I'm barreling down I-90, twelve hours out of Austin. I've somehow made a U-turn in the middle of America. I meant to be well on my way to sipping Canadian whiskey, but instead took a left when I saw mountains.
It doesn't seem to matter how many cigarettes I smoke, I can't seem to shake the smell of her off my clothes. And believe me, I've tried. I've made six gas station stops and scrubbed my hands at every one. I've tried every cheap cologne I can find. Nothing works. I can't shake her smell any more than I can the thoughts of her. It sucks. Maybe that's why I'm on the road again.
It's amazing to me. In just twelve hours, I could've been in an entirely different world if I'd continued north. In only a day, you can change the world you live in, like some sort of strange transporter. You can drive for a day and go from America's asshole to armpit. In just twelve hours, you can run away from all your problems. Instead, I took that damn turn.
I swore to myself I was going to shake the dust of Texas off my boots. No more deserts or high plains. And yet, here I am in Nevada. Not much of a change. That's okay. This is my favorite part of the drive. The sky is darkening and I'm here in the middle of that great transporter, riding America's hidden highways. My radio is loud and sad. So am I. I light up a spliff, even though it's something I don't do very often. But Floyd's on the radio and I've got things on my mind. Roger Waters singing “Wish You Were Here”. It just makes me think of her. But I've put twelve hours between us and still the smell of her, that beautiful, lovely, dark smell, persists.
I get off the interstate and her smell is suddenly gone. It's a barren exit with a sign for a little town called Desolation a mile away. I drive to it. The new smell gets stronger. It's the smell of hog farms and backyard barbecues. A weird mixture. But not unpleasant. I drive through the town. There's nothing.
But there on the far edge of town, is a little steel building all lit up. It's a bar and I immediately stop. It's the name that does it. The Weary Traveler. Sounds like my kind of place. I step out of the car and smell peanuts and cheap beer. I'm sure this is just another country bar, just a redneck hillbilly dive. But I think it looks like a good place for a shot of tequila. The Weary Traveler. I smile.
Looks like home to me.
