Have a Seat

It is an inconvenient truth that the ding comes when you least expect it and when you least want it. In this case, two dings. We’re driving down I-70, our second day on the road, expecting to arrive in Denver by late afternoon. It’s sunny and windy. It’s desert. It’s a divided road, two lanes in each direction. In the right lane, patches of old road repair on regular intervals growl under the car. I’m driving 82 mph in the left lane to avoid the growl. We’ve been arguing on and off since Gretna, Nebraska, both of us right, both of us wrong, I’m more wrong than she is, and I don’t mind admitting it if it means we can just stop. This is where the ding comes in.

First ding is more flash than ding. The fuel light, a tiny spot of red in the lowest region of the gauge. 

“Mother f-,” I say.

“What?”

“We should have gassed up a long time ago.”

“How bad?”

“Bad,” I say. “Fumes.” Maybe it’s only the remote idea of fumes left in the tank, fumes of fumes; metafumes. 

Then another: Ding. This one’s me. “And I really have to pee.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“Why didn’t we stop.”

“Is there a town?” 

“Let’s hope so.”

We need to get there fast, wherever there is a there. But if I go faster, do I consume more fuel?  I tap the brake to uncruise from 82, and we coast and slow to 60 mph. That seems terrible. Now we’re getting there, if we get there, even slower. 

I would have a sign. 

And we get one: Merino, 7 miles.

“Is there gas there?” Tizi says.

“I really have to pee.”

These are the exigencies of road miles: Fuel and food and rest. We’ve been arguing about, among other things, the pros and cons of driving vs flying to California to visit our son, his wife, and their new baby. Four days of travel vs one day. Three nights in our own bed vs. three nights in a hotel. What we see–heartland, fields, mountains, desert–vs what we don’t see. On the interstate, and off, we steel ourselves to the reality of bad food, fast bad food, slow bad food, most of it dreary, forgettable, and, with a little luck, avoidable. The night before, in our Des Moines hotel room I searched for restaurants in the area, key word healthy, and there it was, a possibility, called Protein House. 

“How about Protein House?” I said to Tizi.

“I’m really not that hungry.”

“We haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“We had hazel nuts.”

“Hazel nuts and water,” I said.  “They’ve got bowls at Protein House.”

The weather was looking ugly. The day before tornadoes had torn through Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Iowa. And here we were in Iowa. And the sky was dark before dark. It looked badly bruised, and it was coming for us.

Protein House is next to a Life Time Fitness. It has seating for 50-70 people. It’s totally empty. While we scan the menu a guy comes in to pick up an order. A few minutes later an emaciated youth with straggly brown hair comes in for a health drink. A few minutes after that a muscular dad and his kid, likely from Life Time, come in for take-out. Outside the weather is landing on us. Shrubs visible through the windows are tossed in all directions. The building we’re in is all windows and steel and cement. Don’t stand near windows, I think. How to avoid injury in a tornado. Maybe go to the men’s room? Both of us?

I order the quinoa bowl, called Thai Monster, with vegetables, chicken, beef, and peanut sauce. Tizi orders The Plant Power Bowl, then alters it beyond all recognition, then changes her mind and asks for that guy’s health drink. The quinoa makes me feel good, the idea of it. The chicken and beef call for aggressive chewing. Tizi is happy with her drink. The storm passes through Des Moines on its way to Kalamazoo.

The average person lets water 4-7 times a day. The average time it takes is 20 seconds. There’s actually something in urination literature called the 20 second bladder rule.

I take the Merino exit. Where’s the town? There’s no Merino. At least not there. A wind battered sign indicates Merino is seven miles down a two-lane pot-holey road. The sign should also say: And Good Luck. 

“Where’s gas?” Tizi says 

I point where that road goes. “Down there maybe.” Where it goes I can’t see. 

“Is there gas down there?”

“I don’t know, but I really have to pee.”

In Italy it is common to see men standing by the side of the road relieving themselves. They cozy up to a guard rail, they lean toward the cement wall supporting an overpass, they do their business. In the US, it seems less frequent, more of an emergency protocol. This is definitely that. I get out of the car and walk around the back, sidle up in the direction of the passenger door for privacy. As I do, a truck passes us, on its way to Merino. He has a clear view and I don’t care. The relief takes a while. I’ve been sitting on my prostate for 350 miles. And I discover that I’ve parked the car on a slightly wrong-way incline. The puddle forming on the dirt shoulder is flowing back in my direction. I check Tizi’s mirror to see if she’s watching, then take a step toward the rear of the car. The puddle, a little bigger now, follows in my footstep. It’s windy. If I want to stay dry, my turn options are limited. Three more sidesteps, I’m still not quite done. I check the mirror again. If she sees this . . .

The average person lets water 4-7 times a day. The average time it takes is 20 seconds. There’s actually something in urination literature called the 20 second bladder rule. Good grief, and I bet I’ve passed the one minute mark and sidestepped a total of five times to keep my feet dry. 

Back in the car, I’m relieved that my private moment by the side of the road goes unremarked. I search gas on Google Maps. 

“Atwood,” I say.

“Where’s that?”

“Back.”

“How far?”

I look at the gas gauge. “Seven miles.”

She is quiet. So quiet.

We head back to the east, across the desolate Colorado desert on I-76. A sign by the side of the road warns of high wind, stating the obvious. At 55 mph, those seven miles feel like fifty. I’m worried at the exit we’ll have to take a long ride into nothingness to find Atwood and its gas station, but there it is. Exit, at the bottom of it turn left, under the overpass, then the friendly Sinclair station is right there on the left.

While we wait for our food I congratulate the guy in the corner of the restaurant for his handlebar mustache.

A couple days later, looking for a late breakfast, we are tempted but pass on Peggy Sue’s diner in Yermo, California. We stop in Barstow, where we find Roy’s Cafe.

In search of breakfast, from I-15 South, where I gas up (even though I still have all of a quarter tank of gas), I drive five minutes down Barstow Road to Main Street, which we discover is Route 66. Where Barstow Road deadends at Route 66, there’s Roy’s Cafe, a joint that Jack Kerouac would have driven past, an all-American diner with posters of Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando and servers who speak Spanish to each other and hand us a Mexican inflected menu. Tizi orders the spinach omelet, I get the muchado because I like the word and the picture on the  laminated menu.

While we wait for our food I congratulate the guy in the corner of the restaurant for his handlebar mustache. I swap glances and smiles with the Mexican grandma sitting by herself in the next booth eating ham and eggs and talking Spanish on her cell phone. I step outside to take pictures of the parking lot murals, 19th century icons–Fred Harvey, dining room and boarding house entrepreneur, and William Barstow himself, president of the Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad. 

The food is good. We talk about what we’ve seen in the past three days: the rivers (Mississippi, Platte, Nishnabotna, Colorado, Green, Sevier, Virgin), the mountains east of St. George, the snow above Denver, the plowed fields in Iowa and Nebraska ready for planting, the desert we just crossed and the Joshua trees. There’s a lot to remember.

At the Atwood Sinclair station, there was a signature green dinosaur out front, a big guy. While the gas pumped I thought it would be nice to get a picture of Tizi with the Sinclair dinosaur. The kids would enjoy it. I would enjoy it. I was pretty sure she wasn’t in the mood. I was pretty sure she would never be in the mood. And that was okay.

Now she had her omelet and I had my muchado. We were in a historic place, having an American moment. And we were fine.