I swore, at the age of twenty-five, I would never return. Ever. Even as an adult, when I overhear the name, or the two-letter abbreviation, I thrust myself into conversation and proclaim, “[Insert State] is the limp dick of the USA!”
That is, until, my husband sat me down at the table and said, ”You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”
[Insert State] is responsible for most of my life’s mishaps. Like the god-awful road trip with my college boyfriend. In an attempt to salvage our dull relationship, he packed his busted-up Pontiac for a surprise road trip. It felt more like a kidnapping. I’d been meticulously working on a break-up speech because I found, throughout the course of our dull relationship, he didn’t process things quickly. But he rolled up in that maroon Grand Firebird, rolled down the window and cooed, “Hey babe. Get in.” I patted my pockets for the break-up speech not yet perfected, came up empty, and reluctantly slid into the car.
He drove me through that desolate hell between [insert state capitol] and [next big city]. The place where life finds no fight or will against the elements. Where land has been pummeled into something unforgiving. Where mother nature gave up, or at least pretends to forget its existence, due to the guilt of making that creation. The highway did the same with exits–gave up that is–because there were none. Only miles and miles of earth the color of bile with an occasional weed-turd floating by. He drove me into the center of that cesspool then stopped. In mid-August heat. A pop came from under his hood, a fan coughed a death rattle.
“Where’s the next exit?” I spoke evenly. He scratched his head, turned the radio dial up and down a few times. Turned the volume dial. Tapped the dashboard. His head fell back and hit the seat.
“It’s dead.” His palm hit his forehead.
“Where is the next exit?” I said even slower, through clenched teeth.
“10 miles.”
That was not my first introduction to [Insert State]. Another came when my college roommate invited me to her new apartment, in her new city, to introduce me to her new life cross-country. We ceased being roommates several years prior because I found the living environment to be chaotic and unstable. When my roommate picked me up at the airport with an elaborate orange and red dragon painted on her cheek, yet no explanation why, I regretted the decision.
“We are going to the capitol’s hottest bar!” she squealed. The feeling of excitement and curiosity only intensified when we pressed into a dark, throbbing club, caught strobe flashes of a dance floor sardined with men. That night, I danced carefree, spun circles with my arms tossed out (because attempting rhythm or hip thrusting rarely turns out well). It rained confetti. Men pet my Brillo sweat-soaked hair and called me “pretty” . Words someone tall and awkward as me rarely heard. I spun and spun and spun on that dance floor in dizzy glee until my high sensitivity to motion sickness high-fived my alcohol consumption. I sought refuge at the bar. Sergio, my roommate’s friend, came up behind me breathless, sweaty, shirtless.
At this point in life, I had almost no close encounters with male abdominals. Sergio threw his head back in laughter at the shade of conservative spread across my face and placed an ice cube from his drink into my fingertips. “You can rub it on them.”
My eyebrows shot into my hairline. My roommate appeared from behind and draped her arms around his shoulders. “It’s ok!” She slurred. “He’s not interested in you, sweetie.” Sergio shook his head no, and pointed to a pair of naked, wet abs on the other side of me. I giggled. My body began to tingle. I placed hands over my mouth. Lurched. And threw up. All over myself. Sergio called our cab and made sure it delivered us home safely.
I awoke on my roommate’s bathroom floor to a vomit caked tube top and her toeing me. She had been crying, and the dragon painting on her cheek turned into a melting fire from hell, running down her neck and consuming her sheer white top.
“He’s mine, bitch.” She repeated the phrase every time I slid my cheek and lips across the tile to mumble, “What?!” I couldn’t understand. I hadn’t even moved my head from the base of the toilet.
“Sergio. He’s mine.”
“But…I’m confused…I thought he was–” She kicked a pair of scissors my way and walked out. I stared at the white porcelain column, trying to put together pieces of the night. When I finally peeled my body off the tile, I could see fluffs of hair all around. I ran my hands the length of my curls to find they ended shorter than accustomed. After a good, fetal-position cry on the cold bathroom floor, I packed my items, made an appointment at a ridiculously expensive nearby salon, and booked a flight home that same evening. I also made a vow to never, ever return to [insert state capitol].
