Tempo

Robyn has a Mazda RX-7, notebooks, and a fiery spirit to help her figure out how to live life after her brother.

My Mazda RX-7 was a weekend project while I worked on the car lot, a fixed wreck that’s now indomitable, painted black, a vehicle for my plans.

One, learn a trade. Done.

Two, get a car. Done.

Three, leave. Done.

Four, find Donovan.

Inconsequential.

Plan four killed me. I drove around the country pursuing it. Took the money I had leftover from the lot and used it to keep afloat. Got a box in the trunk. It has clothes, pillows, a blanket, and old notebooks. I didn’t take all of them, or there’d be no room in the car. Just the few with something useful.

They say Donovan survived the crash, but it never felt like it. Our folks threw him out, destroying me twice over. Sometimes I resented him for luring me into the world of racing; sometimes I hated myself for riding shotgun, basking in cheap thrills I didn’t earn. Those feelings came and went. I learned to find the rationality behind my emotional turmoil.

I’m a very one-track-minded woman, so there’s a reason I’ve not filled out a single notebook in the last three years. There’s a reason my car’s gained 20,000 miles, why I’ve been a lone sojourner for three years, why this car has been my home, partner, confidant, and constant. Now that reason’s gone. I just have a car, the lonely road, a dead brother, and too many worthless destinations.

Step four is over. I just don’t know what step five is.

-----

Portland’s only six-hundred miles away from Montana. I don’t really expect to find anything here, just a motel and a quick meal. I leave the freeway in the heart of the city. It’s nothing special, but it’s nice. Large enough to explore, small enough to not overwhelm. It just is.

I drive along Naito Parkway. I don’t plan on staying downtown. Prices get jacked up downtown, every downtown. I don’t need anything, I’m a window shopper. Drive through the city, get a feel for it, say I was here, forget everything else, pretend I’m not grieving. The harbor is nice.

I drive on Riverside Highway, through affluent towns and encompassing forests. Come Lake Oswego, I veer right on Stafford. The city evaporates; I’m in limbo through fields. I don’t think. I get lost. If I just keep driving, I can pretend I’m not alive.

I eventually find the freeway in Wilsonville. Against my better instincts, I go North, towards the city again. I leave the freeway in Southwest Portland, finally finding a motel off Pacific Highway. I pay for a night from my remaining funds. I left town with $25,000, most of which went to gas, supplies, and cheap food. Motels are rare splurges, but I need actual rest.

I bring in a change of clothes and my final notebook. The woman at the front is too nice for someone running a dingy hotel out of town. I try and make small talk but it nerves me out, so she stops. She tries to hide her disappointment, myself my relief.

I pretend I’m human; showering, watching TV, lying against a lonely bed with ugly burgundy sheets. I watch the news, realizing that pop culture has escaped me- it’s Oscar season and I’ve never heard of any of the apparent contenders. The names escape me- Boyhood, Whiplash, Birdman, something about a grand hotel. I wonder if I should see a movie, but I know I’ll forget it by morning.

Before I sleep I browse my notebook. Nothing but locations, plans, rumors, amounting to nothing a newspaper obituary couldn’t solve in fifty words. I should incinerate it right here, but I can’t. Reading it fools me into thinking it’s still plausible.

I sleep through the night, but don’t get rest. I dream in vagueness. Not enough in my mind to define them. Don’t remember the last time I’ve had a coherent dream. I feel more awake than asleep. When I wake, I’m still dreaming. My journey has ended, and I don’t know where I am.

-----

I was never religious. It was a hobby of my parents. One of the few times you’d get the twelve of us together is Easter mass. A traveling circus in fine linens to preach about our riches pretending to be good for Jesus’ sake. It chafed me to behave, but I rationalized it by liking Jesus a lot more than God.

God was too perfect, too snobby, too privileged. Jesus took a risk for a crazy scheme and took the unenviable task of being human to relate to us. I always avoided Church except for Easter and Christmas, where I could be fascinated by Jesus. The other kids would be breathing statues, except Donovan, who’d crack wise about God while I stifled laughter.

