Texas

Texas

by Sam Ford

It was deep summer. I’d just gotten off my shift and was headed home. Tuckered and a little drunk. Me, Nick-the-bartender, and Jose-one-of-the-dishwashers put in a little overtime. By that I mean we threw up the chairs, eased off the lights, and made ourselves familiar with the scotch shelf. I’d dropped Jose off at the little apartment complex where he was staying with some other guys. They were all kitchen guys.

I’d been talking with this woman on the internet. She lived in Tucson and we’d been discussing her maybe flying to Pennsylvania to meet me. She’d emailed me her picture and she was pretty nice looking. She was a dental assistant. She drove a Mustang. Her “one indulgence.” That and the “Willie Nelson ice cream.” The Ben & Jerry’s kind. I tried it per her suggestion. It was pretty good.

Anyway I was sorta’ looking forward to getting home and talking with her online. We’d agreed to chat once I got off work. She had a sixteen year-old kid she was raising alone. Apparently he was quite the outfielder.

I drove with the windows open.

It was Highway 22 near Cresson. Texas was walking on the other side of the road. It was late. Not a lotta’ traffic to say the least. She watched me whip by her in my Corolla. I slowed some, checked my rearview. She’d stopped walking. She was watching me. I came to a stop. I thought she might be hurt. Needed help. Something.

I was forty-three years old.

I made a u-turn and drove towards her. She was still standing there. She had long light brown hair. She was on the tall side, I guess. Pale skin. She was sweating. White t-shirt. Backpack. Jeans cut off just below the knees. Adidas. I figured her for early 20’s. I pulled along side her, rolled down the passenger side window.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Would you mind giving me a ride to Altoona? It’s pretty close isn’t it?”

“Well…”

“You were going in the opposite direction. I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

I looked at her. She was smiling slightly. Her eyes were open and shining there in the dark. It scared me that she was out walking like she was. Hitch-hiking. It scared me that I was the one to find her. But it was also a relief.

“You don’t have to pay me anything,” I said.

I wondered how I looked to her. Someone once told me I had a kind face. That always seemed somewhat unnerving to me. I wondered if she thought my face was kind. I wondered if that made her more apprehensive.

“Okay, well –” I said.

She took off her backpack, got in the Corolla, put the backpack on her lap, shut the door. The temperature in the car got noticeably hotter. She inhaled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her bangs were soaked with sweat.

“Thanks,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s hot out there,” I said, throwing the car in gear.

“Tell me about it,” she said.

“Sorry the air conditioner’s busted,” I said. “The guys had to order a part.”

She smiled generously at me. I wondered if she knew I’d been drinking.

She pulled some spearmint gum from one of the smaller pockets of her bag.

“Would you like some?” she offered.

“No thanks,” I said. She took a piece and put it in her mouth.

“Where’re you coming from?” I asked her.

“California,” she said. “Los Angeles.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Yeah. Long way.” She smiled.

I went for my Camels.

“Oh we can smoke?” she said. She spit her gum out the window and pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights from her bag. She lit hers and lit mine. I liked that she did that. Then I tried not to care.

“What brought you here?” I asked.

“Just had to get outta’ L.A. You ever been there?”

“San Diego for a weekend.”

“Not quite the same.”

“I guess not.”

“I was out there trying to be an actor. The town fucked me up a little, y’know? It’s lonely. Really isolating in a way. So I did things to not feel lonely. Bad sorta’ things. Then I decided I didn’t really wanna’ do those things.”

“So you hitch-hiked or…I mean you’re hitch-hiking?”

“Yeah. I sold my car out there. Figured it’d be more fun to do it this way. It’s been fun sometimes. Scary. Boring sometimes.”

“You’ve made it a long way,” I offered.

“Sure have,” she said. She took a long drag off her cigarette.

I knew I wouldn’t know her very long but I wanted to know her forever and wanted to know everything and everyone that’d come before.

We smoked for a little while.

“Where do you think you’ll end up?” I asked her.

“New York City,” she said. “I still wanna’ act. I just don’t wanna’ do it out in that fuckin’ place.”

