“You get on I-25 North until Wyoming, then keep going until you cross into Montana, where you’ll pick up I-90 West. Run through Bozeman, keep on through Idaho, which is really that narrow northern portion, the handle of the meat cleaver, if you turn your map clockwise, and then into Washington. Pass through Spokane and truck on until you hit Seattle. Great floating bridge there. Stop at a rest area along the way, get a hotel, one of those Air Beds and their Breakfasts – not that it’s any of my business, sleep when you need it. I know I’d have to stop two, three times at my age. Back in my trucking days, I could do it in one shot, assuming they ignored my mileage and the coffee was flowing. Can’t see too great at night anymore, have to wear my glasses and then the glasses give me a headache from squinting, and anyway, you don’t appear to have that problem, young buck. That is the way. Check out Leny’s Place, or what’s that rock and roll one? Pacific Inn, or Screwdriver. Hell, they all killed my brain cells. Can’t go wrong. Safe travels.” 

You know, for a gas station worker, she had an awful lot of useful information. 

As Dad said when I showed him my first iPhone, “Ain’t nothing on there you can’t ask Harry down at the Roundabout Pub.” Now, Meredith tells me he’s asking Alexa to play old Chuck Berry songs. 

After a brief encounter with a curious mind, to Seattle I trekked. 

Music of choice for the first leg: Let’s go, Seattle. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Alice in Chains. Soundgarden. Heart.

I thought about Chris Cornell, and about musicians dying, and damn it if more tears didn’t come. Not all tears flow from sadness. 

“Hey, James.” 

Yeah, Kid. 

The road thrummed under the wheels. Rain splattered the windshield and the wipers waved a half second behind “Heart-Shaped Box”. I switched the dash monitor from time to destination (20 hours and 15 minutes) to song title and focused on not focusing. 

“Do you think it’s weird when people cry when celebrities die?”

I think that’s up to the person getting broken up about it. Why are they crying? 

“I don’t know. Could be they grew up with that person’s music or movies. Developed a bond through lessons learned. They felt formative in a way, maybe. Or, what if an album helped them get through a break-up or a death? That story of, ‘They were there for me when no one else was.’” 

Didn’t you cry when Tom Petty died? Why’d that happen for you?

Again, how long had James been around?

“He reminded me of Dad. Parts of his music. His look. His overall vibe. And, yeah, the band listened to a lot of Petty back in the day. And okay, Laramie and I had him on a ton when we lounged outside on spring days, floating together in a hammock. Fuck, James. You’re in my head. Any way you can zap out the memories of her without disrupting anything else? I’m not trying to get dementia, but I also would love to not have random images of her laughing at a joke or putting up Christmas decorations pop into my head and shatter the calm I’ve reached. Any chance you’re more than a buddy on my shoulder?”

I glanced at my right shoulder and found a piece of blue lint. 

No James. 

Because there was no fucking James. 

Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly. 

“Why? You’re me, not some made up person. You’re an extension of me and I’m going– No. Not going, gone. I’ve gone insane.” 

Listen, it’s raining, you’re looking through one good eye. Slow down and breathe, man.

“Or I drive off the next bridge we cross.”

You’re driving to Wyoming. Going to be a while until the next bridge. Get a grip. Like that Aerosmith album, right? Get a grip. 

“You’ve never made this drive. How do you know?”

I haven’t, but Karl did. You were sleeping.

“Terrible album to reference. ‘Livin’ on the Edge’? ‘Crazy’? ‘Cryin’?”

Just want you to calm down and get back to your progress over perfection. This trip is helping, but you’re going to fall backwards. Chutes and ladders, remember?

“Can you zap the memories or not?”

Two cars were pulled over to the side of the road. One was jacked up and missing a tire. A bald man pulled a spare from the trunk while two children watched from the rear window of the other car. 

I’m afraid I can’t help you on that front. I’m more than happy to engage in civil discourse that results in either a fading of the memories – not gone altogether, because erasure can lead to forgetting other memories, until all you’re doing is forming new ones and only remembering those – or you reach an understanding that memories don’t have to be bad, or good, or negative, or cause you to spill your red soul into a tub of hot water. Yeah, I can’t erase memories, but I’m always listening. And I can tell you for a fact that your father himself would beat your ass if he found out you almost did that. Probably don’t show him your left wrist, eh, Buck? Because Laramie is Laramie. And had her own agenda. And her own life to live. If it didn’t include you, then hot shit. You had good times together. You both grew. Love’s a bitch. It hurts. It bleeds. It heals. Whatever those lyrics are, they’re true because someone else went through it, just like you. And they survived. And they moved on. So, no, I can’t zap out specific memories because then you’d be ignoring them and not learning and growing. Stop thinking about the easy way out for a change. 

A green sign said 87 miles to Cheyenne. 

“A simple no would’ve sufficed.” 

Well, you pissed me off. Be safe on the drive, for both of our sakes.

I toggled songs until “Hunger Strike” by Temple of the Dog came on. I cranked it and drove on through fresh tears. Tears happened for a reason. Good or bad, I had to get rid of some shit. Maybe even James. 

I heard that.

Good. That was the point.