Fayetteville, Arkansas (recap)

(from Missouri, somewhere)

There is a blue plastic ball in the center of the room. It’s deflated just enough to lose the high ping that usually accompanies its bounce, and instead the echo of a low thud ricochets off of the concrete walls, the misshapen sphere raising only an inch or two off of the linoleum floor. “Earth” had been written on one side of ball in black permanent marker, now faded into purplish brown script from depletion of its ozone layer.

Linoleum and thinning carpeting divide the room. On the carpeted side there is a La-Z-boy recliner accessorized with leaves and patched elbows. Exposed springs and padded foam suggest squirrels have been its only inhabitants for quite some time. Behind it stands the yellowing shade of a floor lamp balancing on a thin metallic body. Its cord, having extended itself from the base of the lamp in search of an outlet and failing to locate one, lay unraveling at the foot of the recliner. The linoleum portion has a basketball hoop on the far side, pressed up against the hanging painting of a sailboat. The painting is the only physical art remaining on the walls; the pinstriped wallpaper has finally collapsed, curling under sunlight and water, slumping down unto the edge of the room. Frameless works now decorate the exposed cement blocks, the multi-colored spray paint being the only recent addition to the structure in years.
I wonder if JT still loves MR.

I pick up the Earth and shoot free throws from where dents in the floor suggest the dining room table used to be. I suppose I should be wondering what happened to the rest of this house, if the hoop was here before the roof was blown off or someone took rollerskating in the kitchen one step further. Instead, I'm Michael Jordan, I'm in the zone. The earth is sinking through the rim, landing with an echoing thud after each shot.

My phone chimes. I find it on the stairs that used to lead somewhere, somewhere other than the spotty grass leading into gravel, back to the van, back to Arkansas.
“At some point today, turn 24.”
I grab the container I had placed on the floor by the La-Z-Boy and finish the funfetti.

Times up. I leave the light on the door open and my toys strewn across the floor, just as I'd found it.

cincinnati, OH (recap)

(Feb 19th. Later on.)
She’s standing in front of a cigarette case that has been arranged to allow her presence in the spot behind the register without covering a single brand. The empty silhouette seems to be the only blank wall surface, the rest of the room being plastered in stickers off of Miller bottles and fading pastels of once neon signs. Decrepit wood paneling is peeling from the wall, exposing a series of fist shaped holes. I’ve been standing in the same place long enough for my shoes to sink into the third layer of last year’s grime, the outline of my sole framed in a linoleum square.

“’Scuse me?” She’s crossed her arms, maneuvering her neck in such a way that would typically accompany a snap or wag of the finger. Instead, she’s locked into a hard stare.
“Whad you jus’ say?”
“I’d like forty dollars for diesel on pump eight, please.”
“I got that part, sweedhard, whad you say afder?
“Eh, do you have a public restroom?”

What I had really said was closer to something along the lines of, “Hey, wow. This is eh…” I had glanced down to my feet, peeling them each up from the floor one by one filling the room with the crisp sticky sound of a movie-theatre.
“Strange. Anyhow, glad you’re open. You know how hard it is to find a gas station in these parts? INCREDIBLY. I mean, I can maybe understand the being closed on Sunday thing, you know, for a day of rest or whatnot, but who doesn’t need to fuel up on their late night pleasure cruise? Right? I mean really? Honestly though you could double your prices of gas just at night and make a fortune. I mean it, consider it. So anyway... whoa is that Big League Chew? Would you mind telling me what state I’m in? I know, I know, not mental state or anything, though I’m sure this seems a bit odd (insert strange tada jazz hands induced pose here), but honestly, you could say Spain and I’m sure I’d believe you (uncomfortable laughter). Man, I really have to, uh… oh yeah I wanted some orange juice, so do you have a public restroom?”

Hours of NPR in the van driving into a dark fog apparently leaves me prone to regurgitating any passing thought across anything with a pulse.

She points behind her at the wall. There is a large display of Five Hour Energy that is blocking the area she is pointing towards. My feet follow the path of her finger, stepping behind the display now with her behind the counter. It’s a flowered bed sheet.

