The night of bourbon made for tough sledding behind the wheel. Two energy drinks and three hard face slaps got me through Portland, Salem, and almost to Eugene, my eyes drooping and closing and opening in panic after I snorted the snort of a man falling into deep sleep. 

            A rest stop power nap filled my gas tank. I was tempted to visit Eugene and do the town and Nike tour. Find the Douglas Fir Research Center and learn about the important ecological significance of the trees as they became the economic and visual symbol of the city and state. That is, until Nike was founded in 1964 (originally as Blue Ribbon Sports, with the name changed to Nike in 1971.)

            Pop Quiz, Hotshot: Why did Blue Ribbon Sports change its name to Nike?

a) To avoid a lawsuit against Blue Ribbon Sports, Inc., originally founded in 1959 by Warren Buffett

                        b) After the Greek Goddess Nike, the god of victory

                        c) Co-Founders Bill Bowerman and Phil Knight believed Blue Ribbon Sports was too many words to fit on a pair of modern running shoes

                        d) B and C

                        e) How much do people who write quizzes get paid? 

            I didn’t need a new pair of shoes or any sportswear, although anyone who knew me would be surprised by the state of my vehicle and my overall cleanliness. I was showering and brushing my teeth, but I’d only packed clothes for a week, which I’d passed two days prior. Any time on the road meant no underwear was preferable to dirty underwear. I smelled like grunge rock. Hotels did have laundry services, but I’d opted for  food and sleep. Sink washing was also an option, one I remembered Larry doing often even though Deacon offered to have Larry’s sweaty workout clothes cleaned.

            It’s how his grandma would have done it, was Larry’s response. His sink was used for soaking soiled garments before hanging them from his shower rod to dry. I’m sure Larry’s grandma was a sweet woman, but it didn’t convince me to do laundry in my hotel bathroom.

            I drove through Eugene, a fir-tastic looking city that I would’ve explored if Spin Cycle had ever played a show there. They played Portland twice, but never Eugene. Onward towards what I thought after my power nap would be a hotel just inside the California state line. The weight of my thoughts and my hangover wore me down. Just inside California quickly turned to Rogue River, a town I’d never heard of with two options for sleep close to the highway. 

            It was early afternoon on June 30th as I rolled into town, the sky painted the raw blue of rare steak. My car rattled to a sigh after I killed the engine in the hotel drive-thru. Check-in was fast. They had a restaurant with over-priced food I didn’t want. The laundry service cost $4 per item. I was sleepy and grumpy crossed with hanger. 

            I bought Taco Bell and ate it at a laundromat in town. An episode of Friends played on the TV hanging from the corner of the room. The one where no one’s ready for the party. A woman in sweat shorts and a baggy black shirt folded laundry on a table while her toddler wobbled from one spinning washer to the next, peering into each machine, tiny hands slapping the glass. The woman snapped her fingers. The sound was that of lightning, fiercer than any human snap I’d heard. The toddler responded, not in fear, but like a dog running to the front door after doing its business outside. 

            Who changed my diaper when I was that age? Mom and Dad were never in the same room together long enough to have that conversation. I could call them and ask, but I wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. My money was on both, with Dad finding ways to justify why he should do all the other chores in exchange for diaper duty. Mom would understand his logic, but also explain there was some trust built in the diaper changing process. Talk about how cleaning someone’s ass required vulnerability. Babies had no choice in the matter, but one day he might need someone to clean his ass, and didn’t he want it to be someone he loved and trusted? And Dad would consider saying, “You’re saying I don’t love our son?” but had learned his lesson by that point, having had enough bickering arguments that he’d rather change a thousand shitty diapers than have another argument with no hope for resolution apart from journeying in separate ways.

            I ate a Quesarito and wondered, should too cute for me woman and I ever cross paths again, how long would we go before having our first argument? What would it be about? What did we have in common? What quirks did we each possess, and how accepting of the other’s differences would we be? And why, rather than share her issues with me before, did Laramie choose to never speak of them and instead bail on the relationship with nary a phone call or heads up? Out of the blue, as the saying goes, like a shark. 

            After laundry (I saved $50), I rode with open windows and the smell of fresh linen in the summer. I thought again, annoyingly, of the house Laramie and I wanted to buy. A house with land and room in the backyard for hanging laundry from a clothesline. She’d head outside in a sundress. Days before the 4th of July would put me in my Spin Cycle Plays D.C. shirt, the one from the 9/11 Memorial show. I’d bring the wicker basket, and we’d check for bees before folding the clothes. We’d talk openly about where life was headed, and how nice it was that we could have these conversations, and how it felt different and special and golly gee. 

            I parked by a bridge over the Rogue River and sat on a stone bench overlooking the dark water. American flags hung from the crescent supports on either side. I was crying. I let the tears roll, squeezing a pile of napkins, waiting for James to chime in, to celebrate my letting it out. 

            When he didn’t speak up, I tilted my head towards my right shoulder. “I’m so sick of this.” 

            Still nothing. Had my speaking about Dad rendered my imaginary friend silent? Did he slide out of my nose on a river of snot? Was he in a kayak with a double-sided paddle with a thrilled look on his face? Was this freedom for James? 

            “I guess so.” 

            I blew my nose with the napkins and recognized the snot was clear. Healthy, and no imaginary friends. Many people roamed the green space by the bridge. I put my sunglasses down to avoid any additional attention, not that the average person would walk up to a stranger and ask them if they were okay.

            Tears can result from any number of emotions. Assuming emotional support is needed is a risky venture. 

            But damn could I have used a hug right about then. A hug from the right person (Meredith, Dad, Laramie; hell, even Mom, if Bill wasn’t around), or even the wrong person with the right intentions, would’ve caused a real purge. People would wonder what sounded louder, the bubbling Rogue River or my sobs.

            I let them subside and then slipped my sandals off, toeing through the thick grass to the river’s edge. I squatted and then sat, my back creaking. I plunged my feet into the cold water, watching it flow over them. The sunlight’s refraction made everything look more misshapen than it was.

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