The Long Ride Home

by Tawni Waters

  I gun the engine as I pull out on the freeway, and I ride.

  • • •

  Gravity and I never got along. If I had my druthers (that was something Mom used to say), I’d never touch the floor. Maybe Mercy’s reincarnation theories are right, and I was a bird in a past life. I have a feeling I’d be way more at home in the sky than on the ground, which is why I love riding so much. Sure, I’m only a few feet above the earth, but it might as well be light-years. When I’m on my motorcycle, the road isn’t pavement anymore. It’s fast, celestial. It races by at warp speed, the way galaxies do in old Star Trek episodes.

  Mom and I used to watch Star Trek religiously. She was mildly in love with Captain Picard and once followed a band based solely on the fact that they mentioned Jean-Luc in one of their songs. “Well, that, and the lead singer was a total hottie,” she’d say when she talked about her groupie years. Her groupie years consisted of the ten or so concerts she attended while Mercy did babysitting duty, but whatever. She got Roger’s (the hottie lead singer’s) autograph and often reminisced about how he called her sweetheart. “Now there’s a man I could’ve married,” she’d say wistfully, staring at his photo on the cover of his CD. “Look at those eyes. Like fire.”

  “Jesus, Mom,” I’d say, rolling my eyes. “Get a room.”

  Much to my dismay, she never took my admonitions to heart. If I had a penny for every Roger fantasy I had to hear, I’d be a rich woman. I’m being a smart ass, but I didn’t really begrudge Mom her infatuation. Roger was Mom’s only love while I was growing up. Her ghost lover, she called him. Maybe all she could handle was a ghost lover. I think my dad ruined her for all other men. Asshole.

  Riding now, I shout-sing the Roger-song Mom used to love, the one about Jean-Luc.

  I promise myself that for the rest of my life, I will sing Mom’s song whenever I go to a new place to take her spirit with me. She always wanted to travel, but travel is difficult when you’re a single mom. The most she could manage was our Saturday trips to the beach.

  “Mom!” I yell, because the best thing about riding is no one can hear you scream. “I will see everything! The pyramids! The Taj Mahal! The whole world! And you’ll come with me!”

  In a way, she will. She lives on in my DNA. I know enough about biology to understand this.

  I think about the biology of the not-so-maybe-baby growing inside me. I wonder whose genes she got, if she will have my hair, if she will have Dean’s eyes. And then I wonder why I used the pronoun “she” to describe it. Her. But I want to give her a pronoun, and I fall a little more in love with the baby in my belly, which seems to straddle a fine line between imaginary friend and human. Really, I guess right now she could be whatever I want her to be.

  “She’s a kumquat with flippers,” I remind myself out loud.

  A kumquat with flippers that is growing exponentially every day. A kumquat with flippers that needs to be dealt with ASAP. I want to keep riding, pretend this never happened, but if I don’t handle her, she will handle me. If I thought having the jaws of life in my hoo-hoo sucked, I’d imagine having a for-sure baby pushing out of it would be worse. Way worse.

  Up ahead, I see a sign for a bar. I’d tell you the actual name of the establishment, but if the sign is to be believed, it doesn’t have one. It just says BAR in big black letters. It says something else above that, but it’s so faded, I can’t read it. The bar in question is a double-wide trailer set on concrete blocks. A makeshift porch hangs off the front like a tumor. Not exactly the Ritz-Carlton, but before I even know what I’m doing, I slow down. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m old enough to drink. It’s not like even if I was, I would be able to now, what with the kumquat sequestered in my uterus. But I pull over and go inside anyway. I want to talk to someone I don’t know. More to the point, I want to talk to someone who doesn’t know what a fuck-up I am. Which is unlike me. I rarely want to talk.

  The one-roomed bar smells like stale beer and is empty except for a bunch of scarred tables, a few faded liquor posters featuring scantily clad women, and the bartender. I’ll be damned if I’m going to add to the list of clichés I’ve become by spilling my guts to a bartender.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asks. His skin glows red in the light of a neon Budweiser sign. It doesn’t seem like he is going to card me, and I’ll tell you, were I not pregnant, I would so order a Long Island iced tea or a hurricane. Something with a reputation for getting people good and schnockered. But I am pregnant, so I say, “Just a Sprite,” and take a stool at the bar.

