Life on the Road
*
I’m not made for this.
The next few hours would’ve been fun if I weren’t scared out of my mind.
It was nine a.m. I had four more hours ahead, but the delirium had already set in. I could feel it creeping in, like when you’re so tired that everything becomes hilarious or infuriating, and you’re never sure which.
Robert would be off work by noon, giving him time to break down his tent and be stuck waiting for me.
However, I had more pressing concerns.
Specifically, how to get the best selfie before the “Colorful Colorado” sign.
At the first angle, I cut off my face.
The second one, the sign was missing.
In another, I tilted my head so that my chin was awkwardly broad.
In another, too narrow.
Fifteen minutes later, with a group of college kids guiding me like stoned cheerleaders, I obtained no less than five perfect selfies.
I texted the one with the most cleavage to Robert and the one with the least on social media.
When I hit I-25, I went north, then immediately pulled over when I saw my favorite fast-food restaurant.
Vegetarian and healthy be damned.
Ten minutes later, I was back on the highway, furious that breakfast was not served in this region. Apparently, Kansas City was a magical place where restaurants test menu items.
I thought it was just the shithole I was born in.
I begrudgingly survived on granola and another energy drink as I trekked through the Old West like my ancestors.
What the hell did I know about the Old West?
My ancestors took one look at the Kansas River, forded it, muttered, “Yeah, no,” and called it a day.
Also, what the hell is fording anyway?
When I crossed into Wyoming, I saw a text from Robert.
Hot.
I snorted and then sent back a simple
Thank you.
A heads up: Take a screenshot of the online directions to the site.
Why?
It won’t update anymore after about an hour.
How will I find you guys?
Look for a mailbox at the bottom of the hill near a dead-end.
Am I going to get murdered out here?
Potentially. Luckily, I’ve learned some new digging techniques.
Ha. Fucking smart-ass.
I finished texting him as I filled up my gas tank, being leered at by some locals. I felt so uncomfortable, and Dateline episodes flashed in my mind again before I realized I was in a short sundress.
By myself.
In fucking Wyoming.
I gave an awkward nod and got back in the car. My bare thighs stuck to the seat as I slammed the door, the air inside suddenly too hot. I locked the doors twice.
I started taking screenshots of the directions before turning the car back on and hitting the road. I abandoned my book for the melancholic tunes of indie bands.
As I turned into a little town with a sign saying “Population: 99,” I started musing on how a city exists with 99 people.
Then I started singing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”
Then I missed my fucking turn.
I turned around and hit the dirt road in the screenshots. The directions were useless. “Follow the road until it ends.” Okay, Dora. Thanks for nothing.
I kept my eyes peeled as I drove down it, trying to be slow. Finally, I saw a mailbox at the bottom of the hill and pumped my fist up before I had to slam on my brakes.
Fifteen cows were walking across the road up to the dig site.
What the hell?
Once they moved on, I drove up the hill, finding Robert’s Kia less than thrilled at the lack of traction. I rocked back and forth as if I could help the car. When I finally made it, I wasn’t confident about what I was looking at.
It was a row of cars, vans, and colorful tents reminiscent of a music festival. On the side of the field, the cows gathered in their tiny home, but as the tents were picked up, the gate was opened to let the cows graze.
I spotted my car and parked beside it, not seeing Robert anywhere.
I got out, my oversized sunglasses obscuring my face. My Roman sandals were a stupid choice for this place.
“Hey, are you lost?”
I turned to a tall, red-haired man loading boxes into his massive van…and home?
“Uh, no. I’m Robert’s wife. Is he done working?”
The man looked me up and down. I was used to leers, but this was different.
“He described you to a T.”
I tilted my head as he laughed and continued, “He always talks about you. I’m Chris, I’m the site supervisor. I’ll walk you over to the dig site so you can save him.”
I laughed and nodded. “Thank you.”
I dodged cow patties as I followed the Norse god of the dig site.
“So, what kind of things did Robert say about me?” I asked.
“He talked about your sense of humor, what you looked like, your hobbies, your job, and your art. He may be your stalker.”
I snorted. “I mean, I’m apparently into it. I married him.”
Chris let out a bellowing laugh as he turned to me. “Typically, I have to watch out for archaeologists on the site for the first time. They are away from family and friends for weeks. We all drink. A lot of marriages have been ruined while on site.”
My stomach clenched as he turned and shook his head. “Don’t worry. Rob could never get laid by someone else when he talks about his Bree the whole time. It’s a bit of a turn-off.”
I snorted, feeling a bit of relief. I didn’t know archaeology was that hedonistic.
Then I approached the site and saw Robert—shirtless, sweaty, splattered with dirt, and tanned—lifting what looked like a mammoth bone alongside a few other techs.
Suddenly, a fourteen-hour drive to this camp of sin was worth it.