Day 2: Debacles, Disasters, and Dumb Decisions

I woke up to the sound of car doors slamming and voices speaking quietly. It was early, but the sun was up. I was swallowed by Magic Car Bed, clammy from a fevered sleep on a nonabsorbent surface. I fought comically to climb out of the hole I was wedged into.

Exiting the backseat of my car after sleeping in it has not once appeared graceful to bystanders. I struggled to put pants on as I lay on the bed, the temperature already climbing in the car. I then proceeded to tumble out of the car and find my shoes. I was exhausted, partially because benadryl always leaves me with an unfulfilling sleep cycle, and also because I woke up off and on all night.

I wanted to check out the shower situation, so I hopped in the driver seat and rolled back up to the entrance of the campground. There was a building up there that had male and female showers as well as laundromat-style washer and dryers, vending machines, and a few chairs.

I walked back to the car and began to disassemble my sleeping set up, folding up my linens and pulling the vent plug on the mattress. As I tugged it out of the car, a heavyset man exited the shower house and lit a cigarette.

"Quite the set up you've got there," he commented in an intrigued fashion.

"Oh yeah, it's my solo set up for road tripping."

"Well, that's one way to do it. I've never seen a car bed like that before." We made small talk for a few minutes as I lay the bed across the hood of the car to get all the air out of it and fold it up.

He was staying in one of the RVs. "My old lady and I are from Florida. The kids, well, they're all grown and she and I got tired of sitting around doing nothing all day. We're retired, so we bought this camper and sold our house and just took to the road. Now, we just go wherever we want and we have seen some wild things, let me tell you."

We smoked a cigarette in the early morning sunlight and chatted about interesting roadside attractions for a while. Eventually I bid him farewell and safe travels as I grabbed my toiletry kit and towel. I headed into the shower.

The showers were pretty grody, but most campsite bath houses are. I made the bold decision to go into the large shower stall barefoot, mostly because my flip flops were leather and they get soggy and stay damp all day when you get them wet. I hadn't thought about shower shoes when packing. The hot water was refreshing as I pulled out the tiny shampoo bottle and lathered up. So soothing. It was just a shower, but damn if it didn't feel like a symbolic purging for me as the last remnants of my hangover were scrubbed away. The grime and dirt from the road, the sweat from a poor night's sleep, the circles of makeup smudged on my face from tossing and turning... everything came out clean and I was ready to tackle the day.

I finished rinsing off and turned around to shut off the water. I almost bumped my face on the cheap, rusty shower caddy hanging from the shower head. I looked up and nearly yelped.  And there it was - the showstopper, the shocker, the record screeching to a halt - just lying there innocently, staring me in the eyes: someone's used, bloody tampon three inches from my nose.

Suddenly my delightful shower went from refreshing to absolutely disgusting. Aaaannnnnd, that's my exit cue, I thought. I mean, who does that? Really? Who the hell does that? Showering barefoot was my least concern at this point.  I digress.

I dried off and hit the road. It was a lovely, hot, bright day in Indiana. I cruised through the interstate, passing through Illinois as well.

'Twas a lovely day. At first. 

As I entered Iowa, I realized that unknowingly I'd made it over a thousand miles. Cruising 75 mph down the interstate, watching the landscape change, music blasting, it was just a great fresh start on the trip. Then it happened. Something flickered in my left periphery. I looked down and saw what may as well have been the end of the world: the check engine light had come on.

I completely panicked for two reasons. One, I had only just begun this trip. Two, I was quite literally a thousand miles from home. I scoured the dash for signs of trouble. Tachometer was fine, engine temperature fine, gas - wait, was the gas gauge needle visibly moving? Now, when I drove a 1988 Firebird in high school, if you braked or accelerated too quickly you would definitely see the needle move, and it's just a necessary evil that you'd better get used to in that sort of car. Toyota Corolla? Not so much. That thing got amazing gas mileage, especially because it was a stick shift.