I look towards her again. She nods. I pinch the smallest amount of fabric possible between my thumb and index finger, lifting the sheet just far enough away from the door to duck through. The sink is running. I turn the knob on the faucet; it comes off in my hand. I look up above the sink to exchange a worried glance with my reflection but am met with a sign written with a dried out red marker, “Do not put paper in toilet. None.” I return the knob and extend my gaze towards the toilet.

It hadn’t occurred to me how narrow the room was until seeing the back of the toilet resting against the wall to my right, and the front of its bowl pressed against the opposing one. I shrug and slowly lift one leg over the toilet as if mounting a horse, sliding my shoe down between its porcelain body and the wall. Success.

I’m feeling rather accomplished as I stand to adjust my pants. As I tug my belt loops upwards, my left heel grazes against the base of the toilet under my shifting weight and the room suddenly fills with the sound of porcelain sliding on ceramic tile. In a matter of moments I am on the floor next to a toilet, both of us toppled on our side. You just got seven STDs and bird flu. Instantly, I am on my feet, hands outstretched in front of me as if willing a marionette back to life. The toilet had been positioned over a bucket that has been dug into the floor. There is no attachment keeping it there, no pipes that would have allowed it to function properly, and no way I can face that woman after causing such a loud crash. Scrapes in the tile hint that I’m not the first this has happened to. I crouch down and wrap my arms around the smooth body bringing it back upwards over the hole in the floor. Make it fifteen STDs.

I throw back the bed sheet and bee line straight towards the van. I can feel the attendant’s eyes following me across the room. An empty can on the hinge of the door clatters as I exit. I shuffle my feet raising clouds of dust as I cross the lot towards the van. Reality sinks is just as my keys turn and lights appear on the dash, I still have no diesel. I take a deep breath and step out of the van. I’m reaching for my socks through my pockets. My legs high kick back towards the station, raising dust clouds waist high. I’m wondering how it can get any worse when Bruce Hornsby creeps into my head. Figures.

Her arms are still crossed. She’s plastered on a smug grin as if she’d just witnessed someone steal something only to have their mother escort them back to apologize. I opt to start over.

“Good evenin’, madam. Could I borrow a moment of your time? I am in need of forty dollars on pump eight and this here beverage of squeezed oranges.”

Each properly annunciated word shoot as perfect daggers across the counter. Her tight grin overturns into a scowl as she passes the juice over her scanner. I thank her, tip my invisible hat, and leave.

I’m humming Hornsby and washing down my headlights as the diesel slows to a halt. I cross back over to the driver’s side and remove the nozzle, taking the giant step up into the cab when I hear static over the intercom.

“If I find a crack in that toilet yous payin’ for it.”

I pull the van round parallel with the front doors. I can see her positioned in the same spot behind the register holding the mic to her mouth staring at me. I roll down the window and listen to the hum of my engine. The static falls silent as I watch the attendance place the mic below her counter. My Spanish traveling companion is repeating for me to take a U-turn, and I think she might be right, I should back off. I start rolling up my window and the intercom static begins again. I turn and face her.

“Tennessee. Yous in Tennessee.”

Cleveland, OH (recap)

(notes from February 19th)

Have been driving for seven hours. Needing to leave immediately after my last demo, I didn’t have much time to map out the most efficient route. Instead, I enter the Ohio address and barrel into the lingering fog headed North, under the guidance of my GPS Spanish mistress. Trains of cars keep passing from the opposite direction, leaving me as the lone fish struggling upstream. I’m searching the shoulder for signs, something to assure I am not driving down a one-way at seventy miles an hour. I’m convinced she’s turned on me. I have twelve hours to figure out if she’s trustworthy or jealous of my previous Portuguese romance. I can’t help but wonder if twelve hours from I’ll end up at an IHOP in Montana with my portion of our divided belongings. She’ll keep the van. I’ll get the map.

Ft. Worth, TX (music; happy apple)

An alarm sounds. My first conscious thoughts of the morning are coffee and Thoreau. Though unsure of the time, I know I have only a moment before my feet will themselves to the floor in search of shoes and a gas pedal. I’m savoring my final moments rest as I observe the books and paintings occupying the room, sinking deeper into the cocoon of blankets, and thinking of the books I’ve previously owned.

