JUNO

April 1986

My back hurts.

Neck’s bothering me something fierce too. I’m trying to ignore the cramp building up in my sweaty legs, which binds the worn fabric of jeans into my flesh. The hot dog I had ingested half an hour ago at the fast food joint isn’t setting too well in my stomach, like someone is slamming a mallet into my gut.

I try to wind down my window the best I can to relieve myself from the blinding heat, but my ‘65 Camaro isn’t too keen on being cooperative today. It’s barely pulling itself together as it is—my stuff is piled up high to brim in the back seat and trunk with the meager belongings I had managed to squeeze from my tiny Manhattan apartment. The weight alone is crushing its suspension. The heat is nothing to scoff at; despite my mother being born and raised directly underneath the Guyanese sun, I do not have the same tolerance as her.

I try to keep my gaze on the empty, dusty red freeway, blinking away the sweat that had started to pour down my forehead and get into my eyes. No matter how many times I try to wipe them away, they keep coming back like weeds. I can see from the rearview mirror that my eyes are bloodshot and red. To distract myself, I try to play a couple of songs on the radio, next to my car’s busted AC, but only static is there. My stomach turns and flops, and something rises to my throat. I immediately pull to the shoulder and open the door to lean out and vomit.

As I fumble for some napkins in the cup holder, I squint my eyes to get a better look at my map. My mouth stings. Apparently, I was supposed to be here for only two more miles before I would finally be able to exit Interstate 10. Despite the dizziness in my head, I grip the wrinkled paper with my destination. I would be no one. And no one would know me. No one would turn their face away from me—no pastor, librarian, bus driver, my previous landlord—absolutely no one. Not even my mother. The streets of Manhattan have plenty of room for my replacement, and I will not miss them. I have no family in New York.

Four days of endless driving has indeed done wonders for me. I’m so used to the bustling noise of the city—and the quiet roads make me long for it. I’m trapped in my own thoughts, my own head. And that’s never a good thing for anybody. I need to see other people, to remind me that I am not the only person in the world.

Then again, it is seven in the morning.

I had slept poorly last night in my car at a parking lot, squished between all of my suitcases and boxes. The day before, I had spent the night in the cheapest motel I could find. I wanted to spend the least amount of cash I could on the road, in case of an emergency. My back had paid the price for it. Now I was aching for a good night’s rest on my mattress—no matter how beat up it was.

I knew that the real estate lady was expecting me to move in today. I had a feeling she would immediately call the cops the moment she saw me. I hoped she could suggest where I could buy a good mattress in the area. But my old one will have to do.

My hair is wild and my face is covered in dirt. I haven’t showered in three days and have been wearing the same clothes since I left Manhattan that morning after aimlessly clearing out my apartment. I think I had smoked before I left—the last bit of weed I had, so I hadn’t really planned this trip through. Hadn’t packed the right things, like a toothbrush or a bar of soap. Hopefully I would be able to find a bathroom in a restaurant to wash up a bit.

I throw up the rest of the hotdog, because my body can’t apparently keep anything down these days. After taking a swig from my Gatorade bottle, I manage to coax my car into turning on, the engine making a protesting sound as I twist the keys into the ignition. I kick some dirt over my mess with my left flip flop, press the clutch and shift gears, laying down in the gas.

* * * * * * *

In the span of twenty minutes, I have to stop three times to throw up.

I keep checking my map, staring at the worn down, old fashioned buildings that are squeezed in all together around me. There are a couple of shops and hotels, but that’s pretty much it. I don’t know much about Louisiana, but I had expected it to be bustling with folks like New Orleans or Baton Rouge. The red paved roads are a lot more narrow and twisted, and I have to lay down a little more on the gas to get over the potholes.

After driving around in circles, I finally make it to a wooded area—probably no more than ten miles across from town. At this point, the roads are non existent, and my Camaro is struggling. I’m praying the engine doesn’t go out—I just need a few more months until I can take it to the shop. I won’t touch it much after this trip ends. I swear. When I get a job, I’m going to get an oil change, coolant, new brakes, if it can make it up this hill.

My mind wanders to the address that the real estate lady had given me, right after I had deposited the down payment in cash. Despite everything in the past few days being kind of fuzzy, this was the only information that I had managed to retain in my head.

1357 Blane Avenue. 1357 Blane Avenue. I say it in my mind a thousand times. The urge to throw up is stronger than ever, but I force the sour bile back down. My eyes scan the numbers of the broken down houses on the road, and I soon encounter a steep hill, where I wince as I shift to third gear. The engine makes a horrific sound, and I can see smoke starting to rise from beneath the hood.

“Please don’t die, please don’t die.”

My Camaro’s tires leave heavy marks in the red dirt. It finally makes it into the middle the yard, which is filled with towering weeds and dandelions and towering grass. I stumble out of the car after I shut off the engine. The warm glow of the orange, yellow rising sun fell upon my face, and I take a few steps forward, gazing at the sight in front of me in awe. A gentle wind blows my sweat stained back.

The house is tiny, but mostly intact. The porch is sagging due to junk, shattered glass, and wooden boards. The shingles of the slanted roof had fallen around in the yard. Graffiti is everywhere on the walls, and the front door is barely hanging on. I guess there’s really no point in having a house key, but hopefully the real estate lady will give it to me.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

All of the windows are broken, except for the one on the second floor, covered in a layer of thick dust. As I go up the steps, I try to avoid putting too much weight on the rotting wood less my foot go through them. A giant cobweb hangs out in the corner of the threshold.

