Alone in the Middle of Texas
Writing Prompt:
Imagine: It’s 2am, you and two other friends are crammed together in a small Honda and several suitcases worth of clothes, cruising down the highway. What friends are you with? What is everyone doing? Where are you going?
Try to describe the trip without leaving the car.
My contribution:
It was all in the itinerary. Every minute of the 3-day trip had been planned out in the notes app of my phone weeks in advance. From the moment we were to wake up, to how long it would take the three of us to get dressed and head out the door, and the amount of time we would spend at each location. Complete with timestamps, addresses, and alternate locations to the alternates in case the original plans fell through.
I had planned everything out with little-to-no help from the two knuckleheads who came up with the grand idea for a trip in the first place. To be perfectly honest, spending my last summer before my senior year of college at home where it was warm inside and I didn’t have to spend money was totally fine with me.
But of course, with this being our last possible trip together before going our separate ways, neither of them would let me live it down if I skipped out. And even if I wanted to, they would eventually show up to my front door on a whim and force me out. If not to explore the great outdoors, then, at the very least to get some fresh air.
“You never want to hang out with us!”
“You need to get out.”
“Live a little…”
Constant berating is a normalized part of our friendship that I’ve learned to endure. So, when the prospect of a road trip to Houston for a few days emerged—after I had spent two stifling months sitting behind a computer screen—it didn’t take much prodding to convince me. I was in need of a break and much to my grandmother’s dismay, even her approaching 66th birthday couldn’t keep me in the same spot for too much longer.
Soon we would be miles from home. All alone in the middle of Texas.
Did I forget anything? I have my toothbrush, wallet, backpack, mouse ears— A loud car horn pierces through my thoughts and prompts me forward out the door. The two fools previously mentioned sit in the front seat of the car watching as I lug my pink hard-shell suitcase behind me out the side door. The carport is empty with the absence of my grandmother’s truck.
“Y’all gone get out and help me or just watch me struggle?”
“How big your bag? It might not fit in the trunk with our stuff.”
“Oh, yeah…you might as well go ahead and put it in the backseat.”
“Ain’t that gonna be a tight fit?”
“It’ll be fine, just slide it all the way over.”
So that’s how we road. For 6 hours straight in a cramped space. Luckily—or not so luckily depending on how you look at it—I sat in the passenger seat accompanying the driver. Timerial drove first, while Kobe sat in the backseat leaning over onto my suitcase. Next to him—and perched atop the pink case—was a white styrofoam mannequin head with a long, burgundy wig pinned to its scalp. Music spilled throughout the car, and occasionally we all burst into song. The “Welcome to Minden” sign passed us by as we exited city limits. Houston here we come.
Or, at least, that was how it was supposed to be. Us and the long stretches of road. Under the cape of darkness, the moon and stars shining down on us.
By the time I clambered into the passenger seat and we rolled out of my grandmother’s driveway and into the street it was already well past midnight. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been out this late before. There are no cars out, and everything feels so quiet and still and perf—
“Hey, y’all,” Timerial reaches for the volume dial and turns down the music that had been playing. “Do gas stations around here check tire pressure?”
“Girl, you ain’t do that before we left?” Kobe asked in disbelief.
“Well, I didn’t think we were driving my car…”
“You might have to try a truck stop, but I don’t know for sure.”
We ended up pulling into a Love’s Truck Stop. The glaring light of the storefront greeted us late night travelers.
Someone mentions that we should buy some snacks for the road. We all pile out of the vehicle and head inside, completely forgetting about the tire pressure. Letting our tired eyes and hungry bellies lead the way.
I floated down one row, up another, and back again in case I missed anything. Long aisles of pre-packaged food catch my gaze. Honeybuns, snickers, hot funyuns, powdered donuts, salted peanuts, sour straws, vanilla wafers. In the glass freezers standing farthest away from the entrance, bottles of green, brown, red, blue, and other varying colors shine. It’s hard to focus on any particular thing. Everything calls out for attention.
The place was practically empty save for an attendant standing behind the cash register, and a couple of patrons—probably hobbling over from the casino next door. A low hum from the freezers fills the place. The clicking of the register with each purchase seems to echo across the space.
“I gotta go to the restroom real quick!” Timerial calls out.
Kobe doesn’t hear her comment, too focused on the rows of chips. I respond with an “ok” before heading over to the chips myself. “Hey, you gonna pay for my stuff?” I receive a scoff and a roll of the eyes in return. “Don’t forget both of y’all still owe me for booking the hotel room in advance. Or…” proceeding to whip out my phone to scourage for the notes app, “should I tell you exactly how much—?”
“Alright, alright. What you getting?”
“Hm…this, this, and that. Maybe something else, too.”
“That’s a lot!”
“Well, it’s a long car ride.”
“Ooh, they got salad?” he breezes right past me.
“You like salad?” My rib cage rumbles gently under the growling of my stomach as the words slip out and my eyes fall on a package of chicken ceasar salad. A boiled egg sits on top and small pieces of chicken are sprinkled throughout.
“I love salad!” he remarks, seemingly offended by my question.
