As I made my way from state to state, through time zones and tanks of gas, I couldn't help but feel like I just wanted to get to the west coast as quickly as I could. I was rushing my trip away, overwhelmed by the prospect of driving all the way from coast to another. I wanted to reach the west coast, turn around and gun it back to New York City like I'd never left. But why? I had been looking forward to this adventure for months.
As I thought about the miles I had put between myself and home, it made me feel more and more isolated. I pulled off the interstate and rolled towards a Love's Travel Stop. In front of me was some sort of farm vehicle, the sort you'd only see out on the mega farms in the midwest. The only problem was these things only went about five miles an hour. With the Travel Stop still a couple hundred yards away, I skirted around the tractor looking vehicle and positioned myself next to the gas pump.
"Hey there partner," someone said behind me. I didn't flinch.
Next thing I knew, there was a sunburned, sunglass wearing bearded feller with a raspy country accent next to me. He leaned in, about a foot from my face.
"I said hey there partner, you damn near hit me on my lift!" the man said, staring straight through my eyes, his face visibly angry.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get close to your lift," I said, realizing he must have been on the whack tractor that I hustled past moments before.
"You better watch yourself," he spat, before walking away.
I squeezed the last few drops out of the nozzle, hopped in my Jeep and sped off laughing. What had just happened? Why was that man calling me partner as if he'd descended from a long line of cowboys? I laughed to myself, agreed to cut myself a break and slow down, I couldn't risk hitting anyone else on their lift, I had a road trip to get back to.
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