Written with the prompts: wigwags are flashing, from clowns to canaries, love loves difficult things, when I break rules, late but kept driving, interlude, what am I doing, as timid as__, we used to be __, as if broken bones. . . , life on stage, ran fingers across. . . , voyages were random, tape measure in my pocket, stink eye of squirrels and chihuahuas
I know I’m late, but I just keep driving. I sweep right past my usual exit, past the university, the stadium parking lot, the gym, the church, the night clubs, and shopping malls.
We used to be cowboys, we used to be outlaws, we used to be down-hill skiers, thrill seekers, hang gliders, Australian surfers, big game photographers. We lived life on stage, as timid as a shark, a rampaging elephant, a deer tick sinking its whole head into some random animal’s flesh. It’s how we lived, it’s how we died, all at once or not at all. Sure I had a tape measure in my pocket, but my voyages were random, wigwags flashing, putting you all on notice, every last one of you, from clowns to canaries, from equator to poles.
When I don’t show up, will he leave here too? Will he come looking for me? Will he track me on his cell? When he sees I’ve gone north, will be head south? Or will he chase me, will he cross the Cascades, the headwaters of the River Sacrament, spin across the border, the prairies of Alberta, the bees, the moose, the beavers, and a fifty percent chance of snow? As if broken bones split open because they’re thirsty for light. As if love has to convince itself to love difficult things. No, it falls, it follows, it can’t help itself.
Can’t you sometimes do something easy? My mother used to ask me that. Do you always have to climb mountains? I don’t know, Mom, I don’t mean to be this way. I’d really like to hike into the marsh, squat in a clearing, listen for sandhill cranes.
I want to stop at Karen’s Cafe, someplace nice, and buy myself a latte and a lemon scone, but geez, if I’m going to break rules I need to be tougher, only black coffee and cake donuts for me, fuel to withstand the stink eye of squirrels and chihuahuas, bureaucrats and middle management.
I’m crossing the county line and I’m feeling nervous. What am I doing? I want to run my fingers through something real—animal fur, lavender petals. I want to stand on a beach and sink my feet into wet sand. Yet I get off the freeway, and pull into a Starbuck’s. I should have muted my phone. A half dozen texts are announcing themselves with clicks and whirs and roadrunner beeps. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. Maybe I’ll turn around, go back, make up an excuse when I walk into the office. Maybe I’ll keep driving.
An interlude, that’s all I need. A short pause. A drink, a sandwich, an hour in direct sunlight.
