The road over the Cascades cut between steep slopes of evergreens—here healthy, there snags, trunks scorched with fire. Turkey vultures circled overhead as Snoqualmie Pass (during blizzard season, basically the Pass of Caradhras) went by like a radar blip. Abruptly the land flattened, the mountains gave way to steppe—the desert of Eastern Washington, thorn scrub and blood red soil. I followed 82 down into wine country, but I’d return to I-90 four or five times as it cut across this great American continent.
Once each of Elena’s ten presets turned to static, I gave up on the radio. The further inland I drove, the more Christian it was gonna get, and I already had Oliver Twist on audiobook, so I had plenty to make me feel uncomfortably Jewish.
In a rest stop bathroom in eastern Oregon, a long-haul trucker watched me wash my hands and told me, “You’re on a mission.”
Yes, I thought, a mission to wash my hands. “This is the first day,” I said.
The trucker had one elephantine white foot out of its boot and was rubbing it vigorously with his sock. “Where you headed?” he asked.
“Minneapolis. My fiancée is selling her car to her cousin who lives there.”
“Are you a prayer warrior?”
I misheard, and answered the question I thought I’d heard: “No, I have to be in Minnesota by Friday, so I’m not spending much time in Oregon.”
“No, I asked if you were a prayer warrior.”
“Um…”
“You don’t pray? Do you not believe in G-d?”
I really didn’t want this interaction to be taking place inside a bathroom anymore, so I opened the door and stepped outside. Hot and dry, Oregon in the midday summer sun. “No, it’s just that I’m Jewish,” I said. “So I pray in Hebrew… at synagogues… on Fridays.”
“Gee, maybe you could do me a favor then! I had another trucker friend, Alan, who’s Jewish. I’ve been hoping to see him again, but I haven’t seen him in a couple years. Think you could help me out?”
Yes, I will activate my neural link to the Zionist Illuminati hive mind in order to locate your friend Alan. “Sure,” I said.
“Could you pray, the next time you pray in synagogue, that I meet my Jewish friend Alan again? My name’s Thomas.”
“Sure Thomas. I’m Zack.”
“And could you pray for me and my wife? I’m Thomas; my wife’s Marleen.”
“Of course,” I said. Thomas and I shook hands, and I realized he hadn’t washed his hands since rubbing his feet with a wet sock.
“I’ll pray for you too, Zack!”
“Thanks, Thomas.”
I wonder how these prayer warriors work—do they add everyone they meet to an ever-growing list of names? Eventually, are there so many people to pray for that they have no time to do anything but pray? Do they lose their jobs when that happens, die of starvation? I’ll never know. It’s not a community I intend to explore.
Back on 84, I said an “Our Father” at the wheel (I’m half-Christian too, after all) and asked G-d to “Please bless Thomas and Marleen, and help Thomas reconnect with his Jewish friend Alan.”
In reply, the usual static.
“And remind me to buy hand sanitizer when I stop for gas. Amen.”
***
This is the first post in a cross-country road trip series. Stay tuned for more!
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