“My witness is the empty sky.”
― Jack Kerouac
The Texas panhandle is flat. Just flat. Flat, dry, and empty. The only company is a radio preacher I’m not listening to and a parched, hot, afternoon sun. Probably wouldn’t be so bad if I had any idea where I was going.
Windows down, heading westbound on I-40 as fast as I can push this old beater. The squirrel cage in my head driving me forward since I left Choctaw and a cheese danish in the lobby of a Motel 8. I’m hoping my brain shuts up by the time I reach Albuquerque.
Albuquerque. I was happy there, once — had a wife, a daughter, a job. Not much of a job, really, but a job. Until there wasn’t a job, and I dragged the three of us to St. Louis. East of St. Louis. Nowhere, Illinois.
The largest cross in North America, or so the sign once said, sails past on the left. Except now days, the largest cross in North America is behind me, in Effingham. Who needs a cross that big, anyway? Who you going to nail to it? Need to get more miles behind me, put that cross in the rearview mirror. Albuquerque’s hours away, and I don’t know if I’ve got the gas or the cash to make it.
Had a picture of my daughter strapped to the visor with the registration and insurance. Now it’s in my left hand, right hand on the wheel, elbow out the window, dry wind chewing on my arm. Pretty little girl. Wish I knew where she was. Hope she has a good life. I smile at her, let her go, and watch her flutter away in the side mirror.
Wonder if I’ll have to stop for gas soon. Wonder if I’m going to make it to Albuquerque.
M.E.