There was something electric about pulling out of that Handi-Stor in Dad’s truck. My body thrummed with purpose and empowerment. Every contour and texture of that road passed through the steering column and into my fingers.
My mysterious and lucrative cargo added to the vibe making me feel like a pirate, coursing through a sea filled with peril and opportunity. But the intrigue and those hundred-dollar bills in my pocket were just part of what fueled my excitement. I was leaving Florida, returning to my childhood home, starting a new life of professional landscaping, in snow country, no less.
Yet, something felt hollow about the whole affair, like it was all a big bubble about to pop. Feeling hopeful in light of what had just happened to my family seemed inappropriate.
But why not glory in such a glorious moment? I ignored the imps trying to gnaw away my fragile optimism.
Instead of making a bee-line for the highway, I meandered around Ft. Pierce, in the darkening twilight, circling Dreamland Park, gathering a last glimpse of the place I used to hang out, the place where I met Jenny, for my memory banks.
I found myself turning down 32nd—Marianne’s street. I slowed down as I went approached her place. I felt like a stalker, even though that wasn’t my motivation at all. I just felt bad for being so rude to her and Jenny at Mom’s funeral party. I’m sure they had cut me some slack considering the circumstances, but that didn’t make it right.
There was a light on in her house, someone in the kitchen. What would it take to park the truck, run up the walk, ring the doorbell? A quick apology, maybe give her Uncle Ed’s address or phone number, whatever, and then I could be on my way.
What would it take? Apparently, a lot more courage than I could muster. I kept the truck rolling, right past her house, right up to the stop sign at Boston Avenue.
I sat there a good few minutes, trying to gather something that couldn’t be gathered. It was futile, like trying to herd wisps of smoke. And then I powered across the intersection all the way to Orange Avenue.
I turned left, towards the freeway. It was getting pretty dark. I followed Orange Avenue in a daze as it split and widened. The bloom on my excitement had already faded. I was dreading the night ahead of me, all alone on that road.
I signaled right at the entrance ramp to 95 North, but there was a car there, all dark, on the grassy verge. It was a Crown Vic, the kind cops use to go semi-incognito, with no bank of lights on the roof.
I freaked and couldn’t bring myself to turn. I kept going straight, all the way out to King’s Highway, where I headed north, figuring I’d keep on the local roads until I got a little farther out of town.
My heart was thumping like a sack of squirrels. Was this going to happen to me every time I saw a cop? No way would I ever survive the scrutiny of a routine traffic stop. Every twitch of my body announced my guilt.
I turned on the radio and tried to drown out my anxiety with some loud and jangly alternative rock.
***
I finally made my way onto 95 North somewhere near Vero Beach. I was almost shocked to have made it that far without getting pulled over. Maybe I was being overly paranoid.
Two hours later, I was approaching Jacksonville. It had taken almost that long to calm down, and once I did, I started to feel drowsy. I had those pills Jared had given me, but I was grimy and hungry. Every motel and fast food billboard taunted me. I needed a shower and a meal.
I booked a room at a Motel 6 just outside of Jax for forty-two bucks a night, practically a month’s rental at the Handi-Stor. But what the hell. I was feeling pretty flush for a change.
