the gas station there was a basket of decals: “You say potato, I say fuck you.” It cracked me up so hard, I had to get one.
Around the Oregon State line, the Red Bull stopped working. I’d been driving thirteen hours. To stay awake, I started to play this extremely screwed-up game where I’d pinch my arm as hard as I could while going seventy. The adrenaline rush would keep me up for a little while longer, and then I’d have to do it a gain.
Finally that stopped working, too. I pinched and didn’t get the adrenaline kick . . .
When I came to, I was heading straight for the guardrail. I got off the road and sat in my car in front of a tiny gas station on the Columbia River, sha king.
It was 5:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve and I was four hours out of Seattle. I was so close, but I couldn’t keep going like this, or I’d get in an accident. I finally calmed down enough to get out of the car and walk inside. I stood in front of the energy-drink case. Black dots floated in front of my eyes as my brain went back and forth in slow motion. Which one? It seemed like a life or death deci sion.
“Looking for something?” asked the old lady behind the counter. Her gray hair was in a long braid, and she wore a white plastic apron that was way too big for her.
“Do you have anything stronger than Red Bull?” I asked. I pulled out a Monster and a Rockstar and tried to make sense of the backs. What if I drink them both?
“Those are the same as Red Bull,” she said.
“Oh.”
“You want what truckers use?” She squinted at me. She had so many wrinkles, she looked like one of those shriveled apple dolls at county f airs.
“Um . . . o kay.”
The lady bent down and pulled something from under the counter. It was a little tin box with a picture of a puppy on the cover. She flicked it open with a thick yellow nail and fished out a couple of brown twisted things. They looked like vegetables, or maybe tree roots. “Forty dollars,” she said.
I looked at the wrinkly little brown carrots in her hand for a long minute. I fished out two twenties, handed them to her, and said, “What do I do with th ese?”
“Eat t hem.”
“Will they keep me aw ake?”
She nodded impatiently as she stashed the money in her apron. Then she turned around and fiddled with the magazine display. I was dismi ssed.
“Thanks,” I said. I went outside, got in my ride, and stared at the roots in my hand. I looked over my shoulder at the little station with its dream catchers swinging in the breeze. What I was about to do was either extremely stupid or . . . well, it was extremely stupid. And a big gamble. But if I didn’t do something, I would be jelly by the time I saw Irina. Or dead, because I’d get in a car crash and not even make it to Sea ttle.
I looked at the roots. This was some wack Alice in Wonderland stuff happening here. But . . . I put one in my mouth and crunched it up. It was like eating a nasty, bitter, dried-up twig. I washed it down with stale Red Bull and then ate the other one. I wiped the brown twig dust off my hands, looked at my new “You say potato” decal, and chuckled. Then I pulled onto I-84.
The root worked. I mean, it was amazing. It took about twenty minutes to hit me, but I went from passing out to awake. Wide, wide awake. My eyelids felt pasted open. My heart was jogging. My hands were sweating more than my whole body did during a workout. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly fun, either. My skin was sensitive to the point where even the steering wheel felt hot to my t ouch.
I made great time because I sort of couldn’t help driving fast. I read every billboard; I noticed every horse and cow; I felt every bump in the road like an earthquake. Oregon unspooled into Washington, and pretty soon I was speeding through Tacoma. Home str etch!
This was going to be awesome . Irina would be so surprised. And I couldn’t wait to meet Micah. The root made me feel like I had superpowers. No matter
Around the Oregon State line, the Red Bull stopped working. I’d been driving thirteen hours. To stay awake, I started to play this extremely screwed-up game where I’d pinch my arm as hard as I could while going seventy. The adrenaline rush would keep me up for a little while longer, and then I’d have to do it a gain.
Finally that stopped working, too. I pinched and didn’t get the adrenaline kick . . .
When I came to, I was heading straight for the guardrail. I got off the road and sat in my car in front of a tiny gas station on the Columbia River, sha king.
It was 5:00 p.m. on New Year’s Eve and I was four hours out of Seattle. I was so close, but I couldn’t keep going like this, or I’d get in an accident. I finally calmed down enough to get out of the car and walk inside. I stood in front of the energy-drink case. Black dots floated in front of my eyes as my brain went back and forth in slow motion. Which one? It seemed like a life or death deci sion.
“Looking for something?” asked the old lady behind the counter. Her gray hair was in a long braid, and she wore a white plastic apron that was way too big for her.
“Do you have anything stronger than Red Bull?” I asked. I pulled out a Monster and a Rockstar and tried to make sense of the backs. What if I drink them both?
“Those are the same as Red Bull,” she said.
“Oh.”
“You want what truckers use?” She squinted at me. She had so many wrinkles, she looked like one of those shriveled apple dolls at county f airs.
“Um . . . o kay.”
The lady bent down and pulled something from under the counter. It was a little tin box with a picture of a puppy on the cover. She flicked it open with a thick yellow nail and fished out a couple of brown twisted things. They looked like vegetables, or maybe tree roots. “Forty dollars,” she said.
I looked at the wrinkly little brown carrots in her hand for a long minute. I fished out two twenties, handed them to her, and said, “What do I do with th ese?”
“Eat t hem.”
“Will they keep me aw ake?”
She nodded impatiently as she stashed the money in her apron. Then she turned around and fiddled with the magazine display. I was dismi ssed.
“Thanks,” I said. I went outside, got in my ride, and stared at the roots in my hand. I looked over my shoulder at the little station with its dream catchers swinging in the breeze. What I was about to do was either extremely stupid or . . . well, it was extremely stupid. And a big gamble. But if I didn’t do something, I would be jelly by the time I saw Irina. Or dead, because I’d get in a car crash and not even make it to Sea ttle.
I looked at the roots. This was some wack Alice in Wonderland stuff happening here. But . . . I put one in my mouth and crunched it up. It was like eating a nasty, bitter, dried-up twig. I washed it down with stale Red Bull and then ate the other one. I wiped the brown twig dust off my hands, looked at my new “You say potato” decal, and chuckled. Then I pulled onto I-84.
The root worked. I mean, it was amazing. It took about twenty minutes to hit me, but I went from passing out to awake. Wide, wide awake. My eyelids felt pasted open. My heart was jogging. My hands were sweating more than my whole body did during a workout. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly fun, either. My skin was sensitive to the point where even the steering wheel felt hot to my t ouch.
I made great time because I sort of couldn’t help driving fast. I read every billboard; I noticed every horse and cow; I felt every bump in the road like an earthquake. Oregon unspooled into Washington, and pretty soon I was speeding through Tacoma. Home str etch!
This was going to be awesome . Irina would be so surprised. And I couldn’t wait to meet Micah. The root made me feel like I had superpowers. No matter