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jonesamericana:

The kind old gentleman sits in the passenger seat. He has brought water to cool the steaming engine, has taken it upon himself to help two women stranded on the side of the road.

He sits in the passenger seat, hiding from the sun as the engine cools. I know he does not want to leave until he knows we are safe. I appreciate his kindness, but I am eager for his exit; the sooner he leaves, the sooner we can continue upon our path. He softly hums to himself, a sad broken melody.

She leans forward, finding refuge from the beating sun in the shade of the open trunk.

She says I have to go back.

But I can’t. She knows this, has known it since the day we set out. But she continues with her assertion. I wonder if she thought me serious when I first told her of my decision. I wonder if she mistook the tears as a sign of temporary irrationality, if she took my wild trembling voice as resolve ready to waver. Did she not sense the depth of my conviction? And if she had, would she have come along?

She says things will be different if I go back, that he learned his lesson, that I made my point She says things will be better.

But I know they won’t. Things will improve, they always do. But that improvement will not last, it never does. I know all too well that temporary improvement is nothing more than a mirage, a tantalizing glimpse of what salvation could lie ahead. And I have too often tasted the bitterness as that salvation fades away to an endless expanse of undulating sand.

She says we won’t know anybody.

But we will. Not right away. We’ll be strangers in somebody else’s town. We will be looked upon as unwanted, unnatural. Two women alone in a strange city invite the most penetrating of stares, the most accusatory whispers, as if such a tandem is exempt from the rules of polite society. But some quarters will hold compassion for us. They will help us, they will protect us, they will teach us. But they will not coddle us, they will not shield us from life and all the lessons which come from living it.

She says we won’t have any money. She says we’ll be broke.

But we won’t be. We will work, we will earn. We will prove to those around us, to those we have left behind, and to ourselves that we require no Providence, that our fates are ours alone, and that we are the sole executors of our futures.

She says the car can take no more. She says it’s been beaten enough, that it can go no further.

But it can. We will wait for the car to cool down, we will wait for the gentleman to leave. We will thank him for his kindness, and we will continue on our road. We only need the car to make it for another 150 miles, and then there will be no more need of the old beaten girl.

She says I can’t keep going this way, that it’ll only lead to more misery.

But it won’t. I know that misery lies in my path, but not more than what I left. Some misery you can live with, and some misery you can die with.

The kind gentleman hums his tune as I look to my left at the shimmering, wavy road ahead.

you may reach Marty at stiper327b[at]gmail.com

 

15 May 2009 ·