Iowa

NOTES FROM THE ROAD
Somewhere, Iowa
September 4th, 2017, ~3:30 am

——

I slept at a Flying J. It was the quietest in-car overnight I’ve had yet. I just need to make adjustments so that the cup holder does not dip into my back. This yoga mat doesn’t smooth out bumps as well as the padding I used to use.

Two women behind the counter were chatting up a storm. One said her preschooler was asking for money already. She announced this with both astonishment and pride. Even though I was their only customer, my presence clearly didn’t phase them. Conversation soon shifted to shootings.

“Like, what do you do? Go to the basement?” She tacked on, “I grew up in a white neighborhood,” as if distasteful caucasian days were long behind her. “Is it like a tornado?”

“Girl, you don’t be going to no basement. You just get down.”

I wondered if there was an urban center hidden somewhere nearby. Last evening I could only recall driving past corn fields and a flattened expanse of nothingness. Where could these neighborhoods be tucked away in an empty horizon? I arrived at the counter- coffee in hand- both a voyeur and a customer. An unassuming outsider stepping into their space.

“But will I hear it?” she asked, cooly ignorant.

I found an entry point for engagement. “I lived in an apartment once with a shooting just outside the front door. I didn’t hear it. But, then, a pair of shoes were in the dryer at that time going thunk, thunk, thunk.”

Connection and belonging are what this trek is all about, but it was a paltry attempt on my part. I belonged only for the amount of time it took to purchase a coffee. I zipped up my change purse and stepped back into the night. As the sliding glass doors closed behind me, the younger woman wondered if her boyfriend’s gang status would be a problem after her mother recently helped her get both a gun and a conceal & carry permit.

It’s time to get back on the road.