Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  “I’m not fidgeting, I’m just—”

  “Do you need to pee, Seth McCollum?”

  I exhaled rather loudly for at least five seconds. “No.”

  No, my fidgeting had nothing to do with needing to pee and everything to do with the fact that I was trapped in my car against my will and we’d been driving for nearly two hours.

  Dusk began creeping in, bathing the yellow and brown meadows and hills that flanked the highway in a filter that brought out the drab colors, rendering them rich and aesthetically pleasing. In front of us, the sky glowed pink and orange as the sun sank slowly on the horizon. My car, for the first time ever, smelled less like new-car scent and more like lavender—like you—and all of this environmental loveliness would have been serene if it had been indicative of something other than the fact you’d kidnapped me.

  I am largely a creature of habit and it occurred to me while I was stuck on this spur-of-the-moment road trip with you that I might have selected the wrong career. That situation was exactly the type of thing reporters are supposed to do. Anything for the story as they say, and I was fine with doing anything—so long as it fit within the parameters of my comfort zone. Within the boundaries of the Metroplex and between the hours of 8 AM and not much later than 7 PM. Maybe later if I felt it was necessary. But things like the road trip were way out of my element, and you hadn’t even revealed much of anything that seemed particularly relevant or compelling. Mostly just that you had been up and down this road more times than you could even remember because your grandparents lived in Abilene and pastored a small church there.

  “When was the last time you visited them?” I asked, firmly tapping my thumb against the door handle.

  “I was probably seven or eight. That was for my grandpa’s funeral. After that, my grandma went into a home. She died not much later. I didn’t get to go to her funeral. My mom handled everything and she was so stressed out that she didn’t want me there. Seemed like it was a lot of work. She was already so stressed out and that just made it worse.”

  “So you stayed with your dad?”

  You pursed your lips. That was one of the things you did when you refused to answer a question.

  “Is your mom still around?”

  You lifted and dropped your shoulders as well as your eyebrows. Another thing you did to avoid answering.

  “What about cousins? Aunts and uncles?”

  “My mom was kind of estranged from her parents.”

  Changing the subject. One more thing you did.

  “They had a falling out when I was really little,” you went on. “Something about how she didn’t feel like they cared about her. They were so engrossed in their life with their church and its community. I heard her say one time, ‘you made them your family and completely ignored your actual family.’ Which was ironic because she sort of did the same thing. She was so preoccupied with her resentment toward them that she kind of neglected… like…” You chewed the inside of your mouth as you stammered. “Neglected me.”

  That was yet another thing you did when you were being evasive. After only two hours in the car with you, I felt fluent in your nuances and mannerisms. Then again, I had nothing else to do besides listen to you, watch you, and psychoanalyze you. Stare at the side of your face. Notice that you have a neck like a swan and how those two freckles on the right side are a charming complement. Remind myself you were my subject and that wasn’t something I could do.

  “What did you do when she was neglecting you?”

  “Went to school. Read. Rode my bike. Rollerbladed. Watched TV.” You smiled at me. “Normal kid stuff.”

  “What about friends?”

  “I had friends. I’d go play at their houses. A lot of them moved though. Military families.”

  “What about now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you have any friends now?”

  You shrugged, evading yet again.

  “Who was the guy at the Calhoun pub?”

  “What guy?”

  “A guy with a military haircut was drinking with you.” I paused to rein in my indignation about the next factoid. “He spent the whole evening undressing you with his eyes and then let you drive home completely shit-faced.”

  You turned to me, lifting your eyebrow in a lingering glance. “Jealous?”

  “Jealous is not quite the word I’d use.”

  You looked back at the road. “That was Dave. After high school, I worked as a receptionist at a brick company and he was tech support. There was a bar right across the street from the office and we used to go drinking a lot together after work. He’s a good guy, but I’m pretty sure he’s one email thread and a drive to Louisiana from cheating on his wife with an exotic dancer. Total seven-year-itch situation.”

  “He seemed pretty interested in you.”

  “Well I’m just forbidden fruit.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I don’t like him like that and he knows it. I’d never get involved with someone who was involved with someone.”

  “So would you consider him your friend?”

  “Not really. We’re just drinking buddies. I almost never see him since I stopped working there. We both just happened to be heading to that particular bar that day. And I seriously think he’s going to leave his wife and little girl for the stripper.”

  “He doesn’t sound very good to me.”

  “Well maybe you’re just judgmental, Seth McCollum.”

  “You think it’s okay for a guy to cheat on his wife and abandon his child?”

  “No, of course not. But nothing is black and white. His wife has been distant and neglectful of him ever since their daughter was born. It doesn’t justify what he’s doing, but I understand.”

  I scoffed. “I don’t.”

  “People are more complex than you probably think, Seth McCollum. I’m surprised you’re not more open-minded. I’m sure in your line of work you encounter a lot of people who do stupid things because of desperation and circumstances.”

