I honestly have no idea what I'm doing.
Not, like, right now in this very moment; I mean in general. That's just how it's always been for me. It's like being on a river raft: I just kinda float along, following the current.
I know what you're thinking. Oh, you're one of those chill types who just kinda goes with the flow. No, not at all, and you're hilarious. It's more like--the water carries me in a direction, and there doesn't seem to be much I can do about it. I struggle and swim every which way, but there's no going back, no switching course, no slowing down. And sometimes that current's not lazy at all, it's a raging river, knocking me back and forth, sending me spiraling off a cliff to my doom.
I'm also a little dramatic, in case that wasn't obvious.
So anyway, that's what I mean when I say I have no idea what I'm doing. My high school friends all seemed to know what they were about, what their plan was. My college friends never switched majors 3 times only to drop out. Every decision, every move, was purposeful. Pushed them forward toward their goals.
Me? I was adrift. Just making it from one day to the next, desperately trying to figure it all out. What was my purpose? And all the while, time, cruel as anything, just carried me down the river. Through school, through numerous jobs, through lovers and crisis after crisis, until finally I couldn't take it anymore. When I lost my family, job, and girlfriend in the same week, I snapped.
So I left. Just packed up what little belongings I own, hopped in my beat-up old Subaru, chose a direction, and drove. Keyword: chose.
For once, Lum made a godsdamn choice.
Now Lum--that's me, the weirdo enby with the name nobody gets--is puttering down a narrow road in Who Knows Where The Fuck, Oregon, because even in that one moment they chose to take agency, they didn't have a plan. Or, you know, money for gas.
So, yeah. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway.
I check the gasoline gauge for the hundredth time. The needle is somehow actually beyond the empty line. Windy's basically running on hopes and dreams at this point. (That's her name, by the way. The car. Yes, she has a name. You don't do the same?) She's sky blue, her rear bumper is about a quarter of the way snapped off, her windshield has a crack that's just starting to fork into a million smaller cracks, and I love her dearly.
"So sorry I've gone so long without feeding you, girl," I whisper. "I'll get you some gas soon, I promise."
Lying to my car is certainly a new low. I basically used up the last of my cash getting a drink and a microwaved breakfast sandwich at the last rest stop several hours ago. My phone battery is dead, I'm starving, and my car sounds like it's a chain smoker coughing up a lung. I feel like a little kid who ran away without a home and now she needs her parents. I'm gonna die out here in the middle of nowhere because I finally made a decision for myself. How poetic.
Finally, signs of civilization start to appear. It's not much--a few cabins here and there, a power station, some unmarked storage facility. And no gas station, godsdamnit. Not that I have more than a few coins to my name. A sign whips by on my right as I keep driving. I only barely make out the words: ROBIN'S BROOK--2 MILES. A town? Maybe I can scrounge up something to eat and some cash for gas. If Windy makes it two miles, that is.
By some miracle, she does. But just barely. She putters to a halt near a small strip of businesses in what looks like the outskirts of the town. The trees have thinned out a bit, giving me a nice hilltop view of Robin's Brook. It's...well, it's not huge, that's for sure. Two larger roads--one of which is the one I'm on--cut through the town like an X marking a spot. And by "larger," I mean the only two-lane roads I can see; everything else is all narrow unpainted roads, if that. Can't make much else out from here other than the fact that there don't appear to be any buildings over two stories. The whole town is nestled cozily between two wooded hills like a well-kept secret. A small river flows through one side of the town, with a hooded wooden bridge connecting the two sections. The sun rises over the trees on the opposite side, casting long shadows across the sight. It would be idyllic, maybe, for someone who isn't a city girl like myself.
Right now my priority is filling up my stomach and filling up my gas tank, ideally in that order, and then I'm outta here. The sooner I make it to the coast, the better.
I shift into manual, using the downhill momentum to park Windy just off-road. It'll only take me a few minutes to walk to those stores in the distance. I don't have much other choice. I flip down the visor and examine myself in the mirror. I look like shit. I drove through the night. My eyes are puffy and red from crying. My wavy black hair is frizzy and all over the place. My bangs were cut just recently, barely meeting my eyebrows. In the back it grew into a short, ratty tail that bushed around the nape of my neck. I take a moment to run my fingers through my hair, put on some concealer and eyeliner to mask the evidence of my heartache, and begin the trek.
Let's see: the stores are, in order, Frank's Lumber, Robin's Brook Timber Co. (is...is there a difference?), Jay's Towing & Repair, Jay's Liquor (is...is it the same Jay? are there two Jays? are they rivals? I have so many questions), and finally, mercifully, a café. I walk past the rest and head straight there. Maybe they'll take pity on me and I can get something to drink, at the very least. The words RAT & RAVEN are scrawled in blocky white font on a long black awning over the front door. Above the awning, a spread of second-story windows are covered in unlit lights and fake spiderwebs. A tall skeleton stands saluting me in the rightmost window. I salute him back.
There are a couple of outdoor tables, thankfully devoid of customers. The windows are absolutely lousy with posters and signs. OPEN FOR NOW; LIVE MUSIC! EVERY SAT, MAYBE; LOVE CONQUERS ALL; OCTOBER SPECIALS: PUMPKIN SHIT; BLACK LIVES MATTER; COFFEE FIRST, QUESTIONS LATER; ALL ARE WELCOME HERE (except fascists); OPEN MIC FRIDAYS (don't suck!) DOGGOS GET FREE TREATS; and a healthy assortment of various LGBTQ flags.
I think I love this place already.
There's a jingle above the door as I venture in. The vibe of the interior can only be described as "intentional chaos." There isn't a single piece of matching furniture--all of the tables and chairs are different, some newer, some ragged and torn. The walls are painted a rustic brown with reddish accents, but you can barely tell under the deluge of posters covering the walls. Mostly band posters, many of which I don't recognize, along with a boatload more signs and flags just like the ones on the outside windows. The scent of espresso and cinnamon permeates the café.
The room is dominated by an L-shaped counter, behind which all of the usual coffee and espresso machines sit, dirty and covered in post-its like "remember to clean the steam wand!", "last filter replaced oct 5", and "suck my spirit dick, Adds!" (yeah, I am at a loss about that last one.) The rear of the room is sunken down about 6 inches, and mostly consists of a bunch of ripped-up couches facing a fireplace.
"Be with you in a minute!" a voice calls out from the open door behind the counter. There are a few stools in front of the counter, almost like it's a bar. I take a seat and tap my fingers on the counter idly. Once again, as always, I have no idea what I'm really doing here. But...that almost seems to fit this place, strangely.
Maybe I'm meant to be here after all.
"'Kay, what can I get for you?" Then someone walks in through that open door, and every single thought exits my skull like scurrying rats. Like the café itself, she looks like chaos incarnate--but every bit pointed, purposeful. Her blonde hair is cut about chin-length and parted messily to one side, the other side shaved short. The tips of her wavy locks are dyed red and slightly faded. She's wearing a pair of faded and torn low-rise jeans, and a ratty leather jacket over a black crop top that leaves her pale belly and two thong straps deliciously exposed. Part of a tattoo peeks out from under her clothes. Her shirt reads: Fuck the Cistem.
