13 Ways of Looking at a Road Trip: 11, First

This was in the middle of my nightly coughing fit, when Scooter wouldn't lay down for more than ten minutes, when I watched GIRLS on HBO while I sat cross-legged chugging water on the bed. This was on my first night of the trip at the Motel 6 in Knoxville, where my room was on the second floor and next to the outdoor staircase. Every few minutes someone walked by the door or down in the parking lot. Voices. Coughing. GIRLS. Barking. Then the knock. 9:30pm. I grabbed Scooter's collar to keep him from growling. I'm not here, I'm not here, I'm not here. This was when I choked back my coughs and hoped the knocking would stop, hoped that Scooter wouldn't need to go out again to the rocky parking lot by the highway, hoped I could speak when you called.

***

I can't tell you how many Jackson Counties I passed through, the name telling me "all these places feel like home." I called you from the one in Indiana, when I got gas at this little shack of a place off the highway. I was shaking when I called, and sweat dripped from my bent elbow. "I'm calling you from somewhere in Jackson County, Indiana," I spoke to the voice mail. "I thought you'd appreciate that." Then your voice mail asked me if I was satisfied with my message, and I wasn't because it hadn't let me finish telling you about the adventure I thought we should have when I got there. No, I said, and laughed at the woman who wouldn't let me finish. I pushed 2 to go back to my message. It asked again if I was satisfied. If I hadn't been nervous about the others shouting directions to each other across gas pumps, nervous about calling at all, I might have left you a series of 5 second messages spelling out firsts we might have, adventures with our eyes open.

***

The first fish was far away, a small white splash I couldn't identify. Then silver leaps created a trail as you ran toward land, and I squealed at the sight your path made. We tried to repeat it again, and again.