This Could be for You

4. To the Geo Tracker of the United States,

I swore, at the age of twenty-five, I would never return to you. Ever. Even now, as an adult, when I overhear your name, or even the abbreviation A-Z, I insert myself into the conversation and proclaim, "Arizona is the limp dick of the United States."

You are responsible for most of my life's mishaps. Like the god-awful road trip with my California boyfriend at the time. In an attempt to salvage our dull relationship, he packed his busted-up Pontiac for a surprise desert road trip. It felt more like a kidnapping. You see, I'd been meticulously working on a break-up speech to him because I found, throughout the course of our dull relationship, he didn't process things quickly. But he rolled up in that maroon Pontiac, rolled down the window and cooed, "Get in, babe". I patted my pockets for the break-up speech not yet perfected, came up empty, and reluctantly slid into the car.

He drove me through that desolate hell between Phoenix and Flagstaff on the 17. The place where life finds no fight or will against the elements. Where land has been pummeled into something unforgiving. Where mother nature gave up, or at least pretends to forget its existence because of the guilt of that creation. The highway did the same with exits, gave up that is, because there were none. Only miles and miles of dead earth the color of bile with an occasional turd of dust weed floating by. He drove me right into the middle of that cesspool, and then stopped. In the scorching mid-August heat. A pop came from under his hood, and a fan whirred to its death.

"Where's the next exit?" I spoke evenly. He scratched his head, turned the radio dial up and down a few times. Turned the volume dial. Tapped the dashboard. His head fell back and hit the seat.

"It's dead." His palm hit his forehead.

"Where is the next exit?" I said even slower, through clenched teeth.

"10 miles."

That was not my first introduction to you, Arizona. Another came when my college roommate invited me to her new apartment, in her new city, to introduce me to her new life. We ceased being roommates several years prior because I found the living environment to be chaotic and unstable. Since I was flying to an airport where a working vehicle would take me into a city with many exits, I figured I'd give you, AZ, another chance. When my roommate rolled up to the pick-up line with an elaborate orange and red dragon painted on her cheek and neck, yet no explanation why, I immediately regretted the decision.

"We are going to Phoenix's hottest club!" she squealed. I leaned forward, filled with excitement and curiosity. The feeling only intensified when we pressed into the dark, throbbing club, caught strobe flashes of a dance floor sardined with men. I danced carefree that night, in circles with my arms tossed out (because attempting any rhythm or hip thrusting rarely turns out well for me). It rained confetti. Men pet my soaked in sweat, Brillo-pad hair called me "gorgeous" . These were words someone tall and awkward as me never heard before. I spun and spun and spun on that dance floor in dizzy glee until my high sensitivity to motion sickness high-fived my alcohol consumption. I sought water at the bar. Sergio, my roommate's friends, came up behind me breathless, sweaty, and shirtless.

At this point in my life, I had almost no experience with male abdominals so close to me. Sergio threw his head back in laughter at the shade of conservative spread across my face and placed an ice cube from his drink into my fingertips. "You can rub it on them." My eyebrows shot into my hairline. My roommate appeared from behind and draped her arms around his shoulders. "It's ok!" She slurred. "He's not interested in you, sweetie." Sergio shook his head no, and pointed to a pair of naked, heaving wet abs on the other side of me. I giggled. My body began to tingle. I lurched. And threw up. All over myself. That ended things quickly. Sergio called our cab and made sure it delivered us home safely.