Don't Stop Now (12 page)

Our route to Portland can either take us through Montana and Washington or down through Idaho and Oregon. I'm partial to the Montana route, if only because it will take us through a city called Butte, which I suspect is supposed to rhyme with
cute
but is asking for
butt
. Josh, on the other hand, loves potatoes, so we head to Idaho. As if the state is just covered with Tater Tots. To challenge my cynicism, what should be our first stop but a giant potato photo op outside the (overkill!) Spud Drive In (easily located by the numerous potato-covered billboards). The giant potato turns out to be a big ol' faker, with no actual potato content, although it's lifelike enough. Perched on the back of a flatbed truck, the potato is, naturally, paired with an American flag.

I pull out my cell phone, which has been on and dying since Yellowstone, to take a picture. No message from Penny or Ethan yet, and no answer when I tried the number again. “We're gonna lose the cell soon,” I tell Josh, looking at the thin, red battery line.

“Maybe we can find one of those lighter chargers,” he suggests.

“Out here? Not bloody likely. Unless it's potato powered.” I shut the phone off to conserve batteries for when we're closer to Portland.

Our next stop is almost the town of Rigby, whose signs declare is the birthplace of television, but I'm feeling the tug of the quest and don't want to get sidetracked again. Besides, what exactly would there be to look at? A huge fake TV, with requisite American flag? Maybe it's made of potatoes. Idaho sure has me making potatoey jokes. That doesn't sound as good as corny did. Or cheesy, for that matter.

My mind rolling with potatoes, I soon decide that there's no more room for stops in Idaho. If we drive all night, we could make it to Portland by tomorrow morning. I drag my pen along the map of the Northwest, when I hit a most obvious snag. And it's not in the directions. “Josh…,” I say with a hint of whine.

“Lil…,” he mimics.

“How are we going to find Penny once we get to Portland?” I say this slowly, recognizing how I missed out on that opportunity in Deadwood.

“You have no idea at all where she is?” Josh quickly turns his head to look at me, then back on the road. I detect a slight bit of annoyance, which only annoys me back. We wouldn't have Josh's journey of avoidance without Penny as the catalyst.

“Have you not been listening? I knew she was going to Portland to be with a guy named Ethan. That should narrow it down a bit, shouldn't it?” I waver between snark and panic.

“What about your phone? She called you from somewhere in Portland, right? So the number's on your phone.”

“But we don't have much battery power. What if I turn it on, and there's no reception, and that wastes all the power? Or what if when I finally do turn it on, the battery's already completely dead?” The wavering is over; I'm hysterical that our spontaneity in leaving and lack of a plan have screwed our chances of quest success.

“I think you should definitely wait to call her until we're in Portland. Leave the phone off until then. If we try to call her now and the phone dies, we won't even have a phone number to not be able to find her with. Don't worry. It'll all work its way out.” Josh calmingly puts his hand on my knee.

“OK,” I breathe. “We wait until Portland,” I agree. Even if I don't quite believe it.

 

We pass the long drive from the giant potato to Craters of the Moon National Monument (which we determine is too cool-sounding to pass up) by calling out funny town names. “Irwin!” “Ririe!” “Rigby!” “Chubbuck!” But then we decide that none of them (except Chubbuck, of course) are all that funny. We make a turn at my favorite, Rupert (this state has an obvious love for British male names. Or maybe a bunch of British dudes named all the towns after themselves), and head to Craters of the Moon. I guess I'm hoping for a real live version of the FantaSuite hotel room, but with the sun shining brightly and tourists with ugly orange backpacks surrounding us, there's nothing much moon-like about it. The ground is black and ashy, craggy in some parts from lava. I guess that's the moon deal.

“They could have at least put in a fake alien head popping out from behind a rock or something,” I note.

“Or a real one,” Josh adds. “Next trip we'll go to Roswell, New Mexico, Area Fifty-One—the whole alien shebang.” He puts his arm around me reassuringly.

“Next trip?” I ask.

“Yeah. Next road trip,” he says as though stating a fact.

Is he just being Josh, making up fake plans for a fantastical future, or is another road trip, another summer, a possibility? I'm warmed by the idea, so we spend the next long leg of our loud highway journey yelling out names of places we want to see.

“The Grand Canyon!”

“The Alamo!”

“The basement of the Alamo!”

“There's no basement in the Alamo!” I yell, acknowledging the nod to
Pee Wee's Big Adventure.

Josh allows me to take the wheel around Twin Falls, Idaho. I've only driven his car a few times, when he's needed both hands to record ambient sounds with a portable microphone to add to some of his music. But tonight, I drive because it's time I take control of the journey. And I don't want an overtired Josh to crash when we're this close to our destination. Before we get back on the highway, we stop for our second “Authentic Idahoan Meal,” according to Josh.

“How is McDonald's authentic Idahoan?” I ask.

“Duh. Where do you think they get their fries?”

“Probably not from real potatoes, if they're anything like the burgers,” I guess.

“Stop crapping all over my potato fantasies.”

We drive, and Josh naps in the backseat as I navigate through Idaho country. Mountains peak into blue sky in every direction. I sing along with Elvis and know every guitar pluck and jangle by heart. When this trip is over I'm either going to build a memorial to this tape or burn it. Who knows? Maybe it will melt itself from exhaustion.

With Josh still asleep, I pass through Boise and then over into Oregon, celebrating the new state by myself. Not nearly as ceremonious as when done in tandem. By eleven o'clock, my heavy eyelids are ready to pull over. Josh lounges in the backseat, awake, and leans over my shoulder to whisper in my ear, “I'll take it from here. We'll be in Portland by daybreak.”

