—HELP ME OUT NOW, ALL MY WORDS ARE FALLING SHORT

 

  

Thirty Miles Out

 

My older brothers were studs, and I was not. I was a mantis. Milquetoast. A tall-drink-of-water, as my dad labeled me. Or “Sally,” as he chose me to call me for a spell when I grew my hair out long.

But I tried to follow in my brothers' footsteps. I wrestled at 127 pounds. Gangly, and hard to pin, I won two matches.

Then I tried out for football, did summer camp, pressing the $110 worth of berry-stained bills into the coach’s hands, watching him gaze at the burgundy blotches while smiling, oddly proud. 

After one grueling practice, on a scorched afternoon, I drove to A&W for a root beer float. Took it in my beatdown Pontiac Catalina. In the lot. Alone. 

In the space next to mine, an old guy in a pickup leaned across his seat. French-kissed some girl. Kept on going. All tongue and slobber. 

She might have been nine or ten. She might have been his daughter, or someone else altogether.

Her eyes were closed, but his were awestruck—open. Like a crack of black lightning. Like a pleased owl feasting on a slaughtered deer mouse. 

I drove away without even half-finishing that float. I drove and got lost, thirty miles out from home. 

That was years and years ago, but most days, I’m still driving. Most days, I’m still lost.