Page 10 of Where the Music Grows

I put the phone down and use the bathroom. I ignore the state of the fixtures. I’m only going to be here long enough to get a few hours of sleep before I start driving. Driving where...that’s still to be determined. I grab my wallet and the key to the room. There’s a truck stop across the street with a restaurant that claims it’s open twenty-four hours.

I make my way across the nearly empty parking lot. Inside, the air smells faintly of grease and burnt coffee. A waitress with tired eyes nods at me as I slide into a booth by the window. I glance at the laminated menu, though I already know I’m just going to order a burger and fries. Comfort food for a runaway.

A couple of truckers come in, greeting the sole waitress. They take stools at the counter, chatting with the waitress like they’ve been here a hundred times before. I stare out the window at my truck, parked under a flickering streetlight, and wonder how long it’ll take before this feels normal—sleeping in motels, eating at truck stops, not knowing what’s next.

“Want coffee?” the waitress, Darla, asks while holding the pot.

“Please.”

She fills it up and then puts the pot on the table. “Know what you want?”

“Cheeseburger and fries, please.”

She nods and scribbles on her notepad. “Passing through?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “This the kind of place that has work?”

She shrugs. “Depends what you’re looking for.”

“Anything, really.” I stir my coffee, even though I haven’t added sugar. “Need to get settled somewhere.”

“Try Hank’s Auto. Or the lumberyard. Always need hands. Hank’s a decent guy. Won’t screw you over.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She walks away. I sit and look around, half-listening to the two guys at the counter talking about baseball. This place isn’t exactly a goal. I imagine there are plenty of guys just like me trying to get the hell out of here. But it’s the kind of place where things are going to be cheap. And cheap is what I need. Tomorrow morning, I’ll check things out. I am far enough away from home that Dad can’t control me, but close enough I can still visit my brothers.

Darla brings my burger and shuffles away once again.

I take a bite. It’s not Patty’s cooking, but it’s enough to quiet the gnawing in my stomach. As I eat, I pull out my phone and open the maps app. My finger hovers over the screen, tracing the lines of highways and state borders. South. That’s the only direction I’ve got so far. South means warmer weather, bigger cities, more opportunities. Maybe even Memphis. The thought makes my chest tighten with something between excitement and fear.

I didn’t set out with the intention of hitting Memphis or Nashville, but deep down, I can’t deny that inner dreamer sees the bright lights of the big city. Music. I know that’s what’s pulling me, but I’m a realist. I know the odds of breaking into the industry. Slim. Less than slim. I’d have better luck playing the lottery.

I finish my burger and push the plate away, sipping the last of my coffee. The diner is quiet now, the truckers gone, and Darla is wiping down the counter. I leave a couple of bills on the table and head back to the motel.

I strip to my underwear and crash on the bed. The window AC is loud, but necessary. I manage to fall asleep with hope blooming my soul. I finally made a move. I got off the farm. Now, I just have to keep going and not give in to the fear that’s telling me I can’t make it on my own.

I wake early the next morning. I want to be at those businesses Darla mentioned first thing in the morning. I hop into the shower, not thrilled to discover the hottest it gets is lukewarm.

That’ll wake a guy up.

Checkout isn’t until eleven. I leave my bags and guitar in the room and step outside. I don’t think it’s going to be hard to find the auto shop. The town is small—smaller than the one I left. I see the sign I’m looking for and pull into the parking lot.

Hank’s Auto smells like oil and rubber and every other auto shop I’ve ever been in. A guy in coveralls wipes his hands on a rag as I walk in.

“Can I help you?”

“I heard you might be hiring.”

He sizes me up. “You know cars?”

“Enough to change oil. I learn fast.”

He hesitates. Then, “How old are you, kid?”

“Eighteen.”

His eyes narrow. “You got ID?”