Yet, here I am, in some unknown church, trying to find something I can’t understand, make sense of life after Donovan. Looking for Jesus to comfort me while God damns Donovan to hell. Alcoholism, suicide, and rampant questioning blazed his trail there. Despite his failures, I owe him my courage- to be his navigator, to experience the races, to rebuild myself, to learn a trade, to leave without a single word. I wish I could be like God- erase his memory and leave him to hell- but I can’t. I’m what’s left of him.

I look to my left for the first time. There’s a lone girl next to me. She’s trying to participate, but I don’t think the hymns she’s singing exist. I don’t know the songs, so I study her. She’s twenty-something, has a five o’clock shadow, and dresses like the concept of femininity- pink dress, orange ponytail, precise makeup, heart-shaped sunglasses. Better dressed than me, but with my arm how it is I loathe dressing out of my typical leather jacket so I guess God’ll have to get over it. I don’t know how to define her, so I keep quiet, stealing glances occasionally.

She drops the hymnal, admitting “I have no f*****g clue what I’m doing.” I laugh, because her irreverence reminds me of Donovan, but more cute than bitter. I clear the distance between us, kicking my boots up on the pew ahead of me. Some people jolt out of their trance and stare, seeing two women who should never be in a church.

Jesus slips to the back of my mind, trading with her. Her name is Reese. Mine is Robyn. My name is the most I’ve divulged in ages, but she’s disarmingly open. She says she divides strangers into three categories. The gawkers look at her like bad performance art. The averters avoid her like she’s got a gun. The hoverers are frighteningly close, treating her like the Ark of the Covenant- mystical, untouchable.

“What kind of stranger am I?”

She giggles. “You’re not a stranger anymore. I know your name.”

“Oh,” I admit, looking down. “You do.” The idea of not being a stranger terrifies me, but I roll with it.

“I’m big on names,” she says. “They say a lot about someone. It’s like fate. Robyn means bright. And you’re looking like sunshine today.”

I blush. “Okay. Yours?”

She goes white, hitting a dead end. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked about mine,” she admits.

“Well... I am.”

She has to search her phone to look up Reese. “Oh!” she says too loudly. “Fire!”

Some people swerve around, panicked. Reese goes red. “It’s nothing,” I explain. They turn back, eager to pay attention elsewhere. Averters.

“It… means fire,” she clarifies.

I smile. “You do look pretty fiery.”

She tosses her hair. “Thanks, I worked on it.”

When she learns it’s a boy’s name, she says she’s thought about changing it. I couldn’t imagine her as anything except for Reese.

The silence should be comfortable, but Christianity’s horror stories haunt me. God striking fear into humanity to make us love him. We’re all born sinners, but some can’t change.

“Are you afraid to be here?” I am.

“If I don’t get stoned to death here, I can go anywhere,” she cracks. It’s brave, but sad that it’s required.

Another minute’s silence makes me itch to leave. Her calming presence makes me want to stay.

“We should go,” she says. I smile, because she and I are now we. And we are out.

We’re in the car. I’m in my element, but my heart’s racing. I’ve let her way past my defenses. I guess it’s attraction, but it might be desperation.

I try to play courteous. “Want a ride home?” I ask.

“Let’s just go for a ride,” she suggests.

“I’m down for that.” Simultaneously truth and lying.

-----

Remaining conversation is intermittent, happening naturally. I’m from a large family in Montana. She’s the only child of a single father, a burly shipyard worker with a heart of gold. Definitely a daddy’s girl. She’s in school for fashion. Designing women’s clothes illuminated her true gender to her. She’s remarkably open to a stranger. I wonder if that’s her defense. She talks about the Oscars, saying Whiplash would win in a just world. I listen blankly.

When she asks about my car, I really start talking. In ludicrous detail, I cover my Mazda RX-7, right down to every custom part. She’s consistently interested, even if she operates on knowledge of Need for Speed games. At four, we stop by a waffle stand in Northwest Portland and grab a quick bite to eat. We walk around as we do. Her feminine traits are more natural than mine. Her steps are light, her laugh musical, her steps rhythmic, her makeup perfect. It’s unlike me, but I like my style. Femininity looks better on her.

We drive to Skyline Boulevard through Forest Park, which she quickly explains is the largest city park ever. It’s beautiful, deserted, an open playground. I grin, speeding through. Thirty, forty, fifty. She shrieks excitedly, cheering, holding my leg. Too close, too far.