Of course I was five miles from the nearest exit. Of course I was in the middle of absolutely nowhere rural Iowa. Last but not least, of course it was a Sunday, so everything would be closed even if I did make it to a stop. I finally found an exit and rolled to a gas station. With a heavy heart I went inside and asked the attendant for a phone book and explained my plight, including the fact that I honestly had no idea where I was. The girl behind the counter told me there were some auto parts shops in the nearest town, and they could read my error message.

I walked outside, worried, and sat down on the curb next to the car. I had opened the hood and checked the fluids, which were all fine. I rested my head on my hands and thought back to the conversation I'd had with my father before I left.

Flashback!

I sat on a plastic patio chair under the carport. He sat on the steps of the back porch. I sipped on a beer, the bottle frosty cold in the summer heat.

"You know I worry about you out there, honey. Last time you took a big trip it was a newer car. Now, it's ten years old and it's got a lot of miles on it. It's banged up a little, and to be honest, if something bad happens to it, it won't be worth the money to bring it home."

He puffed on his cowboy killer quietly. The cicadas were buzzing a loud symphony above us in the ancient oak trees. "I know dad, but it's a sound car. It's in good shape, and I've done all the routine maintenance on it just like I was supposed to. I'm not going to ask you to bring it home if it can't be fixed."

He proceeded to run down all the routine maintenance services and quiz me on when I last had them done. He's the type of person who washes the car every Sunday, never gets a scratch on the car in ten years of driving it, and can fix anything. "Honey, you have one headlight that's all foggy. You're missing a hubcap. You can't be driving a car that looks all shabby, and that headlight can't be safe."

He then proceeded to painstakingly track down matching hubcaps, lecture me on not fixing the scratches because they will eventually rust, and replace the headlight for me. I was definitely grateful, but didn't feel like it was the top of my priority list. He made me change the oil (again) before I left.

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Well, there I sat, on the curb head in hands in Iowa. Not only may my trip be over, but I may have to leave my car in Iowa. Further, how would I get home? My engine was in trouble, but by god, thank the lord I have four fucking matching hubcaps!

Two young guys approached me as they exited their work truck. I told them what was going on; that my car was acting fine but the light was on. One suggested after a smartphone search that the most common issue in a situation like mine is the O2 sensor going bad. Optimistic, I headed to town. I found an O'Reilly's and had the guy read the error. The long and short of it was that it may have been the catalytic converter going out. Well, isn't that lovely. The guy told me that, basically, the code he was getting was a vague one, and I may have an issue with exhaust system not working properly, or that the cat was going bad (which means eventually it will have to be changed, but not with urgency), or it could mean it is about to clog, which is a large deal on a road trip. If that were the case, I would need to replace it, lest I start getting about 5 miles to the gallon. [Disclaimer: I am not a mechanic, and neither was this guy. He just worked at an auto parts store, so he was perfectly honest that he could be telling me something less than accurate.] Since the car seemed to be running fine, the only option for me was to keep driving. I was very far from any city that might have a mechanic open on a Sunday.

So, I hit the road once more. It was a somber drive through the state. I remember when I was much younger listening to the band Slipknot (you know, back in my angry angsty stage in high school). One of their biggest albums was titled simply "Iowa," after their home state. I thought to myself back then, "why are those guys so angry about Iowa?" Well, I felt the irony in the car as I drove, because now I understood. I sat in that seat driving down the highway at some even split between horribly scared and filled with unbridled rage.

I looked at the GPS. I was getting close to Fort Dodge by this point, and that was the only city in any drivable vicinity for quite a long amount of time. It was mid afternoon, which meant I would have to stop early and stay the night so I could have a mechanic look at the car first thing.

I had an unusual stop to make in a town called West Bend, so I couldn't keep going, as I was committed to seeing this place. I made it to Fort Dodge and drove around downtown. The city was average sized - but then again, I realize I have no concept of city sizes, either. I'm from a town that has 5,000 people in it, but the first big city I ever visited was Tokyo. Needless to say, every other place I visit just falls into the in-between "medium/average" size category.

