One Happy Year

She shut the overhead door to the storage unit and didn’t wince even a little when the metal  hit the concrete floor. She liked that sound. It sounded final and that was fine by her.

She climbed into Frank’s truck, pointed it west, and headed out onto Nevada’s Highway 50. They call it America’s Loneliest Road, which meant she’d feel right at home behind the wheel surrounded by solitude and nothingness. She’s gotten used to the quiet.

Somewhere along the way Frank’s truck stopped. Just up and quit much like Frank did. But was that really his fault? 

She slides out of the smoking truck; looks up and down the road, not a soul in sight except for a rattler stretched out on the side of the road, warning her that he’s vicious. Yeah, maybe, but she’s got quite the bite too.

The hours pass on the hood of Frank’s truck. She’s hungry and her throat feels dry. Damn desert heat tells her it’s time to start walking. She needs to find some water soon. But first she reaches into the glove compartment, clears out the contents and grabs the screwdriver. She unscrews the plates from the truck and sticks them in a fat, black duffle bag. For a moment, she considers the VIN number, but dismisses the thought. In a place like this, people and things probably get lost all the time and no one notices or cares.

Two more hours. That’s how long she walks with the duffle bag slung over her shoulder, her toes covered in red dirt until a lone car pulls up beside her. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to wear sandals. Then again, she’s not good at good ideas.

She gets in the car.

The driver drops her off at one of those cliche roadside motels that crawl with prostitutes, single dads, and truckers. She stays in the town for a couple days planning her next move. Watching the people come and go, deciding who to ask.

On the third day, she approaches the single dad and his kid. They seem the best bet. She peels off ten fifties from the rolls of money in the duffel bag. Hands them to the dad and climbs in the backseat of his maroon Traverse. She’s promised him the same amount to get him back to where he came from after she gets to where she’s going. 

“And where are you going?” a woman interrupts her thoughts. Oh right, she wasn’t in her head. She was no longer in the Traverse with the single dad and the kid who didn’t speak the entire trip, but stared at a screen and wore huge headphones. That had been weeks ago.

Today she was thinking out loud to a woman she met after the dad dropped her off on the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and La Brea. She had been trying to figure out if the street smelled like human piss or dog piss, when a sign caught her eye. It advertised walk-in therapy. What the hell, she had thought. After what she had been through, she probably could use a little self-help.

But now?

Now the woman wants her to think. No way. She’s tired. Tired from traveling. Tired from running.

“Excuse me?” she asks.

“Where are you going?”

“What does it matter?”

“Do you want to talk about what’s in the storage unit?”

Now that’s funny. Why would anyone want to talk about what’s in their storage unit? Those are the spaces where you let the past die. 

“I do not. Not now. I don’t want to think about what’s back there. Maybe next year.”

The woman raises an eyebrow. “Next year?”

“Yeah,” she says, “because I deserve one happy year.”