Because Of Joan

Chapter 9.

"Did you know that the theoretical probability of us existing is 1/10^2,865,000th power? That's the equivalent of one-million people rolling one-trillion sided dice and coming up with the same exact number," Joan states. We've just passed Miles City, and in the hour and ten minutes that have elapsed since Glendive, Joan has succeeded in french-fishtailing her flaming hair, and repainting her nails bare periwinkle, whose attached fingers she now utilizes in her efforts to sort through the cache of junk on her dashboard and open glove-compartment.

I avoid pointing out that, not long ago, she was astounded at my own memory of the 14 towns along I-94, but here she is remembering a scientific probability the same way one would remember to put on clothing in the morning. Even more so, I avoid pointing out her extreme lack of organizational skills and uniform. At last, Joan seems to find what she had been searching for in the pile of junk and raises it with an air of triumph. It's a CD, and inscribed in blue marker, are the words "Circular Edit"

"I found the mixtape!" she says, her voice gushing with dramatized enthusiasm.

"Circular Edit?" I inquire, not sure if my memory is serving me correctly or not.

"Yeah," she says, pulling out a wad of gum and popping it into her mouth. "It's that same guys who played that song you liked at the concert?" She words this like a question, and then promptly prods her tongue through a roll of gum, successfully managing to blow a bubble, and then letting it collapse in on itself with a resounding pop.

She pushes the CD into the radio. There's a moment when the car's radio buzzes and shudders, and then a grainy, muted recording of Circular Edit crackles through the faulty speakers. This song, which Joan tells me is called "Glassless Pondering", begins with an autoharp emitting a series of tinny notes that reverberate throughout the column of air like an overbearing resonance of iron and copper. It's almost disgusting, the way it plucks, but hidden in the grossness of its music, is again an unidentifiable beauty that when, accompanied by the moans of the bagpipe, and whispering of strings yanks at every perceptible emotion the way tendons yank at our fingers. The song first seems almost wistful, and then crescendos into a wistful anger, and then a desperate want, before leaving the song hanging on a high C-flat with an air of mystery. It's a decent song indeed, and I almost fear that I'll lose focus of the road ahead of me. However, I refuse to let Joan know this, and I break the mood by announcing the presence of a continuously growing discomfort in my bladder.

We pull over at a rest-stop and I clamber out of the vehicle, hoping that Joan will have the sense not to climb into the driver's' seat while I'm urinating. Upon my return, however, I notice that, though Joan heeded my wishes and didn't climb into the driver's seat, she's not in the passenger seat either. For a moment I find myself worried, and then I'm quite nearly positive that she's only gone to the bathroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I reaffirm my situation as driver and take up adjusting it's position with the buttons along the side of the seat. After five minutes, I become concerned again. Where would Joan be? I keep track of the time by turning the car on at regular intervals to check the clock on the dashboard. After the third interval, it's been ten minutes, and I at last conclude that I should get out and search for the coffee-eyed girl.

It's 3:08 am, and I'm searching for a teenage girl with flaming red hair at an empty rest-stop. There's no doubt in my mind that she hasn't been spending the last ten minutes going to the bathroom, but she could still be in the girl's restroom. With waves of nausea coming forth in waves, I edge the girl's bathroom door open. Every stall is unlocked, there are no feet on the floor, the area under the sink is completely empty.

Despite every conclusion saying that she isn't here, I still shout into the echoing stillness, hoping that by some scientific improbability, she'll be here, with her feet held up so I can't see them. There's no reply, and no reason for Joan not to shout back, but I edge further into the bathroom just in case she thinks she's being funny by giving me the silent treatment. I probe every surface of the bathroom. I even look up the sides for a window she may have climbed out of. Nothing.