This city was rather sad looking. A big city with what seemed to be a dwindling population. A lot of the businesses were run down. There looked to be nobody on the road on this Sunday afternoon. It almost looked like a ghost town.

I rounded the downtown area and saw a sign sticking off the corner of a building with an "open" sign. JoJo's Tavern. The place was very small. I had my wallet, my keys, and my camera in hand as I slipped through the walkway and climbed onto a bar stool. The place had a strange decor to it. Something that, as a southerner, I was unaccustomed to. For every kitschy "country decor" piece you've ever seen - and you know you've seen them - this place had the wild west equivalent. In a lot of southern homes, you see tacky wooden plaques with quaint sayings on them, twig wreaths with cloth bows on them, apples painted on everything, and so on. I'll see that and raise you kitschy, quaint plaques wrapped in barbed wire. Photos of old timey cowboys and cowgirls with lasso ropes as the frames. Cow skulls on the wall with barbed wire wrapped around the horns.

There happened to be a musician there playing cover songs. He was from Canada, but enjoyed traveling and singing wherever he ended up. I ordered a beer and listened to him sing. The clientele in this bar were mostly middle aged and older, the ladies predominantly sporting short, big hair and shiny belts. The men were clad in plaid shirts and Lee jeans.

"Hey, trouble," the bartender said over my shoulder. In walked a guy wearing cargo shorts and a camouflage tee shirt. His hair was cropped short and his hands were cracked and dirty with callouses on them. He sat two stools down from me and almost immediately struck up a conversation. It was difficult to hear him. A young woman came in and sat beside him. She was thin and looked out of sorts. She began rummaging through her large purse and shortly thereafter stormed out of the bar abruptly.

He resumed chatting me up. He was renovating the business front across the street to turn it into a fitness and self defense resource for ids in the area so that they would have something to occupy their time. He explained how meth was a huge problem in the area and there was scarcely a family he knew that wasn't affected. Now, I don't know if he was shining me on or not, but it seemed legit at the time. He was friendly without being forward, and we were having a decent conversation. "Yeah, that girl that just left? She's my cousin. She's a meth head; I have no idea where she just left to go to, probably to go to the laundromat and try to find lost change because she's spent all her money on drugs." I nodded and didn't respond formally because, what does one say to that? "Sorry your cousin's all methed out?"

"Yeah, they call Fort Dodge 'Little Chicago' because Al Capone would come down here when he needed to hide out from the cops for a while. You can look it up if you don't believe me, there's even a house here where he used to live at part time when he needed to." I looked around and wondered why in the world Al Capone would ever want to come to Iowa, let alone Fort Dodge, but I didn't question it.

He asked me where I was from. When I told him North Carolina, he said, "Oh wow, so you're a real Southern Belle!" I laughed directly in his face unintentionally. I assured him that I may be southern, but not by any stretch of the imagination could I be considered a belle. That didn't stop him from dubbing me as Belle for the rest of the evening.

Shortly after, another local and regular stopped in. His name was Geoffrey. He was tall and lean with tan skin and a very bright smile. The three of us kicked it at JoJo's for a while. Geoff was likewise a very nice guy; the proud father of two kids and a hard working fella. We stood outside JoJo's smoking a cigarette and one of them commented on my knife. I joked that I had blades everywhere. In reality, I wasn't kidding.

Flashback!

"Honey, I really think you ought to consider getting a concealed carry permit for this trip. I'll buy you the gun if it's reasonably priced," my father said, nursing his coffee. Smoke gently rose out of the ashtray and coiled as it dissipated into the air.

"Dad, I'm not getting a concealed carry anything. Why would I want to carry a weapon that I'm not confident enough to use?"

