondering what was going to happen next.

  Will leaned across the space that lingered between us and lightly touched his lips to mine. I felt my hands cautiously remain at my side, then, when I could bear it no longer, they swiftly moved up into his long strands of bronzed hair. I felt a surge of raw electricity course through my arteries, replacing any blood that was left. There wasn’t any sliver of space that separated our bodies. I would have done anything. My mind clouded with my prurient desires.

  Will pulled his head away from mine, and smiled. “God, you are gorgeous,” he moaned. “I want this to happen, but I just don’t think it’s the right time. I don’t want you to be distracted by anything else—when we—you know...”

  I admired his restraint because lord knows mine was totally gone. I was disappointed how easily I was willing to surrender. He was right, and I was glad he’d stopped.