WANDERLUST: MONTANA - Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO: Pogue Mahone!
Interstate 75N, Florida: Sunday 4:51 a.m.
I watch oak trees dripping with Spanish moss and long, flat green pastures peppered with cows as we speed north through the heart of central Florida. Laurel is snoring, stretched across the backseat, and Paige has nodded off over her textbook. There’s a warm glow to the east as the sun rises, casting her rays of calm rationality in through windows. What the hell am I doing? The buzz and excitement of the moment has worn off, my ass is cramped from driving three hours straight, and doubt is creeping in. Yes, this was my idea. No, I’ve never done anything like this before. I applied to colleges all over the country but ultimately stuck close to my home, Key West. There’s a funny thing that happens when you grow up on an island. You spend your youth wanting to escape, dreaming of what’s out there in the big world. But the comfort of small and familiar is your security blanket. My heart lurches. Oh shit. I forgot my blanket.
Yes, this is an actual blanket that I’ve had my entire life. My roommates give me constant shit about it. I came home one day to find it crammed into a diaper box. Laurel used it as a Christmas tree skirt. Paige donated it to a women’s shelter. (I felt like an asshole taking it back). Yes, it’s faded and tattered. Something for a keepsake box, not the bed of a blossoming, vivacious collegiate vixen on the verge of her long-imagined, but not quite executed sexual awakening. But it was a gift from my dad. As a yacht captain he was always leaving, and I never knew when he would return. When he ultimately did, he’d always bring me a gift from some far off, exotic place. Then one day, he didn’t come back. It’s not like his ship was crushed by a tsunami or he was shot by drug smugglers or marooned by pirates (no matter how hard I wished). He just didn’t want his Key West life anymore. The family B&B. His wife. His daughter. I was a teenager, almost. When I was angry, I would take one of dad’s many artifacts and treasures he kept in his den and throw it off the Seven Mile Bridge. When I was sad, I would cry into my blanket so nobody would hear. I still haven’t forgiven him. But I still want him back. He’s the reason I’ve always wanted to travel the world and have adventures. Doing things that scare you makes you braver Dad would say. Pogue mahone! And he was right.
It’s the reason I kissed Bobby John Prescot after he pushed me off the monkey bars when I was seven. It’s the reason I pulled a baby alligator out of the river with my bare hands when I was sixteen. And it’s the reason I’m now driving cross country at twenty-one with my best friends. Sure, we have no plan, hardly any money, and a car that could run out of charge in the middle of nowhere. But the spirit of exploration isn’t male. Fuck the blanket! Dad doesn’t get the monopoly on that, drifting around the world with his Hemmingway, McMurtry and Jack London novels. All my life I’ve loved adventure romance books and movies, and now I get to live my own. Is it the siren call of the unknown bewitching this island girl? Or maybe it’s my term paper research on inspirational American women? Yes! That’s clearly the force of nature at work here, and not the still hot memory of Brady’s strong arms wrapped around me, his lips inches away from mine--
So, in the spirit of inspiring other women, I’m sharing my Wanderlust Notes. A travel diary for romantic readers. But since my grand schemes seldom go as planned it may read more like a How NOT TO Choose Your Own Adventure.
When embarking upon impromptu, cross country road trips at 3 a.m. after a night of dancing at the local country bar, DON’T:
Pack your prescription sunglasses but not your actual glasses.
Press every button you can find on the console screen trying to get it to play a movie.
Eat an entire bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans from last Christmas.
Stash large pieces of the good beef jerky in your bra while the other girls are asleep.
Hang your bra out the window so truckers will honk as they pass, waking your friends.
Try to pee into a Starbucks cup so you don’t have to stop.
Slowly circle the truck stop twice just to see if any of the hitchhikers are hot.
Agree to help your friend study for her exam with flashcards you can’t even pronounce.
Assume the weather where you’re going is the same as the weather you just left, packing your sexiest bikini, yoga pants, tight jeans and Daisy Dukes, but not a coat.
Spend your sleeping time social media stalking the guy you swear you’re not chasing, missing the beautiful sunrise and ending up so carsick you hurl out the window, spraying Red Bull, beef jerky, and chocolate down the side of your friend’s shiny new electric car.
Darla’s Drip N Dry, Lake City, Florida: Sunday 6:18 a.m.
“Do the panoramic roof again, Marina. There are still chunks of beef jerky in cracks!” Paige yells over her fat free vanilla latte. We’ve managed to find a DIY car wash. Foam and bubbles are running down my arms.
