Good Job

Thirty-seven miles from Iowa to Crowley, twenty-four miles from Crowley to Lafayette, fifty-two miles from Lafayette to Baton Rouge. Not gonna make it. Not gonna make it to the godparents’ house and that was a dumbasss idea anyway because now the detour back to Washington Louisiana will be even greater and you should have taken that left turn in Lafayette. Lake Bigeaux is beneath and soon beyond that will be the great unforgiving causeway over the Atchafalaya. Unless you plan on hailing Uncle Foot from his coonass mansion for help and a can of gas. Nope.

The burning beautiful sun above and the time is an indeterminate hour in the early afternoon and Gabe feels like he’s been awake for a thousand years. The windows down and the wind whipping in and the gas gauge a menace staring out of the dusty dashboard and the throaty car roars down the road and by now every joint aches from riding in the posture of penance as well as Friday night’s bruising which feels like ten lifetimes ago. Gabe glances over and sees the junkman in the passenger seat. Good. Good that the old man came back. It gives you courage to keep trucking. The problem is there ain’t much more than fumes to truck on. He exits the Interstate.

A rest area and a lonely road heading north paralleling a bright green levee, a semi-familiar shortcut from a Thanksgiving trip many moons ago. Gabe navigates down the road an unmarked two lane asphalt ribbon that winds through the undiscovered and uninhabited country. A throughway of cleared land on the left and tall metal towers of steel hooked to one another with wires, a long row of them extending to infinity carrying the electrical age. A mighty land, a place of joy, a reason to keep living, to drive this edge of a forgotten piece of America and see only the random traveler like oneself and when you do they raise their hand and wave and you know you’re in the country. There’s no reason to fear. You’re a grownass man now. Take it in Gabe Doucette. See the crisp blades of grass on the wall of the levee following like a long snaking animal aware of your every move, future, present, past. Large black birds resting on the wires on the power towers flap their huge wings and loft across the view, the edges of their spread wings like oily dark fingers. They coast and soar and the sunlight catches their sheen iridescent green. The road has the smooth feel of pebbles in your hand and you’ve got country and open space and the limitless belief in yourself and your goodness and the heroic nature of what you’ve done. And god how good that will feel to tell her. Good job Gabe. Good job.