My name is Ann. I graduated from university two years ago with a degree in Computer Science and was semi-happily settled down with my boyfriend, when out of the blue I got my absolute dream job in a big tech company, but the problem was that I lived in Maine and the job was all the way out in California. I was hoping that my boyfriend would join me out west, but he outright refused to leave his family and friends behind, so we broke up. Of course, I was sad about the breakup, but this was my dream job, so I packed up my car with all that I owned and started my way to California on the longest road trip I've ever taken by myself in my whole life.
At first all that open road stuff was exhilarating, but by the time I had driven all the way down from Maine and reached the Mississippi I was starting to go crazy. I had been on the road for days without speaking to anyone, so on purpose I started stopping a little more. At first, I started trying to have conversations with my fellow drivers in the greasy diners at the truck stops I pulled into to get gas.
My first attempt ended badly. I took a seat at the counter at a diner between two old hairy truckers who looked like they could use someone to talk too. As soon as I sat down, I started to have second thoughts about my plan, for the two old men were a little scary looking and had a certain body funk about them, but I was desperate, so I caried on.
"So where are you guys driving too today? I know you guys probably do it all the time, but I'm driving across country all by myself all the way out to California."
Both of the old truckers slowly began to turn towards me like they were lizards as their jaws slowly opened to eat me. "Oh, is that so," said the first truckdriver. "You could always ride with me little girl," offered the second truckdriver.
Before my brain even had time to process what the dirty old men were suggesting, I felt a hand grab me from behind by my triceps. I nearly screamed but held it together enough to spin around to see the waitress standing there with a scalding hot coffee pot in her hand like it was some sort of weapon. "Your table is ready hun," she said as she popped her gum in an aggressive way.
Before I had a chance to respond she pulled me across the diner, sat me in a booth, and began pouring me a cup of black coffee, although I hadn't asked for one. "Never tell dirty old men like those two that you're on the road all by your lonesome." She implored me as she stared at me directly in the eyes. "Do you understand?"
"Yes Ma'am," I said thankful for her intervention.
"Now whatcha havin?" the waitress said with a smile.
After I wolfed down a short stack of pancakes, drank a second cup of coffee, and had another quick chat with the waitress, which I hoped would stave off the loneliness for another few days, I continue westward along I-70. The drive across Missouri and Kansas was brutal. Mile after mile of flat farmland as far as the eye can see. By the time I hit Colorado I was sure I was already dead inside. I spent the night in a roadside motel on the Colorado Kansas boarder, I was so desperate for human contact that I even opened up my old secret Tender account, but there was no match for a hundred miles around, so I had to go to sleep alone once again.
Thanks to the differences in the time zones between the East Coast and Colorado, and thanks to a semi-truck with a particular loud air horn that passed by my hotel room in the night, I got up really early the next morning. I was on the road by 4 AM and by the time daylight broke I could see the Rocky Mountains as they rose in the distance.
The Rocky Mountains were something else; tall and jagged, and painted red by the sunrise. I wanted to see more. I had made really good time on my trip--thanks to me being an antisocial weirdo--and I really didn't need to be in California for another week, so on the spur of the moment I decided to take a little detour from the main road.
Before lunch, I found myself in this weird little artsy cowboy town. Its little main street was a strange mix of classic small town Americana stuff like gun shops, feed stores, and lots and lots of trucks, as well as more modern big city conveniences such as art galleries, coffee shops, marijuana dispensaries, and a vegan cafe on the corner that looked particularly good, but it didn't open for another hour.
I had done little to no walking since being on the road, so I went for a little stroll down the little main street. There were American flags up everywhere as well as a bunch of Trump flags, which put me off a little, but in the middle of it all there was an old, two-story rock building that had been converted into a local art gallery for local artists, and it was proudly flying a rainbow flag.
I stepped inside the old rock building as an old brass bell rung above me on the door. The place was empty except for row after row of glass display cases and stands tastefully filled full of various bowls, clothing, jewellery, and other items all made by a host of local artists. Some of the art was good, but a lot of it was a little too southwestern cowboy kish for my taste.
I walked around for a minute until a rather large bull's skull caught my eye. All the hair, flesh, and muscle had been stripped from it leaving just the gleaming white bone. On the bone, between the skull's empty eyes sockets, someone had painted an Indian dream weaver. I looked down at the artist's bio taped to the wall next to the skull and saw the face of a young, bearded white man, who definitely wasn't Native American.
"Do you like it?" asked an older woman with a country accent from over my shoulder.
I jumped up to see an older, plump woman, in her mid-fifties with glasses and short, dyed candy pink hair smiling at me. She wore a short sleeve, cowboy style pink button up top, a large comfortable skirt, and a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.
"Ah...," I said as I hoped the artist wasn't her son or anything, "I'm not sure," I eventually croaked out.
"I don't like it either," the lady said as she wrinkled her nose in a playful way. "Too much death for my taste, but a lot of tourists like it."
"Really?" I said a little indignant.
"You would be surprised how many we sell in a month," the woman laughed. "You aren't from around here, are you?"
"No," I said as I tried to bite my tongue and not come across as a weirdo who was desperate to speak to anyone. "I'm from back East, but I'm moving out to California, and I've been on the road for a while now."
"All by your lonesome?" the woman demanded in a friendly way as she placed a hand on my shoulder.
"Oh yes," I said as I felt something in me start to crack. "Aside from a few waitresses here and there, you're the first person I've spoken to in a week."
"Good God! Let me get you a cup of tea and I'll give you the grand tour," the woman said as she gave me a concerned smile.
A few minutes later I had a hot cup of tea in my hand, and I had told Gertrude--the art lady--my whole life story, which admittedly wasn't very long. I told her about where I grew up, how my parents disapproved of me studying Computer Science for it was a "man's field," and I even told her about my recent breakup.
"You're better off without him," she said reassuringly as she showed me around the gallery.
"Thanks," I said in honest appreciation as I took a sip from my tea. Then I did a quick look around at all the items she had shown me and realized that I hadn't seen any of Gertrude's work hung anywhere. "What about you? Are you an artist too?"
"I am," smiled Gertrude as she gave me a side glance.
