Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“ Y ou want me to stop where ?”
Leah was on the road but already behind schedule. “Procrastibaking” was her favorite form of stalling on things she had to do versus wanted to do. So packing hadn’t happened until she had a fresh batch of chocolate rugelach cooling on her kitchen counter. And sleep hadn’t come until after midnight. Her chances of reaching New York with ample daylight on her side were fading as fast as her good mood. But she couldn’t not humor her father.
“It’s Kismet!” He enunciated, then laughed as if it were the best joke he’d heard in years. “Just north of Columbus, right off the Interstate. Consider it my request, Letty. Assuming you haven’t made it that far already.”
Here was the man who had been quiet about asking anything of her the entire time she was planning her trip. Now he thinks of something?
While others had heaped her honey-you-must-see-and-do list with things that would keep her busy across all five boroughs of New York City, her dad would just pat her hand each time she saw him. And make her promise to read a book, make a new friend, and have a grand adventure.
“No offense, Dad. But I hardly think my grand adventure involves a truck stop in Kismet. What could possibly be there?”
“Not a what , Letty – a who ! A former student of mine is in need of a ride.”
Leah detected a lift in his tone; it was almost a melody and something she hadn’t heard in a long time.
“Are you sure you don’t just want me to pick something up for you in New York?” She had room for another tacky foam crown from Lady Liberty (Regina’s request) or another dozen bialys, whatever the hell those were. She’d find out when she got to Manhattan.
But she’d never get there at this rate if she was picking up random strangers at rest stops. People she would have to, God forbid, make small talk with?
Leah had her good book cued up – a just-spicy-enough romantasy on audiobook that would keep her interest through at least thirteen road trip hours, if necessary. Books were friends enough, so she figured she had two-thirds of her dad’s questions covered. And as for this jaunt being an adventure?
That was a given.
“Leah.” He dropped his tone an octave, along with his childhood nickname for her. “If you’re worried at all – he’s more than just a former student. He’s a mensch, and he’s in a real bind. He just needs a lift to Erie.”
“From Kismet. At…” Her car clock, perpetually wrong by eighteen minutes no matter how many time changes she’d tried to reset it right, read 6:49. And he’s making me do math while driving? “…6:31 in the morning.”
“Yes, and yes. I’d even venture to say he could pay you for gas.” Her father chuckled. “Eventually.”
Now that was a welcome thought, balancing the others swirling through Leah’s head. With Jaz not on the trip to split the costs, share sandwiches, and offer up pieces of her wardrobe to help Leah dress for success on these business pitches, she was feeling a bit over her head. She had enough to get herself to New York City, barring any delays. But it would be nice to stretch her savings if this guy could help chip in.
And she had to admit, her dad’s mensch endorsement held weight. The chances of her passenger also being a meshugana were slim – but still not none.
Leah sighed, adding her dad’s mensch to the Bramblewood Bucket List. And stowing the tin of rugelach behind the front seat to make room for him. “You know I would go out of my way for you, Dad. Literally.”
“That’s the beauty of it, Letty. It’s on your way. You’ll have good company all the way to your first stop.”
Avi was wrong – it turned out Ohio was pretty freaking huge.
The name Gellman was not as common as Cohen, but still, Avi burned through half the funds on his phone card, just working his way through the J Gellmans of Ohio before finally hitting the right number.
Cantor Joel had found him a ride to the bus station in Erie, which was great news. He’d listened thoughtfully to Avi’s plight, then told him to hang up, wait five minutes, and call him back.
Avi never wore a watch because he always had his phone. Now, he had no phone to consult, no timer to set. That left him with an itchy, jangly-under-the-skin feeling. There was also no clock in the arcade, just the old pinball machines time had forgotten with their sad lights flashing. So he paced and counted to sixty as calmly as he could, five times. Then, he re-dialed the operator and held his breath until she connected him with Joel Gellman again.
They’d spent the rest of his phone card balance catching up and passing the time, which had raised Avi’s spirits – but also his suspicions.
Why wasn’t his mentor able to come himself? Not that he expected the man to drive him all the way to Buffalo, but to at least a Western Union, where Eli could wire him some cash when it opened? Then to the bus station? They could’ve found a diner along the way and had a genuine heart-to-heart.
Just like they used to, back in Jacobsdale.
While Cantor seemed thrilled to hear from him at the ass-crack of dawn – once he got over the initial out-of-the-blue shock of it – and had asked question after question about Avi’s life, he’d been far less willing to bring Avi up to speed on his days.
Avi supposed the man had other things to do, perhaps congregation duties to attend to. It was the start of Hanukkah tonight, after all.
Nothing to do now but wait for the cavalry to come.
Avi yawned, turning Tobin’s wallet over in his hands. Other than the fifty that had been in the bill-fold, there was a lone condom, unexpired, Avi noted. A credit card (that was expired) and an auto club card – useless without a car. And a Pennsylvania driver’s license he couldn’t use, as they looked nothing alike.
He hadn’t known Tobin lived just a couple of states away. Hell, he hadn’t known Tobin wasn’t even the guy’s first name. Erik Henry Tobin was five years older than him…and was celebrating a birthday next week.
And Avi hadn’t known any of this. Note to self: talk to the crew more often.
He snapped the leather billfold closed and zipped it back into the pocket of his track pants. They had snaps down the legs, but he wasn’t a basketball player or a male stripper, so why did he even own them? Comfort, he supposed. Ridiculous.
Same with the shower slides on his feet. At least his socks were clean; a new pair procured per band member as one of the regularly requested items on Painted Doors’ tour rider for each venue. Dirty socks became disposable daily when fresh pairs awaited them backstage, along with their catering requests.
Still, he was so not dressed for the weather that awaited him beyond the windows of the rest stop. He stifled another yawn and tried to remember the last time he felt so unprepared for anything.
The last time he was left to his own devices.
Ironic since he had no real devices to speak of. Not any of the electronic kind, at least. He missed his earbuds, missed having a private soundtrack playing to shut out all the external chatter. The people who talked at him, not with him. Buck and the others telling him where to be and what time, what songs to sing. Which camera to look at. He smiled and he showed up, and he did his thing. Over and over since Las Vegas.
Ever since Vegas, he’d looked for Sylvie behind each camera that flashed his way. Certain she would show back up. Flash him her peace sign that all was forgiven. Forgotten.
Was he forgetting something?
Thinking of Sylvie exhausted him.
Thinking of…
Oh shit.
Her text. He had left Sylvie on ‘read.’
Somehow, suddenly, he was too tired to care.
And somehow – even with no clocks around – he realized “one to two hours” must’ve gone by since…
LiquiDoze.