  He fills up a cup and sets it in front of me. “Not old enough to drink, huh?” he asks, winking.

  “Nah,” I say. “Not in public anyway.”

  “I figured, but I was going to let you off the hook. Give you whatever you asked for. Don’t tell anyone.”

  I smile. “Thanks.” Is he flirting with me? I think he’s flirting with me.

  “No problemo. I always make exceptions for pretty girls.” He’s definitely flirting with me. Now that he’s flirting, I notice that he’s kinda cute. Not in a loud “hey, check out my muscles, I work out ten hours a day” way, but more in a “hey, I probably forget to eat sometimes because I’m busy memorizing songs by the Cure, and if this was the eighties, I’d totally be sporting black eyeliner right now” way. Which is so my thing. He has one pierced eyebrow and a tattoo of an eagle on his forearm. His hair is jet-black and spiky. I finally notice his ratty-looking shirt says Johnny Ramone on it in tiny, faded letters. Not the Cure, but I was right about the decade.

  I flirt back. “I always make exceptions for sexy guys and all that,” I say, stirring my Sprite with my straw in a way that I hoped would seem seductive but, now that aforementioned stir is in progress, feels more awkward than anything.

  My flirting sucks enough that he is rendered speechless. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his ratty jeans and grins.

  I feel compelled to speak. (Mercy’s waiting trick strikes again.) “So what’s the tattoo for?”

  “Which one?” he asks.

  I nod to his forearm. “The only one I see.”

  “Oh, right. I forget people can’t see my chest through my shirt.” Perhaps for distraction, he pulls out a cloth and begins to wipe down the bar.

  I stir my drink in that oh-so-sexy way again. “Well, I was trying not to let you in on my X-ray vision, at least until we got each other’s names.”

  He smiles. “My name’s Matt.”

  “I’m Harley.”

  “Kick-ass name, Harley. Now tell me about your X-ray vision.”

  When he grins this time, I notice he has this one crooked tooth in the front, which does me in. You know how I feel about almost perfect teeth. I’m crushing on this kid hard-core.

  “Tell me about your tattoos first.”

  He tosses the cloth under the bar. “Nope, X-ray vision is way more interesting than tattoos.”

  “Good point.” It occurs to me that he is deflecting because he doesn’t want to talk about his tattoos. I like him. I like anyone who uses my tricks. I lean forward as if I’m sharing a secret. “If you must know, it’s pretty standard X-ray vision. As you might expect, I can see through things. For instance, I can tell you that you have a tattoo on your chest.”

  “Whoa,” he says, miming shock. “What does my tattoo look like?”

  “It’s of something you don’t want to talk about.”

  He seems a little surprised. “That’s actually true,” he says. “How did you know that?”

  I shrug. “In addition to having X-ray vision, I’m also psychic.”

  “No way.” His expression says he almost believes me. I consider continuing the ruse, but I feel sorry for him, standing there all hopeful, thinking I’m going to be able to tell him the day of his death or the first letter of the name of the woman he’s destined to marry.

  “I’m kidding,
” I say. “If people change the subject rapidly, it usually means they don’t want to talk about the topic at hand. I know because I do it all the time.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “So this girl walks into a bar,” I say.

  He laughs. “Don’t wanna talk about it, huh?”

  I keep going. “And she sees this man sitting there drinking, looking really morose. There’s this tiny man playing a miniature piano on the bar next to him.”

  Matt pulls a Dos Equis from the fridge. “Sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Do you mind if I have one?”

  “Should you be drinking on the job?”

  Matt flips off the lid. “Not technically, but my boss doesn’t mind, and even if he did, he’s never here anyway.” He takes a swig. “So there’s a tiny man playing the piano. Go on.”