There’s something intimate in holding a piece of unread literature and nurturing it as your own. Unable to duplicate the feeling in web-published works and passing through towns too quickly to properly utilize local libraries, I’ve fallen victim to tables of discounted books. I’ve been trading books like playing cards, hoarding gems and first editions among shifters and cables in the lockers of my van. The various collections of essays and historical biographies have replaced thank you cards and parting gifts, leaving a physical trail to the cities I have passed through all starting with Thoreau in Tempe and leading me here, with Sedaris in Austin.

My thoughts are still with Thoreau and the Mexican-American war that contributed to construction of “Civil Disobedience” when I reach my van and climb aboard to bid adieu to the city. I’m reconstructing paragraphs regarding the importance of living versus transcendence through literature as I switch my GPS from Portuguese to Spanish. I continue north towards Denton, comparing the journey and the destination, and keeping an eye out for used bookstores.

Fort Worth, TX (music; happy apple)

(Tuesday)


A mist has settled upon Austin. The combined moisture and humidity has left my hair curly. Exposed loose ends frame the sides of my face, winding not unlike Jewish peyos, sticking out from beneath the straps of my helmet. Despite the slick riding conditions, I’m determined to get a substantial ride in to make up for yesterday’s drive from Oklahoma. Knowing I’ll be swayed by the prospect of the crossword and more tea, I stick to my street clothes, take out the Globe, and pocket a dollar fifty in quarters for the paper.

My ride quickly turns into a quest for more expansive and detailed local graffiti and for once I allow myself to be a tourist, photographing without consciousness of those around me, until my sweatshirt is damp and my thermos empty.

Stillwater, OK (music; stars)

Chili bike; seven kinds of chili. Four mountain bike singletrack trails to be completed in four hours for grandprize, awarded to all finishers, of one t-shirt.
I’m not much of a chili fan. Growing up, I’m sure my parents never intended to turn me off to chili all together upon nicknaming the contents of one of many tin cans “Beetle” beans and stirring them in. Sure enough, many years later the concoction makes my eyes water as I stare intently into the pot, waiting for individual beans to uncurl their leg. I’d heard about frog preparation; drop them in scalding water and they jump out, slowly warm them up and they stay in. I could only assume this was the same dose of torture beetles were submitted to on Chili night.

Seeing several pickup trucks lining the course and considering my Oklahoma location, I figured I was safe. Meat was bound to be infiltrating every dish. I walked over to the food table excited to pile my bowl with as many types of cookies as there were beans in each chili and top it with cornbread. To be fair, I waited in the chili line with everyone else. That’s when she found me. The race organizer, a curvy aunt type figure in her fifties took me by the arm, thanked me for being a race sponsor, and scooped up ladle after ladle of the vegetarian chili that had been prepared for me. My stomach churned.

I walked back to my van, plopped down on the step inside my open sliding door, and stared into the bowl. Nothing. I jiggled it a little. Still nothing. I prodded the mass with my cornbread, trying to awaken the chloroformed insects. Nothing. I swallowed hard, picked up my plastic spoon and surveyed my surroundings for the following necessities; closest trash can, safest place to puke unnoticed, nearest restroom facility, prime victim to projectile on. Check.

I loaded the spoon as quickly as I could and shoved it into my mouth chewing with extreme fury to minimize suffering of any awakened creature.
“Big chili fan, huh?”
I looked up, started. I had blocked out all thoughts of those in my tent, blind to their anticipation of my reaction to their great-grandmother’s aunt’s neighbor’s cousin’s recipe they had contributed to my plate.
“Mmhmm,” I swallowed. I set the bowl down and set up three women on test rides, keeping an eye on the bowl for escapees. Nothing.

Moments later I found my mouth watering. Seasoning still lingering on my palate I found my mind willing me towards the bowl. My feet refused. More. More. I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like green eggs and ham. I returned to my spot in the van and polished off the bowl. Then another. Defeated. I silently celebrated overcoming this obstacle, considering what other foods deserved another chance before writing them off from my adult food spectrum all together.

Too soon, it began.

I offered to cover the men’s tent while my central demo partner in crime got in a few laps on the course. I was setting the suspension on his test ride number thirty when I felt the first heaping of bugs awaken, gargling in the darkness of their new home. My eyes widened. Trash can, puking spot, restroom, projectile victim? Check. With everything accounted for I surveyed the crowed for a shop employee to watch the bikes while answering questions for the 270 pound weekend warrior to my right. I started sweating.