"Well, there's a lot of weirdos and freaks out there. If you have a gun, you'll be able to defend yourself."

"Yeah? Well, I'd be so scared of going to prison for shooting someone that I'd be afraid to use it, and any weapon that you have is a weapon that can be turned against you," I fired back. "I'm perfectly content to carry my knife; you know I'm always packing a blade, which is sufficient."

This is not a new conversation. We have had it several times. As much as I love to shoot guns, I'm not ready to assume responsibility for one. I'm actually a pretty damned good shot, especially with a handgun. I tried explaining that concealed carry licenses don't transfer from state to state, so I could get arrested. "You can't even carry a disassembled handgun through Illinois. The only way you can have a gun there is if it's a hunting rifle and it must be disassembled into pieces, unloaded, in a locked box with ammo locked in a separate box, and you must have a valid Illinois hunting license on your person. Otherwise, it's jail time."

"Well go around Illinois, then," he responded. I'm pretty sure he hadn't looked at a map recently when he suggested that. "What if somebody comes up to you and tries to kidnap you? You could be minding your business unloading your car and wind up stuffed in your own trunk."

"Oh my GOD, Dad, nobody is going to put me in my trunk! What am I, five years old? Besides, there's a rescue handle in there! What is wrong with you?!"

The conversation was resolved for the time being. Later that evening I was cleaning out my trunk to accommodate my luggage and in the cool, black night air, I stopped and looked around into the darkness. I thought about how desolate it is out there on the road. My god. What if someone actually did kidnap me? What if someone robbed me? I'm not a very strong woman. I would be easy to overpower.

I looked around, angry that my father's paranoia was seemingly contagious, even if only temporarily. I decided to utilize my trunk as a safety stash spot. I took an old film canister and put $200 cash in it and duct taped it up under the lip of the trunk where only I could find it. I also decided to mount a throwing knife back there inside the trunk just in case somebody snuck up on me while my back was turned. I didn't have a sheath for it so I fashioned one out of paper towels and carefully duct taped it in place. A small bit of the paper towel brushed up against the light in the trunk. Hmmm, I wonder if that little light goes off when you close it. If it doesn't, I bet it gets pretty hot - it would be just my luck that it would catch the damn car on fire, I thought. I eased the trunk lid down as close as it would go and tried to peek and see if it shut off, but to no avail. Nevermind the fact that I'm duct taping knives in my trunk in case I get kidnapped or mugged, let's worry about there being some trunk fire instead.

Maybe I'd better check it out to be safe, I thought. So, I sat on the bumper and looked around to make sure my dad was nowhere to be seen. I crawled completely in and shut the lid. Wouldn't you know it, the light turned off. I saw the release handle glowing in the dark and opened the trunk, pulling myself out.

I can't believe I just did that,  I thought. Of course, the only reason I did it was to be sure that light would go off for safety. Yeah. That's totally the reason. Yep.

....but if I DID get kidnapped, I'm totally prepared to leap out of my own vehicle with a throwing knife in hand. I imagined myself screaming," SUCKA FOOLS! You don't know who you're messing with!"

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Anyway, I had the throwing knife, two pocket knives, a dagger, and a hand-forged katana that my cousin Hunter made for me. I didn't put the sword in there for the trip, it just sort of never made its way out of my vehicle after he gave it to me.

The guys wanted to see it, so in the parking lot with our beers, I pull it out. Immediately they transformed into pseudo-Samurai, throwing things at each other and swinging wildly to try and hit anything they could. We were undoubtedly a comical trio as the elder patrons smoked quietly and watched us giggling like kids trying to slice beer cans in half mid-air with a dull and heavy katana.

Dusk was falling so we elected to relocate. We went down the street to a place called O'Goodie's. It was your typical Irish-"ish" pub, covered with tin advertisements, shamrocks, and Christmas lights. The only actual Irish beers they carried were the ever original Guinness and Smithwick's. I'm not complaining, I just always find America's portrayal of foreign culture to be comical.