She had a ring on her finger. A Cladagh.

“Are you Irish?” I asked her.

“A little,” she said. Her little eyes smiled. She smoked her cigarette down. Flicked it out the window.

“My name’s Ed,” I told her. “Ed Ganley.”

“Hi, Ed,” she said. She put her hand out. I looked at it and then shook it. I felt about a million years old.

“I’m Texas,” she said.

“Texas?”

She nodded.

“That’s an interesting name,” I said.

“It sure is,” she said.

We sat there for a minute. In silence there for a minute. The air swept past us as we drove. Crickets. Engine. There were a lotta’ stars up there. I could feel sweat tickling my hairline. Dripping down behind my ears.

I’d been a waiter on and off for 25 years.

“Would you like to get a cup of coffee?” I asked her. “Or…”

“Sure,” she said.

***

I took her to a diner in Cross Keys. I’d eaten there a few times. It was 24 hours. The burgers weren’t bad. It was a place people came to alone. That night the air conditioning was on.

The waitress brought us two cups on saucers. She looked to be in her 50’s. No make-up. T-shirt. Late shift.

Texas poured milk and Equal in her coffee. I poured a little milk and sugar.

“Whaddayou do for a living, Ed?” she asked me.

I hesitated for a moment. There was no reason to lie. The sun would be up soon.

“Wait tables. I’m a waiter.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“The Sparrow’s Inn. It’s in Altoona actually.”

“Is it a fancy place?”

“I guess it’s fancy. Kind of expensive.”

“Fine dining?”

“I guess. I wear a uniform.”

“Is the money any good?”

“It can be. Summer mostly.”

She shook her bangs from her eyes, tucked some hair behind her ear.

“I worked in a bunch of places in L.A. Bartending mostly.”

“Pretty good money I bet.”

“It’s pretty good but it’s obvious.”

I wondered what she meant but I didn’t quite have the balls to ask. She seemed restless. Or maybe I just thought she was.

My lips were suddenly chapped. I guess from the a/c.

“Do you live alone?” she asked.

I looked at her. Her face was honest and straight.

“Yeah.” I paused for a second. Her expression didn’t change. “Yeah I…I was married once. She was my sorta’…high school sweetheart. I used to be a football player then. I was…but I mean I’ve never left Pennsylvania. Anyway she…we divorced about four years ago. Now she lives in Colorado with her new husband. They ski.”

Texas smiled but she didn’t say anything. We were sitting in a booth. She looked out the window.

“Do you have a boyfriend or anything?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. “I got a lotta’ stories though.”

She was still looking out the window.

***

I bought her the coffee. We walked out of the diner and she lit a cigarette. I lit one too.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

The diner was in a strip-mall. All of the storefronts were dark. The big parking lot lights poured down across the asphalt. Texas looked up at them.

“False suns,” she said to herself.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The lights,” she said, pointing at them. “They’re like big fake suns.”

We started walking. There were stores with clothes for pregnant women. Stores with clothes for fat women. Stores with clothes for businessmen on a budget. Stores with sporting goods. Stores with pizza. Stores with pet food and pet items and certain kinds of pets. Stores with music.

Texas sat down on the curb in front of the fat woman store. I sat next to her. We smoked. I tried to swallow a yawn but she caught me.

“Are you tired, Ed?” she said.

“No…I’m alright.”

“Well you worked all night. You should be tired.”

“I guess I am a little,” I said.

She smiled at me.