That is until my husband sat me down at the table with folded hands, “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say. My job is transferring. It will happen quickly.” Three days later, we were on a flight to [insert state] to find a place to live. As Drew drove the rental sedan from one beige subdivision to the next beige subdivision, I sat in the passenger seat dropping silent, hostile tears. During a break in house hunting, at a roadside restaurant, I stared out the window dropping silent, hostile tears into salsa. Drew set his fork down, “Your attitude is ruining this vacation for us.”
“Vacation? You call this a vacation?” I spat. On the ride back to the hotel I opened the to-go box in my lap. Looked inside. Looked at Drew’s profile in the driver’s seat. Wondered what it would be like to throw tacos at him. Imagined the internal contents of mayonnaise, coleslaw and chunks of shrimp sliding down the windshield as the contents of his brains. I didn’t throw anything. Being one who shoves anger down, I instead stared out the window, refused to speak, and curled up for the night in the hotel room armchair.
The next morning I awoke to Drew sitting on the air conditioning unit next to me. “I think we’re going to take a different approach this weekend,” he said. Patted my knee. “We can come back over Thanksgiving break and find an area to live.” I had to contort my limbs out of various 90 degree angles to pry myself from the armchair.
“What do you mean?”
“I switched our rental car to a Jeep Wrangler. I thought we could drive up north. Do some hiking instead of house hunting.”
****
I had been ‘up north’ before. On my disastrous road trip with the college boyfriend. He got the car running again, but it resulted in us arriving after the state park closed. An argument imploded between us in the parking lot. I threw some bad language and a soda. We turned around and drove back through the night freezing, because the heat also produced a death rattle.
But that wasn’t the first time I hiked ‘up north’. I visited that state park once in high school. On a youth group trip across the country. I discovered god on that hike. It’s also where I discovered my first, real infatuation. Josh Povesti. He and a pack of friends spearheaded the group hike. They were loud, rowdy, daring. I hung in the rear. Out of nowhere, the sun dipped and the skies unleashed torrential rain. I clung to a tree trunk, but noticed Josh had torn his shirt off, and was spinning and spinning with his arms out. Laughing and shouting, “Hallelujah, I’ve found God!” in the downpour.
I had never seen bare, wet, male abs in person before. I released my fingernails from the tree bark and watched him spin round and round, his tongue lapping at descending droplets. I didn’t really know Josh, so I mistook his flippancy for religious zealotry, and in an attempt to impress him, began to spin and lick at the rain, too, until I found myself twirling uncontrollably, arms extended, head back, hollering, “Me too! Hello, God!”
I’d like to tell you Josh Povesti noticed me. I’d like to say he approached, grabbed my shoulders and pushed me against the tree trunk, wiping wet hair from my brow as rain dropped from his lower lip. I’d like to describe how his bare chest heaved as he pressed in to kiss. None of that happened. Instead, I tripped over a boulder and dislocated my knee cap. I had to be carried up the trail by chaperones. They made a make-shift splint out of cardboard, used duct tape to keep it in place, and propped me next to the tour bus to wait.
The rest of the group completed the hike while I sat next to an exhaust pipe. Once the rain ceased, the high sun singed all moisture from the air. I remember closing my eyes and turning my face toward the light. It created a sensuous dance of orange and red behind my eyelids. The heat roughly caressed my body, poking into the pores on my arms and legs. Except the cardboard splinted leg. That one was slimy with sweat.
Chirps of birds sounded like ice clinking in beaded glasses. Each sip of air made my heart beat a little faster. I remember touching a large iron bolt on the bench, as if being dared. There was something dangerous about that heat. Something vibrating. I extended my arms outwards, leaned my head back, and felt the breeze and burn fight over my body. A tear fell. And in that moment, sometimes, I wonder if maybe I did find god.
Shortly after that, the youth group returned too tired and soaked to inquire after my well-being. Chaperones loaded all the students onto the bus and waited for them to settle in. Then they hoisted me, like a sofa being moved up a staircase. A voice from the back hollered, “Why is she wrapped in cardboard?” and a titter spread throughout the bus.
I hate [Insert State], I really do.