I try not to look at it as I make my way inside. It smells mostly like fresh dirt, and I could see some old pieces of furniture, and an ancient TV in the living room. The walls are stripped bare, although some remnants of the decorative paper remain. There’s nothing really else on the first floor, besides a busted stove, a refrigerator, and many dead insects on the windowsill. My flip flops crunch against the dead leaves that have gathered on the dried, moldy carpet in the living room. It’s a hideous green color—one that reminds me of slime.

I go upstairs, trying not to jump at the sound of the house creaking under the weight of the wind, or the trees rustling outside. There’s only two bedrooms—and, similar to the walls downstairs, everything has been stripped bare. I notice a bathroom, but the tub and sink is covered in dirt and leaves, and the mirror is smashed and covered in black spots.

In the ceiling, there is a rotting ladder leading to an attic—a large black square door. There’s so much dust up there that I sneeze uncontrollably and decide that was for another day. I move around the ladder, trying to avoid the shadows in the upstairs hallway.

When I turn the light switch, to my surprise, it came on upstairs, although the bulbs looked burned out. That was one thing the real estate lady hadn’t lied to me about. I frowned and took a closer look at them, wondering if I would be able to get them replaced. I notice the door leading to a basement, but I’m not ready to go down there yet. I can’t explain why I don’t want to go, but I don’t.

For a few moments, I sit on the porch steps, wondering if I should just call it quits and head back home. I callously touch the needle scars and tattoos that run up and down my arms and hug my knees. My back is killing me, and the pain is worse than before.

Home.

I remember how being high was all I cared about. I remember my mother disowning me after I had failed junior year for the third time. I remember her kicking me out on the street. I remember going through multiple men in a week and waking up in a different place each time. I remember crying out as waves of unimaginable pleasure overcame me, unable to contain myself, wanting more than this.

I remember whispering comforting secrets in their ears, pretending that someone loved me. I remember seeing the homes that they have built with their wives. I remember returning back to my empty apartment.

I remember being passed out behind the dumpster, going to the nightclubs, feeling that familiar soreness between my legs whenever I would approach a car. I remember applying on one coat of lipstick after the other under the fluorescent lights in the subway bathroom, being jumped by other girls for five dollars, lying in bed with my dealer every time I owed him something, or wanted to feel something, beating up girls in the street, stealing hard working people’s wallets, despite me making nearly a grand each night.

I remember being so lonely I could die.

I close my eyes for a moment, before opening them again. A mourning dove calls out from the trees, its tune gentle again. I study my car, before glancing up at the house. First thing tomorrow, I needed to find a job. The down payment had wrecked my wallet; I had only one more week of savings. Luckily, I noticed plenty of shops in town. I sure as hell didn’t have a resume, but I wasn’t that person anymore. I had some volunteer experience. Maybe I could go to the library, try to make one and print it out from the computer.

If this town had a library.

Second thing, I needed to get into rehab.

I’ve gone through most of the withdrawals, although the temptation to relapse has gotten only stronger over the past couple of weeks. But that was to happen after the job. I straightened up and made my way towards my car, my keys jingling in my hand. I undo the ropes holding my mattress on top of the car. Not wanting to go back inside the house, I dragged it out on the grass in the middle of the yard and laid down on my back. A ladybug crawled up my thumb. I gently caressed it with my hands.

You can only climb one mountain at a time, I heard my mother saying. I missed her terribly, and I long for the feel of her hands in my coarse hair, her home made chicken soup, the smile that gathered on her face before I became a stranger to her. We haven’t spoken in six years. I wondered what she was doing at the moment, since she went back to Guyana. She did not like the New York weather.

The morning air is still humid, but the coolness of the trees and branches above cause my headache to dwindle. My nausea melts away. I kick off my flip flops and sink into the familiar scent of my mattress, next to the sweet grass. The quiet of the place lulls me into a deep fatigue, and I yawn. There’s not another soul for miles, and I’m so exhausted at this point that I don’t care if the real estate lady comes and finds me like this.

I was on time, she wasn’t.

* * * * * * * *

I awake with a start.

For a moment, I think I’m back at my apartment before I see my surroundings. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth as I scramble off my mattress and slip on my flip flops. The comforting shade is gone, replaced by a ray of sharp, awful heat that has fallen upon me. I need water, and fast.

I go to my car, but it won’t start. Raising my hands over my head, I try to remain still until the dizziness has gone. I then fumble with my keys and dig into the back of my trunk for my wallet. To my dismay, I see that I only have fifty dollars left. My heart sinks. With a heavy sigh, I reach into the passenger seat and grab my map, before making my way down the hill.

Mosquitos bite at my flesh, and I keep slapping them away. The trees in front of me blur and become distorted. For a moment I think I see a shadow, but there’s nothing but the silence of the branches swaying back and forth in the wind. My heel catches against a rock lodged in the ground.

I trip and land in the dirt with a heavy thud, which coats my jeans and tank top. One of my flip flops have broken apart, so I just gather them in my right hand and walk down the side of the road barefoot, sweat streaming down my neck. My tank top is drenched, like I had jumped in a pond. The road was still empty, despite it being noon. I wondered if anyone else lived here—if I even had neighbors. The town was almost ten miles away, and my thirst was unbearable.

My steps are disoriented.

I’m about three miles in and am about to cross the main road when a bright blue truck pulls up next to me, spraying dust in the air. I hadn’t heard it come up from behind. My hand instantly goes for my pocketknife in the back pocket of my jeans, but an old man rolls down his window, jazz music blasting from the radio. His hair is completely gray, and a cigarette is between his teeth. Despite the deep wrinkles on his face, his eyes are sparkling gray, like they never seem to stop laughing. He gives me a look of disbelief as he sees me covered head to toe in dirt.

I stare at him.

He guffaws. “Girl, what the hell are you doin’ out here?”