“The truth is,” she said, “I’m lonely as the devil, Ed. I’m so lonesome I could cry. I’m lonely, Ed. And I don’t know how not to be. I’ve run away from just about everything I ever dared to start. I’ve run away from everything I’ve been too scared to finish. I was an actress in Los Angeles. That means somewhere along the line I decided not to be real. And once I convinced myself that acting was a good and noble endeavor, I was filled with resentment for having to convince myself in the first place. I want to be a truck driver. I want to be a veterinarian. I want to be short order cook. I want to be a wife. I want to be a basketball player. I want to be a journalist. I want to fall in love and never look back. And I don’t know how to take any of those wants and turn them into reality. I don’t know how to take what’s in front of me and be it or do it or even really know it. I’m afraid of giving myself to something that won’t let me be free. And I’m afraid of never knowing what it’s like to be held down by something I love. My parents love me. My brother loves me. There’s even a town somewhere in America that knows me and probably even loves me. I’ve met some boys and some men and fucked some of them and loved some of them and known some of them pretty well. I’ve met some of their families. One of them even bought me a ring and put the fearsome four on me. And I’ve always felt on the outside. Of all of it, Ed. I’ve been a waitress and a bartender and a babysitter. I’ve blown cocaine and drank local whiskey. I’ve planted gardens. I’ve campaigned for a congressman. I went to college and graduated. On the outside, Ed. Not looking for pity. Just stating a fact. On the outside. And getting older with the shit. On the outside. And so I meet people that maybe sit in the same bleachers and we get along but then we get wrong ‘cause we recognize those parts in each other. And things get busted up. And I keep running. Running toward…what? Getting older? Is that what I’m running toward? The day I wake up and I’m not running anymore? The day I wake up and I’ve grown out of the running? I’m more mature? I’m an adult? I’m married? I’ve got not one not two but three or so kids? I’m adopting kids? I’m working in a job that I can’t explain to anyone ‘cause it doesn’t matter to anyone except the people I work with? I don’t hate anyone. I don’t need anyone. I love everyone I’m supposed to love. My dad says I should go back to school. The just sounds like a way to pass the time. What am I gonna’ study? Engineering? Philosophy? English? Massage therapy? I like to travel, Ed. But that takes money. I’ve learned that. It doesn’t necessarily take much. But it takes some. And I’m to the point where I know that my travels are keeping me from something else. Something more important? Maybe. But something else. Something that makes people get older. Something that makes people watch TV. And I can spend a lifetime avoiding it. But that’s what my life will come to be about. Avoidance. And I guess that brings me here, Ed. To your ears. Lonely as the devil. Lonely as a man.”

She stopped then for a second. Then she said:

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“Sorry I ramble sometimes,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I understand a lot of what you said. I feel the same way in a lot of ways.”

“Yeah?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. And I did.

“Yeah well…sorry. It’s easy to talk to strangers sometimes. Easier in a way.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I’ve been a waiter for really 25 years. On and off.”

“Wow,” she said.

***

I dropped her off at a Budget Inn off of I-99.

“This is perfect,” she said as we pulled up.

“I mean…how are you gonna’ get to…wherever?”

“Keep walking,” she said. “Hope for a couple more Eds.”

“You’re really trying to go to New York?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And I’ll get there. Truth is I got enough money to rent a car if it comes to that. A lotta’ this is just pretend.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Thanks for the coffee and the conversation,” she said.

“No problem,” I said.

I could see the sun coming up. I could feel it.

“Do you have a long way to drive?” she asked.

“Not much. Ten miles. Twelve miles or so.”

“Well get home safe, Ed,” she said. Texas said.

“Okay,” I said, yawning.

“Okay,” she said. She smiled one more time at me and got out of the car. I watched her go into the office. The guy in there was Arabic, I guess. Or Indian. He had a mustache and a comb-over. A red polo style shirt. He was sleeping. I watched her ring the desk bell. I watched the guy jolt awake. Texas looked out at me. She saw I’d been watching. She mimed a big “oops.”

***

When I finally made it home, I kicked off my work shoes, unbuttoned my work shirt. I curled and uncurled my toes. The sun was up. I was thinking about Texas. I wanted to know how it was gonna’ go for her.

I turned my laptop on. Birds were gossiping outside. I could hear the sprinkler in my neighbor’s yard.

I got online. After a few minutes the woman in Tucson sent me an instant message.

“Where you been, baby?” she wrote.

“Just hung out a little after work,” I wrote back.

“Got a wild hair, huh?” she wrote.

“Something like that,” I wrote back.

I liked her. This woman in Tucson. She’d been through some things and it’d left her with a bit of an edge but not too much of one. She was pretty cool. Her name was Linda.








NYC, NY (4/24/08)