And as I looked at your reflection...

I saw my face in the mirror. It's my favorite way to see me. In the rearview mirror, looking at someone in the backseat or catching my co-pilot's eye on some fantastic road trip. Pre-the-why-I-hate-dating post, I think it's time for some of my fond memories of ridiculous road trips to become immortalized by Blogger. Sometimes, I do stupid things when I drive. I take scenic routes that get flooded, I drive through small towns where men in BIG trucks look at me funny, and sometimes, I just need friends to tell me what to do in such a situation.


Last summer, BD and I took a fabulous road trip across the midwest to wind up in the southwest at the mecca for artisans, gays, Rentheads, and all things Native American--Santa Fe. On our way there, we drove through parts of Missouri that I never knew existed. Lebanon. Burbon. St. Cloud. Rolla. But, the kicker to all of these was Eureka, Missouri. As we began to pull through the town, BD saw a sign for a midwest-only treat, White Castle. We were neither high, nor particularly hungry, but he had never had one and absolutely HAD TO, in NO uncertain terms, have a slider before he left the midwest. At the appropriate exit, I pulled off and drove into the parking lot of a very innocuous looking White Castle. We, the fruit and his fly, sauntered into the building, still singing along to Big River (which is our traditional road trip-starting album). Once inside, though, the singing stopped immediately, as we realized that everyone from Bumblefuck, Missouri had come to THIS particular White Castle for Friday night dinner. We were watched from the door to the counter, and I swear that no fewer than five bubbas in John Deere hats (because they drove the dadgum things, not because they shopped at AE) stared my dear boy down because he "ain't from 'round here." We skittered to the counter, and placed our orders with the asexual counter boy. Girl. Boy? The poor baby was *stunning* with great cheekbones, long lashes, wavy hair that was in the unfortunate mullet-style popular with boys at 16 and girls who have no mothers in Southern States. (S)He had a very transgender name...like AJ. Or Stef. Or Sam. Or something that could be *either* gender. The most confusing part was that we felt like we should be polite and use a "sir" or a "ma'am"...but, we *couldn't*. We ordered from the lovely creature, got our burgers and silently walked to the car. Once inside, I locked the doors, and BD looked straight ahead and forcefully said, "DRIVE."

Sometimes, that's all that needs sayin'.


A few years prior to this, Sally and I were going to an artisan's house for New Year's Eve in the middle of farm country, Texas. It was one of those horrendous houses that was off of a dirt road, off of an unmarked paved road, off of a farm road, off the main highway. Needless to say, we got lost. I believe we drove a full ten minutes longer than we should have before we realized we were really lost. I joked about us ending up Deliverance-style at the bottom of some Texas crick somewhere and Sally just smiled and nodded. She hates water. At that point, my headlights caught up with a large oak tree with a noose hanging from a very reachable branch. Sally put her hands on the dashboard and quietly said, "I am black. Turn around. Now." Which I did. I am her human shield while crossing the street ("Please. Just walk. They won't hit you, you're white. Human shield."), but I realized how useless I would be against backwoods bubbas in Nowhere, Texas. We reached our destination, eventually, after a brief stop at the wrong house (where several large men came *outside* from inside an imposing, darkened house, where I can only assume massive amounts of torture and fornication were taking place)...I might have kept going down the wrong road that night, were it not for the sage advice from a friend.

I should always have someone riding with me. It's just safer that way.