Poppy
Walking your way out of NYC is nowhere near as easy as you might think. Especially when you don’t have an itinerary…or a great sense of direction. But what I did have was a box of protein bars ordered online from Costco, two extra-large Nalgene water bottles, and a huge backpack filled with clothes—mostly underwear and T-shirts and sweatshirts and socks, plus a couple pairs of jeans and a pair of TOMS shoes to give my feet a break from the hiking boots. Also, I had in my possession an extra-large purse containing my cell phone and charger, my iPad Pro with its keyboard case, stylus, and charger; my new-to-me vintage camera courtesy of Mrs. DuPuis, my erstwhile advisor from Columbia University. I had approximately two hundred rolls of black-and-white film, and a hundred rolls of color film, divided between my purse and backpack. I was carrying four thousand dollars in cash, separated into rolls of hundreds packed in my purse, backpack, and pockets. And, finally, I had a multi-tool and a Zippo lighter.
I’d say I was traveling pretty light for someone backpacking from NYC to Alaska.
But my most valuable possession was my innate trust in the goodness of humans, balanced by a pretty reliable bullshit and creep detector.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to navigate my way on foot through the maze of boroughs and bridges and tunnels that made up New York City and then, when I thought I was making something like progress, I found myself lost in suburbia.
Dammit.
I stopped at a gas station, waited in line behind locals getting gas and buying cigarettes, and when it was my turn at the counter, the young man behind it, sporting a Sikh turban and a fantastic beard, offered me a dazzled, surprised smile.
“Good morning, how can I help you?” he said, in a lilting Punjabi accent.
“I need either a bus station or a train station,” I said. “I’m sort of lost.”
“No kidding you are lost,” he said. “I think you should call a cab to take you to the train depot. It is many miles from here, and I am not certain exactly how to tell you to get there. I only know it is not somewhere to walk to easily.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m planning on walking to Alaska, but getting out suburbia is proving pretty tricky.”
“You are walking to Alaska?” He sounded so shocked I may as well have told him I was flying to Mars. “I am only in America two years, so maybe I am misinformed, but is not Alaska many thousand of miles from here?”
“Yeah, something like thirty-five hundred miles.”
He blinked. “Why?”
I shrugged, smiling brightly. “I’m bored with my life, and need a challenge. Plus, my family all lives there.”
“If you are bored of life, get a tattoo, or…or a motorcycle.” He shook his head. “It is your business, not mine. But I feel I must say…a woman like you, so young, so beautiful, perhaps it is not safe.”
“Can we speed this up?” an impatient voice said from behind me, in a thick New York accent brimming with attitude. “I got shit to do and places to go, so come on already.”
I turned, offering the man my most brilliant grin. “I’m sorry to delay you on your important business, sir, I was just asking directions.”
Middle-aged, tall and slender, salt-and-pepper hair, neatly trimmed goatee, wearing an expensive three-piece suit. He blinked at me, taken aback by…well, me. “Uh, yeah, no—no problem. You need directions, I can give you directions. Where you tryin’ to go, sweetheart?”
It’s idiotic that reality works the way it does. Being blessed—through no virtue or achievement on my part—with extreme good looks, I can grin and flirt my way out of pretty much any potential conflict. Smirk a little, bat my lashes, arch my back just so to push my boobs up, and men just…go dog-brain gaga drooly stupid.
Like this guy. When all he saw was my black ponytail, backpack, jeans, and boots, he was all Mr. Impatient, hurry up, I’m so important. All I had to do was turn around, grin, show him some tank top and cleavage, and he’s tripping over his own saggy balls to help me.
“Well, I just need to get out of the city and out of suburbia.”
“Yeah, sure, but to where?”
“I mean, just generally west.”
He looked me over again. “Well, I’m heading to Buffalo for business, but I could take you as far as Scranton, if you want.”
I could see the wheels turning in his head. Thinking maybe he might get something out of giving me a ride. Wondering what kind of girl I am.
The question for me, then, was whether my creeper radar pinged. I in turn looked him over, assessed him. Brusque, self-important, vain, wealthy, impatient, selfish. Kind of a prick. But…mostly safe. He’d be the type, if he made an overt move on me and I turned him down, to leave me on the side of the highway.
I shrugged, extended my hand. “Scranton it is, Mr.…?”
“Zelinski. Don Zelinski.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Zelinski. I’m Poppy.”
“Ahh, if we’re gonna be sharing the car together for an hour and a half, you oughta call me Donny.”
I thanked the young Sikh behind the counter, and followed Donny Zelinski to his car.
After fueling his sleek silver Audi A8, we headed out of suburbia westward. He had a podcast on, something by NPR, and he turned it down when we hit the highway, offering a grin at me.
“So, Poppy. Generally west, huh?”
I nodded. “I have family in Alaska, and I’m taking the long, scenic route to visit them.”
He whistled. “Alaska, huh? That’s a hell of a trip.”
“Well, I’m young and I’m in a bit of a transitional point in my life, so I may as well see some of the country, right?”
He fiddled with something on the touchscreen, and the A/C blew colder. “Sure. Makes sense to me. When I was your age, I took a gap year and hiked Europe with my brother.”
“Yeah, I might do that next.”
A few minutes of silence; the cabin of the car, wrapped in luxurious black leather, grew colder by the minute—I caught his gaze flicking subtly but consistently to my chest, and I realized why he’d turned the A/C up so high: to give me headlights. And he’d succeeded, noticeably so.
Douchebag.
Joke was on him, though, because I just tugged my flannel shirt closed to cover them.
“So, what’s your boyfriend think about you doing this whole trip on your own?”
I laughed. “No boyfriend.”
“You mean to say a sexy young thing like you is totally unattached?”
Ick. He was old enough to be my dad. Don’t call me sexy, my dude.
“Yeah, well, I don’t need a boyfriend to be happy, and on a journey to self-discovery like I’m on, a boyfriend would just be in the way. So yeah, unattached and proud of it.”
“Good for you,” he said, and it was hard to tell if it was meant genuinely or not.
I let the silence extend, and eventually Donny turned his podcast back on, glancing at me to assess my reaction. I just turned the volume up a bit, to indicate I was fine with the podcast.
It was a long-winded discussion of some political thing or another, boring as hell but better than nothing, and better than trying to make conversation with Mr. Make-it-cold-in-the-car-so-your-nipples-get-hard.