The Leisure Seeker: A Novel by Michael Zadoorian Page A

between wanting to get to Texas and seeing this museum. As we approach it, I decide that we need a rest after our little run-in with the fuzz.
    “We’re going to have a look at this museum,” I say to John, wondering if he’s going to give me any lip.
    “Oh. Okay. Looks good.”
    It does look good. It’s modern and sleek, with lots of glass block, right in the middle of all this flatness. There’s a bright red convertible in the front display window.

    We park the van and John helps me get out. I bring my cane. I’m not feeling tip-top, but decide to ignore it. I haven’t taken my meds this afternoon. Too busy gobbling down Coneys and harassing the authorities, I guess.
    On our way in, we pass a monument to the lassoin’ buffoon, Will Rogers. I’ve already had a bellyful of that knucklehead and we’re not even halfway to California.
    I’ll give them this. There’s a lot of stuff at this museum. Too much. Every square inch of the place is filled. Antique cars, motorcycles, a dust bowl jalopy with water bags slung over the bumpers, giant photographs, rusty license plates, old billboards, not to mention dinging gas pumps, blinking traffic lights, buzzing neon hotel signs; as well as a Volkswagen hippie van spray-painted in all kinds of crazy colors that hurt my eyes to even look at.
    Before long, we’re both walking around in a daze, overstimulated by all the noise and colors and lights.
    “I don’t feel so good,” says John.
    “Me, neither. Let’s get out of here.”
    This is the first museum to ever give us a headache.
     
    Once we’re back on the road, I start to feel better. I do, however, notice what must be the sixth half-filled plastic bottle of pee that I’ve seen along the side of the road. I swear they’re all over the place in Oklahoma. What is wrong with these people? It alarms me to think about all these Okies urinating while they drive. Keep your hands on the wheel, I say!

     
    Before Erick, we pass a sign:
    ROGER MILLER MEMORIAL HIGHWAY
    “That can’t be the guy who sang ‘King of the Road,’ can it?” I say.
    John starts crooning to me. “ Trai -lers for sale…” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he sings.
    He can’t remember my goddamn name, but he can remember a stupid song from forty years ago. When I see the sign for the Roger Miller Museum, sure enough there’s a big “King of the Road” banner. He must be from around here. Good Lord. Oh well, at least it’s not Will Rogers.
    I pull down the visor and examine myself in the mirror. There are long strands of hair—dirty hair, I’m ashamed to admit—all blown and scattered about my head. As much as I gripe about John’s hygiene, you think I’d be more conscious of my own. I pull the elastic band from my hair and attempt to gather the strands back into the pigtail. I extend my neck, try to get a glimpse of the woman I once was, but she is nowhere to be found. I take off my glasses, hoping the blur will help, but I only end up examining the circles beneath my eyes that have grown darker and deeper over the past days. How can someone manage to look gaunt while maintaining a double chin, I ask you?
    “I look like the wreck of the Hesperus, ” I mutter.

    John turns and says, “I think you look beautiful.”
    I look at my husband. It’s been ages since he’s said anything like that to me. I think about how I used to crave his compliments, how I used to believe them, how they used to keep me from cringing when I looked in the mirror.
    “You’re full of it,” I say, playing a game of ours from long ago.
    “That’s true, but I still think you’re beautiful.”
    Damn this man. Damn him to hell for still loving me, even now.
    We approach the town of Texola. Just off the road, we see ancient cars parked along property lines, rusting hulks with FOR SALE signs fading in the sun, as if they are waiting for some classic car collector to come rescue them from the junk-yard. The grass is burnt brown. The buildings