I've arrived home more or less successfully. As the story goes, what's usually a five hour drive turned into a seven hour drive when I pulled off at the wrong exit to take a piss--this was in Richmond, and taking the wrong exit in Richmond means going into those dark and dirty neighborhoods whose broken streets are criss-crossed with railroad tracks every few blocks. People lurking. Staring at my white Ford Focus from their bruised and beaten Oldsmobiles. Staring at me when I get out quickly at a 7-11 to ask for directions. I leave my leather jacket in the car, which I lock and loudly arm. Inside, they tell me they don't have a bathroom. Another girl needs to get on I-64; one of the women who's working there tells her she's in the wrong part of town. The girl and I smile and laugh nervously at each other: what the fuck were we thinking? Are we THERE yet? I'm calm. I'm calm. I'm calm.
And then I'm driving some more, and it's deeper and darker because the directions don't make sense, because the roads aren't labelled, because it's night and it's been raining all day. The City That Won't Let You Leave. I played this game in Buffalo, too. It's okay. I can handle it. I can navigate Kincardine, Ontario. I can navigate Niagara Falls. I can navigate my little corner of Heredia, Costa Rica. I know streets in other countries; surely I can figure out my state's capital. I've been in worse than this, and on foot. I'm okay. I'm calm. I'm calm. If I can just find another gas station...
And I do, and it's a BP, bright and clean and inviting. Only there are people waiting for me there, too, shamelessly staring as I move purposefully from my car to the door; and there's no bathroom there either, the man tells me, looking at me like I should KNOW this. His accent is thick as he tells me to get back on Cary, go four lights, turn left on Belvediere, and I'll see a sign for I-95. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I run, hit the gas. No time to fuel up, though I need to, and the gas is cheap here. I've got half a tank; that'll get me a good 100 miles. It's enough to get home.
More lightless intersections, more dirt and dark and drizzle. I call my mom, tell her I'll be even later. It's 5:45; I got here thirty minutes ago, I'm sorry, but this damn city-- She laughs and tells me it'll be okay, to take my time, don't I hate getting turned around? Yes. Yes, I do. I'll be home by Christmas, Mom. I think.
As I speak to her, I cross a major, brightly lit intersection. It seems right; it seems like it should be Belvediere. But there's no sign. None at all. I don't know. I hang up, whip around, down another dark road, and another one, and I've passed Virginia Commonwealth and I'm wondering if my friend Beth has come home yet and should I call her and get her to take me to the interstate. I've made a big uey and I'm back at the intersection, only in a different place, a little farther down-- I need to turn right now, not left, this is it, just do it, this HAS to be the right road. I say into my dark car, "Fuck this, I'm taking this one," and I do, and God, it's right, it's right. Blessed four lanes of traffic. I can see the signs for the highway, and somewhere along the way, one piddling, tree-obscured sign that says, simply, "Belvediere."
Oh, thanks a LOT.
On the highway, the traffic is sort of moving again, no longer gridlocked as I left it; I've made a whopping four exits of progress, and I still need to piss. Fuck that; I'm holding it until I see an exit sign that specifically promises me food and a toilet. 20 mph. 30 mph. Stop-and-go. Please, please, PLEASE let me get home. 40 mph, 50, 60, yes, yes, YES, and a sign that says "Richmond City Limits" and I'm whooping and cussing in relief. FUCK you, Richmond. A few more exits, just to be sure, and then I'm off down a road that tells me I can find a McDonald's and a KFC and whatever else I want. I find gas for $1.79 a gallon. I find a clean, quiet corner in McDonald's in which I can work on my chicken McNuggets and call my LiveJournal to phone post about how hellacious this whole fucking day has been. Relief, relief, relief.
I'm ranting into my phone, about halfway through "7-goddamn-11, as Denis Leary would say," when a man approaches me. Tallish, black, nice face, a cell phone mike hooked over his left ear.
"Excuse me," he says. "Do you drive the white car outside?"
No. Nooo, no, no, no, no. What do you want. WHAT do you WANT.
"--Uh, yes." I hang up the phone. Damn it, now I'll have to start all over again.
He asks me to come outside with him. I follow him, at a distance, not entirely sure what he wants. Wouldn't it be my luck to be taken out to the parking lot and shot or raped or--
I stop. "What exactly did you want?" He stops, looks a little embarrassed, and maybe confused.
"I just thought I might have scratched your car."
Is that all? "Oh!"
"Yeah. And I just wanted to show you before you left. I think it's mostly dirt, though." I run my hand over my bumper, wipe off a smear of smudge.
"Yeah, it's just dirt. Thanks a lot, though. I appreciate your honesty." I shake his hand. Thank you for not wanting to kill me, nice man who's one of the few good things that's happened to me tonight. I duck back inside, and find that the manager, an imposing, heavy black woman with short bleached hair, is holding the door for me. She asks me if everything's all right, authoritarian worry gouging deep lines in her forehead, around her eyes. I laugh. Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you, he thought he might have scratched my car but he didn't.
