Page 14 of Hauling Ashe

“Let me guess, you’ve always traveled by some cozy SUV, complete with A/C and high-tech stereo, plush leather seats, Bluetooth, and maybe a mini-bar,” I mock.

“Actually, the road trip I once took involved something similar to that VW campervan you mentioned earlier.”

My mouth falls open. “Where’d you go road trippin’?” I absolutely cannot imagine him in a beat-up van, but suddenly an image of him in jeans, a tight T-shirt, and flip-flops fills my head. He could pull off beach casual as much as he rocks the business suit.

Tucker squints, turning his head to peer out the side window. “California.”

My heart hammers in my chest. “Have you already traveled Route 66?” Why hadn’t he mentioned it?

“No. I went more direct. Straight out I-80 west through Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Nevada to L.A.”

“Wow,” I whisper, tugging on the steering wheel to pull myself upward and glance at him through the rearview mirror. “That must have been some trip.” That direction is the way I’ve considered doubling back to Chicago. Then again, I haven’t planned my return trip.

“It was.” Softly, he smiles. Just the corner of his mouth crooks upward. His eyes squint again in the bright sunlight as he focuses out the window, lost in his own memories.

“Why?”

He turns back to me. “Why what?”

“Why did you take that trip?”

He softly huffs and I wish I could look at him better while we speak instead of the seats separating us, with him behind me. My attention needs to remain on the road before me.

“Just young and hopeful back then.”

This surprises me. “What did you hope for?”

“Things that don’t matter anymore.”

This again surprises me, and I risk another peek through the rearview mirror. His head lowers. His forehead furrows. Then he reaches for his phone and the conversation is closed, just like him.

7

Playlist: “The Piano Man” - Billy Joel

[Tucker]

I’m losing my mind in this car. The fresh scent of Mae mingles with the warm air traveling through the car and I can’t breathe. Her scent along with the continued attempts to talk to me, stifle me. She’s too much.

We continue down the road again in silence and as much as I try to concentrate on the emails before me, I can’t. My thoughts continue to wander to her question. Why? What did I hope for?

Sometimes it’s difficult to recall the dreams I once held dear. The hopes I had of making it big, being someone in my own right. In my life, the path to success flipped. Instead of obtaining the accolades I desired, Rochelle received them. I wasn’t a jealous man, but I’d been envious of the empire she’d built with my assistance. The following she had, all by looking pretty, exposing our home life, and giving away our secrets, empowered women to take control of who they wanted to be. I supported Rochelle in those ideals. I am not a chauvinist, but I am a realist. I’d given up my dreams and took the sideline while she achieved hers.

The irony in her accomplishments was that she never set out to be as famous as she was. Her initial intention had been a simple blog. She wanted to vent her grievances and connect with other women. She spoke about motherhood and loneliness. She talked about friendships and lost connections. She mentioned our immediate family and intimate rituals in a manner that weren’t quite reality but sounded picture-perfect. She created a model image, not too far off from the cartoon replicas I’d seen in that museum we’d stopped at of perky-breasted, skirt-wearing mothers and suit-clad fathers from the 1950s.

The exterior of those images has changed but the ideal has not. A woman is more than a mother now; she is a superpower, a warrior, an innovator, and I’d support all these things, as long as someone is genuine. Rochelle had not been. She was moody, easily agitated, and spoiled beyond reason. I faulted myself in many ways. In supporting her pursuit of all things, I’d become someone I never wanted to be.

Glancing out the window at the late morning sky, I quietly allow myself to mourn the person I had once wanted to be for a few seconds, and then return that dream to where it belongs, deeply suppressed within me.

Eventually, Mae pulls into another small town and we near a second Muffler Man, as she called the giant male statues. This one holds an oversized hot dog in his hands.

“He was originally located in Cicero at Bunyon’s Hot Dog but was moved here.” Her tour guide voice gives nothing away. I expected her to be more excited with every stop we’ve made but her quiet demeanor reminds me of Rochelle. Is Mae not appreciating this trip? This path was her plan. I’m certainly ready to come out of my skin with the slower paced by-way. I don’t understand why we aren’t hitting eighty miles per hour on the freeway and crossing this state off our list.

However, Mae parallel parks and exits the car, walking toward the fiberglass structure. She turns her back to it, posing as people do for selfies. Yet, she’s struggling with the phone in her hand and lining up her stature with the taller one behind her. Rochelle had been a pro at selfies. Then again, she’d had a permanent camera man—me. As her right hand, I followed beside her everywhere she went, documenting so much of her day, her conferences, her life.

Frustrated by watching Mae’s struggle, I forcefully open my door and step onto the sidewalk.

“Here. Let me take it.” If I don’t help her, we might be here all day as she tries for the right angle. Then again, she isn’t exactly posing. She isn’t fluffing her hair or positioning it over her shoulder in a certain way. She isn’t standing sideways, bending a knee, placing a hand on her hip, and tilting her head. She’s just…Mae.