“Have a good weekend!” they said, shuffling out.
But like always, that sentiment wasn’t really meant for me.
Because it was a superfluous holiday. An unappreciated recess tacked on to the tail end of a shortened week. A week spent soaking more blue into thrifted collars, while all around bigger engines whined and spooled white smoke.
An echo of a day left to wander unsupervised. And, unappreciated. Watching the people all scurry and shuffle. Packing their bags for better places. The ones I am never destined to see.
The summer race was on.
The race to escape the stink of The City. And to chase down the refreshment promised by the U.P. That sprawl of a Mittened peninsula, jutting out into colder water.
But I was left behind.
Alone with clustered roads. And broken construction. The barricades and the suffocating heatwave. And all the new asphalt shimmering slick, under the penetrating rays of an old Michigan sun.
The hot smell of not enough rain; the fresh sting of Old Town sweat. The festering reek of the river running a little less Grand; the yellowing burn of blistering fevers.
It all turned quickly south.
I could only follow suit.
Racing down red hot in that little green car. The five speeds somehow not quick enough to get me where I needed to be soon enough. The downshifting a constant throb in that concrete vein pulsing through the flat Indiana farmland.
Nothing much had changed.
The same potholes still rattled under mismatched tires. The same speed traps threatened, despite the whiney cautions thrown out by the GPS barely clinging to the dash. The one programmed to speak in a funny accent.
Because I didn’t want to be the only one mispronouncing words.
There was the rest stop where I once violently purged a toxic mixture of too much late night ephedrine chased with too many ghosts. And the haunting rise of that little hill. The one right outside of Charlotte, where I once buried a fox. That innocent victim fatally injured by obnoxious steel invaders. The ones recklessly jockeying for position ahead of the barreling threats.
I still remember the softness of his fur. And the hardness of the ground when I did my best to dig a final resting spot with only the grim determination of kinship. And the chipped blade of a comically out of season ice scraper.
The exit signs for 94 West always make me think of another drive. The drive curling around the right hand edge of a big lake. The awkward tripping leading us to a little woodland retreat. A secluded place where we primped and primed ourselves for a wedding.
But the vows spoken weren’t ours to say.
It was the first, and the last, time our toes were in the sand together.
And, I still have that wave polished rock.
It was just the same fucking 69 South. All the way to exit 309A— I remember back when it was still 109A.
But that was a lifetime ago.
Things always get weird crossing borders. Even if it’s just for a day. Those rare couple of hours carved out of the madness of the ramp; that awkward transformation back into a tourist. When once, “resident” was perhaps a better label.
It used to be my city; it was never really my home.
Even after all these miles, and the too few smiles, I am still out on the road.
Chasing down that dream…
