Road Trip

It was just another day; just another twenty-four period between all the rest of them. Sure, thirty-five years prior Boyd’s mother had been forcing out a nine-pound, some-odd-ounces mound of entirely unimpressed infant from the depths of her lady parts, but Boyd figured that was an event that should win her more kudos than it should him. As far as celebrating his birthday went, Boyd’s big plan was the acquisition of a bottle of Jim Beam, followed by the slow but steady process of sipping himself into an alcohol-induced stupor. It hadn’t taken long for thirty-five to catch up to him, and it was one of those birthdays where three point five decades hit like seven. His back ached from sprawling on cold concrete for too many hours. His finger joints burned from years of gripping air tools and turning wrenches. He was bitter and disillusioned, tired and worn out, and doing his best not to lament over the possibility that his life truly was as good as it was going to get. Until he saw the email. The auto trader website had promised the best deals in the country delivered directly to one’s inbox, free of charge. Simply enter some personal info, vehicle preferences, and wait. Boyd had been a member for almost four years, but it had got to the point where most of the ‘awesome’ notifications were marked and deleted before they were even read. The email in question had pictures though, and even if it would take his ancient computer several minutes to chug them into existence, opening it would mean Boyd could live vicariously through somebody else’s chromed baby for a few moments. The car was a beauty. The body was mint, the engine supposedly ran like a clock, and it was drive-away-ready. So, when he saw the price, Boyd almost ignored it. A typo, he assumed. Someone put a one where there should have been a two. An asking price of fifteen-five was unheard of. He even went so far as to close and delete the email, to shut down his computer, locate his keys, and head for the front door before he reconsidered. Because, what if…? What if finally…? Little red push pins on a four-foot wide map—it was surprising how much they identified who Boyd was. Nashville, Little Rock, Wichita, Santa Fe, Las Vegas, Carson City; some had been inspired along the way by events or movies, some were there just because the name of the location sounded cool. But they were all there for a very specific purpose. They all marked a place that one day, somehow, Boyd was going to see. When he’d gone to trade school, the map had moved with him. After he got his mechanic’s license and moved out east to start working, the map had driven with him, carefully rolled and resting on the back seat of his ‘82 Malibu. And sure, he could have used said Malibu to scope a track along any of the interstates that would take him to these long dreamed over spots, but there was more to the plan than just getting the chance to be there. Which is why Boyd had spent all those years combing through the trader mags, and why he watched the Barrett Jackson auction with a lust most men saved for porn. He fully intended to take that trip one day and hit every little red pin he’d placed and reset with care, but it was going to be in his very own ‘70 Plymouth Duster. Chrome and steel. Man and car, road and sunshine. Nothing but radio and rubber rumbling over asphalt. All the while, dollar by dollar, the fives, tens, and even the occasional twenty, made their way into the lockbox in Boyd’s bedroom closet. Life fought him every step of the way, as life tends to do. There was always something trying to claw the cash back out: a utility increase here, a new exhaust there, broken taps, and lost wallets. Most of the time it felt like more funds got taken from the box then put into it. Twenty-five grand shouldn’t have been an unreasonable amount to save. Not with two decades of work behind him. Yet no matter how many times Boyd counted the stack of bills, no matter the ‘deals’ he found along the way, the dollar value never got high enough to make anything work. That’s why he stopped himself at his front door. That’s why he put down his keys. Because once his mind settled on the idea that maybe, just maybe, the price of the vehicle might be right, Boyd couldn’t see himself letting the opportunity pass because he was too bull-headed to check. A single call confirmed the price; it also finalized the sale. “Just tell me where to wire the deposit.” Within eight minutes of hanging up the phone, he was following the same path out the door, but towards an entirely different direction.