“What an asshole,” Marjorie hisses through clenched teeth. I flatten my lips in a crooked line and nod in total agreement
We’re now trekking through Ashland, Oregon, nearing the California border. On the way here, the subject of Jake comes up. For the last hour and a half, I’ve familiarized kind Marjorie with the past two miserable months of my life before finding out that my first love recently moved on.
“You’re a smart girl, Quen,” Marjorie says while operating the monstrosity on eighteen wheels as smoothly as a sleek sedan. “And gorgeous, too. You remind me of my niece, Melissa. You have everything going for you. That douchebag doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’ll find out soon enough, though. One of these days, he’s going to regret ever breaking your heart. You’ll see.” She gives me a confident nod.
I don’t know Marjorie from Adam, yet as we traverse through this last sliver of Oregon, she’s been pumping me full of encouragement. I wish her empowering words would sink into me. But no matter what she says, the fact remains that Jake left me, and not long after that, he found someone new. The very thought squeezes the life out of my chest.
“I suspect you think I’m full of crap.” Marjorie appears amused.
“No,” I say, “I appreciate your kind words. However…”
All of a sudden, the words that were just perched on the tip of my tongue quickly dissolve like a sugar cube in a rainstorm. I am beyond flustered.
“I get it,” she says. “It’s going to take something new, something better to make you forget all about the pain that non-committal loser caused you.”
Jake? A loser? The very idea of that is unsettling. I never thought of him as being a loser, even though others may beg to differ. In spite of breaking my heart, he’s actually a very sweet guy. Any girl would be lucky to have him. It’s just…
I don’t know. Maybe we weren’t really meant to be together. Perhaps it was for the best that we separated sooner as opposed to making the mistake of getting together. I would have been forced to go wherever he went just to be near him. That would’ve meant staying in Eugene, thereby narrowing my employment options even more.
Maybe this is right…even though it really hurts at the moment.
“What the hell!” Marjorie barks out of nowhere.
Startled, I look straight ahead. Suddenly, our smooth coast down I-5 comes to an abrupt halt as we just barely inch past the California state line.
For the next three hours or so, we sit stagnate, going out of our ever-loving minds in standstill traffic. We only creep forward several feet every few minutes. It is literally bumper to bumper. I’ve never seen anything like this in real life—only on television. All that’s missing is the obligatory swearing and honking horns from surrounding drivers. As I glance out the window, down, and then around, I witness others seated in their vehicles looking just as confused as Marjorie and me.
“I have no idea what’s going on. I hope it isn’t serious—like a fatality,” Marjorie murmurs. Her expression seems cautious, as if she fears giving off any sort of bad mojo. A death is indeed the worst-case scenario.
In reality, whatever happened out there evidently was serious enough to cause an epic case of gridlock in two separate states. Helicopters are constantly hovering overhead, presumably from the authorities and news stations. Unfortunately, we have no clue what the media is reporting since Marjorie’s radio dropped its signal about an hour into our drive.
As if nothing else could possibly go wrong in this clusterfuck of a day, I am getting hungrier by the second, while my bladder feels like it could burst at any moment. I squirm in my seat, willing away the two extremely uncomfortable sensations. This mind magic trick has to kick in at some point because there doesn’t appear to be any rest stops or exit ramps in sight as we move slower than a snail. Fatigue is also beginning to set in from the long, bumpy ride and being confined to the same space for way too fucking long.
Eventually, we spot some sort of makeshift highway patrol checkpoint. Ahead is a brigade of state highway patrol officers either perched inside of patrol units with flashing lights, or on foot conversing with commuters.
“I wonder if they’re trying to route everyone off the interstate,” Marjorie ponders.
“I have no idea.” I sigh. “Where would we even get off, anyway?
Please, let there be an exit approaching here shortly. I am literally about to blow.
Soon, a young male officer wearing the full highway patrol garb, including campaign hat, approaches Marjorie’s truck. She rolls down her window, and the cop looks up at her.
“Good afternoon, ma’am!” His greeting is polite, but he has to yell over the engine. Marjorie shifts into park and powers off the truck.
“Hey…what’s going on here?” She cuts straight to the chase.
“I’m not sure where you’re headed, but I highly suggest you steer clear of I-5 south for the next couple of days.”
Both Marjorie and I appear stunned.
The next couple of days? What the hell?!
“Why? What’s going on?” Marjorie asks.
“The governor of California will be campaigning throughout the state for the presidential election. He’s starting up here, then he heads south to attend his rallies. And because he’ll be on his party’s ticket, the U.S. Secret Service is heavily involved with security logistics, hence tying up I-5.”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” Marjorie snaps.
I roll my eyes in embarrassment. Cool it, lady, before you get us arrested.
“I wish I were,” the cop responds, disregarding her sharp tone.
“Dammit! Out of all the times for this asshole to do a dumbass grassroots campaign. Hey, you know this is going to negatively impact commerce in your state, right?” Marjorie preaches, essentially chastising the officer for something he has no control over.
He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, most definitely. But what can we do? You ladies be safe,” he says, before walking away.
“Fucking shit,” Marjorie grumbles through gritted teeth.
We crawl along the interstate for another twenty minutes before we finally spot a sea of vehicles taking a nearby exit ramp.
Thank God.
“We need to stop somewhere nearby to regroup,” she announces. “I’ll load up on fuel and try to contact dispatch to see if I can find an alternate route. Like I said, I’ll at least get you to Sacramento.”
She is definitely old school if she has to contact her dispatch for another route, as opposed to using a GPS for I-5 alternatives.
“No, I really appreciate it.”
After finally making it to the exit ramp, we eventually maneuver around the congestion and go a few miles down several side roads until we reach a fueling station. Marjorie pulls in through the truck entrance and parks at the nearest pump. With a loud hiss of the hydraulic brakes, the diesel engine is silenced. We each open our doors and climb out of the cab.
“I’ve gotta pee really bad,” I tell her, shifting from foot to foot as she readies her credit card at the pump.
“Me too. Glad we finally stopped,” she chuckles huskily.
When I turn to the left, I see a sign that reads: WELCOME TO WEED, CALIFORNIA.