The station wagon roared past mile marker 73. A moment later, 74 flew past. They were the only signs that we weren’t lost in the middle of a dry, cracked desert. My mother threw a fist full of chips into her mouth and searched behind her car seat for a water bottle. Noticing the salt bits accumulating on her lips, I reached around the seat, dragging the sun softened bottle into the front seat.
Our trip began hours ago, back in Colorado. We were once again forcing the car to drive us across the open land to the beaches of California. We knew our roads; we knew our stops. It could have been a hundred times that we took this same drive, this same road, the dead man's highway.
At the Sinclair station, I leapt from the car and ran to the bathroom, not only because I had to pee, but because I had been fantasizing about putting my head into the dirty aluminum sink for almost an hour. When the facet began to drip, I shoved my head in. Next went my arms and my legs, everything until I had tiny goose bumps tickling across my skin.
My mother laughed at my ridiculous hairstyle that almost looked as if it had been spun in the toilet. I assured her it hadn't. And then we were back on the road. Ten hours, then twenty. A short nap at a rest stop and then finally the beach came into view, but before my toes even reached the water, I was looking forward to the great drive home across those wide western states.
As we climbed a deserted road in Nevada heading back to the place we call home, we arrived at our regular gas station, and popped that cap off the tank. The numbers clicked quickly and the dollars added up. Ten, twenty, thirty. Our regular drives across the West were about to end.
As gas prices continue to rise, I consider more than the possibility that I may one day have to walk or ride a bike to work. I consider that I may never again get to see the land buzzing by. I may not get to listen in a place where there are no voices, no noises, no people, but just silence and gigantic stars in the night. I may not get to smell the air without the subtle aroma of food and human life. My childhood memories are now precious and I play with them over and over again in my mind.
I think about eating a sandwich off the hood of the car as I stare at a giant sand dune teasing me from the side of the highway. Sand crunches between my teeth as the wind blows stinging dots against my face and into my food. My mother wraps a towel around her head, refusing to return to the car. No, we must enjoy this nature.
As an environmental conscious person, I would gladly give up some of the luxuries we Americans are used to. Regular transportation, air conditioning, even heat. But not the road. It has been my home for more nights than I can remember. The dirt has been my pillow. The hum of semi trucks has purred me to sleep, and I just can't give those up.
- Chiki -
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Chiki Davis is an artist and a writer, native to the beautiful land
of Colorado. For more personal stories and craft ideas, check out rendezvousartistry.com