  “Anyway, the girl walks to the dude and says, ‘Hey, that’s so cool. Where did you get that tiny musician?’ The guy pulls a golden lamp out of his pocket, says, ‘I used this. It’s magic. I got three wishes. There are still two left if you want it.’ The girl is blown away. ‘Are you sure, dude? You’re going to give me your magic lamp?’ ‘It’s all yours,’ says the guy. So the girl takes the lamp and says, ‘I wish for a million bucks!’ Immediately, a swarm of ducks flies into the room. They start pecking and shitting on everything. ‘I said bucks! Not ducks!’ screams the girl. The guy sitting at the bar looks at her. ‘I shoulda mentioned the genie is deaf. What? You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?’”

  Matt makes a noise that sounds like the deformed love child of a groan and a laugh. “Oh, god,” he says. “That was worse than I thought it was going to be.”

  “It’s all downhill from there,” I say. “That’s the best joke I have.”

  “Please don’t tell me any more jokes.”

  “Then the only way we’re going to fill the silence is if you tell me about your tattoos. I know you didn’t want to talk about them, but I feel all subject matter is fair game now that we’ve bonded over foot-long pianists.”

  Matt thinks for a second. “Okay,” he says. “Since we’ve bonded. The eagle is a tribute to my dad. He died last year in a hunting accident.”

  “That sucks big-time,” I say. I can’t believe he lost a parent too. If the crappy joke didn’t bond us, this definitely does. “My mom died a few months ago so I totally get it.”

  “You’re kidding,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Actually, I’m driving to New York with her ashes.” I try to sound nonchalant, but there is nothing that makes a person sound less nonchalant than trying to sound nonchalant. “So far, she’s been a kinda shitty road tripping partner. Doesn’t say much.”

  Matt seems to get my current need for gallows humor. “Maybe she’s pissed. You taking her somewhere she’ll like?”

  “The beach where we used to play when I was a kid.” I take a drink of my Sprite. It really doesn’t take the edge off. I wish I could have a beer.

  Matt touches his tattoo. “We spread Dad’s ashes in his favorite stream. He was a fishing nut.”

  My phone buzzes. I pick it up and look at it. Mercy is calling.

  “You need to get that?” asks Matt.

  “Nah,” I say, setting the phone on the bar. It would be shitty to interrupt Matt’s personal revelation. “So why’d you get an eagle if your dad loved fishing?”

  “He was a bird nut, too. Used to raise birds of prey. Hawks, eagles, owls.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Yeah, but Dad didn’t give a shit. I’m the only person I know who almost got eaten by a bald eagle when he was a baby.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  Matt laughs. “True story. Apparently, I was toddling in the yard, and my mom saw Dad’s eagle swooping in to pick me up. She raced out and grabbed me right before the eagle did.”

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “Can you imagine how horrible that death would have been?”

  Shuddering, I remember a painting of Prometheus having his liver ripped out by an eagle. “Wow. I should call you Prometheus Boy.” As soon as I say this, I think of Dean, as until now, he was the only person I ever called __________ Boy. I remember the way he looked when I told him that he wasn’t the maybe-baby’s dad. Suddenly, I need a drink. Fuck it. One won’t hurt, right? “You know what?” I say. “I changed my mind. I’ll take you up on that beer.”

  Matt laughs. “I knew you’d cave. Dos Equis okay?”

  “Mexican beer is the only beer I can stomach,” I say. “Everything else tastes like shit.” I’m trying to sound like I know about beer, but I’m actually parroting what Mom used to say. I have never tasted beer, probably because I’ve never been the kind of girl who gets invited to house parties when the cool kids’ parents are out of town. My experiences with drinking are limited to my impromptu screw-top wine tastings with Amy, my clandestine raids of Mercy’s liquor cabinet, and those bottles of bourbon I shared Dean. One of them ended in pregnancy, so it’s fair to say my drinking with a cute boy would probably be a really bad idea even if I wasn’t pregnant. But I take the Dos Equis Matt hands me and throw it back anyway. It tastes better than liquor. Think drinking water-downed urine, as opposed to drinking rubbing alcohol. You must have decided by now that I am the queen of shitty ideas—and an amoral asshole. And maybe I am. I don’t know anymore. I have no idea who I am or why I do the things I do.

