Faces In Still Waters

The Arrival

Bullet holes of rust speckled around the wheel wells from years of driving in Michigan winters.  Although not exactly aesthetically pleasing, my ’94 Ford Explorer at least managed to get me around.  It wasn’t the most comfortable of rides in eighty-degree weather either.  No air conditioning, no cruise control, not even the luxury of power steering, but I somehow managed to keep it alive and running since sophomore year. 

I weaved into a slow squeaking halt behind a sparkling ruby red Dodge Ram lugging a thirty-foot beige camper trailer. Beads of sweat congregated into a small pool within the creases in my forehead, before tumbling down the bridge of my nose. I leaned over; my head hit the steering wheel inadvertently igniting a maligned dull blare from the horn.  I hissed expletives appropriately.  

“Flash me why don’t ya?” Sam joked from the passenger seat.  I sighed loudly, lifting the hem of my black tank top to wipe away the waterfall of perspiration.   

“I so dare you to flash that construction worker holding the sign up ahead.  He looks so sexy with that hardhat.  And the straw sunhat? Mmm, he’s a-makin’ my mouth wata.” she laughed, motioning to the worker sitting on a white plastic lawn chair like a hotdog vendor behind a matching white utility van.  Two giant umbrellas perched atop the outstretched doors allowing extra shade. 

I felt my face tightening but I couldn’t tell if it was the heat of the sun as it glared through the windshield, or if it was my growing impatience.  “Good Lord, how many construction sites are we going to hit today?”

“This is God’s country, sweetheart, and in God’s country there are only two seasons: Winter and Construction.”

“Lovely.”

“Isn’t it?” she chirped. 

We watched the cars in the opposite lane creep past. The bitter scent of fresh pavement coursed through the air and clung to the back of my throat.  The workers had peeled back the skin of the concrete revealing the bright orange soil beneath.  Dented road cones lined along both sides of the shoulders appeared as though they had met with a bumper or two.

       U.S. 41 is the highway that stretches the extent of the Upper Peninsula.  There isn’t much to look at besides trees and diminutive towns that hiccup between. Civilization is found in either Marquette or Houghton in the western part.  That’s if you’re lucky.  Where we were headed, civilization was something only read about in books.  I was told, however, that the scenery in the U.P. was breathtaking.  Exchanging the chaos of the big cities for a chance encounter with a bear in the backyard made me slightly hesitant.  . 

 “What’s with all the road cones?  They’ve had them lined up since we hit Newberry.  We’ve only hit five spots so far where they were actually doing anything.”  I hit the wheel with my palm.  “Doesn’t the Michigan Department of Transportation have anything better to do with their time than to put up road cones as decoration?”

       “Yeah, that’s Michigan for ya.”  Sam replied with a light laugh.  “You lived in this state how long?  Shouldn’t you be used to this by now? At least they’re doing something here.”

I answered her with a grumble, echoing the growl of the bear I imagined stumbling upon in the backyard while I had a smoke.

Sam fanned herself with the road map.  We hadn’t used it to navigate after we went over the Mackinac Bridge, but at least it found an alternative use.  Taking a deep breath in, her lips formed a seductive pout as she exhaled.  She took another deep breath in, held it as though she were about to speak, and then thought better of it.

I raised my brow, knowing what she was about to ask.  “Out with it.”

She sighed again and pursed her lips.  “Can I bum a smoke off you?  I just ran out.” she bit her lower lip and smiled innocently.