Sometimes it can’t be helped, that
long drive across the West, rolling the odometer like a slot
machine that promises to pay off with just one more spin. The gas
gauge hovers around “half” and it looks like you’ll get there
without stopping again in the middle of who knows where. Home is
all you think of, the familiar walls, the mattress that remembers
the curve of your hip.
So you settle in, determined to
take it fast. The sign at the side of the road says 60 miles to
home and you think, glancing at the speedometer, that at 60 mph,
it’s just an hour before you get there, the place where you
belong.
Though the weather report promised snow before
the end of the day, the road has been easy, the sky, a little soft
but certainly tolerable. Nothing left but to turn off the cruise
control and find a new line on the speedometer. A few snowflakes
begin flickering against the windshield, but you expected that. And
it’s simple stuff, 60 miles and 60 minutes. In an hour it
will all be over.
Two songs into your favorite tape, the
snowflakes start to stick. You flip the wipers to “intermittent”
and sit up a little. You’ll have to adjust. The snow is
starting to accumulate like static on a TV screen, but it will
pass, you know it, it always does. The next signpost announces 50
miles to where you’ll be laying your head on the pillow. You
check the speedometer and notice you’ve been forced to drop
down to 50 mph. You think, looking at your wristwatch, so what! In
an hour this will be finished. One hour and you’ll be warming
your insides, not caring what the outside does.
The tape
is finished. Through the windshield, if you let your pupils stay
fixed to that point where the flakes converge, it’s a little
like being hypnotized. Time itself appears to gather at the vortex
of your vision. The whole sky seems to spin yet you feel
motionless. The mile marker you just passed indicates 35 miles and
you’ll be inside the city limits where the streets are
plowed. If you slow down just a little you’ll not only be
safe, but you’ll be home. The speedometer reads 35 mph. Just
one thin hour and you’ll be there if nothing happens, and
what could happen? You’ve got it under control.
When the snow turns to sleet, driven like rock salt from a shotgun,
you’re wishing you were stuck behind the semi you recklessly
passed 25 miles back. Those taillights burning red like the
devil’s own eyes would be a welcome sight. Visibility is so
poor not even the glow from the town you know must be out there in
front of you appears.
It’s as if every familiar
touchstone has been obliterated, the landscape altered so that it
exists in no place but your memory. You roll the window down so you
can brush away a chunk of ice that’s stuck to the wiper
blade. It’s impossible to stop the car because you’ll
never get moving again; it’s that slick. Your fingers are
numb from trying to knock the ice loose, so you decide to navigate
by watching the side of the road through a rolled down passenger
window. The heater fan screams, hot air competing with the rush of
cold.
Then a beacon of hope shines against your
headlights: a metal sign assures you 10 miles is all that’s
left. Thank goodness, just 10. Daring the two fates of accident and
death, you take your eyes off the road for a frightening moment to
see how fast you’re traveling. At first it doesn’t seem
possible, so you check again. It’s gotten this bad: 10 mph!
Simple math tells you you’re still an hour from the safety of
your home.
It occurs to you that at this rate you may
never reach home. Some archaeologist will find your remains
centuries from now after they’ve been deposited by this
circumstantial glacier a few yards from the spot that would have
been your doorstep. You will be labeled “chronoman.” Crowds of
onlookers will file past what they believe to be an elaborate steel
coffin, gawking at the strange burial ritual of a vanished
civilization. You will be another King Tut, set out for display.
Your exhibit will tour the earth, fascinate children’s
imaginations and inspire commuters as they set out for the stars.
David Feela is a contributor to Writers on the
Range, a service of High Country News in Paonia, Colorado
(hcn.org). He is a freelance writer in Cortez, Colorado.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
