The July Of My Life
“I am going on a road trip,” I told myself two-and-a-half months ago. “When this thing is finally over and we’re free to go places again, I’m going to cross the country and go as many places as possible,” I decided. I was set to receive my government stimulus check in plenty of time and school was delayed, so I had an extra few weeks before I had to get back to work. The timing would be perfect, and I couldn’t think of any reason why I shouldn’t go. Part of me felt guilty for considering using the situation for my own benefit, but it had been a difficult year and I needed it. The pandemic would likely continue anyway, so I was determined to take my opportunity.
I bought an RV, named it Arnie, and waited two weeks before opening her doors. I ordered some road atlases, food, books, and everything else I thought I might need. I even briefly thought of getting a dog. The night before the nationwide lockdown was to be lifted, I couldn’t sleep. My mind wandered back through the months we had spent basically cutoff from the world around us.
I thought of the uncertainty in the beginning, the sudden spread and growing panic, and the surreal reality as more and more positive cases closed in around us. I thought of my parents and how I had been avoiding accepting their fragility even before the pandemic. I thought of the “essential workers” I had safely interacted with that were brave and responsible. I thought perhaps more of those that refused to play by the rules and wondered how much time had been added to our sentence because of their behavior. I also recounted some of the strange and unexpected quarantine details, like how many people apparently eat pasta on Easter weekend. The empty shelf at the grocery store on Good Friday made that little tidbit abundantly clear. Even as I prepared for my journey, it seemed the one item Americans feared going without more than anything was toilet paper.
Ultimately, I thought of my trip. I fantasized about climbing out of Arnie at various landmarks and walking around freely without a hint of anxiety. I imagined stopping at diners and truck stops and basking in the nostalgic Americana. I longed for it.
The next morning as I watched the big press conference and drank too much coffee, I felt overcome. I threw the last few things I needed into Arnie and jumped into the driver’s seat. I took a deep breath and set off on my big adventure. The low rumble of the highway was invigorating. I felt thankful. I sang loudly to the music I had thoughtfully selected and waved enthusiastically to neighboring vehicles. I reached my first truck stop and wandered inside while Arnie was filling up with gas.
I stopped in the middle of the store as a man licked his finger to turn the pages of a magazine and then returned it to the rack. I turned away and cringed as I saw a woman pick up a bare handful of straws off the floor and dump them back into the box near the self-serve fountain drinks. I began to sweat as the cashier wiped his nose as he was handing a woman her change. I heard coughing and looked around at the door handles, merchandise, counters, cups, and the air between me and those disgusting people and I ran outside while holding my breath.
I stood for a minute, staring at Arnie. I finally slumped back into the driver’s seat and thought about my plans. I thought of all the places I planned to visit and the things I planned to see. Mostly, I thought of home, trusted friends, and closed doors. I neatly folded my atlas and laid it on the seat beside me as I pulled back onto the road.
- Written for “The July Of My Life”