“What about the pedal platform? Is it really, you know, noticeable? I want to test ride it, but, man, pick me up and take me Porcupine Rim, that’s where this thing belongs. I’d shred it! Man!”
I’m shortening my answers. I point out key things to look for during his ride and prod him away. But he’s a clinger. I clench my cheeks, shove my hands in my pockets, and continue answering the best I can. The beetles have been swept up in an angry tide. Wave after wave hits me; strong and then subsiding. One moment I’m looking for something to tie around my waste and the next I’m cold with sweat as the wave passes. I’m wondering who I can hand him off to, how long I can keep the tent under the attendance of a shop employee, and how to remove chili stains from denim. He straddles the bike and before he can udder another word I excuse myself, and head for the loo.

I’m waddling. My legs are moving quickly but my gaunt is somewhere between Groucho Marx and an overfed seal. Suddenly, the red faded sleeve of a sweatshirt intertwines with my jacket. She’s back.
“I was just heading to the restroom myself, I’ll come with you. It’s heated, you know. Did anyone tell you that? A heated bathroom! Bet they don’t have those many places you’ve been. How’d you like the chili, my dear? See on this side of the lake…”

She continues with her banter as we enter the stalls. She carries on about the history of the ride, its origins, and her father whom she inherited the shop from. I’m frozen. I clearly have two options. One; wait for her flush hoping that its sound will cover the screams of ten thousand beetles gurgling in a churning ocean of Oklahoma baked goods. Two; Let loose. This is the restroom. The only thing better than the horrified look on her face, plastered in the wake of my dust storm from this eruption, will be the small talk I carry on with when we again meet at the sink. How ‘bout Andrew Jackson, eh? Kinda ruined it for you guys, didn’t he?

I’m standing behind my closed door staring up at the ceiling. Dear lord. I know, I know. You’re not my type and my Sunday’s are already booked, but seriously, if you could take a break from world peace, blessing babies and the like, you could really help me out here, big guy.

She pauses from her brownie recipe and for a moment the room falls silent. I’m waiting for a flush, a missed ingredient, something.

“False alarm. Oh getting old, you never know with these things. So the boys at the shop now are getting a bit upset with my cats I think, but I’m just not sure how they can feel good outing twenty cats, you know?”

I’m stewing in chili sweats and anger as I flush and exit the stall. She apologizes for the lack of paper towels and grabs my arm again, walking me back to the tent where Sasquach is waiting with the bike he test rode and forty new questions.

Long day.

Norman, Oklahoma (music; amelie soundtrack)

The drive was straight north, a direct path into Oklahoma providing little distraction. My mind wandered. Scenery changed from cityscape to grass fields, rolling countryside to graying strip-malls. I passed time counting casinos and thinking of Andrew Jackson, my previous night in Austin with three of us on the bench seat of an old Chevy, each taking turns shifting the standard three speed, CCR missing from the tape deck. And Valentine’s Day.


I’ve never been in a Valentine friendly relationship. I’ve always been more inclined to purchase the gaudy red boxes on the 15th once prices have been slashed, dissecting its innards, carefully coveting the caramel and mint filled morsels. Hesitantly, I’d take bites out of others, gambling on their contents before placing them back in their indentation for future explorers. Arm in arm with my double-decker heart box, we’d begin our $3.99 week long romance. My +1. A bold take it or leave it moxie, poignant conversationalist, and giver, it had always been approved as a dinner guest. The right size also filled the increasingly noticeable empty seat around the table, a silent reminder and tribute to my failed attempts in dating. Upon introduction of my closeout special, axels were rigged to accompany a permanent third wheel. The empty chair was folded up next to the radiator.

The temptation is there, giving into my Valentine’s fling. Blind in a sugary passion, devouring fistfuls of milk and dark waxy chocolates. Fall asleep in my hotel room amidst empty wrappers and the overturned shell of the heart shaped box. But the affair is over. We greet each other as one does old co-workers, estranged relatives. We pretend not to notice, denying what we once had. I pass through the pink and red aisles of the grocery store with tense muscles, staring straight ahead, knowing it’s never as good as one imagines- never as good as the real thing.

