Road Trip

We’re on the road to Las Vegas in Georgie’s convertible, top down, and I’m in the back seat with my gray brown hair spiking out around my face like something in an illuminated medieval manuscript. You know, where the women have this dull gold circle around their heads. Instead of a medieval gown, though, I’m wearing khaki capris and a white polo shirt.

The desert is the color of my pants and goes on forever, with only the faded gray of the road to break the monotony. Georgie has a heavy foot on the gas pedal and everything’s a khaki blur as we streak down the highway.

“Get your motor running. Get out on the highway,” Georgie and Louie sing out. Louie looks back at me and says something I can’t hear. I smile at her and give a thumbs-up so she thinks I’m okay. They’re having a grand time, and they’re determined I will have fun, too, on this first girlfriend trip since my husband, James, died. They’re pretending it’s a trip to celebrate our upcoming sixtieth birthdays, but I know better. Really, it’s about pulling me out of the funk I’ve been in for the past eight months.

We stop for lunch at the Lucky Miner Diner and Trucker’s Haven. The little desert town doesn’t look like any miner here has ever been lucky. Nor does the diner, with its ripped green plastic booths patched with duct tape and tables flecked with garish gold sparkles. I scrape at the gold flecks with my thumb, trying to dislodge them, but there’s no way they’re coming loose. I keep on scraping anyway.

Georgie says the best food is at truck stops, but not if the Lucky Miner is any indication. I poke my fork at the brown lettuce in my chef’s salad – admittedly not the best choice at a desert diner - but end up eating three packs of Saltines from a gold painted basket on the table, even though they are stale. I do succeed in peeling off some of the gold paint from the basket, which gives me a strange sense of accomplishment. Georgie and Louie have cheeseburgers, French fries and chocolate malts, smacking their lips while they eat. I ogle the hot fudge sundae the kid at the counter is eating and wish I’d ordered that for lunch. James would have frowned at that idea, but look where all those leafy greens and acai juice got him.

In Vegas we check into our hotel, shower, change clothes and head for the bar.

“What’s scrumptious?” Georgie asks the bartender. “We need something special for our friend here,” she says, pointing to me.

I’m wearing the flowery sundress Louie made me buy for the trip, and Georgie has insisted on making me up with glittery eye shadow. Just for fun, she says. I feel like a stranger.

The bartender gives me a good hard look and says, “I have just the thing. A chocolate martini.”

I start to protest that I never drink hard liquor, but Georgie says, “Perfect! We’ll take three of those!”

What the hell, I think, I’m on vacation.

The chocolate martinis are indeed scrumptious, and after two of them, I start to loosen up. I pick up my glass and drain out the last of my martini, letting my tongue swish back and forth along the inside of the glass.

“Christ, Emma,” Georgie says. “We’ll just get you another one if you’re that desperate for more.” She’s about to order another round, when Louie pipes up.

“I’m hungry,” she says, “and if I don’t eat something soon, it won’t be pretty.” She swipes at an errant curl that has been flopping in her eyes for the past half hour. It rests along her forehead right above her nose. I watch it bounce there and think about the nursery rhyme.

“There was a little girl who had a little curl,” I say, slurring the words a little.

“Right in the middle of her forehead,” says Georgie, taking up where I left off.

“She was horrid. Are you horrid, Louie?” she giggles.

“She could be very very good,” I say.

“No, that would be you, Emma,” Georgie says. “You’re the good one.”

“I will be horrid, if I don’t get some food,” Louie says, grabbing hold of the curl and tugging it back off her face, securing it with a purple comb trailing silk lilies of the valley. Louie always has some ornament dripping from her hair.

“Okay, okay,” Georgie says and signals the bartender to bring our tab.

His name is Brandon. Georgie found this out early on and has been flirting with him ever since. Brandon is about thirty and has deep olive skin and wavy black hair that swirls around his ears. He’s wearing a bright white shirt that’s open two or three buttons to show off his smooth muscular chest. As he leans over the bar talking to Georgie, my eyes lock onto that chest, and I feel a flutter in mine. I shouldn’t have had so many martinis, I’m thinking, as I trace an imaginary line up Brandon’s neck to his strong square chin.

I’ve never known any man but James. We started dating when I was fourteen and got married when I turned nineteen. Until now I never even looked at another man. I feel like I’m cheating on James, but I tell myself that’s stupid. Brandon could be my son, and besides James is dead. I’m not married anymore. That thought makes me swallow hard, and I suddenly feel very much alone in this bar teeming with people.

I watch Brandon’s mouth forming words. His teeth are white, white, white, and his tongue runs over them once or twice. I look up to his eyes, deep brown with flecks of gold dancing there when he smiles. He’s looking at Georgie – she’s always got men looking at her – and whatever she’s saying is making him laugh. I know I’m staring at him, but I can’t move, my head resting on my hand, elbow propped on the bar next to my martini glass.

Brandon is beautiful, exotic. No one like that would ever look at me, talk to me the way he talks to Georgie. We’re the same age, but she seems young and I look older than I am. I feel like a dirty old woman ogling the beautiful young man.

He’s laughing until he looks my way. The minute his eyes meet mine the laugh fades. For a moment he looks sad, then he averts his eyes, swiping at the counter with the cloth he’s holding. My own eyes shift down to my empty martini glass. I am mortified.

I realize I’m crying. I can’t help it. Yes, I miss James, but it’s more than that. Suddenly I feel like I’ve missed so much in my life, like I never even had a life of my own. I always took care of everyone else, making sure they got what they needed and wanted. What about what I needed? What about what I wanted? In the fog of chocolate martinis I can’t even think of what it was I did want. What do I want now? I feel Louie’s arm around my shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says softly. “It’s late, and we all need something to eat. Let’s go.”

“Is it too late?” I say, making no sense at all.

“No, sweetie,” Louie says. “It’s never too late.”

I let her help me off the barstool. Holding on to each other, the three of us make our way out of the bar and through the clang of the casino toward the all night cafe beyond the poker machines and the blackjack tables. There’s so much noise, colors swirling like a kaleidoscope before my eyes, people having fun all around me.

My head is spinning but I’m clear about one thing. I’m tired of being sad, tired of holding back. And I’m sick and tired of doing what I’m supposed to do. It’s time to start living.

“I’m having a hot fudge sundae for dinner,” I say, expecting Georgie and Louie to put up a fuss about that. But I’ve forgotten who I’m with. These are my girlfriends, my childhood buddies who have been egging me on all my life to be a little crazy.

The girls are all smiles.

“Perfect!” Georgie says.

“Awesome!” Louie says.

Arms linked, we stroll into the café like three teenagers.