Short: Unprepared, West Virginia
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
Brad arrived on time early the next morning. His eyes were glassy and his little red volkswagen smelled like the inside of a bong. I’d told Brad the rules for the trip and he’d decided to blaze up one last time because- as he put it- it’ll be a while. I glared at him and simmered. “I’ll drive,” I said as I slung my duffle onto the back seat. Then I held out my hand for the key. Brad nearly closed his left eye and cocked his head as he looked at me. He almost began to speak but stopped placing the key into my extended hand instead. A few minutes later we were motoring up 77 and bopping along to Led Zepplin and whatever else he’d loaded onto his iPod.
In Virginia, we pulled off for gas at a truck stop in Wytheville. The Buzzing K is one of those truck stops with a restaurant, private showers, and a lot lizard or two. I’d stopped there many times before on family trips and thought of it as a sort of redneck tourist attraction. When I opened my car door a freezing gust of air smacked me in the face and I bristled.
“Ha!” Brad laughed and pointed to my flip flops and khakis cargo shorts. They were red Tommy Bowham flip flops, the kind that look cool in the store but hurt your feet after a few hours of walking. And I can’t remember why I decided to wear shorts.
“You’re a real boy scout,” he snorted before jogging inside for snacks.
As I pumped gas, I began to shiver. And then I turned away from the gas station and the lights to noticed large white dots on the Appalachian Mountains to the west. And though the day was clear and sunny, dark purple and gray clouds loomed beyond the ridge. I closed my eyes and pulled the bitter cold deep into my lungs. I hope Brad buys me a hotdog or hot slice of pizza, I thought. And just as I finished pumping gas, Brad hurried back with arm loads of snacks and drinks.
“Whadda ya get?”
“Oh man. Dude. Lemme tell ya. They have these nuts, pecans, and they have all kinds of flavors- caramel, hot and salty, and vanilla. I got all three. Here try one. Do want water water or gatorade or Red Bull?”
I took what looked to be a caramel pecan and ate it. It was delicious and warm, and soon I ate most of the bag, stopping only to be polite. Brad hardly noticed. He munched his way through several small bags of corn chips and polished off an energy drink as we crossed from Virginia into West Virginia via the East River Mountain Tunnel. We held our breath as long as possible and I won. Brad coughed and wheezed like an old man. And on the other side of the mountain, in West Virginia, the white dots I saw earlier were now at ground level and the tops of the mountains were purple and blue against the low November sun.
By the time we turned off 77 and found Route 52 from Bluefield to Welch, Brad was sober. And our discussion was now more focused and thoughtful. He asked me more questions about our project and responsibilities and I did my best to answer them. And as we passed through the small town of Bluewell, the electronic sign outside Bluewell Community Bank read 23º. Brad noticed too and began to belly laugh.
“I hope you’ve got more than short and flips flops.”
I did not. Not much more, for warmth a pair of running shoes, a pair of sweat pants and my faded red hoodie. No gloves or winter coat. No blue jeans. And the weather would not improve.