It got late and I began discussing accommodations. "Oh, you wanna go to the Starlight Motel. It's a good place." In almost the next sentence, he added, "well I'm not on that couchsurf website, but you can crash my place if you want to. I live pretty close by." I thought about it. It was risky. I didn't know this guy. I felt pretty confident that he was a decent guy - at least, decent enough that I wasn't going to end up on the evening news. Still, it was breaking another major travel rule: never leave a public place with a stranger.

He advised me to swing by his brother in law's auto shop in the morning, and he would be able to give me a more reliable diagnosis regarding the check engine light. This is good, I thought to myself.

We went to leave and I decided I was going to take him up on his offer. I think my choice was largely due to the nagging fear that I would have to spend a lot of money on an expensive vehicle part or repair. Geoff bid us farewell and we split up. "Yeah, you didn't want to stay with him, he's into that meth, too," Dan said under his breath before he even made it fully across the street. I was beginning to be thoroughly sketched out by Ford Dodge.

"He doesn't seem like he's into drugs to me; he was really chill, nice, and clean cut."

"You can never tell with these folks around here," he replied. I began to wonder if he was making up all this meth business just to mess with me because I was a tourist. We drove to his place and walked into the small house on a quiet street. It was a bachelor's home, for sure. The house was a complete disaster. Shoes were necessary. The walls were barren, the floors were filthy, empty beer cans littered every flat surface, and the place smelled stale.

"Hey, man! You up? Check this shit out! I got us a real life Southern Belle! Come in the kitchen and take a shot!"

We walked into the kitchen. It was grimy, the sink overflowing with soiled dishes, the counters covered with food and liquor splatter in a sticky film. The linoleum was marked from countless cigarette burns. His roommate entered and lipped a swig of whiskey straight out of the bottle. Dan poured himself a double and threw it back. I was becoming legitimately concerned about the situation I had gotten myself into as I stood there. His roommate was disturbingly disheveled, and not in a "I'm tired/hungover/worked a long shift" way, more in a "I haven't left this drug/alcohol-fueled stupor long enough in the past week to even wash my visibly soiled face" kind of way.

"Here's a shot for the Belle of the ball," he said. I held the small glass he had poured for me, tipping it back uneasily. He excused himself to the restroom. I should have made my exit then, but I thought he would return in less than a minute. I was nervous. Up until now, I was there of my own volition, and hadn't tried to leave. If I tried to leave and there was any interference with that action, I knew I was going to become extremely panicked and things had the possibility of escalating in a bad way. I tried to make small talk with the roommate. He was completely unenthused with my presence, and seemed to be so disoriented that conversation just wasn't possible. I shifted my weight uneasily. There wasn't a clean seat to be had. Dan returned, leaning heavily on the door frame. He was a bit buzzed as we were driving to his house, but at this point, he'd become quite visibly drunk. "You ready to get some sleep?"

You know that feeling when you've landed yourself in a bad situation? The knot you feel in your belly where things tighten up into a hard pit in your core, such as when you see a cop's lights flash behind you on the highway, or when you know you're about to be in big trouble for something? Yeah. That's where I was emotionally as he tells me, "Oh, by the way, we don't have a spare room, so you can crash in my bed."

I looked into his bedroom from the hallway. No overhead light. No shelves, furniture, or decor. Nothing but a grody, unmade mattress on the floor and a mountain of dirty clothes and trash dominating the rest of the room. None of the carpet in the room was even visible for all the garbage and crumpled garments. What is this, a fucking squat-house? All that talk about meth, and he's the one who looks like he lives in a drug den! I began to get angry. I think it was a coping mechanism to get past the fear that was rising up in my throat slowly. It felt like a piece of dry bread that was swallowed too quickly, crawling up my gullet.

