Page 11 of Building What's Meant to Be

Turns out that the roots of friendship aren’t just shallow, they’re nonexistent. The people I’ve spent the last decade with were superficial, players in a production I thought I starred in. But as usual, I’ve been forgotten. In all honesty, I wasn’t a very good friend either. How many people floated in and thenoutof my life? All of them. Truth is, I did the same.

Whatever happened to Tasha? Did she get married and move to the countryside? Did Tabitha end up starting her business like she said she would? What about Taylor? He’s no longer in PJ and the Oakbrook Boys, but I hear he’s still playing music...and happily married.

I let out a long sigh that turns into a gasp when a little girl with pigtails wanders into the lane next to the gas pumps for cars to pass through. A semi-truck, whose driver likely can’t see the child over the broad hood, is only a few feet away. Waving my arms, I rush into the lane and pick the little girl up as the truck driver slams on his brakes.

The little girl, staring wide-eyed at the chrome grill of the truck, starts crying. I’d like to as well.

The truck driver hollers out his window, “Sorry about that. Everything okay?”

I nod and wave him off, no need to make a scene since I’m already plastered all over the internet. Trying to quell the panic in my voice, I ask the little girl, “Where are your parents?”

She points at the same time a woman rushes over, frantic, and takes her daughter into her arms. “I told you to wait in the car.”

“I told you that I wanted to pick flowers.” With tears tracking down her face she points to the trash-strewn median with a few weeds growing in it.

She reminds me of me when I was a little kid, precious, willful, and wanting nothing more than to be outside.

What’s changed? I’m no longer the outdoorsy type...and usually have the sense to look both ways before I cross the street.

The mother lets out a choppy breath, thanks me, and then goes on to gently scold her daughter while hugging her close.

When I get back in the driver’s seat, my limbs feel wobbly from the close call and quite frankly I feel like the truck struck me—the lack of sleep, the upheaval of my life as I knew it, the travel, and general lack of direction...

I have nothing except this car and what’s in it. But I am in the driver’s seat. I may have flushed my life away like John so kindly pointed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change.

That I can’t have the life that I want. But what do I want? To get to the top. And on the way, I’ll make meaningful relationships to start. And sleep. After I get some of that, perhaps I’ll be able to sort out the details.

As a sign welcomes me to New Jersey, my thoughts turn foggy and distant as I recall receiving the lifetime achievement award in my diva dream before the cops woke me up. The brutal truth is I’ve done nothing with my life. Unless you count a bit part in a Hallmark movie and the diva dream about the lifetime achievement award. Though I have to admit the Hallmark movie was all swoony romance and none of the drama in real life.

I could go for that with whipped cream and a cherry on top, please. However, I have yet to be bitten by the true love bug which is about as depressing as sitting down on a damp toilet seat, which happens after I pull into the first rest stop off the turnpike. After using the facilities and rubbing the remnants of the hand sanitizer I find in the glove box on the backs of my legs, I lock the car doors. With a sigh, I recline the seat, close my eyes, and finally get some sleep.

When I wake hours later, I forget where I am until I recall the license plates went from bright mustard yellow to a softer buttery yellow. That must mean that I’m in New Jersey.

If I were to consult a “Magic Eight Ball” and ask, “Am I hungry?” It would answer, “Probably.” The follow-up, “Would I eat rest-stop food?” It would reply, “My sources say no.” Fun fact: we share the same sources.

It’s as if my thoughts pick up exactly where they left off even though I’d hoped that sleep would wipe the slate clean, like being exonerated for crimes not committed.

The agents seemed to believe my innocence as evidenced by the fact that they let me go, but that doesn’t change public opinion. My phone remains quiet. No calls. No texts. Nothing other than social media posts about Puma and the Pariah.

That would be me.

I toss my phone onto the passenger’s seat and get back on the road and fail not to think about the questions posted online about whether I was involved criminally or romantically with Puma.

Ew. No. His hands reminded me of a used towel on a hotel room floor and he went a little heavy on the hair gel.

But there goes my life in the spotlight. Now, I’m in the limelight. The difference is the spotlight follows the actor on the stage. The limelight sounds less pleasant with its greenish hue. Which is how I feel. Sick from the lack of a normal night’s sleep, from being rejected, from not knowing where I’m going...and from what I’m seeing online. Or not seeing as the case may be.

People I thought were friends abandoned me. My family practically disowned me. My career is forgotten like yesterday’s headlines except I’m now known as beingPuma’s Gal Pal.

When I stop to get gas again just over the North Carolina border. I go inside to get something to drink. A flatscreen television broadcasts the news while people wait in line. For once, I try my best to go unnoticed.

Not only am I used to traveling with chauffeurs, thanks to living that entourage life, but I also can’t remember the lasttime I came to a place that sells pork rinds. What is a pork rind anyway?

The guy next to me in line must know because he holds a bag. He also has a thin, slick mustache like Clark Gable. Smelling like pizza onion sweat, he leans into my personal space and says, “Nice dress.”

I adjust my position so all he sees is my back.

Behind me, two girls whisper about the artisanal water in my hand followed by giggling.

---