Turn Around When Possible

Photo by Pittaya Sroilong via FlickrI've barreled along SR 77 toward my aunt's house many times, but Simon, my traveling companion, knows a shorter way, and he's calling out directions as I swing my silver minivan from lane to lane. Over the Rhine's I'm on a Roll bounces out of the speakers, overtaking Simon's quiet voice. 

"Take 76 west toward Cleveland," Simon says. I love the way he says, "Cleveland." He's British, and he holds onto the first "e" too long, so it sounds more like "Cleee-uhv-lahnd" than how I clip it off with my midwestern tongue. I laugh at him. 

"Cleee-uhv-lahnd," I say. "Cleee-uhv-lahnd." It's just the way he talks, and I know I shouldn't mock him, because it says more about me than it does about him. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't defend himself or try to match his pronunciation with mine. He doesn't even look at me. 

"Stay in the right lane," he says.

Karin Bergquist sasses on the speakers. "Garters on my stockings, the sidewalk bends to stare. I'm on a roll, oh, oh." 

I pop my turn signal and ease into the spot between a Yellow Freight truck and a red pickup plastered with faded, peeling bumper-stickers, "Abortion Kills," and "Keep Working. Millions on Welfare Depend On You."

Simon tells me to take the exit left, then stay in the right lane. There's a big blue symbol painted in the left lane, like a highway sign, that says "76 West," and since that's where I want to go, I figure Simon's wrong. I don't tell him this. I just stay in the left lane. 

"Stay in the right lane," Simon tells me. "Toward Cleee-uhv-lahnd," he says. 

"But I'm not going to Cleee-uhv-lahnd," I tell him. "I'm going to...." Just then, I see the offramp for my exit sliding by, and I'm not on it.  

"Oh, crap," I say. I slam on my brakes and jerk right, even as we pass under the huge green highway sign, even as the white V bright on the black asphalt points sharply at my Chrysler like a fourth-grade teacher's angry finger. The Yellow Freight lays on his air horn. I hit the gas, tack back onto the highway. The trucker howls around me, the sound waves lengthening to a low moan as he shrinks into the distance.

Karin Bergquist purrs and rumbles. "All the road’s ahead of me, oh the night is young. I’m on a roll, oh, oh....."

Simon doesn't get angry. He doesn't suck all of the oxygen out of the van or stammer, "What the...?!?" like I would. He doesn't scream, "I told you to stay in the right lane!" like I've done. He just gets quiet for a moment, collects his thoughts, and says, "Take the next exit right, and then, turn around when possible."

I'm frustrated now. "Turn around when paaaah-sible," I say. "Turn around when paaaaaaaah-sible." I tend to get angry when I'm scared, lash out. I know it's wrong. I usually apologize later, when I feel safe again.

I wind around the exit and maneuver into a deserted Shell station, my hands shaking. I promise to pay closer attention to Simon, to not get distracted by the polarizing bumper stickers and brightly painted symbols on the road. I have no idea where I am, but that shouldn't bother me. Every time he has traveled with me, Simon's been right. Except for that time when he insisted the Comfort Inn was in the middle of a cornfield in Petrolia, PA, population 203. But we don't talk about that. 

I wish I could be more like Simon. Not just British, though that would be sweet. I mean, I wish I could have more of his patience, his ability to offer the truth without a hint of self-righteousness, malice or judgment in his voice. No matter how many times I'm wrong, not matter how many times I don't listen and I screw up and I miss the exit because I ignore his guidance, he keeps his cool. I could go around and around and around in circles in downtown D.C., and he'd keep quietly reminding me where to turn, never saying, "We've passed the Washington Monument seven times," or "Why didn't we take the bus?" He has never insulted me for the way I say, "Cleeve-lund," and has never so much as sighed when I've taken the first right instead of the second. It's not even what he says that matters. It's the tone of his voice. Just that one little element of our interaction comforts me, his steady, patient, non-reactionary tone. I could use more of that in my life. I could be more of that. 

I still don't know where I am, but Simon does. "At the next road, turn left," Simon says. I do. "Then right." I do. "Straight ahead," he says. I'm beginning to have my doubts, but I keep on going. I feel like I'm being gaslighted. I feel like I should know where I am by now, but I don't.

And then we slip around a curve, past a stand of pine trees.

Ah, I recognize this now. We're coming in from another direction. I see the red brick church on the corner, the elementary school where I fell off the swing and gashed open my knee, the green house where that wrinkled old woman told me I was too old for trick or treating.

Karin Bergquist is finishing up. "I’m on a roll, I can’t be bothered. I’m on a roll. Cincinnati to Ensenada...." I ease my grip on the wheel, let myself breathe.

"I'm on a roll, la dee dah, dee dee dah dah...." 

I see my aunt's concrete driveway ahead, the huge white rock with her name hand-painted in red block letters. 

"You have reached your destination," Simon says. I kill the engine, sit for a minute, watching the kids pile out of the elementary school, watching them run down the sidewalk toward someplace comfortable or lonely, toward warm hugs and peanut butter cookies or stale crackers and reruns of Invader Zim. A woman stands at the bottom of the steps smoking a cigarette, her arm crossed over her breasts. 

"You have reached your destination," Simon says. 

"You have reached your dess-tin-aaaaa-shun," I say. He's quiet. I feel bad. 

I push a button and Simon goes dark. I unplug his cord and pop him off the windshield, hide him in the center console so he doesn't get stolen by one of the kids running down the sidewalk. I'm sure I'll need him later.

A little boy, seven or so, badly in need of haircut, ambles through the giant school doors alone, a huge backpack hanging from his hunched shoulders. The woman at the bottom of the steps drops her cigarette, crushes it with her shoe, crosses both arms now. The boy doesn't look at her. She yanks him by the arm, spits words at him, turns and stomps off. He drops his head, falls in behind her. She launches more words over her shoulder. His head hangs lower. He's getting smaller and smaller. 

We all need a Simon, I think. We all need someone guiding us to turn around when possible, persistently and patiently redirecting us when we've gotten ourselves lost again and again and again, to keep right when we've been distracted by erroneous signs, polarizing messages, anger, addiction, betrayal, abandonment. We need someone to guide us (if we listen) out of confusion, worry, fear, someone to swing us into a safe place. 

And when it's all over, when we've come to the end of the road, we could still use someone to reassure us that we're exactly where we need to be, someone who, even when the last notes fade and the engine dies, announces to us, just in case there's any doubt, that we've made it, that the journey is behind us now and we can loosen our grip and let ourselves breathe.

We've reached our destination.