Oh. Well, okay, then.
Finish my food, fuel up, hit the road. Gridlock again. I don't care. This, too, shall pass.
It's really, really good to be home.
And then I'm driving some more, and it's deeper and darker because the directions don't make sense, because the roads aren't labelled, because it's night and it's been raining all day. The City That Won't Let You Leave. I played this game in Buffalo, too. It's okay. I can handle it. I can navigate Kincardine, Ontario. I can navigate Niagara Falls. I can navigate my little corner of Heredia, Costa Rica. I know streets in other countries; surely I can figure out my state's capital. I've been in worse than this, and on foot. I'm okay. I'm calm. I'm calm. If I can just find another gas station...
And I do, and it's a BP, bright and clean and inviting. Only there are people waiting for me there, too, shamelessly staring as I move purposefully from my car to the door; and there's no bathroom there either, the man tells me, looking at me like I should KNOW this. His accent is thick as he tells me to get back on Cary, go four lights, turn left on Belvediere, and I'll see a sign for I-95. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I run, hit the gas. No time to fuel up, though I need to, and the gas is cheap here. I've got half a tank; that'll get me a good 100 miles. It's enough to get home.
More lightless intersections, more dirt and dark and drizzle. I call my mom, tell her I'll be even later. It's 5:45; I got here thirty minutes ago, I'm sorry, but this damn city-- She laughs and tells me it'll be okay, to take my time, don't I hate getting turned around? Yes. Yes, I do. I'll be home by Christmas, Mom. I think.
As I speak to her, I cross a major, brightly lit intersection. It seems right; it seems like it should be Belvediere. But there's no sign. None at all. I don't know. I hang up, whip around, down another dark road, and another one, and I've passed Virginia Commonwealth and I'm wondering if my friend Beth has come home yet and should I call her and get her to take me to the interstate. I've made a big uey and I'm back at the intersection, only in a different place, a little farther down-- I need to turn right now, not left, this is it, just do it, this HAS to be the right road. I say into my dark car, "Fuck this, I'm taking this one," and I do, and God, it's right, it's right. Blessed four lanes of traffic. I can see the signs for the highway, and somewhere along the way, one piddling, tree-obscured sign that says, simply, "Belvediere."
Oh, thanks a LOT.
On the highway, the traffic is sort of moving again, no longer gridlocked as I left it; I've made a whopping four exits of progress, and I still need to piss. Fuck that; I'm holding it until I see an exit sign that specifically promises me food and a toilet. 20 mph. 30 mph. Stop-and-go. Please, please, PLEASE let me get home. 40 mph, 50, 60, yes, yes, YES, and a sign that says "Richmond City Limits" and I'm whooping and cussing in relief. FUCK you, Richmond. A few more exits, just to be sure, and then I'm off down a road that tells me I can find a McDonald's and a KFC and whatever else I want. I find gas for $1.79 a gallon. I find a clean, quiet corner in McDonald's in which I can work on my chicken McNuggets and call my LiveJournal to phone post about how hellacious this whole fucking day has been. Relief, relief, relief.
I'm ranting into my phone, about halfway through "7-goddamn-11, as Denis Leary would say," when a man approaches me. Tallish, black, nice face, a cell phone mike hooked over his left ear.
"Excuse me," he says. "Do you drive the white car outside?"
No. Nooo, no, no, no, no. What do you want. WHAT do you WANT.
"--Uh, yes." I hang up the phone. Damn it, now I'll have to start all over again.
He asks me to come outside with him. I follow him, at a distance, not entirely sure what he wants. Wouldn't it be my luck to be taken out to the parking lot and shot or raped or--
I stop. "What exactly did you want?" He stops, looks a little embarrassed, and maybe confused.
"I just thought I might have scratched your car."
Is that all? "Oh!"
"Yeah. And I just wanted to show you before you left. I think it's mostly dirt, though." I run my hand over my bumper, wipe off a smear of smudge.
"Yeah, it's just dirt. Thanks a lot, though. I appreciate your honesty." I shake his hand. Thank you for not wanting to kill me, nice man who's one of the few good things that's happened to me tonight. I duck back inside, and find that the manager, an imposing, heavy black woman with short bleached hair, is holding the door for me. She asks me if everything's all right, authoritarian worry gouging deep lines in her forehead, around her eyes. I laugh. Oh, yes, I'm fine, thank you, he thought he might have scratched my car but he didn't.
Oh. Well, okay, then.
Finish my food, fuel up, hit the road. Gridlock again. I don't care. This, too, shall pass.
It's really, really good to be home.
It's the only thing I think I'm afraid of.