Seven hours left to drive and I already regretted the morning’s stops: Crazy Horse, Mount Rushmore, the Badlands—I’d have traded them all for a shower and a clean pair of jeans. There is a freedom to living out of your luggage, but laundry is a risky business when you’re on a limited supply of underwear. On Crete one summer night, I flipped my boxers inside out so I could wear them twice. I wanted to think I was above that now, but I’d nearly peed my pants crossing the Missouri—first time I’d seen it, and my thoughts were less Wow! The Missouri! and more I wish I could pull over right here and piss into the Missouri.
I reached Minnesota at dusk, wind turbines and purple sunset. In the rearview I had the haggard look of a man who’s escaped from somewhere he was supposed to remain. Twice I almost sped past cop cars, but both times they had some other sucker pulled over, and their lights gave them away. I was past hysterical, my mind a cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion, when I pulled off 35 into Elena’s hometown. I recognized the Malt-O-Meal factory by smell alone, and drove slowly through the tiny downtown, obeying speed limits and traffic signs for the first time this trip. Northfield, Minnesota, where in 1876 a bunch of nice country folk blew the James-Younger gang to bits.
I got to Elena’s parents’ house, parked in the driveway, and keyed in with the code she gave me. Her dad was picking her up from MSP and her mom was out of town, but I was greeted by two ferocious guard cats, a fluffy tuxedo and a toothless shorthair who curled around my legs, begging food from the strange intruder. The house was beautiful—the sort of wide-windowed hardwood paradise that city-dwellers only dream about. It’s weird being alone in a home that’s not yours, even (especially?) when that home belongs to your fiancée’s parents. I went upstairs to the bathroom, showered and shaved, and was putting my laundry in the washer when I heard Elena shouting from downstairs: “We’re here!”
In each short story, there are few recurring characters, and fewer still important ones. If you’re lucky, you find one who comes back to you no matter how far you’ve traveled.
That morning, we walked along the Cannon, where a log caught on the edge of the dam had prompted a betting pool and made local headlines once a week since it got stuck. Half the people we passed recognized Elena and asked her what she was up to these days, how long she’d be home. I learned and forgot a lot of names, and in the afternoon we went to Minneapolis. Elena took the wheel—I was done driving.
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This is the tenth post in a cross-country road trip series. To start from the beginning, click here!
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