  Perceptive or Captain Obvious? I couldn’t decide which, and I think too much, and why were we talking about me? “I do.”

  “Are you this quick to judge all of them, too?”

  “I’m not judging him, I just think—”

  “You think he’s a bad person because he’s thinking about leaving his family.”

  “And because he let you drive home drunk.”

  “Well,” you said with a snort, “it sounds like you let me drive home drunk, too.”

  I looked at you and you winked at me. “Touché.”

  You slapped my arm and laughed. “I’m just giving you shit, Seth McCollum.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  “Because it’s your name?”

  “You could just call me Seth.”

  “I like your full name. I want to make sure I never forget it.”

  “Why?”

  You laughed again. “You’ll see.”

  “Oh will I, now? Are you planning to murder me on this road trip?”

  “Don’t be silly,” you said, oh-so-casually. “If I wanted to murder you I would’ve done it already.”

  I rolled my eyes and you laughed yet again.

  “I’ll never forget you as long as I live, Seth McCollum!” you declared, grabbing my shoulder and shaking me quite aggressively for someone so small, and I cracked a smile in spite of myself.

  “Are you this flirtatious with everyone?”

  “Nope. You’re special. I almost never talk to anyone.”

  “Why is that?”

  You responded with a shrug and nothing else. Outside, the meadows and hills and trees had transitioned into black silhouettes against the fiery, orange sky.

  “I was late for this, late for that, late for the love of my life,” you quietly sang along with the radio. “When I die alone, when I die alone, when I die I’ll be on time.”

  The headlights switched on, casting white beams on the darkened r
oad in front of us. A semi flanking us sped up and its taillights slowly disappeared on the horizon. The clock now read 9:02.

  “Hey,” you interjected. “What happened to the guy whose kid was dying of cancer? The one in that article you showed me.”

  “Oh. Well.” I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “His son passed away. About two weeks ago.”

  You didn’t say anything and I rolled the song lyrics over in my mind.

  When I die alone, when I die alone, when I die I’ll be on time.

  You jerked the wheel hard right down the next exit and pulled into a truck stop next to a motel and a bar.

  “Okay, if you’re planning to get hammered,” I warned, eyeballing the bar, “we’re going back and I’m driving.”

  The tires screeched to a halt and you tossed the keys in my lap before jumping out. You wandered toward the grass flanking the frontage road, head down and one hand on your face, and I scrambled out.

  “Hey!” I hollered at you. “Are you insane? Get away from the road! If someone comes flying off the exit, you’re toast.”

  You dropped yourself into the grass and collapsed over your lap. Your shoulders convulsed and it was immediately obvious that you were crying and that I’m a callous asshole.

  “Hey,” I tried again, more gently, and approached you. Knowing your name would have come in handy right then so I didn’t have to refer to you as hey. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just go home, Seth McCollum. I’m sorry I wasted your night dragging you out here.”

  “It’s okay.” Not really, I thought, but I was trying to be less of an asshole. “Get back in the car. I’ll take you home.”

  “Just go by yourself. I can’t go back there right now.”

  “I’m sure the cops are long gone at this point.”

  “That’s not why I can’t go back right now.”

  “Then why not?”

  You kept crying, and I really didn’t want to sit in the grass. I really, really didn’t want to sit in the grass. But I sat on the damned grass anyway.

  “Just let me take you back,” I said, half to you, half to the ground under my ass as I checked for dog shit and ants. “It’s late. You can sleep on the way.”

  “No. Just go.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m not leaving you here by yourself.” I glanced at the bar and motel. It was a horrible idea. A truly terrible, awful, bad idea for a lot of reasons, but it was the only thing I could think of to entice you to get out of the grass.

  I bumped your shoulder and nodded at the bar. “Let’s grab a bite and we’ll get a room.”

  You snapped your head up and attempted to make a flirtatious face in spite of snot and tears.

  “Not like that. It’s too late to drive home. I’m tired. I’m starving. I’m sure you are too. We’re already here.” I stood and picked up your hand. “Come on.”

  Hour Four

  “Can I ask you something?” I asked because I had to ask.

  The time on my phone read 11:45 PM and I sat across from you at a high-top table in the bar. Between us sat my empty plate and two empty beer glasses, and your four empty beer glasses, four empty shot glasses, and plate, upon which a cheeseburger and pile of fries still sat. You had taken two bites of the burger and eaten five fries, mostly using them as a spoon to eat the side of mustard.

  You slowly glanced up at me with a pair of hooded eyes and a half-smile. “Ye-eess…”

  “Why do you drink so much?”

  You snorted. “If your life was like mine, you’d drink a bunch too.”

  “What is your life like?”

  You picked up a beer glass and tilted your head backward, intending to drain it into your throat, only to take on a look of mild disappointment when you found it was already gone. “My life is nothing. Kind of like this beer.”

  “You mean empty?”

  You set the glass down with a harsh clack and pointed sloppily at me. “Yes. Empty. Exactly like that.”