His whisper inspires me. “No,” I say. “Why don't we stop somewhere and stay the night? We don't even know where we're going once we get to Portland. You can't really call someone at daybreak.” Although that's about when this whole thing started, isn't it?

Josh's head remains near my shoulder until we pull off the highway into a town called Pendleton. Appealingly homespun signs lead to the Rugged Mountain Lodge, several miles down the road, but I'm leaning toward the Motel 6 in plain sight. I pull into the parking lot. “We can't stop at a Motel Six when a Rugged Mountain Lodge is nearly in our grasp. I mean—Rugged. Mountain. Lodge,” Josh enthuses. My head nods heavily, so Josh exits the backseat and slides me over just enough to fit into the driver's seat. I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps his arm over mine.

We drive for another ten minutes until we spot a woodsy sign. It turns out the Rugged Mountain Lodge isn't a lodge at all, nor is it as rustic as it sounds. It is a bed-and-breakfast of the maximum quaint variety.

“Are we allowed to get here this late?” I yawn while we stand poised at the door. Bed-and-breakfasts have rules about comings and goings, I think. A doorbell with a sign reads,
WELCOME, WEARY TRAVELERS
.

“You're weary, aren't you?” Josh asks, and he rings the bell.

I expect a gaggle of roosters to crow and dogs to bark, to hear a man trip over the animals and yell, “Dagnabbit!” But instead, a woman of around forty in a fluffy bathrobe, her blond hair high in a ponytail, answers the door with a squinty smile.

“Sorry to be arriving so late. We've been on the road all day,” Josh explains to the woman with his polite charm. I quickly swipe away the image of Josh in Cougartown.

The woman, whom I shall call “Hattie” because that sounds bed-and-breakfast, looks at us with her head cocked to one side, as if she's sizing up two teenagers at a bed-and-breakfast. There's a glint in her eye. Of recognition perhaps? Of days gone by when she took a road trip expecting some sort of clarity? Or maybe she just needs the business. “Oh, not a problem. We're happy to have you. Come in.” Hattie welcomes us into a foyer, heavy on the floral, and asks us to sign the guest registry. I'm comforted that there are other names listed. Just in case this isn't a real bed-and-breakfast, and she's luring people here to kill and stuff us, like in that Roald Dahl story about the landlady. Man, I'm tired. “Will that be one room or two?” Hattie inquires.

“One,” Josh answers quickly.

“One bed or two?” Is she prying? Or are these standard guest questions?

“One,” Josh answers even quicker.

My stomach twinges a happy twinge, even though it has been disappointed before by Josh and his friendly closeness. Or his close friendness. Just point me to the bed.

Josh hands Hattie his credit card, and she runs it through a tiny machine hidden in a drawer with a dangling golden handle. When we're cleared, she rummages through a small cabinet. “Here's your key. Room Four. I'll be up shortly with complimentary tea and cookies.” Hattie says this with a hint of obligation, looking tired.

“Don't worry about that,” I say. “We can just wait for breakfast tomorrow.”

“You sure?” We both nod. “Well then, good night. Pleasant dreams.”

Josh and I find our room at the end of the hall. Inside we are overwhelmed with flowers, covering walls, chairs, and a canopy bed. I almost start sneezing. “If this were a FantaSuite, what do you think it would be called?” I whisper. The house is so silent, any noise we make might be intercepted by the other Mountain Logders.

“Floral Explosion?” Josh guesses.

“Or what about Death by Dandelion?” I suggest. Josh nods in agreement.

We tiptoe around, getting ready for bed. I change into a fresh T-shirt that reads,
PROUD OF MY WISCONSCENT,
take off my shorts, and climb into bed while Josh finishes up in the bathroom. I click off the lights.

“Whoa. Darkness,” Josh announces as he exits the bathroom.

“Want me to turn on the light?” I ask.

“Nah. I'll adjust.” I hear him taking off clothes, probably his T-shirt. Then more clothes. I'm guessing his shorts. That leaves his boxers. And me in my undies.

Josh slides into bed next to me, the sheets tucked so tightly I can't keep my feet perpendicular without my toes getting smushed. I roll onto my side to face him.

The only light in the room glows from the red numbers on the alarm clock and from underneath the door leading to the hallway. Not a heavy-duty door, like in a hotel, but a regular, thin house door. I can just make out Josh's face, so close to mine I can smell his recently rinsed toothpaste.

“Hi,” he says. It always bothers me when people do this little exchange in movies and on TV. So cutesy and fake. And yet…

“Hi,” I reply. The words always leading. And he kisses me. And I kiss him. And then I stop and turn onto my back.

“Don't stop now,” Josh prods. My words. My rock.

“Why, Josh? Why now?” Now in this bed-and-breakfast. Now on our trip. In our lives.

“Don't you want to?” His whisper is defensive.

“Of course,” I whisper back. “I mean, I did. I do. I don't know.” He flips over onto his stomach, his face toward me. “What would this mean?” I need to know. In the past, in high school, when we were together every day, I always pictured us as boyfriend and girlfriend, cutest-couple-yearbook material. Or maybe a senior edition newspaper nod. But what are we now, in the limbo between high school and college, where my immediate future is scheduled and his is, just, somewhere else?

“It doesn't have to mean anything. Or it could mean something, if you want it to.” He strokes the strands of hair that hang around my face, his guitar-rough fingertips brushing my cheek.

“What do
you
want?” I ask.

“I want right now,” he whispers, and props himself up on his arm.

“I want right now, too,” I decide. Josh kisses me, and I let him. And I kiss him back, and he lets me. Together. Here. Now.