I sat down on the corner of the bed. I wasn't necessarily afraid for my physical health. I really think I was more alarmed at my poor decision making skills. I didn't think this guy was violent, but I also didn't really care to find out. I was more upset at the fact that my skills in "travel savvy" were clearly rusty, because the first real night out in a non-campsite stop, I broke a cardinal rule. Choices like this are how women end up shoved onto a mattress against their will, or unconscious somewhere and unable to say "no," or stuffed into their own trunk, or a million other things that are awful. I thought back to my father's irrational fears and realized that he knew how dumb and trusting I am, and in that moment, I realized his fears were very real and very feasible if I could make such a stupid decision as going home to stay with a sketchy person in a sketchy house in a sketchy meth town. My god, how fucking stupid could I be? Was it the beer on board that made it seem like a good idea? Was it my financial concerns?

I was having a very intense inner dialogue with myself. None of those things matter, I thought angrily, interrupting myself. You are in a stranger's house a thousand miles from home! It won't matter how much money you saved by not renting a hotel room if you're dead, you fucking idiot! 

He lay down and muttered some drunken gibberish. I looked around trying to focus on anything in the room to distract myself from the dumb situation I had put myself in. He sat up and said, "You know, I've always heard that southern girls were known to be very kind." I raised an eyebrow. Before I could say a word, out of nowhere, he grabbed my head and laid one on me, shoving his tongue in my mouth. Aaaannnnnnd, my concerns are now validated, I thought.

I quelled the urge to do some combination of biting his tongue off/vomiting/shitting myself out of fear and said simply, "I have to pee." You would have thought my legs were spring loaded if you had seen the quickness with which I leapt off that mattress and flew down the hall. I locked the door and looked around the disgusting room. I wondered if all the other people I met today were just nice, regular folks and he was the real meth addict. The more I thought about it, the more spooked I got. It was time to go.

I let ten minutes go by and figured that, considering how drunk/high he was, he had probably fallen asleep. My suspicions were correct as I peered silently into the room. I snuck in, grabbed my bag quietly, and booked it out of the house. I sat in my car with the engine running as I booted up the GPS. My hands were on the steering wheel, blankly staring at the speedometer. I was so angry at myself. I reflected on the day. What had begun as a silly, fun, carefree day with some locals had been ruined as time went on and the night bore upon us. I had allowed a memory to be ruined because I didn't know when to be sensible and walk away. I thought about one of my favorite movies, Fried Green Tomatoes. There's a line in it where Sipsey says, "You know, Mrs. Ruth was a lady, and a lady always knows when to leave." In my moment of defeat, recalling this line made my heart sink. I wasn't a lady. Not even close. At the rate I was going, I probably never would be. Looking back, the first two hours of my time in Fort Dodge were delightful. This event served as another reminder as to why you never stay out past dark when road tripping solo, and you never allow yourself to drink unless you're already at your destination or in the company of friends you trust.

I drove across town to the Starlight Motel. It had this great retro sign with stars and a delicate 50's era font on it. As I got closer, I saw a handful of people crowded around outside. Who hangs out at a hotel at 2:00 a.m.? At that moment it dawned on me that this place was a "no-tell motel." Everything about this scene seemed to be the final cherry on top of a sketchy day. What those folks were doing in a huddled circle of smoke in the yellow street light in front of the hotel, I will never know. I kept right on driving and checked in to a Comfort Inn, cost be damned. Apparently, you can put a price on cleanliness and safety, and at the Comfort Inn in Fort Dodge, it was $89.99.

I wish I could wax poetic here like I have in the past entries, but there's really no thoughtful denouement to close with at the end of this post. This was quite possibly the most stressful and concerning day of the trip. The moral, if I had to give you one, would be that while one can usually trust their instincts, there is no excuse to be reckless or disregard common safety. While nothing bad happened to me at Dan's house, the situation could have been a very different one, and I would have knowingly put myself there. Make yourself some rules of the road and stick to them. Nobody wants to look back on a trip that should have made them proud and realize that it instead made them a statistic.