We stand in the shower, holding our bodies tight, close together. Hot taps run down our skin, and splash between our fingers and toes. Then: We’re falling into the fresh sheets of the feather bed just outside the door, our bodies wrapped up in blankets and sheets, surrounded by pillows, a warm and safe space where anxiety disappears into dust on the floor.
A small bar sits at the end of the block. An old, rickety place that still smells of cigarettes – though cigarettes have been banned indoors for years. It’s warm in this bar. Always, no matter the season. Because it’s small. And. So full of people. In winter, when people yell for drinks and cheer their favorite teams playing basketball on the TV overhead, potato chips hang from the wall behind the bottles, the only thing there is to eat. There’s a dartboard on the wall in the back, hanging slightly crooked, like an open mouth with sharp teeth. Have another drink. The game above is last second, hold-your-breath, one shot, two-points, three, down-to-the-wire.
We throw darts and I let her win. Then she lets me win and we both go home happy.
We talk about leaving. About a long trip. A trip across the country. But before, long ago, when the wide-open spaces of the country were still a mystery to men. And when the open road could stretch on and on. Until finally it came to an end at the edge of the ocean. Anything is possible at the end of the road.
America is not the mystery she once was. Her curves have been brought out into the light. Her rolling hills and long prairies and badlands now documented and developed. But we talk about it anyway. Talk about getting away. From here.
There’s no need to look back.
Gogo asks. “There isn’t, is there? Any reason to look back?”
The world is still a big place. (It can be.) It’s the little things that make it so: It’s happiness in small bars, throwing darts and drinking beer snobs will tell you is swill, and listening to townies shout to the cadence of sports-announcers’ voices. It’s walking back home as snow begins to fall and listening to your boots crunch-crunch along on the sidewalk. It’s the warmth of the apartment when you get inside. It’s breakfast at night. It’s flying and falling and catching and dropping and getting up again.
And if we’re going to leave, we’re going to leave together.
If you’re going to run, I tell her, I’m going to run, too.
“If you’re going to run,” I say, “I’ll run with you.”
Gogo smiles and nods her head. Though her mind is elsewhere, she’s thinking something like, That’s what all the boys say, isn’t it? and it’s true that actions speak louder than words. I can say anything I want. I can whisper things in her ear, soft-and-sweet, whisper things at night between sheets. It isn’t until she’s getting into the car, the engine running, coughing, and asking if I’m coming with her, asking if I’ll leave everything behind to start fresh somewhere new, start over, fresh, again, somewhere we’ve never been, that she’ll know if my words were true or if I was only trying to slip my hands lower from her hips.
So we drive and we drive. We watch the lights change on the street. We listen to music on the radio. There are words around the windows, brought by the wind because in the city you’re never truly alone. But then, when you leave the city behind and it’s nothing but open road and Iowa grass and Nebraska corn and Texas tea, then, then, you’ll start to hear the things that can’t be captured by pictures on the internet. And here she’ll laugh, her head thrown back, because we don’t know anyone around these parts. Here we’ll find a lonely hotel on the side of the road where we’ll take a shower together and the taps will run hot down our skin, between our fingers and toes. Where we’ll fall into the bed, even though we know someone has probably slept there before us, wrapped tight in blankets, and where we’ll laugh and forget, for a while at least, that the world outside is still there waiting for us to fall. We’ll forget, for a moment, that the words we heard on the wind are real words, and that, no-matter-what, at some point, we’ll run out of road, and there won’t be any hotels left and we’ll have to see whether or not dreams actually do come true at the edge of the world.
We leave in the morning. The sleepy sergeant who runs the front desk, still wearing his uniform from the war, takes our room keys and hands us the bill. He nods as we pay and slumps again at the desk next to his bottle of rye whiskey.
Gogo takes the bottle of whiskey and slips it into her shirt, against her skin. Winking at me while the sergeant snores and we run back out to the car, covered in dust that’s now turned to mud with the morning dew. We start the engine and we keep driving. We know that the world’s edge is coming soon. We’ll come to a skidding halt and the tires will smoke and we’ll say something like, “Here we are, and now what?“
And so Gogo speaks less and less as we go along, taking long drinks from the bottle of rye, they call it hooch around here, and looking out the window into the endless expanse of countryside and listening closely, hopefully, for the poetry she heard was hiding there.
It’s hot and we’re sweating. We’re always sweating in stories like these. If we weren’t, if we were cold, if we were still shivering in the dead of Minnesota winter we wouldn’t be able to think like this. We wouldn’t be able to have these thoughts. We would have to scrape the ice from the windshield and windows before we could drive anywhere. We would have realized that the warmth of the apartment, the warmth of drinks from the little bar down the street, the warmth under blankets cuddled up on the couch while watching old movies with happy endings or endings that at least make you think… we would have realized that the warmth of these things is better than running south. South where we don’t know anyone. South where the ocean is supposed to give us the answers we could never find on our own. And this, in the heat, on the dusty Texas prairie, across the general rumble of the road, surrounded by country whispers and the wind, this I understand. This, I know, is what it means to be truly, completely, gone.
The ocean sparkles like diamonds, and that might be enough.
“We’re far away from home,” Gogo says, “and that might be enough.”
She smiles, and finishes the bottle. One last drink. She throws the bottle as far as she can into the grass. She jumps into the sea. I follow.
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