We hadn't seen a real town in hours. Montana was all long stretches of road and motorcycle gangs and grazing animals alongside the interstate. Our empty tank light came on 10 miles back and Iris and I ran out of conversation 40 miles prior to that, so we were both happy to see a remotely-inhabited area come into view around Billings. We pulled off for gas right away.
I stepped out to the pump and saw her. A small, old white lady - 80-something probably - pumping gas into her Ford F150. It was the biggest truck I've seen in all of Montana, and with the most unlikely driver to match. I liked her immediately.
"Excuse me, ma'am...you need any help?" I asked. I didn't want to be patronizing, but it seemed the right thing to do.
"Well now, I think I'm just fine, thank ya."
"Alright, then. How are you doin' today?"
"I'm good, honey. 'Bout ready for a slice of apple pie, and I'm hopin' there's a diner around here, because so far Montana don't got much in terms of options." She is leaning against her truck with one hand holding the pump and the other against her head, with her elbow against the window, almost like a pinup girl of sorts.
"Have you been driving for a while?"
"Oh, have I! Yes, ma'am, I have. And got no plans to stop."
"Well, we're right there with you. My sister Iris and I, that is."
"My, what a lovely time that must be. Travels with your sister, how nice." With that, I hear the pump's pop and release, the signal of a full tank. Was her F150 seriously still pumping gas?!
"It really is. You know, just 'cuz we're both on the road and all, why don't I give you my number in case we might ever cross paths again."
"Oh honey, I don't have a phone. But you can have my address, for when I eventually settle down again!" She walks to the passenger door, grabs a pen and pad from inside, and starts scribbling. Evidently, the truck had finished pumping a while back. She walks over and hands it to me.
"Here you go," she says. "Take care now." She pats my hand and heads back to her truck. The engine roar louder than I thought possible as she begins to head out.
I look down at the notecard in my hand. It just reads "Pearl," and under it is a Pennsylvania address. I know nothing about this woman, but with this card, I can always have shot at learning more. I really hope I can convince myself to go out on a limb and do it one day, because I could tell she has much more to share. Pearl....what a name. The perfect name for this old white woman with a huge pickup who I met at a gas station in Montana, and may or may not ever see again. The road is full of these characters, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I rolled down my F-150's window as I drove away from the Billings gas station. Plain and simple, I liked the smell of diesel in the air. It was acrid, and sort of electrifying. It reminded me driving with my father up North from Alabama in his open-air baby blue Chevy. The sweet girl I ran into at the gas station was driving one of those new-agey things, I think they call 'em Priuses. I don't see what kind of satisfaction you can get out of a car that is plastic where it should be leather and metal, safe when it should be exciting and a bit dangerous, and silent where it should roar. Well, to each their own.
ReplyDeleteTalking to her sure was nice, but there is nothing quite like the quiet whip of air outside a car window. There's no voices, there's no car horns, not much other than howling wind that almost muffles the Fleetwood Mac playing on the radio. My husband Phil and I really got into Fleetwood Mac in the 70s. I miss him, but I don't know if I'd be on this trip if he hadn't left me this year. Sometimes when I look over at my passenger seat I see him sitting there dumb as usual, wearing his dirty old red flannel, giving me a crooked smile. Even the Phil in my imagination makes me laugh. So, no, the road isn't too lonely.
I drove, and I drove, to where I still don't know. I drove to get away from the place that was Here, the place where my husband now lies buried in the earth. I know I don't have much time left here, as in anywhere on this Earth, but I'd be damned if I died before scratching that itch I had since I was girl, that itch to get out on the open road. The road knew better than I where it was I needed to go.