28
May 16, 2017 - 220 words
I have three long weeks and a bank account to burn. If I can get one person to accompany me, I’ll do it without blinking, without thinking. I have several friends in Nashville: tiny question marks that dot my memories like pepper on a sizzling egg.
The journey there would be a chore: a trek through the desert. I don’t like those southern states. They’re long and flat and hostile. I don’t belong there.
I blocked out New Mexico and its burning raging sun, its meth-soaked cities that leak out onto the roads and make you feel like you’re contributing to the problem just by driving through the state.
I blocked out the memory of the Texas cop who tailgated me for several years on I-40 while I carried ten hidden ecstasy pills in my back seat, then abruptly changed lanes to ride next to me, then switched back behind me again, only to veer off onto the side of the freeway after he decided my California plates didn’t match any salacious records.
I blocked out Oklahoma. I don’t remember it. I got my oil changed there.
I blocked out the terrible motel in Conway, Arkansas and the sinking disappointment as I shuffled into a stuffy unkempt box, realizing for the first time I was back to sleeping alone again.