Austin, TX (music; Hold Steady)

I’m standing at the worn bar that lines the length of the room. The stained mahogany has lost its shine where elbows graze its edge and circular stains have integrated themselves into the wood grain. My forearms flat on the bar top, I lean over and call the bartender, grab some coasters from his stock on the far side of the counter, & order three whiskey’s while I listen to him call me Darlin’. I raise my right foot to rest it on the gold pole raised inches from the floor as he pours with heavy hand. It’s a warm evening. The door has been propped open and beads of sweat have formed on my face, my cheeks still glowing from an afternoon spent writing at café patios.

The city is preparing for South By Southwest. The room is echoing with musical banter, latest influences, and itinerary changes. Red heels cross the room and position in front of the juke box. Johnny Cash is replaced with The Hold Steady and the Minneapolis street names and vocals bring me immediately home. Looking around I don’t feel far from it. Austin has grown on me, but just as I’ve begun to familiarize myself with street names and city staples, it’s time to move on. I’m headed to Oklahoma today. I hear it’s windy there.

San Antonio, TX (music; benny goodman)

I’m sitting in a café of Borders. Refusing Starbucks and coming to terms with this being the closest thing to a local coffee shop outside of downtown, I caved and made my way in. I’ve managed to occupy one of the lured over café hot spots in one of the two leather chairs, and it’s next to an outlet. The New York Times is waiting on the table to my left for me to attempt the crossword, and to satisfy the morning crowd of elders, jazz is playing. I’m settling into a perfect start to my day.

Other than the backdrop of the quartet, and the release of steam from behind the counter every now and then, silence has settled into the room. Seven of us at separate tables, finding refuge in the intimate solitude of each page turn. About fifteen pages in, they arrive. In their mid seventies, both gentlemen are sporting salted mustaches, round pot bellies and balding heads. The only addition to our silence is the tap of a cane, serving as a metronome to their canter. They cross the café, hike up their pleated khakis and settle in on the vacant couch directly to my right.

I mark their heavy glances in my direction as a small price to pay for war stories and 1931 ball game statistics. Anxiously waiting, I reread the same sentence over and over. Pages go unturned. My interest has waned at the prospect of farm stories; names from the olden days, like Ethel and Beatrice; pinochle results.

A low cough signals their beginning,
“Have you put more thought into what I said?”
“What?”
“What I said. About Twitter. Have you thought about it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s easy.”
“You said that about Facebook.”
“But this is easy. Thirty seconds, tops, including picture upload.”
“Well…”
“You should do it. It’d would be good advertisement for your book.”

I’m frozen. The tooth fairy doesn’t exist; I’m clinging to hopes of Santa. I’m trying to block out everything that lead me to this point and focus in on the point of this gentleman being an author. I analyze his outfit in attempts to determine the subject for his book. His khakis rule out anything farm related. I also rule out traveling salesman, lawyer, and school teacher as his counterpart is clearly holding the upper hand of this conversation.

“… Here’s the thing. People will follow you. I rarely even post and I have 2,500 followers.”
My judgments diminish into curiosity knowing the followers I have on the Twitter for my van ring in at about fifteen.
“Maybe after I have a fan base…”
“See that’s the thing, you can build your fan base! You follow whomever you’d like and usually they follow you back. I’m following Fox News. I’m following several of our states candidates and I can read exactly what they are talking about on the senate floor after the lights go out. Even when they are out of the building they are discussing final decisions through Twitter. I can even read about what Michele Bachmann is twittering.”
“I don’t know if I can do another blog though. I still can’t figure out all of the applications with the other one. Every time I figure something out there are two more programs that won’t open.”
“But this isn’t really a blog. It’s Twittering. You write just sentences. Like you could say, leaving the publishing office right now, or new book available tomorrow.”

The pit in my stomach I had written off as a caffeine overdose is growing. I’m gritting my teeth to keep from returning the scoff they had thrown my direction. I may have a tattoo on my arm. My nose does have a ring in it. My hair is standing on end and yes, I rode up here on that bicycle that’s locked right next to his car. But what kind of old man is this? Tasseled worn brown loafers and the belt snug above the belly button may suggest he has the look down, but the moment he open his mouth it’s evident that he is soliciting false advertisement. I’m all for empowerment of our elders, but this is just crap. He used the words “twitter” and “blog.”