“That was the last batch of Jamaican jerky my brother made, you asshole,” Laurel complains as she documents my shame with her phone to share on Instagram. Sweet. We aren’t even out of the state yet and I’ve already managed to humiliate myself. Finally finished, I grab a coffee and we munch on doughnuts from a shack by the carwash.
“My new jacket is more fashionable than warm,” I admit.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Laurel quips.
“I only brought a thin cashmere cardigan,” worries Paige. When we finally checked the weather in Montana and discovered the night temps were in the low thirties for the rest of the week, we all realized we were woefully under packed.
“So, we’ll just hit up a thrift store on the way,” Laurel suggests.
“Eww. Gross!” objects Paige. “Used clothes always smell funky. And if they didn’t want it, why would I?” This pretty much sums up Paige’s view on anything used including antiques, divorced men, and shelter dogs.
“Get over yourself, Princess,” Laurel grumbles. She’s a shelter dog gal all the way.
“What about that guy from Sundance?” I ask Paige.
“Who?” she asks.
“Your festival boyfriend. That music café guy,” I say.
“Jake was one of the managers,” Paige reminds me.
“He’s been working that festival for ten years, that means he’s got ten ugly jackets he never wears. Doesn’t he live near Atlanta? Let’s go borrow them,” I suggest.
“I can’t just call him up out of the blue and ask to borrow his jackets for a road trip,” Paige says.
“Why not?” Asks Laurel. “You gave him a shitty blow job?” I laugh so hard I nearly spill my coffee. Paige turns red.
“I do not give shitty blow jobs!”
“Really? Because you seem like the type who doesn’t want to smear her Chanel lipstick.” Laurel snarks. I give her a smack as we climb back into the newly washed car.
“You wipe off your lipstick first! No guy wants pink dick,” Paige says.
“Yeah, I did that once with Raging Red, and the guy thought he was bleeding, freaked out, and burst out of the closet with pants down and vacuum cleaner cord around his ankle, dragging a Prada suitcase behind him.
“You were in a closet?” Laurel asks.
“College party.” I say.
“Is that how my suitcase got scratched?” Paige’s eyes widen.
“You were in our closet?” Laurel asks.
“We’re getting off topic, the point is, Perfect Paige gives perfect blow jobs.” She may be from Texas but like me, Paige was raised southern Christian. That means, you hold onto your actual virginity way longer than you should, but everything else is just messing around. Paige has had a seldom broken chain of boyfriends since she was fourteen. Odds are, she’s had a lot of practice.
“I’m an artist,” Paige boasts.
“Prove it. Get us some coats,” Laurel baits. Paige stares at her phone.
Perimeter Mall, Chamblee, Georgia: Sunday 10:00 a.m.
I drop Paige and Laurel off at the mall with a plan to take a whore’s bath in the restroom and raid the skincare and perfume samples at the department store. Paige’s carefully worded, reworded and fretted over text to Jake with accompanying sexy-cute photo of the three of us posing on the hood of her car, (reshot five times and edited with filters) has been met with a nonchalant thumbs up emoji and a GPS drop pin to his farm property north of Atlanta.
“We’re just borrowing coats and going, right?” I ask.
“Yeah. Of course. But I can’t roll up looking and smelling like a homeless hitchhiker.” Paige replies. But I know she’s going to secretly buy a new pair of panties at Victoria’s Secret. Just in case. “I can get a free makeover if I buy some mascara or something,” she adds.
“I tried that for my last date. They only do half your face.” I warn her.
“So just keep your head turned to the side,” Laurel does a sideways-head-blow-job impression. “He’ll think it’s part of your technique.” Paige narrows her eyes. That’s when I drive off.
Electrify America Charging Station, Chamblee, Georgia: Sunday 10:15 a.m.
Now, as I lounge in the car, waiting for it to charge, I feel the warm sun on my face and my mind drifts off to my own memories of Sundance. It had been Laurel’s idea to apply as volunteers for the film festival in Park City along with a group of students from our school. None of us had ever been in snow before and who could say no to movies, parties and celebrities? Of course the movies were kind of weird (not that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy the Danish coming of age film about lesbians that was shot like a sexy music video). The parties were very hard to get into. And as for celebrities, well, standing in line at Starbucks behind Mark Ruffalo wondering if he was going to Hulk out and smash the place if they got his order wrong was the only celebrity moment I had. That I told people about. There was one other, brief, trivial experience that will be forever and vividly seared into my heart and locked away for private moments of reverie. Just like this one. . .
