According to the sign, next services are 80 miles. There is desert on both sides of the highway. I’ve had about half of my super-size diet cola, and so I stop. Mama Mavis always said “Go when you’ve got the opportunity. You never know.”
I get the key from a lanky kid, gap-toothed stoner kid who is watching the busty blonde in the drink aisle on the security camera. I walk out back clenching back the super-size. Thankfully there are two stalls, the handicapped has bags and a suitcase escaping from the bottom. The door is locked. Unfortunately, the first stall is out of order, stuffed with seat protectors and smeared with poo. There’s a conversation coming from the handicapped stall.
“But I’m not with her anymore.”
“Well, yes, I mean I think that I am”
“But Mom, where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? Please!”
Sobbing
“Uh-ah, uh-ah”
The phone clatters on the cement floor.
“Hello” I call, maybe a little too cheerful. “Could I possibly use the toilet, this stall isn’t fit for humans”
I’m answered with soft crying.
“Please?! I’ve really got to go.” When you get older, the bladder doesn’t hold what it used to. “I’ll even leave the door open so you can keep an eye on your stuff. Please?”
The door unlatches. I’m not sure what I expected, but an androgynist, average height, with orange Annie Lennox hair. She? They? moves to a corner of the stall so I can come in. I don’t even care that I’m being watched. I just need to pee.
“May I ask how you came to be camped out here?” I venture.
“Scott, the kid inside, said I could stay until tonight. My girlfriend left me, took nearly everything, I was hitching a ride to Reno, to go home, I thought I could make it on my own, but I don’t know. The trucker wanted me to do him and when I wouldn’t he put me out here.” She?/They? start to cry again. “My mom says I am not welcome at home so long as. So long as I am” the gesture encompasses both the person and the scattered belongings, “queer.” The last word barely spoken aloud.
“I’m Julia” I don’t extend my hand. I haven’t washed it yet. I don’t tell her I was once a runaway.
“River.” Hesitation, a deep breath and a declaration: “My pronouns are they/them.”
“Nice to meet you, River. I’m going as far as Carson City” I hear myself say. There’s plenty of time on the drive to tell them about Mavis, my second mom. The one who taught me family can be chosen.
— Lkai
I get the key from a lanky kid, gap-toothed stoner kid who is watching the busty blonde in the drink aisle on the security camera. I walk out back clenching back the super-size. Thankfully there are two stalls, the handicapped has bags and a suitcase escaping from the bottom. The door is locked. Unfortunately, the first stall is out of order, stuffed with seat protectors and smeared with poo. There’s a conversation coming from the handicapped stall.
“But I’m not with her anymore.”
“Well, yes, I mean I think that I am”
“But Mom, where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? Please!”
Sobbing
“Uh-ah, uh-ah”
The phone clatters on the cement floor.
“Hello” I call, maybe a little too cheerful. “Could I possibly use the toilet, this stall isn’t fit for humans”
I’m answered with soft crying.
“Please?! I’ve really got to go.” When you get older, the bladder doesn’t hold what it used to. “I’ll even leave the door open so you can keep an eye on your stuff. Please?”
The door unlatches. I’m not sure what I expected, but an androgynist, average height, with orange Annie Lennox hair. She? They? moves to a corner of the stall so I can come in. I don’t even care that I’m being watched. I just need to pee.
“May I ask how you came to be camped out here?” I venture.
“Scott, the kid inside, said I could stay until tonight. My girlfriend left me, took nearly everything, I was hitching a ride to Reno, to go home, I thought I could make it on my own, but I don’t know. The trucker wanted me to do him and when I wouldn’t he put me out here.” She?/They? start to cry again. “My mom says I am not welcome at home so long as. So long as I am” the gesture encompasses both the person and the scattered belongings, “queer.” The last word barely spoken aloud.
“I’m Julia” I don’t extend my hand. I haven’t washed it yet. I don’t tell her I was once a runaway.
“River.” Hesitation, a deep breath and a declaration: “My pronouns are they/them.”
“Nice to meet you, River. I’m going as far as Carson City” I hear myself say. There’s plenty of time on the drive to tell them about Mavis, my second mom. The one who taught me family can be chosen.
— Lkai
I love that this grace comes when it is least expected and most in need. This is how families are found and community breathes. Lovely. Thankyou.
ReplyDeleteAn all too true tale of our time. Poignantly written.
ReplyDeleteThis is great, Lkai! Gave me shivers when the narrator says the pronouns! --- Macoff
ReplyDelete