  Six months ago, I could have told you exactly who I was. I was a secretly badass English nerd who was probably going to be a lawyer. I was going to meet some not-so-nice boy in law school, marry him, and have one, maybe two kids. After that, I was going to get rich and buy my mom a house so she would never have to work again. But now? My life plan has been derailed. I expected a walk through the park, and life sent me to survival camp in the desert. All I know for sure is that while I sit here at this bar, drinking beer with Matt, laughing at the shitty jokes he tells me, the tornado inside me quiets to a dull hum. I barely even notice it’s there.

  I’m four beers in when my phone dings. I pick it up, thinking Mercy is texting. She has already called three times. But it’s not Mercy. It’s Dean. Can we talk?

  I stare at the text. Matt’s saying something about baseball. As I remember the way Dean’s skin felt, I don’t care what Matt has to say. I start to text back. Yeah, I fucking miss you. My phone changes “fucking” to “ducking.”

  “Who ever wanted to type the word ducking?” I ask Matt.

  He laughs. “Auto-correct inserting barnyard animals into your text?”

  I nod.

  “At least it isn’t inserting a million ducks into the bar.”

  I stare at him blankly. “Huh?”

  “Your crappy joke?” he prompts. “The ducks and the foot-long pianist?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I smile politely.

  “Attempt at humor officially failed,” he says. He grins again. Damn, I love that tooth.

  I press Delete. “You’re telling me.” I finish my fourth bottle of beer in one gulp.

  • • •

  What happens next is pretty much a blur. Suffice it to say that while Matt is cute and charming and funny, by the end of the night, he has sufficiently reminded me that there are more boys like the Asshole in the world than there are boys like Dean.

  These are the facts, as I remember them:

  1. The night grew dark. A storm gathered. (Insert ominous theme music here.) Matt declared me incapable of driving, especially in the rain.

  2. I insisted I would stay in the bar until I was sober.

  “I have to close the bar,” Matt said.

  I checked my phone again and saw another text from Dean. I don’t know if this makes me an asshole, but I still love you, it said.

  “The sign on the door says you’re o
pen until midnight. It’s only eight,” I said to Matt.

  “I close early when there are no customers,” he replied.

  “I’m a customer.”

  “Not a customer that counts.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but even as drunk as I was, I could tell it probably wasn’t good. There was something vaguely not-nice simmering in Matt’s eyes. I remember it only retrospectively. At the time, I noticed it and then explained it away. You’re being paranoid, I told myself.

  3. I said I was going to drive to a hotel. Matt said if I tried, he was obligated to call the cops, which was probably true, but I started to wonder if he was worried about my safety or trying to get me alone.

  “Are you joking?” I asked.

  “No,” he answered.

  I still wasn’t sure if he was joking.

  4. I said I was going to get a cab. Matt asked where I thought I was. New York City? I thought for sure he was joking that time because he smiled. I noticed that crooked tooth again. It didn’t seem a fraction as cute as it had before.

  5. Matt offered to drive me “somewhere safe.” Feeling as if I was out of options, and being drunk enough to ignore the alarm bells that were going off in my brain, I remembered how pleasant he’d been all evening, I told myself I was being a drama queen, and I asked him to take me to the nearest hotel. (Side note: NEVER ignore alarm bells.) I climbed into his silver piece of shit car. It smelled like he smoked in there 24–7 with the windows shut. Did I mention I hate the smell of cigarettes? I was pretty sure I was getting lung cancer simply sitting in that rolling death trap.

  6. On the way to somewhere safe, which seemed to be conveniently located in the middle of nowhere, Matt pulled over on the side of the road. A water tower loomed in the distance, and a group of cows milled around in a field nearby. Those were the only signs of civilization as far as the eye could see. The sound of the windshield wipers slapping sounded sinister.