Highway to Hell : The Vodka Calling Road Trip

It was early. Too early. It was cold, rainy, and did I mention early? Christin would be here soon. How did I get myself into this? I am not a “let’s go on an adventure” type of girl. I enjoy my routine and do not do good with change. Yet, here I am in the early morning hours waiting for Christin to pick me up for an eight-day road trip. What the hell was I thinking?

I was ready to come home before I even left. Truth be told, I really had nothing stopping me. All my loose ends were tied up at home. There was no reason for me to not go, other than I hate the unknown, and I was pretty confident this trip would be filled with many unknowns.

This was not about me. It was about Christin. I knew she had to do this for her. She was still searching for answers. Not only searching, there was a part of her that could not completely move on without these answers. I wanted her to be ready that she may never get what she needed. This person, Freddie, he has a hold over her. Christin may not see it, Freddie sure as hell has no idea, but I see it. I am there with her, over coffee, or late night phone calls. I am her sounding ear when she asks me “What do you think?” I do not always know how to answer her. I do not know this guy, yet it looks like that is about to change. That’s why I had to do this with Christin. If it was not with me, it would be with someone else. Let’s face it, I know her friends. Clearly I was the best one suited for this little adventure. If not me, who knows if she would even make it to California. So, here I am, being the very good supportive friend that I am. I owed it to her, and in a small way, I owed it to myself. I was also on a journey. A journey that I did not forsee taking me down the west coast, but yes, there had to be more out there.

My five bags were safely sheltered under my patio from the pouring rain. How does one pack for California? From what Christin tells me it is always hot down there. Great. I despise the heat. I do not own a pair of shorts, hell, I do not even own a pair of capris. My five bags consisted of “lightweight boots” (Is there even such a thing?) and scarfs, makeup and, and notebooks. Plenty of notebooks.

Finally she pulled up. Before I even opened the door I could hear her weird music blasting from the jeep. I threw three of my bags where the trunk would (should) be, put out my cigarette and opened up the back passengers door. Without paying much attention I threw my backpack in the back, then took my place in the front seat with my purse and journal.

“Jen, be careful! “The Box” is back there.” It was still a little too early for me to fully comprehend what she was saying. I followed her eyes to the back seat, and there it was, right next to my backpack was her pink box, “The Box.” I knew right then and there, that this little road trip of ours means much more to her than it does me. I rummaged through my purse while saying a silent prayer to whomever it was that may be listening “Dear God she brought “The Box”. Please, for her own peace of mind, let this trip give her the answers that she needs. Let it give her closure. She needs the closure”

I found what I was looking for, took my cd out and hurriedly threw it out her. “Can we please listen to this? AC/DC Highway to Hell. Start with track number one and let it play through!”

She gave me “The Look” and I already knew without hearing the words that followed.

“Not yet.”

This was going to be a long trip. I situated myself, notebook in hand, and we were off.

“So….what time is lunch?”

I never got a reply.


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