It was late. Very late. My feet are hurting, the dessert buffet has been picked clean and most of the people in the party are trying to figure out whose multi-million dollar ski mansion was having the best afterparty. Word on the street is Taylor Swift’s rented chateau in Deer Valley. Laurel left an hour ago for our condo that hasn’t been remodeled since the 80’s. Paige is still waiting for Jake to show up. My feet hurt from standing for 19 hours and the altitude and free wine are clouding my vision and judgement. This is my only explanation for what happens next. I kiss Paige goodbye, claim my coat from the check and decide not to wait in the ridiculously long line for the elevator, opting for the door at the rear of the restaurant, which will certainly have a sensible staircase to the street below. It does not.
I find myself on a small balcony in the cold, windy darkness. Shit.
“Grab the door!” someone shouts. I whirl around, but THUNK! It’s too late. The door is locked. “Shit!” He says. I peer over, though the shadows of the tall pines blocking the alley lights, trying to focus my bleary, drunk eyes. I blink. No, this isn’t real. That can’t be who I think it is. “I’ve been stuck out here for nearly an hour and I’m bloody freezing.” Yep. I’d know that voice anywhere. I’d been listening to that adorable English accent since I was five. Dreaming about it since I was seven. The short, scruffy beard is sexy but can’t hide the boyish features I’ve watched on the big screen my entire childhood. Suddenly I remember Paige telling me he was in a film here.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask.
“I just ducked out for a quick fag, to avoid that horrible journalist from Variety,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself. “Serves me right for smoking.”
“Smoking kills,” I can’t resist.
“Clearly,” he laughs, shivering. My heart does a little leap. I just made my childhood celebrity crush laugh.
“I’m Marina,” I say.
“Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“I know,” I say, trying to sound casual. “No phone?” I ask.
“Dead. Sent it back to the lodge with my assistant to charge,” he shivers, wrapping his cashmere scarf tighter around his neck. The thin Hermes sweater he’s wearing is very flattering on him, elegant and not at all practical. I want to offer him my extremely ugly festival jacket but that seems weird and what if he thinks I’m hitting on him? I look over the railing. We’re four floors up, an icy loading dock and snow-covered dumpster below us. No sign of anyone to call to for help.
“Too high to jump,” I say.
“Definitely,” he agrees.
“And me without my broomstick.” I say, shooting him a coy look.
“Here we go,” he rolls his eyes.
“Don’t you have a wand up your sleeve?”
“Brilliant. I just played the role of a flatulent talking corpse for less than minimum wage, but I’ll never be anything but a wizard. Why am I even here?”
“Sorry.” Now I feel bad. “Want my coat?” I ask. He smiles.
“As much as I’ve been coveting those traffic cone-orange, volunteer jackets, I don’t think my fragile male ego can withstand the blow of taking a coat off a lady in the bitter cold.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not a lady,” I say as I strip off.
“Now I am worried,” he smiles. I hand it to him, digging my phone out of my bag.
“Just keep it warm for me while I call my friend.” My fingers cramp in the cold night as I dial Paige. “And don’t fart in it. They make us wear them every day.” He laughs, pulling the jacket tightly around him. Paige doesn’t answer. I try Laurel. No answer. Shit. “Do you know your assistant’s number by heart?” He gives me a look. Right. “I’ll try the restaurant.” I look up the number for the restaurant and dial. I get a recorded message. “Apparently they’re closed for a private party.” We both laugh. Now what?
“Maybe a plane will fly over and spot the orange jacket?” I suggest. He laughs again.
“You better take it back,” he leans in and wraps my orange jacket back around me. I look into his beautiful brown eyes. The whole thing is surreal. He’s shorter than me, but I feel way smaller than him. #ShortKing, confident and super smart. His hair is perfectly windswept. “At least now you’ll go home with a story to tell your friends,” he smiles.
“I’ll stick with the one about James Franco giving his comp film tickets to the homeless guys camped out behind the library.”
“Those were his agents,” He grins. I laugh. Handsome, funny, and an accent.
“Seriously. Don’t worry about social media or anything. I’m not really the kiss and tell sort.”
“Who said anything about kissing?” He smiles, surprised.
“No. I didn’t mean--” Suddenly I’m hot in the face and tongue tied. I can’t believe I just said that. Never in any one of the two million and four pubescent fantasies I’d had about this guy growing up, did I ever throw myself at him. This was humiliating. I look away, desperate for a change of subject, or a way out. I spot along the wall, a sturdy looking drainpipe. “Hey, I think I can use that to climb down and then jump to the top of the dumpster. The top is covered with snow. Soft landing.”
