I’ve been stuck in the house like a word stuck in the mouth.
Months of the pandemic, and I need to get out, be somewhere else than my four walls feeling lonely. I’ve been good so far. I hope no one judges me. My car stuck in the drive way; its windows dusty, its tires low.
But if I get the tires looked at before I leave, I’ll never go. If I focus too much on packing, I’ll never leave. I call the hostel the night before, 9 PM, and make the reservation. I can’t cancel now. No posting about this on social media, no one needs to know.
3 ½ hours in a car, in my car. Tires so low that I can feel the unevenness of the road. I worry that I’ll be stuck on the side, I can almost see it. Phone charged but friends far behind—some in other states and some might as well be in other states, the little I see them or hear from them during this pandemic. Who can I call for help? No one.
Crossing fingers, I sing with the radio. Stations cascade from the small towns before Tucson: the 80s, country, ranchero, a taste of each small town I pass on this highway. Wind pushes the car, rocks it side to side. I see my mountains turn to desert, to saguaro cacti—tall enough to poke the sky. A sky so blue, so postcard blue—it could melt in my mouth and cause a cavity: sweet freedom.
Still, I hope that I don’t get stranded. I desire a reprieve, not a commitment.
I arrive at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum—what I call the Living Desert Museum because it’s not stuck in dusty exhibitions; it’s vibrant, surrounded by life. 85% or 87% or 90% of it’s outside, so it’s safe, but I keep my mask on.
All this company:
*
A coyote walks next to me, matching my stride until he jumps on a rock, joining his mate.
A cougar licks her lips, imagining my COVID-19 extra pounds—body as prey. I feel like prey glancing at her amber eyes—too close, even with the division.
And those rattlesnakes—lazy in their plastic aquariums, They can still get out! I want to shout to the children nearby, the maze of kid-friendly crawling lanes next to and behind these snakes. My heart flips out even at the snake’s relaxed rattle tail, laying down by the water dishes. No shake, no tremble, but I shake; I tremble.
*
At the Living Desert Museum, I read everything—every sign, every note—learn everything, try to remember everything before I need to drive my car to the hostel, which means that soon I’ll need to drive that reluctant car home. Its tires dragging ir low—pebble, rock, pebble, crack, can, stone—
Go into the city with care. Make something more of this scandalous visit.
The hostel I go to is like a party. A hostel, yet a bar and restaurant, too. Even locals there. All are outside laughing, telling stories, acting like friends—some could be friends—but most seem like strangers made friendly by the warm glow of liquor. My car is in a parking lot by other cars. Maybe it’s at a party of its own.
So close to others, I am, that I feel the stiff canvas of my face smile in response. My muscles feel good, being stretched like so. Maybe the laughter could flake off on me like glitter. Glitter can stay on for days—remain in the cracks of skin.
Each person gets a free drink. I take two. The owner seems to flirt with me as we talk, and he walks to sit next to others at a bonfire, but I am so out of practice—this flirting—it’s a language I no longer know how to speak or to understand or even to identify.
I imagine a younger-me, the former-traveler-me, like she is a wisp of a memory. That-me would have sat around the bonfire with him and the group, and something may have happened or nothing—but that-me would have laughed loud enough to join the rest. That-me would have had a story to take home and keep her warm in the months that were lonely. But that-me has faded, and this-me can only tell a small joke and leave for the solitary room.
That solitary room. That solitary bed. That solitary television. That solitary table in the corner. My solitary car in the parking lot, surrounded by others, but still alone.
Was this trip worth it?
Pulling back the bedspread, I see pubic hair from former occupants and brownish-red stains. Maybe it was worth it for them, I suppose.
The next morning. Little sleep. Only sleeping on the pristine portion of the bed, above the covers, I get my stay for free after I tell the owner about the bed.
He tells me I look younger than I am, younger than him. I feel old, my hair whiter than before. He worries about my tires, tells me where to go to get them checked, and then to call him later to let him know how they are and how I am. I feel almost cared for.
And I do call him later to let him know that I am all right. He sounds relieved, like he had been waiting for my call. It feels almost familiar, this kindness. I invite him to visit me. I imagine it happening, how it could change the day, but know it won’t.
Then it is back on the road through storm and sun until home sits there—empty and waiting and opening its mouth wide.
What freedom is this? What freedom can this be?
I’m alive, but I miss living. I should be thankful, I am thankful, I must be thankful.
Pebble, rock, pebble, crack, can, stone, uneven road—my tires may have improved but I still feel everything.
I hope when the time comes, I can take off this heaviness. I hope I can let my layers stay in closets, and I can bring out the summer dresses—musky but pretty. I hope that they still fit. Oh, how I’ve missed them.
