I originally walked away from material possessions because I felt the weight of them dragging me down. Now I don’t own anything I can’t afford to lose because I don’t want to die one day trying to protect something I never should’ve cared about in the first place.
If I were near a major town, I’d utilize an internet café or public library to do my homework. But given that I’m currently stranded at a gas station in the middle of Wyoming, travel brochures it is.
I see pictures of bighorn sheep, craggy mountains, and deep blue lakes. I can attempt horseback riding, scale rock formations, and take up hunting and fishing. There are warnings about bears—Be Bear Aware!—maps of local trails, and orders not to pick wildflowers. After the past ten months, which I spent in an inner-city neighborhood in Boston, followed by a sad housing project near Memphis, the photos of the great outdoors make me giddy.
Though once again, that faint fissure of alarm. I’ve done wildland searches, but never in any place as rugged as these mountains. I’ve walked the woods, but I don’t know anything about grizzly bears. While too many of my searches have led to sad discoveries, I’ve never set out explicitly to find a corpse.
I think of Patrice O’Day, who just wants to be buried next to her son.
“Why do everyone’s problems have to be your problem?” Paul had griped at me. “What will it take before you realize that you’re the one who matters. You, Frankie. I love you.”
I don’t talk to Paul anymore. But on occasion, I still call his widow.
I’ve just finished my deep dive into local intel when a beat-up Chevy truck pulls up to a gas pump. The back is piled high with straw bales, the lower sides sprayed liberally with mud. A woman in worn jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a fawn-colored cowboy hat climbs out.
Perfect.
I give a parting nod to the silent store attendant, then step outside to negotiate my next mode of transportation.
* * *
—
I grew up in a small town in Northern California. My father was the world’s most affable drunk, my mother the world’s angriest enabler. He drank, she worked. He drank more, she worked more.
Which is to say, neither of them spared much thought for me. I ran around wild in the days before we worried about stranger danger and what kind of lone men lingered at playgrounds. Like most kids, I owned a secondhand bike with a rusty frame and a duct-taped banana seat. I rode it anywhere and everywhere. Though of course, there’s only so far a girl on a bike can go. Which meant if I or the other kids wanted to make it to the five-and-dime to spend our spare change on two-cent Jolly Ranchers, we hitchhiked. Stood along the main thoroughfare and stuck out our thumbs.
Sometimes there might be six of us, piling on top of one another in the back of whichever vehicle took pity on us. Sometimes it might be me and my best friend, Sophie. Sometimes it was just me, because my dad was already passed out and my mom hours from getting home—and even back then, I had problems staying put.
I never worried about the safety of climbing into a random person’s vehicle; it’s just what we did.
These days, most parents would advise their kids differently, and yet, for many rural areas, hitchhiking remains a way of life. Mass transit only passes through major towns. Taxis, Uber, car rentals—those are amenities for city folks.
The town of Ramsey is thirteen miles from this final bus stop. A bit far to walk in the bright August sun, let alone the relentlessly dry heat. So copping a ride it is.
I approach the woman pumping gas. She glances up, nods once in greeting. She looks around my age, with sun-darkened skin and lean, muscled arms. Horsewoman for sure, I can tell by the way she’s standing. I instantly like her, but this is one of my few superpowers. In my own loner-like way, I’m actually a people person.
Whether other people like me, however, is always an interesting question.
Now I keep it simple. “I’m Frankie Elkin. I’m looking to get to Ramsey. If you’re headed in that direction, I’m hoping I might catch a ride.”
The woman eyes me, my rolling suitcase, my battered brown leather satchel. I wonder what she sees, or maybe doesn’t see. I’m not old. I’m not young. I’m not pretty. I’m not horrifying. I’m not from here, but then I’m not from anywhere.
Pump clicks off. She replaces the nozzle, goes to work on the gas cap.
“I have gas money,” I offer, then try to remember how much cash I have jammed in my front pocket. I’m down to my last hundred and twelve bucks. It’s okay, I’ve survived on less.