Despite my adolescence failure of communing with god on a rainy trail, I’ve always been quite comfortable among living, green things. I even pursued the natural sciences throughout college. On weekends I’d drive out to the nearest nature preserve with my textbooks and a copy of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. I’d hike to find a cool shaded spot on an uphill. There, I’d lie on a blanket, use my textbook as a shield, and study bioremediation. Old Walt came because of a grad-student boyfriend. Sometimes I tried to read Whitman’s poetry. I didn’t understand it. I only wanted to impress the boyfriend. I did like the poem about the boot-soles, however. Especially the part where it says,
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged;
Missing me one place, search another;
I stop somewhere, waiting for you.
I’d close my eyes and imagine my grad school boyfriend reading those lines by firelight in his tepee, clutching his heart in agony over missing me. About a year into our relationship he felt called to live in a tepee in order to discover god in nature. So he packed up his car, gave me a peck on the cheek, and promised, “Our spiritual bond will not be destroyed by distance.” I’m not sure if he ever found god, but he did discover something out there in the wilderness. He told me about it in a break-up email composed at the public library (because he lived in a tepee). It read: “I am sorry. I picked up a hitchhiker. We fell in love. She now lives with me here in [Insert State].”
I’m not making this up. This is why [Insert State] is the bane of my existence. This is why I didn’t trust Drew’s suggestion to head ‘up north.’ But his gesture touched me, and he rented a Jeep Wrangler. After prying out of an armchair, I nodded to his request and continued to sulk as we walked out of the hotel lobby, felt the morning sun on our skin, and peeled back the top of the Wrangler. I sulked the entire drive, too. When Drew and I arrived early to an empty parking lot, my heart sank at the thought of flinging expletives and soda cans at him.
“Is the state park closed because of Covid? Did you check?” I gritted evenly.
“Of course I checked. It’s empty because of Covid.” Drew handed over a water. We entered the park and took a silent walk around the picnic area, no sound to be heard except for an occasional falcon cry carried through the wind and the crunch of our footsteps underneath. Drew asked if I wanted to hike the main trail.
“Sure. I hiked that trail in high school once. It rained.” I stopped the story there. As we descended the trail, even after twenty-some years, I could point to the exact spot where I clung to a tree and watched Josh Povesti shed clothing and pray in spinning circles. Drew and I didn’t talk much on the hike. We didn’t’ talk much for most of the day. Occasionally I interrupted a lengthy gaze with a lecture about the composition of paleozoic rocks mapped out before us. We’d share a water and a nod, then continue. When we emerged from the belly of the trail to the main road, Drew planted his boot in front of my feet, and I toppled forward.
“Look!” He whispered, holding me back with one hand and pointing with the other. In the silent afternoon sun, two large beasts stood near each other on the edge of the main road. One smaller than the other, but both with regal horns. They grazed languidly, pausing every once in a while to survey the horizon. The ridges in their horns–their annual growth rings–gleamed in the sun like the golden horns of Gallehus. So many years etched in those horns. So much history. They did not startle when we entered into view. Rather, they turned their heads in unison, and looked at us through small, black, inquisitive eyes.
I fumbled for my camera without breaking their stare. I stepped forward and marveled, “Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Drew shook his head. I took a step forward. Stepped forward again and extended my hand, compelled to touch the inscribed horns.
Drew’s arm snapped. Held me back. Because that’s the thing about Drew. He knows I would step all the way up to lay my hand on that divine beast’s brow, only to be impaled by a horn and tossed around.
The late afternoon sun shifted into down gear as we sailed an empty road back to the hotel. I rested my head on the seat and watched the expansive landscape whirl through the whip in my hair. I looked up to no roof and saw the emboldened moon rise to fight day’s sun.
A tear ran down my cheek. Then another. But the open air lashed them from my face. I thought about what this job opportunity meant for my family. What it meant for Drew. Throughout the previous days, the ones that followed the news at the table, I sceamed things like, “I have to give up everything. You don’t give up shit.” I called him selfish. Brought up ancient injuries. Threatened, “Fine. Go. But I’m staying. And so are the kids.” I did cruel things, too. Things I won’t mention here.
