Page 3 of Rough Daddy
An unexpected warmth bursts over my skin as I pass the Entering Wildfire, Population 8543 sign.
I’m four hours into the upper part of the mitten state where, believe it or not, there are mountains.
Okay, they aren’t the Swiss Alps. They aren’t snowcapped. But they are mountains. My intermittent phone signal can attest, and I’m not complaining one bit. The barbed wire bands of tension are loosening, like my life can’t intrude here unless I choose to let it in.
A complete reboot has its advantages, for sure. If it wasn’t for Ethan, I’d go full on witness protection never to be heard from again. He will give me shit about jetting without talking to him, but the darkness that was pushing in around me called for drastic measures.
When you start to consider how accurate the recipes for stopping your heart with a few household chemicals might be, it’s time to put yourself first.
A rust-orange '97 Dodge Ram is parked sideways in a grassy field to my left, like it hasn't moved since Y2K. To my right, laundry hangs from a line stretched between a cheerful yellow cottage and a towering pine.
Wildfire looks like a postcard that got left on the dashboard too long.
In contrast, the do-it-yourself car-wash up ahead looks straight-up curated. The cinder blocks are painted in glossy red, white and blue. A clean neon sign in the center of the roof flashes ‘Always Open’.
My car is a wreck. It deserves better, and so do I, but there will be time to find a hotel, or motel, orplease, God, at least some sort of glamping spot when I’m done.
Forward planning wasn’t exactly on my agenda when I closed my eyes and picked Wildfire by poking my finger on the map.
I pull into the little cinder block wash bay and step out onto sun-slick concrete in Louboutins that are at least four seasons ago, but they’re one of my favs: horrible bright green, like Kermit, with a pointed toe and gaudy gold zippers zig-zagging up my calf.
My mother tried to throw them away twice.
Scanning the unfamiliar landscape of a DIY carwash, I note a vending machine for air fresheners and dash wipes. Next to it, hanging on a hook, is a hose that looks like it might bite, and there’s a strange sweet fruity scent in the air of what I assume is the soap.
I shove a five-dollar bill into the machine. It clicks on, and the hose on the wall spurts to life.
I have no idea what I’m doing.
A month ago, my parents would be here with me, explaining how to hold the wand and how to get the best light onto my face.
But this is what I want. I want to experience life without all the set-up.
I squeeze the trigger on the handle. The hose kicks back like a shotgun and practically topples me onto the wet cement. I squeal, drop it, and soak the front of my shirt.
I nod at the challenge. “This is how it’s gonna be?"
I retrieve the crazy Super Soaker, teeth grinding, and blast the car. Mud flies off in ribbons. I feel like I'm scraping something off myself, too. That layer of shame. Of lies. Of curated captions and filtered smiles.
Before I know it, I’m smiling, wielding the crazy squirt gun like a weapon.
I hold the trigger, blasting the car so hard the cover on the charging port pops open. It takes a hit from the spray gun before I regroup, re-aim, then reach over and pop it back closed.
When the exterior looks marginally better, I feel marginally better, too. It’s like, if I can wash a car, then I can do this whole adult life thing, right?
With my shirt soaked and my hair dripping, I hang up the water gun and slip back into the driver’s seat, foot on the brake, push the start button…
“Charging Equipment Fault”
Greeeeeeat.I step back out on a huff, unsure what I’m going to do when a loud electrical popping sound makes me jump.
"No, no,no..." I groan, clenching my fists, then spreading my fingers. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
I’m smart enough to know how an electric vehicle works, but one little spritz from the spray gun is derailing my hundred-thousand-dollar car?
Iwanteda 1973 El Dorado convertible. Gas guzzler. Gold trim. Tacky with a side of fuck-you.
Shocker, my parents vetoed that before I could show them the picture. Bet it would have taken the wash like a man.