Skyline rolls through forested hills with daunting curves. It’s like racing through Montana. Donovan would go for broke, I’d memorize the map, he’d weave masterfully through the road, we’d win the prize, he’d take me to Dairy Queen and we’d eat a winner’s feast, every week until we careened into a ditch.

My thoughts escape through the open windows. It’s all sensation. Her energy, the turns, my drive, the blurred motion, the sound of the engine, it all lasts for an eternal second.

Slightly carsick yet content, we leave Forest Park. I drive rationally across the bridge to Sauvie Island. It’s a barren farmland. The road goes on for miles and abruptly ends. She still hasn’t told me to take her home. I hope she never does.

“That was fun,” she says.

I nod, smiling. “You’ve been fun.”

She giggles again, blushing and releasing my leg. She’s sparked all of our physical interactions. She’ll grab my hand, hold my leg, keep close. Meanwhile she’s still my Ark of the Covenant, and I’m afraid that if I touch her, she’ll disappear. Small talk comes and goes. I’m a gawker, hoverer, and averter, yet not a stranger.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” she says. I nod again, struck by finality. “This has been a dream day. You’ve been a real gentlewoman, and they don’t make enough of you.”

The compliment stuns me silent. I think we’re two different beings on the same path. Two lost souls in a world shrouded in shadows. We leave the car, watching the early January sunset from the hood. It’s quiet before she reaches for my waist. I let her, but don’t respond, terrified.

“Do you mind?” she asks. I shake my head. Slowly, her body shadows mine. She wants me to reciprocate, but I’m not sure I’m ready.

“It’s okay,” she whispers into my skin.

I’m ready.

My body acts on carnal instinct. I hold her waist against mine with my bad hand. I know it’s cold but she doesn’t react. I feel put together.

She looks into my eyes. There’s that fire.

She moves into me. We kiss slowly, then all too quickly. The sun leaves us. I’m not entirely sure my skin isn’t burning off, but I like the fire.

------

“I like you,” I admit abruptly, long past defenses.

She coos, stroking my collarbone. I shiver.

“Let’s stay in touch,” she offers. She scribbles her number on my notebook. I almost stop her, but keep quiet. “Call me.”

I promise, despite not having phone service.

We drive towards town. As we do, she becomes a personal tour guide, rattling off places, museums, restaurants that we should go to.

She expects me to say.

I nod and let her write them down.

I expect to stay.

She asks me to drop her off at the Expo Center train station. We launch a final sprint along Marine Drive, racing again. She’s my navigator, I’m her driver. We hit speeds that make time irrelevant.

I drop her off, leaving the car. She holds and kisses me again. I grab her back with my prosthetic arm, realizing we’ve never addressed our physical unconventionalities. Before I cave and beg her to stay, I release her, watching as she disappears into the idled train. I wait for it to leave, returning to the car. I’m more vulnerable alone than I’ve ever been.

I look at the notebook. She's filled out three pages. I absently read it back to front. She's a good planner but it reads like a fairy tale.

I end at my final words before she started. Cold, unremarkable handwriting. “Try Portland, see what happens.” My plans end where hers begin.

------

Alone, I see Whiplash. I learn on the fly what it’s about but I don’t really care. A kid who with a precise talent, a distant mission, a spiteful god above him turning his passion into a machine. Dedication going nowhere. Aimless obsession. A release into his own terms. A hamster on a wheel. Frenetic drumming. Rushing. Dragging. Never on tempo. I’d imagine there was a plot, but I feel more than I watch.

It shouldn’t be the movie that made me start weeping alone in my car seeing as I don’t even remember the kid’s name, and I still don’t know if I like it. I’m not sure if I’m mourning or if I’m just terrified that I’ll end up like him. Donovan’s ghost leans over my shoulder like the God I can’t satisfy.

I forget most of the movie by the next day but can’t forget how I felt. I can't forget three core concepts- rushing, dragging, on tempo. Too fast, too slow, just right.

Right now I'm dragging.

I spend the next week in Portland. I’m jittery, adapting to a piece I didn’t expect to play. I try and settle down. I work in the temp agency to afford phone service, to pay for the places she wants to go. I look for work at mechanic shops. I’ve done this before, but abandoned ship to find Donovan. Once more, with feeling.

Rushing.