I thought about my vow to never, ever return to [Insert State]. Thought about what it meant to actually live there. I raised my hands through the open roof of the Jeep. I felt the wind push at them and closed my eyes to struggle against the force. Then I grabbed Drew’s hand. He kept his eyes on the road but intertwined his fingers with mine. We said nothing. I looked over at Drew’s profile and almost whispered, “Thank you, [Insert State I Hate].”
I didn’t. The state doesn’t deserve that. Yet.
Instead, I said, “Ok. I understand. We can move here.”
“What does that mean for you?” he took a side glance at me and tucked some hair behind my ears. I looked out my window for a long time watching the sun settle into a spectacular display of reds, oranges, purples and deep, deep blues. I reached my hand out the open window to try and touch it, then looked back at Drew.
“I resign.”
****
We pulled off at a gas station under cool, night lights. Drew manned the pump and I stepped inside for a candy bar. A tired, wiry woman stood behind the counter. Eyed me sidewise.
“Where you been?” I didn’t understand her question so I looked over both my shoulders to see who else she might be addressing. “You,” she pointed at me. “You got wild hair. Where you been?” I touched my hair and explained our open ride, how we were returning from the state park up north.
“You tourists?” I went to nod, but stopped. I wasn’t sure how to answer that.
“Um, no. I guess we’re not. We are moving here soon.” She sized me up again and slid my items close to her.
“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her. Then asked for hers.
“Renee.”
“No kidding. That’s my mom’s name.”
“That so? Now you’ll always remember me.”
“Are you from here, Renee?”
She nodded, pulled out a plastic bag and set it next to my things. Her brows furrowed, “Gotta be tough moving during Covid.” I gave her a silent, tender nod. “What’s one thing you miss most from this Covid madness?” I blinked. It was November of 2020. Covid had been raging on for months. I missed many things, but never thought of what brought the biggest loss.
It was easy to answer.
“Concerts. I miss concerts, Renee. You know that moment, at a concert, when the lights and music pause, and the entire place leans forward in tense anticipation for the beat drop, or the chorus swell, or even the simple little lyric?” I interpreted her silent stare as engrossed attention and continued.
“Take Coldplay’s The Scientist. I listened to the song on repeat after our son’s death. I saw Coldplay in concert several years later. A violent pop-up storm interrupted the show. Drew and I managed to sneak onto the floor in the chaos of people running and huddling for cover.” I paused because Renee hadn’t moved.
“Oh! You’re probably like who’s Drew? That’s my husband. So, the skies eventually cleared into this incredible display of orange and blues and the concert continued. When I heard the first chord of The Scientist, I grabbed Drew by the wrist and pulled him through wet bodies, like dense pines in a forest, closer to the stage. We held hands and belted lyrics together, “Nobody said it was easy, but no one ever said it would be this hard.”
Renee still hadn’t moved.
“Oh! Those are the lyrics to the song, perhaps you don’t know it,” and I proceeded to sing the entire verse of the song. “So, at this concert, during this song, the music paused just for a moment…the sound ceased, lights stilled, all breath held, every hand raised to the sky in silent anticipation. And then he sang that little lyric, the one that told the story of my grief.
Oh take me back to the start.
That’s when the chords and lights erupted, and the place jumped into a crazy uproar! I extended my arms and began spinning and spinning around. Sometimes when I remember this moment, it’s rain pouring down my face as I throw my head back in reverie. Sometimes it’s tears that run, like a centrifuge across my cheeks. I’d like to think it was both, but no matter what really happened, sometimes I wonder if I found god in that moment.”
Renee grunted. “I don’t know concerts. What will you miss most about home?”
I smiled, thought for a moment. “Teaching.”
Renee handed me my bag. “Well, you ain’t gonna find god here, and they pay teachers shit.”
I nodded at Drew’s raised eyebrow and climbed into the Jeep. “Yup, I’m ready,” I said and clipped myself in. He rolled the car out of the parking lot and onto the entrance ramp. As the wind kicked in, I thought about what Renee said about god and teaching. Maybe she was wrong about all that.
I’m not sure, though. [Insert State] is still a limp dick.
No Real Balance 