A small town fiasco leads to a big misunderstanding when friends make a quick stop off the interstate on a cross-country drive.
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Elevator jazz assaulted my ear as the phone pressed against it. An occasional disembodied syrupy voice interrupted, "Your expected wait time is two minutes." I was borrowing my neighbor's landline since the cell service in this valley is non-existent. A man with a thick Indian accent piped through from somewhere far away, "Hello and thanks for calling Frontier; how can I help you?"
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The warm, low-angle light of the setting sun blasted through the windshield, blew through my sunglasses, and pummeled my squinting eyes. I glanced down for a reprieve from the glare and noticed the red needle on the gas gauge kissing E.
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My first rejection as a writer came from a Reader’s Digest editor. I was eleven years old, living in the Rocky Mountains west of Denver. My English teacher, Mr. Upzack, sent a note home asking my parents if he could submit my homework assignment to the publication. It didn’t go well. The following year we moved to a homestead in northwest Montana, and I learned to play guitar on my mother’s 12-string Epiphone.
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Late afternoon sun angles across the meadow, creating a facade of warmth on this chilly early March day. My black rubber chore boots squish in the mud left by the last rain as I make my way down the garden trail. Moments before it is crushed beneath the weight of me, a soft purple glow poking up on the edge of the path catches my eye.
I just lost my mind. I’m about to drop $200 online buying new clothes. You know those cute little boutique clothing ads that pop up on Facebook from time to time when you’re scrolling? They are the scourge of the earth.
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I am alone, standing on the side of a two-lane blacktop road feeling lost. The white line painted on the asphalt at my feet stretches for miles to the north. I hear a distant hum behind me to the south. A black car approaches and slows down, stopping on the road in front of me. The passenger window is down. A gentle-spirited man with long black hair peppered with gray strands falling well past his shoulders has one hand on the wheel. His eyes are dark and shining bright with life and deep calm wisdom, “Are you coming with me or are you going to just stand there?”
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McCarthy, Alaska wrecked my life. I had a map and a compass heading, that felt sure and steady. I put roots down in a sweet mountain valley in Southern Oregon with lush, organic farms and down-to-earth people choosing to live close to the land. Williams, Oregon is the good guy. The one you know you should date because he’s good for you - kind, gentle, wise, responsible. Safe. McCarthy, Alaska is the bad boy. The one you burn for in the middle of the night - risky, spontaneous, erratic, beautiful. Dangerous.
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My face was flushed red. My heart was beating erratically. There was a strange weakness and pulsing ache in my thighs and sometimes my arms. And that goddamn invisible fist in the middle of my chest squeezing hard trying to suffocate me.
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