“You’re mad. You’ll never make it. Don’t be ridiculous.” But, I’m already climbing over the rail. I feel his hands on my waist, trying to stop me. “Marina, stop. It’s too dangerous.” As much as I love the feel of his hands on my hips, I wiggle free, clinging to the outside edge of the railing. He grabs my shoulders, our faces close. “Marina please.”
“It’s okay. I did this a hundred times from the second floor of my mom’s Bed and Breakfast in Key West. Every time I got grounded.” I smile and lean out toward the pipe on the side of the building, holding onto the rail. It’s just out of grasp. “I can’t quite reach,” I say, “Hold my hand and lean me out.”
“No way. This is mental! Climb back over.”
“Do it now!” I use my scary voice I learned from the Catholic nuns in school. “Or you’ll end up a British popsicle breaking the heart of half a billion nerdy kids all over the world. It’s like The Easter Bunny or Santa dying. I can’t live with that on my conscience!”
“Okay, okay!” He grabs my wrist with both hands, leaning me out further.
“Pogue mahone!” I shout as I fling myself toward the drainpipe, making contact and then clinging to it with all fours like a squirrel on a flagpole. Not the smooth, sexy cat burglar move I’d imagined in my head. “Got it!” I shout, but then quickly realize that I’m sliding. “Oh shiiiii—” Unlike Florida, here the entire pipe is covered with ice, impossible to get any traction. WHISSHT! Down I go like a fireman’s pole. I lose my grip and free fall out away from the wall and down, down-- WHUMP- CRUNCH! Into not onto the dumpster. It was open and covered with snow, not closed. Now I’m lying in snow and bags of restaurant garbage. There is sushi on my jeans, spaghetti next to my head. Snow and God knows what else is soaking through my clothes.
“Marina! Shit! Are you okay?” He calls down. I can barely see out of the dumpster, but then-- his face, looking over the rail high above me, sweetly worried.
“Nailed it!” I call back.
***************
“I can’t decide if you’re really brave or really stupid,” he says with a smile. We’re in the back of his private town car. He’s insisted on driving me home. My wet jeans soak the black seat leather. My garbage soaked, tangled hair is plastered around my face. I’m avoiding mirrors at all costs, but occasionally get a glimpse of myself in the tinted window and cringe at the trash-diving possum wrapped in a road work sign looking back at me. He on the other hand, is looking quite dashing now in his navy peacoat, the warmth of the car heater bringing a rosy flush to his cheeks.
“Let’s go with bold,” I suggest.
“I think you’ve got some… is that spaghetti, in your hair?” He leans in, pulling a noodle from my head. “You smell pretty awful,” he laughs.
“I clean fish at my mom’s Florida B&B, I’ve smelled worse. Who orders sushi in Utah anyway?”
“Hollywood assholes. What was that you yelled right when you jumped?” he asks. “I couldn’t really hear.”
“Pogue mahone,” I smile. “It’s something my father taught me to say when I was a little girl, anytime I had to do something that scared me. It’s like carpe diem in Gaelic.” I say proudly, glad to have something intelligent to say. He starts to laugh.
“What?” I ask.
“No it doesn’t, Marina. My best friend is Irish. Pogue mahone means kiss my arse.” He explains. At first I don’t believe him, but then, I remember my father’s face every time I used the phrase. That bastard. The boy-turned-man who stared at me from a poster on my bedroom wall for eight years is still laughing as we pull up to the door of my condo. Perfect. At least I made an impression. I’m starting to feel like an asshole. I open the car door.
“Thanks for the ride. You should quit smoking. See you next time you need rescuing from a snowy balcony.” I get out of the car. Better to leave on my own terms.
“Marina, wait,” he calls, jumping out of the car after me. I turn around annoyed.
“What?” I ask, trying not to look into his gorgeous, brown eyes.
“May I thank you, properly?” he asks. I stare. What does that mean?
“Yes?” I answer, unsure. But before I can wonder further, he’s suddenly pulled me into his arms, his hand in my nasty, wet hair. His lips close around my mouth. The warmth from his body surges through me like a lightning bolt as I feel his tongue against mine and his hand behind my back, holding me tightly. The half-beard tickles my face as he finishes, his lips smiling against mine. I stand speechless.
“Thanks for jumping into a dumpster for me.”
“Anytime,” I manage. And then, he disappears back into his black town car and I watch him drive away. But as the car pulls out of the parking lot, the window rolls down and he shouts with a grin:
“Pogue mahone!”
As I feel myself smiling, half asleep, reveling in this memory I suddenly feel my phone vibrate. I pick it up and see a new message from Brady. It’s a photo of a pretty sleazy looking motel with the caption— “Nashville for the night. Meet me by the pool?”