Elders these days. Humph.

Austin, TX (music; rufus wainwright)

Telephone wires between Austin and Minneapolis have grown longer. My previous weeks are struggling to catch up with my present ones. The stark contrast of environments, climates, lifestyles that transformed during the stewardess supervised two hour nap left a grogginess I've yet to shake.

"You are expected to work in a tourist environment that is built for pleasure. You must find a way to make yourself effective in that peculiar limbo between work and play... live in perpetual motion. Relationships are transitory and fleeting. Friendships, even more so. Home is where you are on a given night. It is at once glamorous and pathetic, exciting and perversely routine. The longer you do it, the harder it is to return to normal life, and one day you wake up and realize that the road is your permanent address. There's no going back."- Kohnstamm (travel writer)

Austin, TX (music; jeff buckley)

He has black hair. It’s combed back to front, standing vertically to attention once it reaches his forehead. It’s the sort of hair style I haven’t seen much of outside of high school, but his tie clip means business. His shoes are missing tassels but the polished supple leather glistens a bit as the firm heels pace towards me. He looks thirty. I’m trying to picture him in Carharts and Smartwool; trying to figure out how the transformation takes place from sweatpants to suits. I’m hoping I never get there.

“You’re Amy?” His face looks earnest. There is no furred brow, no questionable glance between me and the van. As quickly as he has assured I am, he turns and walks away. I follow. He gets into the driver’s seat of a black sedan and reaches to pop the trunk as he shuts the door. I stand frozen behind the car. He rolls down the window.

“You got enough room to get in on that side?”
I lean to survey the right side of the vehicle while tucking my bag into the trunk. There is approximately four feet of space, and I find myself looking down to my jeans, wondering if the slogan Everything’s Bigger in Texas is due to some sort of fun-house mirror imbedded in contacts.

He stares straight ahead as we make obligatory small talk that doesn’t veer far from taxi banter. I find out far more than I ask. While he is describing his month in Japan during college, I am wondering how I ended up finding out this much about someone without knowing where we’re headed.

Silence falls thick in the car. I am picturing the way my mom airbrakes from the passenger seat, bringing her right hand up to the highest point of the shoulder strap on the seatbelt and folding it between her fingers. I’m thinking of the arm she would instinctively stretch across the passenger seat whenever she hit the brakes too quickly. These are all warning signs. I should have experienced something of the sort before reaching this moment, but an invisible byline of my job contract was doing away with the idea of stranger-danger.

I don’t know this gentleman’s name. I don’t know where we’re going or how long it will take to get there or if I’ll need to pay him when we do. What I do know, is this is Enterprise.

They pick you up.

Austin, TX (music; sufjan stevens)

I’m fighting the self checkout. Is it the machine’s fault that I forgot the California zip code my company card is based from? No. But did it need to ask me a zip code for an eight dollar purchase of wasabi peas and pomegranate raspberry green tea? No. As a result I am fighting the screen of the self checkout. It’s winning.

I start out calmly enough. I rescan my card, and guess again. I’m thinking back to my math courses in school, wishing I’d known how many possible five digit combinations there could be starting with a nine and including a six. Realistically it doesn’t matter, as I know my own limit is four attempts, but I’m wishing I would have paid more attention in class. There are no other visible customers in the store. I should have gone to a cashier complete with blood flow, but I was in no mood for small talk and it’s too late. There’s no going back. Now I’m scrambling. Transaction Incomplete, please try again. I can feel the older tweed coated jeaned gentleman I’ve designated as shift-manager move my direction to watch the scene. Transaction Incomplete, please try ag… I begin preparing a speech as to why a credit card thief would purchase bagged tea rather than loose leaf as I mash the flat surface.

As if raising my voice to a deaf person, I mash the keys willing them to work, knowing it is no use. My index finger of my right hand jabs the screen, while my left hand is searching rapidly through my list of notes in my cell phone, hoping to stumble upon the zip code. What I find is the following;

-Gulf of Aden… PIRATES! (the real kind, sans eye patches)
-JD Chippery in Dallas has awesome cookies.
-Longfellows for breakfast? Worth it or overrated?
-Stallion Seven Production Show, TX. Find this family, it’ll cheer you up.
-Queen “Don’t stop me now” is an incredible song. A gem. Incredible.

