The Road Over The Hill — week 3

. . . continued from The Road Over The Hill — week 2 . . .

            This daring mid-June week offered another twenty-four hundred miles ahead, made up of eleventh-hour decision-making on the lam when there was no other choice. Occasionally, time-proven second-guesses answer for themselves in hindsight without question.

Now, divided by seven days, I figure that twenty-four hundred gently rounds up to a weekly mean of three hundred forty-plus miles per day, which isn't how it worked out in real time, but averaging seventy-ish mph, & counting on a friendly tailwind, approaches five-&-change taxing one-eighty situations per one thousand four hundred forty minutes & winds up at one per two hundred eighty-eight weighty last minutes to >-or-< account for lingering lost over-thoughts or under-estimated solutions, adding in time zone changes that, during this week, flip-flopped at a few points on one of the forty-seven to forty-nine hour periods to oddly leave me equally unbalanced, depending on how much the universe would suddenly fudge the numbers without my knowledge — in high school math C-minus grade-point-average summation — statistically speaking, of course, using word math problem lingo, you see . . .  But, feel free to check my uncalculated-circumstances' surprise reckonings on that. Go ahead — I totally dare you — & show yer work.

            I looked forward to the next two days off to cover the first thousand miles — which would unpredictably become thirteen hundred — beginning southerly, then set free to follow western whims. As such, less than halfway in, I saw a highway billboard commercially directing traffic to a wondrously paired religious art & steamboat exhibit. I obeyed temptation & exited immediately.

On the way to the ad-bait, I spotted a low-priced motel sporting a sports bar & grill. The owner-operator explained the rooms were either smoking with wi-fi or non-smoking without which forced me to make a connection between denied dependency & responsible boredom. Priced the same, I checked in with myself about which contradiction would be the best overall value deal & elected to register into a full-on dual-addiction double twin discounted with AAA for an assumed weak signal, abandoned itinerary & amiably reinforced feeble willpower.

Instead of checking out the exhibition, I went directly to the bar & grill. Two large screens offered simultaneous options of either muted local news broadcasting the mug of an area woman wanted over a banner reporting assault & battery, or a hockey game blaring a racist mascot-on-ice.

Leafing through the lacquered menu pages with the intention of a sensible salad, I read “Deep fried burger tossed in hot sauce, smothered with pepper jack cheese and jalapeños with a side of chipotle mayo. Hold on to your britches, it's gonna be a spicy ride! $8.75.” The beautiful imagery alone drew me in, but when the bartender convincingly recommended beer-battered onion rings, & with myself wearing britches, I easily decided on my order. Evidently, this stay-over would be a full-spread of no-sweat hard choices.

I looked around the lounge for signs of the area woman, but it was nearly empty. A young, beaming couple entered & sat right next to me, centered between the overhead TVs. They were celebrating their second wedding anniversary. The bartender gave them top-shelf at no extra charge &, at their request, changed the hockey game to college baseball with no mascot as an anniversary present to us all. The couple kissed when my burger arrived. As promised, the battered rings were meant-to-be.

Later, in my room, the wireless signal was stronger than expected & left me slightly buzzed.

            I left loosely early the next mid-morning to make up for my impulsive Monday surrender, but after five hours of driving, pulled over for an oil change in a small town assuming it would be quicker & easier to have it done en route on the tranquil cornhusking prairie than the congested mile-high queendom I was plainly headed towards.

I chose a dealership because they usually have everything in stock, just in case — but not in this case: while draining the oil they were “sorry to discover” that my crankcase was dented & my plug had been “over-torqued.” I resisted a witless knee-jerk wisecrack & explained that I was still three hundred miles from my destination in the next state, but could stay overnight if I had to. The service agent offered to search out a rent-a-car — a sure fix if the ordered parts happened to come the next day — then confessed that she couldn't cross the state line herself because of a “mishap” & was now considered a fugitive there. Her honesty made me trust her. I thought of the former area woman, but couldn't remember her televised image now — just the “spicy ride!" — so, I put my faith in the fugitive & was shortly behind the compact wheel of my first push-button ignition, which I found both disturbing & convenient.

I settled for a last vacancy & ordered a nearby tom yum — which didn't live up to its last name — to-go & holed up to stretch out for Wednesday's three hundred mile dash.