Afterwards, nerves still bouncing like drumsticks are playing them off rhythm, I prepare to call her, terrified. I’ve protected her number, always making sure I don’t get a single scratch or stain on it.

I finally give in.

Rushing.

I start talking. I’m answered by a dial tone.

Dragging.

I redial the number. Nothing. I redial different variants of the number- change the 0s for 8s, the 6s for 9s. Lots of wrong numbers. Still nothing.

Rushing.

I give up after twenty bad attempts, abandoned. The ink of her plans are hollow, the time wasted.

I try to find her like I did Donovan. Go to that church again. Sit through the whole ceremony. I kneel at the altar, cursing God out.

The most I’ve agreed with Donovan is when he blurted, “God’s such a dick” when the sermon focused on God ravaging Jerusalem because David counted his soldiers. David was punished for planning ahead. Apparently I’m also not allowed to put stock in the future.

Rushing.

I find myself taking surveys at markets for the temp agency. I can’t stomach talking to strangers, so I’m under quota. I don’t hear from them again. I’ve been here a month, traveled nearly every road, and made back any spent money. I haven’t slept on a bed or through the night since I arrived.

Dragging.

Portland’s abandoned me, so I prepare to head north. Seattle. If not there, Canada. If not there, Alaska. If not there, I’ll drive into the Bering Sea. I know I’ll find Donovan there. If it means I stop missing him, missing her, missing being whole, I’ll drive there.

Rushing.

I’m in the Jubitz truck stop by the Washington border. I pack my things into the trunk when I come across my journals. Curious, I take one out, skimming the pages. I was a young fool, planning for the impossible. I can’t make flying cars or race around the world. I was a fool, but I was happy. The world was endless.

On tempo.

I find myself there for hours reading every notebook completely. My ideas are childish, but they give me peace. I’ve lost a lot, but not the ability to plan ahead. It’s sundown when I fall asleep again. My dreams drift to the roads of Montana, the feeling of speed. No panic, no pain. Just speed.

I wake up in tears for the first time since I read Donovan’s obituary.

Dragging.

I drive by the Expo Center. Reese isn’t there, so I U-turn and take the I-5 up to Seattle.

Rushing.

------

I fantasize about life even as I drive north to Bremerton, just outside of Seattle. I drive through it. It’s charming, and I can smell the ocean. I drive to the ferry heading into Seattle. I don’t leave my car, taking a nap until we get there. Seattle is expansive and beautiful. I find myself driving through it all day. It feels right.

On tempo.

I let myself reread the final notebook. It’s useless, worthless, except Reese’s itinerary. The concepts are real. I want to explore for worthwhile things. Venture with someone worth adventuring with. Someone real. Not a fiery spirit.

I finally throw it into the ocean.

The next morning, I find a mechanic’s shop. They hire me right after I show my skills. I find a corner store and buy a new notebook. I write down the shop’s address.

On tempo.

My radio is on the news as the stars rise. I hear Reese’s name again and jump up, my heart nearly stopping. She’s gone missing. They describe her for the public in inadequate detail, lying that she was a homeless man in women’s clothing. They don’t nail her upbeat spirit, how perfect her dress looked, how warm she was to the touch, how many plans she had, how honest she was, how much I miss her.

The superficial detail steals her essence.

Dragging.

I almost cave.

The idea of leaving to find her plagues me. I try to keep up with the news about Reese, but the story dies down. I assume they never find her. Every waking moment is spent fearful, guilty, panicked. I want to drop everything, go back to Portland, and find her. I don’t want to fail this time. But I know if I go back I could search every avenue of the city and never find her.

I still haven’t convinced myself of this when I decide to stay.

I just know that I have to find myself for a change.

Dragging.

I show up into work Monday and cry quietly in the restroom. Grieving relieves me. I feel human. I understand Christ the most I ever will.

I start work on a car, tear stains immaterial. Classic rock plays from the stereo. Def Leppard and KISS. Stuff Donovan would play. Reese and Donovan fight for my mind, but they lose to new plans waiting for my notebook. Apartments to look at, ways to decorate, the great perhaps. Truth and fiction sort themselves out, but as the day carries on, I’m fixing a car engine, my tank top greasy, short blonde hair hugging my back, my body pleasantly exhausted, comforting me, because I gave something to the world.

I sleep through the night.

On Tempo.