Driving Memory

"She's a good girl; loves her mama. Loves Jesus and America too."

I am in my 12th hour of driving and Tom Petty is threatening to lull me to sleep. I'd turn the radio off, but then the sleep breathing of my dog, Dulce, in the back seat will work their evil magic as well. I open the window and light my fortieth cigarette. It's dark. It's cold. I just want to be home.

There is something otherworldly, netherworldly, about Utah in the dark. Driving on a black road, surrounded by black sky, I am only reminded I'm even alive when street signs illuminate in my headlights or the damn check engine light flashes briefly. I am driving my car into the ground. A warm bed can't come soon enough.

"And I'm free. Free falling," Tom Petty calls out into the dark.

I am free falling. I am sleep driving and probably wouldn't notice if I drove off a cliff. How awful that would be for Dulce. Poor girl. I will stay alert for her sake. Awake for her sake. In about ten more miles, I will stop and stretch, and she can walk and pee. Poor girl.

As if through telepathy, she jumps up and yawns. I give her a milkbone; my hand waving blindly in the dark so I don't dare take my eyes off the road. These mountains will get you if you try to outsmart them. I've had plenty of close calls. Between semi-trucks barreling past me (I drive slow. Sue me.), and gigantic windmill turbines slicing through fog only yards above the road, I am thoroughly freaked out at anything. Still too sleepy to focus, though.

"Dear god, does Utah ever end?" I ask no one. Maybe Dulce.

She's finished with her milkbone and doing the awkward dance-climb into the front seat. She tries to get on my lap, and my hand catches her nose with every one of her prods. No lap sitting now, girl. Daddy needs to keep us alive. She falls into the passenger seat and licks the window. Poor girl is thirsty. She whines. Yep. Break time.

Rumble strips shake me awake as my car veers to the right, and I stop at the bottom of a red giant. A sign blares in huge white letters that I am at a vista point. If it weren't so dark, I'm sure it'd be gorgeous. I hook Dulce to her leash and step out of the car. My phone vibrates.

"Is BryBry good?"

I stab at the screen with a frozen but gloved finger.

"BryBry is good. Stopping to walk dog. Maybe a nap."

I need a nap. I need to be home.