As I finish a new note in my phone (- Start taking useful notes) I can feel a presence lingering to my left.
“Playing Monopoly?," the shadow asks.

I keep my eyes on the screen. I feel as though I’m on the Price is Right, I have three numbers correct, I know it. Screw the trip for two and the lawn dart set, the peas are mine. Transaction Incomplete, please try again. I give up and pull out my personal card, responding to the Self-Checkout overseer who’s questioned me,

“I suppose in a way.” I jam everything from my morning into a four second sentence.

“Myvanhasbeendeadforthreeweeksandnooneeverbothered totellmeaboutitandnowitstoolate. Themechanic theybroughtintofixitwantscashandlooksseventeen. Twodealersbackedoutofdemos whichmeansiflewherefornothing. Andalliwantaresomejazzstandardsandacupoftea and MY CARD WONT RUN. It'sanoutofstatecardandIdon'thavethezipcodehandy,”

I mumble the last part to make up for raising my voice. I snatch my receipt, shove the items under my arm and turn to face her.

She’s dressed exactly as the Monopoly man from the board game. She’s wearing a fake tiny white mustache and vest under her suit coat, topping off the whole ensemble with a top hat. She’s holding a couponed game board reluctantly in my direction. I turn around to see younger Monopoly men stalking canned vegetables, older versions collecting carts and sweeping floors. I realize my mistake, apologize, and leave.

The van is dead and apparently has been for a while. I’m feeling haggled by the shops premium choice of technicians to get it fixed in the parking lot for cash. Four bikes need repair. I have no idea where I’m headed or where I’m staying tonight as last minute schedule changes are leaving me two days to organize two events from scratch with currently no shop support. My company card may or may not be working. And I’m in Texas, feeling utterly alone.

But I am not thirty-four years old dressed as the Monopoly man. Things could always be worse.

Minneapolis, MN

Stupor Bowl. (Three to four hundred cyclists turned out for one of North America’s biggest and longest running alley cat races held Super Bowl weekend. One hour to plan a route between choices of 12 or 24 stops to be completed in less than three hours)

Stop two.
I exit the bar to find my bike in a different place than I had left it, but it’s still functional, and I have no time to ask questions. The pack takes off through the yellow. I hesitate long enough for a car to squeeze in a left turn, cutting me off in the intersection. I stomp down on my pedals and turn a sharp left to avoid landing in his backseat, my hip and hand brushing his trunk as I push off back into traffic. I’m now one block behind the others. I stand, tossing my bars side to side as my legs fight to rip the bottom bracket out of the frame. Red lights are flickering; cars are slowing from a car accident up ahead. I watch as the train of bikes in front of me sways lane to lane avoiding the crash; I follow their path in true caboose fashion.

I’m coming up quickly from behind. The pack has slowed as they met the base of a steep short climb. I’m suddenly thankful for a relationship that had me riding this same route, date after failed date. The boy may not have been worth the torture, but quickly approaching the head of the pack, I can appreciate the legs I inherited as a parting gift. Head down, I press hard into the bike, passing on the far on the outside left, staying even with the double yellow. The second rider is now two bike lengths behind as we begin the descent. Three stops down.

I open my eyes. There is a fire hydrant where the sky should be. Buildings are protruding horizontally out of a vertical road. My bike is still beneath me but everything else seems to be turned 90 degrees to the right. I’ve either fallen or I’m trapped in a snow globe. Beneath me, ice warms and the water seeps in through my sweatshirt and jeans. All at once I’m cold. Laughter from an approaching group of cyclists assures me I haven’t been down long. They quickly dismount, tossing smiles and head nods my way.

I sit up and look around. Bikes are strewn across the sidewalk, piled against the building, teetering against parking meters. Few are locked; all are dripping with grey slush. I’ve wasted time, but judging from my manifest, I’ve visited over ¾ of the intended stops. I push my bike out from under me and stand up. A hand on my shoulder asks me if I’m alright, and I brush it off, nodding, moving quickly into the bar.