We had been talking for hours, like we did every rare chance we had to see each other, but at some point the conversation had died. We sat quietly, the only other sound was that of the tires and the other cars around us. We were driving along I-290, the sun had long ago set, and it was 11:54 pm.
"Do you want to stop or do you want me to drive?" I ask.
"We can stop for the night." Logan says. We pull off on an exit in Chicago, Illinois, and stop in a quiet little park next to a CITGO gas station.
"All night parking." Logan says taking the keys out and rounding the back. I follow him to the bed of the car. He opens the tailgate and behold, the mother of all portable bedrooms.
"It's not much, but it's something. A sleeping bag was rolled out on the side of all our bags. He took the other rolled up sleeping bag and threw it in the backseat.
I grab my cosmetics bag and a pair of sweatpants and walk over to the CITGO. The worker acknowledges me by nodding his head. I go to the bathroom that was about as sleazy as bathrooms get, and change into the sweatpants, brushing my teeth and washing my face.
I walked back out and was about to say goodnight to Logan, but he was already fast asleep in the backseat of the truck. I sighed, and went back into the "bedroom."
The next morning I was awoken by the rumbling and bumping of the truck as it road down I-290. What the hell? I pop my head up to see we were in fact moving. I crawled over to the little window that separated the inside truck from the bed and opened it.
"Hey Logan?" I say with a bit of annoyance.
"Oh! Good morning, sleeping beauty!" He greets me cheerfully. He pulls over to the side of the road and comes and opens up the back.
"Thanks." I say sarcastically, sliding out of the back and hopping into the passenger seat. "What's for breakfast?"
He pulls back onto the freeway, reaching back and tossing me a McDonald's Egg McMuffin.
"Was waiting for you to eat." He mentions as he grabs his own sandwich. The sun shines brightly as we roll down the road. I stick my feet up on the dashboard and relax into my chair.
"Let me know if there's anywhere you want to stop." He says. We continue on the road with the windows down and my hair flying from out of my hat. I had slept better than I expected, until ten, which made me wonder just how long Logan had been driving before I woke up. And also why he didn’t wake me.
“Coffee.” I mumble.
“Coffee.” He repeats, swerving onto an exit ramp and into Yellow Springs, Ohio. After about ten minutes we reach a Caribou, and pull through the drive-thru.
“Hello!” A squirrely voice came through the speaker. “Welcome to Caribou, my name is Michelle, how can I help you today?”
“One espresso.” Logan begins, then turns to me. I pop my head through his window.
“And a berry white mocha cooler.” I say. Logan looks down at me and raises one eyebrow, then the other. “What?”
“I hope I don’t get charged for every letter in the name of whatever mutation of a coffee you just ordered.” He says pulling up to the window.
The squirrely lady pops her head through the window, showing off a bit more cleavage than necessary as she hands us our drinks, and takes Logan’s card. The sad thing is… he didn’t even try looking at her face.
As soon as she turns around I smack his head. He winces, then grabs the card as she hands it back to him. “What was that for?”
“Don’t be a pig.”
“Men are naturally.” He shrugs. “I can’t help it.” I make a snorting sound as we pull back onto I-80.
“How about some music?” Logan suggests after about an hour of silence. I nod and he turns on the radio. A god awful hicktown classic began to burst from every speaker in the truck. Neither of us believed in country music, and certainly wanted nothing to do with this god awful folk genre that somehow passed as music.
“Change it, change it, change it.” I chant. He presses the button at lightning speed as we are taken to the sports channel.
“Change it, change it, change it!”
He presses the button again, and we’re back to the country music.
“Oh, theoretical god, no!” Logan cries as he switches frantically between the two stations.
“Does this god damn truck only have two stations?” I am, admittedly, equally dramatic about the situation. I begin to desperately press every button on the dashboard, managing to turn the on the windshield wipers, or maybe that was Logan’s fault. The quiet car suddenly became a chaotic mess of fans on high, blasting with heat instead of air conditioner, windshield wipers wiping at the speed of light, and terrible music at volumes changing so frequently, it was the sound equivalent of a strobe light.
Suddenly the entire channel phases out, and we’re left with the voice of a talk show host, whose show would obviously have failed, had it not been for their faithful fifty plus audience.
“No!” We scream. Then I press a button, and magically it all turns off.
“What… how did you…?”
“I think… I think I just pressed the off button.” I say. We exchange worried glances and slowly he goes to turn it back on.
“This song… I recognize it.” I say with new found hope.
“Me, too.” His eyes light up as the Madden Brothers takes over the speakers. We share sighs of relief and then go back to the silence, but now with the background music of We are Done.