“I was just asking. Some people are really picky.”
“No, Timerial is picky. There’s a difference.”
“Timerial don’t like salad?”
“She doesn’t like anything,” he sifts through the different assortments. Maybe he has a point on that one. The only thing I’ve ever seen Timerial eat religiously is pizza. That and hot cheetos—with every meal. A creature of habit.
In the cold section with the salads also lie small sandwiches and cheesecake! There were small plastic containers of parfait. Thin packets of dressing to go on the leafy greens. Forks, spoons, knives.
It’s 2am by the time we crowd back into the car with plastic bags full of junk we shouldn’t have bought. With greedy eyes, we scan over our goods and eat a bit while still sitting in the parking lot.
“Alright, let’s just go.”
We spared no glance back and booked it as fast as we could—abiding by the speed limit of course. The next few days were ours.
The road trip starts off as most do: all passengers singing along to lively tunes, pointing at random objects beyond the expanse of the car, excited for a new destination. One song filtered in, and then another. Each member of the party belted out Adele in succession. Our voices mixed together in this clunky eruption of sound.
But then, quiet begins to seep in. Someone checks their phone and forgets to come back up for air. Someone else grows tired and yawns rack through their body.
In these moments I whip out my laptop and begin typing. Usually, just writing whatever comes to mind. However, I’ve spent so much of the time I’ve been home paying more attention to the screen in front of me than just living in the moment. This play has really been taking up all of my time. If I wasn’t on 6 hour calls with my co-playwright, then I was writing and making edits or worse—doing research. I knew agreeing to be playwright for this year’s cultural production of Black student theater would be a big commitment, but I didn’t expect it to be the only thing I’d be doing this summer.
I pull out my laptop anyway. My mind drifting to the scenes I have yet to begin writing the dialogue for. I balance the device on my lap and sift through the folders I left open. It’s no use keeping them up since I have no access to wifi. Wait…I don’t have wifi…or a hot spot. I’m reminded that we’re cut off from the world. I smile to myself. A small victory, I suppose. I pull up the itinerary instead. Glancing back at Kobe who has begun to doze off, and then Timerial with her eyes focused on the road but her hands shifting from the wheel to her runny nose I begin to mark some slight changes.
Next to “[start day at 11:00am]” I type “unlikely the way these kids tired”. I shift “Breakfast at IHOP” back a bit to lunch, and move “In and Out [late lunch]” from Friday to Saturday. Pulling up safari on my phone I check the closing time for the art exhibit again. I’ve gone over this schedule from start to finish so many times that the words begin to blur. I look back again at Kobe and rub the fatigue from my own eyes before closing out of the notes app.
School begins in two weeks and the play still isn’t finished. We already asked for an extension, but staring at these blank pages made my head all fuzzy. I just wanted to write, free of— Why am I thinking about the play right now? When I should be thinking about whatever other 21-year-olds think about when they’re on a roadtrip with friends. [like freedom, or food, or…maybe those two are the same]
We pull up to another truck stop at around 4am. Timerial sends me in alone to grab napkins from the bathroom. When I emerge back into the world, Kobe is sitting in the driver’s seat—awake and alert despite being knocked out in the back seat only moments before. Timerial takes the paper from my hand, blows her nose and rests her head on my suitcase. She’ll be sleep soon, I think. I wish I could sleep.
An hour or two later and I begin seeing those large green interstate signs for Houston loom into view.
Forehead pressed against the passenger seat window, my eyes scan over the dark paved roads. The trees rush by. In the distance a cityscape emerges and promises change. There is nary a cloud in the sky.
I didn’t expect to see the sun. It was something I hadn’t planned ahead for. Driving all night down long winding roads with only the stars lighting the path, I expected. But not this, not the sun—
“Look the sun is rising,” Kobe comments. Thanks Captain Obvious, is what I want to say. What I would have half the mind to say if I wasn’t so enamored by the light peaking from behind the tall glass buildings or the orange glow lighting up the inside of the car. Timerial was missing all the fun. Her slow rhythmic breathing made me forget the coughing and sneezing she had done throughout the car ride.
Gazing upon the sun waking up before our tired eyes I think of how at peace I feel.
Once we made it to the hotel, drew the curtains close and the room became just as dark as the beginning of the journey, I was not surprised or upset. At this point I had completely abandoned the itinerary to the outskirts of my mind—at least for the time being.
Folding myself into the armchair nearest the window—a thin jacket draped over my body—I allowed my mind to drift away. I reminded myself that sometimes the destination is less important than the silence and stillness of living in the present moment. Forget the play, or the fear of what comes after graduation, or feeling as if I have to know the next big step before I take it. For a while I just rest. In this armchair. Miles away from home. And when I opened my eyes and looked over at the two disheveled figures sprawled atop the comforters of the queen size bed, I did not attempt to stir them from their deep slumber.
I figured we all could use a few more hours of sleep. So, for now I would sink into the quiet of this hotel room and not worry about what the day might bring. I would stretch my limbs and smile in delight of the darkness. I would breathe.
