Quen
“Fuck.” I groan out loud.
Just outside of Douglas County, in the middle of freaking nowhere, I stare into the open hood in despair as my engine emits more smoke than an industrial barbecue pit. I pulled off of I-5 just in the nick of time before my busted-up Dodge Neon, affectionately known as Peggy Sue, would have stalled out in the middle of the freeway, causing a whole different set of problems, including my potential death.
I’m shocked Peg even lasted this long. Still, I thought my trusty girl had at least twenty-five good hours left in her. All I needed was for her to get me to the beach house, then back home again. Instead, Peggy Sue barely made it three hours from home. I’m devastated.
What’s worse, I was in such a hurry to pack and leave, I ended up forgetting my phone charger in my bedroom. So, for the past three hours, I’ve been completely draining my battery using the GPS and simultaneously streaming Spotify until it killed my phone.
I can’t even call for roadside assistance. Eventually, I’ll have to venture out into this weird town to locate a phone and get help. But after I make that call, what next? If I reach my father, I’d have to come up with a damn good excuse as to why I continued on an hour past Eugene. If I call Blair, she’d only tell me to go home and wait until she schedules me a flight to the beach, which I absolutely refuse to let her do. I may not have as much money as she does, but I have my pride.
Just the thought of going back home and sulking over how much Jake is enjoying the summer and how much I’m not makes me more and more depressed. After some internal back and forth, I decide I can’t possibly turn back. I must press on.
California or bust.
I grab my shoulder bag from the passenger seat, yank my medium-sized roller bag out of the trunk and begin exercising my thumb each time a vehicle moves my way.
Overwhelmed, I stare mindlessly at the enormous eighteen-wheeled semi-trailer truck with a sleeper.
“Up here. Pass me your luggage.”
After snapping out of my trance, I lift the roller bag up and over my head. The load is soon lightened as it is received at the other end. I proceed to make the steep climb up the truck, nearly tripping just before collapsing into the passenger seat.
“Be careful,” the driver warns a little too late.
I turn and look down to see where I nearly fell and shudder.
Damn, that’s a long way down.
I lean over to the side, and it takes superhero strength for me to pull the massive door shut. Exhausted from the long trip up and the effort it took to close the door, I sink into the seat.
“Hey there, I’m Marjorie.”
I turn my head and take in the large woman in a gray hoodie and jeans, who’s now back in the driver’s seat after stowing my roller bag behind the dingy black curtain. Two minutes ago, I could’ve sworn she was a man with long hair due to her frumpy posture.
However, up close, she’s definitely all woman. I’m relieved. It’s not to say that this lady couldn’t skin me alive, but I much favor my chances of survival riding with her versus riding with a big scary man. Although I don’t know Marjorie’s age, she appears younger than sixty but older than forty.
“I’m Quen,” I say, extending my hand to shake hers. She takes it firmly. “Thanks for the lift.” I then reach across for my seatbelt and fasten it.
“Heading south?” she asks.
“Yep. My car broke down on the way. It’s the Neon smoking up a storm right over there.” I point over yonder.
“Yeah, I saw. It doesn’t look so good,” she quips, stating the obvious. Still, her confirmation reignites the sinking feeling in my stomach.
I quickly brush it away with a dash of positivity. “I’ll handle it once I get to where I’m going.”
“Where’re you headed in Cali?”
“Carmel-by-the-Sea?” I say it with uncertainty, but I mean it more as a question for her concerning her familiarity with the location. It’s kinda important she knows where the hell I’m going. She is the one driving, after all.
“Where?” she reacts as perplexed as I predicted, shifting her head sideways. She’s obviously never heard of the place. Neither had I prior to Blair touting about it.
“It’s about an hour south of San Jose,” I respond.
Marjorie’s deep in thought while massaging her chin. “The furthest south I can take you is Sacramento. I’m delivering a load to a customer there, then picking up another one just before I head to Nevada.”
Shit. The last thing on my mind, before climbing this woman’s Empire State Building of a truck, was hitching a string of rides all the way to my destination. The very thought of taking more rides from more strangers scares me shitless. I’m shocked I even took this ride, as opposed to calling my father and going back home.
This woman could be Large Marge from Pee-wee’s Big Adventure for all I know. Hell, her name is Marjorie. The very idea has me pressing my bare knees together in order to keep them from shaking.
“At least that gets you most of the way,” she mutters. “You’ll probably only have about a three-hour drive from Sac to where you need to go.”
Hopefully, Blair will be in California by the time I arrive in Sacramento. From there, we can figure out how to get me to her dad’s beach house.
“That’s perfectly fine. Again, thanks for the lift,” I say with sincere appreciation.
“No problem,” she responds, buckling up.
“If you don’t mind, could I use your phone to call my friend who’s expecting me? My phone died—and I don’t have my charging cord.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she sighs with deep disappointment. “I shit you not, I actually left my cell phone at the last truck stop back in Spokane, so all I have is this radio here,” she gestures to the unit placed above her head. “I doubt we can reach your friend that way.”
I groan. Just my fucking luck. “And you don’t by chance have your charger? If so, is it compatible with a Samsung?”
She chuckles. “I actually have an iPhone.”
Of course, she does. I sigh to myself. Nothing can ever be that easy for me.
“Actually, I had an older model Samsung until two months ago. My nieces and nephews teased me and kept begging me to ‘get with the times’,” she jokes.
Once again, Lady Luck is a cruel, psychotic bitch.
I purse my lips in twisted amusement. “Well, unfortunately, I’m old school like my father. I haven’t convinced myself to migrate over to the new iPhone. Why spend all that money on a brand-new phone when the old one still does the job, right?”
Marjorie slowly nods. “Just like the old car, right?”
Really? Was that a fucking dig? I frown.
“Well, that…I’ll finally have to get a new one.”
She chuckles. “I don’t blame you, girl. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” she philosophizes just before shifting her big rig into gear. “You need me to take you to a payphone somewhere? They still have those around in some places…but not many. Or perhaps someone at the gas station will let you borrow their phone.”
“No—no need to stop now,” I insist. “I can wait until our first stop to make my call. I’m sure someone will let me use their phone.”