Strong at the broken places

By Matt Eidson

When sleeping in WalMart parking lots got old, I started parking between semis at gas stations. Then one night a trucker with a beer belly and a MAGA hat knocked on my driver side window for five minutes straight. I quietly rolled out of the bunk in the back of the van, crawled into the front seat, turned the key in the ignition, and took off before he could break the glass. In the rearview mirror I saw him bent over laughing as I sped away.

A few hours later and a couple hundred miles past Minot, North Dakota on Route 2, I pulled into a rest stop and parked all the way at the end. I laid awake until dawn, watching yellow headlights stream across the ceiling of the van and listening to car doors slam and hushed conversations and dogs barking at critters in the woods behind the visitor’s center. Just as the sun was coming up, I rolled out of bed and grabbed my toiletries bag and a hand towel. I put on my flip flops and and slid open the side door, stepping down onto the sidewalk and shutting the door behind me. As I started walking to the bathroom, I remembered I was out of water in the van. I turned around and opened the side door again, draped my towel over my shoulder and looped my pinky through the tag on my toiletries bag, grabbed the two empty jerrycans, and headed to the bathroom in the visitor center.

Minutes later, brushing my teeth—my hair not-yet dry, my shirt off, my toiletries bag on the ground because there wasn’t enough room on the sink, and my jerrycans tucked under the sink—I heard the door to the restroom kick open. I glanced into the mirror and saw a heavyset man in a MAGA hat. 

Oh no.

“Hey buddy.”

The trucker walked up behind me and stood uncomfortably close. I looked in the mirror, locked eyes with him, and nodded. Then I quickly looked back down at the sink. He had a huge grin on his face and smelled like Bud Light and sardines. 

“That your rig out there? The camper van?” 

I looked back up at his reflection in the mirror and pulled my toothbrush out of my mouth, foamy paste spilling over my lips and down my chin.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a nice get-up. Where you headed?” 

He put his hands on his hips and rocked back a bit, thrusting his pelvis forward. I could feel the heat from his body warming my lower back. I put my toothbrush under the running water and spit out the remainder of the paste from my mouth. I tapped the brush on the sink and wiped my face with the towel before turning around to face him. I stepped off to the side a bit to get a little space between my gut and his.

“Boise. Got a friend there.”

“Ah nice. Been through there a few times.”

“Yeah.”

“How much that rig run you?”

“About ninety grand.”

“Man.” He shook his head and flashed a cocky grin. “Must be nice.”

“Yeah.”

The man took hands off his hips and rubbed the stubble on his chin and raised his eyebrows at me, the cocky grin still on his face. Then he snorted real loud before turning his head to the side and spitting on the floor right next to me. He looked back at me and nodded his head up and down a couple beats before finally speaking again.

“Welp. Take it easy, buddy.” 

He turned and walked to the stalls, kicking one open. I turned around and grabbed my things as quickly as I could, looping my finger through the tag on my toiletries bag and nearly popping my shoulders out of their sockets when I picked up the jerrycans. I turned toward the door and rushed out of the bathroom and back to my van. I opened the side door, tossing my toiletries bag and the jerrycans and my towel in the back. Then I crawled into the front seat, turned the key in the ignition, and took off before the trucker came back out.

Days later I was on the peak of Snowyside Mountain, three-to-four hours north of Boise. My buddy Aaron and I sat down and pulled out our summit beers, cracked them open, and clinked the cans before taking huge swigs. I grabbed my phone and flipped the camera so it was facing us. Then I held the phone high and tilted it down so I would get a good shot of the slope behind me. Aaron and I flashed a couple cocky grins and held up ours beers as I took four or five photos. I put the phone down and we sat quietly, sipping our beers.

Below the peak were three or four alpine lakes covered in ice and snow, despite the warm weather a few thousand feet lower in elevation. Puffy white clouds lumbered across the sky, the wind howling up and over the side of the mountain. I drank my beer. A few moments passed before Aaron spoke.

“I’m jealous of you man. Living in that van, working remote, traveling full time. All that freedom. Must be nice.” 

My gut turned over and I felt a bit nauseous, like I might puke. I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the feeling, waiting for it to pass. I downed the rest of my beer and tossed the can in my bag before pulling out my phone and bringing up the photos Aaron and I had just taken. I shared my favorite one to Instagram with the tagline “living my best life” before putting my phone away. I sighed heavy and stared off at the alpine lakes and wondered where I’d sleep tonight and if I had enough water and how much motel rooms in the area cost. “Yeah. Must be nice.”

Matt Eidson is a writer and Marine Corps veteran. You can find his work in Ploughshares, Bull, and Collateral. Or you can just visit his website, matteidson.com. He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and son