  “What makes it empty?”

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking.”

  You squinted at me. “So is this an interview after all?”

  “What else would it be?”

  “I thought maybe you just wanted to get to know me better so we could, you know,” you said, wiggling your eyebrows up and down.

  “No. That’s definitely not what I’m doing. I’m going to write about you. If that’s okay with you.”

  “S’fine. Just make it mmmemorable.”

  “I’ll do my best, but that depends on you. You have to tell me more about yourself. Tell me why your life is empty. Tell me why you do all the weird stuff you do. Tell me what else you’ve been arrested for. Tell me why you won’t tell anyone your name. Maybe tell me your name. That sort of thing.”

  “Jeez, Seth McCollum,” you wheezed. “Getting a little personal. At least buy me dinner first.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I did. You didn’t eat it.”

  “Ugh.” You dropped your cheek into your palm and gave me a glassy-eyed gaze. “You are so cute. And really preppy. Did you go to college and everything? You look like you made perfect grades and have never made a bad choice in your life.”

  “I never needed to make a bad choice. My parents made plenty of bad choices and I learned from their mistakes. And, yes, I went to college. I graduated Magna Cum Laude from SMU with a BA in Journalism.”

  “I knew it. You’re probably type A and all of that too. Your car looks like you just picked it up from the dealership and even your clothes seem impervious to wrinkling. Your hands are so clean right now it’s like you ate your burger with a fork and knife.” You lifted your own hands and stared at them before wiping them on your shorts. “How do you do that?”

  “I’m just careful, I guess.”

  “What did your parents do that was so bad?”

  I groaned and waved at the cocktail waitress for another beer. “They were irresponsible and it caused me a lot of problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “They got married right after high school. Never went to college.” The waitress set down the beer and I took a gulp. “Oh no wait. My dad spent a single year at UNT studying screenwriting before he dropped out. Then they saved up a bunch of money so he could spend a month in LA at a screenwriting seminar. They were planning to move out there permanently because he was going to write for TV and my mom was going to pursue a career in fashion design.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  I looked at you with a face that felt deadpan and you smirked. “She worked at a department store and that made her think she had the stuff to be a fashion designer. They spent the last of their money putting a non-refundable down payment on tuition for her at an overpriced, non-accredited fashion design college. They couldn’t find work and came back as soon as his seminar ended. Then he worked for an electronics store and she got a job at a bank. They both still work in the same places, but now they’re also a two-person band and spend all their free time playing gigs at local coffee shops.”

  “So? At least they’re still around.” You snagged my beer and took a large gulp. “I don’t see what’s so bad about that, Seth McCollum.”

  “It’s bad because they barely make ends meet. They’re in horrible debt. They live in an apartment and they’re in their fifties. No retirement plan or anything. I’m going to have to take care of them in the not so distant future.” I grabbed the beer back from you and swallowed some. “And not to mention, because they didn’t plan for the future, I had to work while I was going to college and have a bunch of debt from student loans.”

  “Well,” you said, sliding the beer back toward you and draining it, “nobody forced you to go to an expensive private university. You could’ve gone to community college or something.”

  “Yeah, well I wasn’t going to get a second rate education just because they couldn’t properly provide
for me.”

  You glowered and shoved the empty glass back toward me. “You are not entitled to your parents providing you with an education. At least you have parents.”

  “Do you not have parents anymore?” I demanded, perching forward in my chair and completely forgetting about my admittedly trifling problems. “What happened to them?”

  “I have to pee,” you announced, nose turned up, as you slid off the chair.

  I slumped backward and waved for the check, watching you grasp the wall like a rock climber and stagger down a long hallway. After paying, I waited by the restroom door and you reemerged several minutes later with a red face and teary eyes. You immediately threw your arms around my neck and dangled from me, trying to catch my lips with yours and surprisingly smelling more like lavender than alcohol.

  “All right,” I said, steadying you and pulling you to stand as upright as possible. “Time to sleep.”

  You managed to stay upright until we burst through the motel room door, where you immediately flopped on one of the beds and passed out. I stepped out of my shoes and threw back the blankets on the other bed, fully expecting to see an intrusion of cockroaches scuttle to the four corners of the room. The bed appeared clean, but I didn’t have a black light and couldn’t be sure I wasn’t about to lie down on the crusty aftermath some previous guest’s activities. I also had no change of clothes, toothbrush, or razor—honestly, the fact I’d put myself in this situation at all should have tipped me off right then—but I collapsed on the other bed and fell asleep.

  Hour Five

  The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:53 AM, but it barely registered in my mind because someone was on top of me, kissing my neck, and my hands were on breasts.

  My hands were on breasts. Holy shit, my hands were on breasts.

  It took all the very limited willpower I had to grab the pillow from behind my head and squish it against your chest, which was now missing the hot pink bikini top.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded.

  “I need to do this.”

  “What is wrong with you? I have told you at least ten times now that I can’t do th—”