When my family moved from Chicago to Denver, every other summer for the first ten years we lived here, weâd make the trip back to Chicago along the I-76/I-80 corridor.
I think I was about 12, and, on my familyâs way back, we stopped at a rest stop somewhere in eastern Nebraska. We were there for about an hour, doing a picnic and relaxing, the parents letting us kids run out some of our pent up energy from the hours and hours riding. I was playing with this kid there, climbing trees, wandering around, just two kids being kids⌠he was almost my mirror image, same glasses, everything⌠tons in common⌠it was odd, but, youâre a kid, and, you donât care, itâs someone not family to enjoy some time with.
Anyhow⌠fast forward 10 years, and, Iâm making a motorcycle journey across country⌠Iâm tired, exhausted, I barely have gas money to get to my destination, so a hotel is completely out of the question⌠I pull into a rest stop about 20 minutes west of the Iowa/Nebraska border and, without even taking off my helmet I walk over to a picnic bench, put my head on the table, and was out.
Sometime later, still completely dark, but, everything was misty and foggy as it was a really wet spring that year, and, Iâm being shaken awake by a kid. I recognize the kid, but⌠Iâm totally in a fog.
âHey, hey, itâs about to rain, maybe you should sleep under some coverâŚâ
Seriously, itâs oh gods in the morning, dark as hell with just cones of light from the few lights about the lot and the restroom structure struggling to push back any of the darkness, and I look at this kid, who for some reason triggers a memory, his clothes are a decade out of place, as is his glasses and the newsie cap heâs wearing. (Seriously, he was wearing a Members Only jacket in 1996)
âCome on,â he says, âYouâre going to get soaked if you stay out here.â and so I let him help me up, and he walks me to the bathroom and I go to the very back, put my back against the wall, slide to the floor, and start to doze. The kid helps me take my helmet off, and i think to myself âholy fuck this would look weird if someone comes inâ
Then he says something odd to me. âYouâve gotten oldâŚâ and heâs squatted on the floor just kind of looking me in the face, and I reply, âIâm only 22âŚâ And he gets up from his crouch, and idly says âWell, nothing stays the same does it?â and turns and starts walking to the doorâŚ
About that time, thunder crashes, and rain starts coming down in sheets intermixed with a bit of hail making a large racket on the building⌠the lights flicker and I donât see the boy, and, I just figure he went outside.
I fall asleep hard⌠to be awaken by a big old grizzled trucker kicking my boot to wake me up, light is streaming into the window. He helps me up as I ask the time, a little after 7amâŚÂ âHell of a storm last night huh? Did you get caught in it?â âNo,â I reply, âbut I bet my gear is all soaked.â
I walk outside, thereâs still some fog and mist holding low to the ground, and, my motorcycle is covered in a tarp⌠something I didnât have with me. Nothing around, a few trucks out in the truck area. The trucker who woke me comes out of the restroom, âHey, did you see who tarped my bike? Iâd like to thank them and give it back.â and he says, âNope, but, lucky for you huh?â and he walks off towards one of the idling trucks.
So⌠the question I must ask, is, was that little boy there the first time? Or, did I leave something of myself behind in that spot? Or, was I just so zonked I was hallucinating⌠but⌠definitely, rest stops are one of those liminal places. (And where the fuck did the tarp come from, I really appreciated itâŚ)
