page down through the directions on my phone. The majority of my route consists of Highway 79—a fairly barren country road. It’s time to improve this road trip. Cue the music.
I turn on the radio. No sounds come out. Like any typical person, I twist the volume knob all the way to full blast, and there’s nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. At the very least a monophonic ocean should be heard. A new six-disc changer sits where my mom’s factory-installed stereo used to be. What type of music is in my mom’s CD player? Let’s hope button number three is cruise worthy. Sometimes my mom has good tunes.
Button number three has transported me back in time to the eighties. I grab onto my ears, trying to shield myself from future nightmares. The sounds create visuals of oatmeal soaked with blood. What is this, the soundtrack from The Golden Child? I shake my head and clutch the steering wheel. The noises change. They’re no longer Tibetan monks, but something much different. I have no freaking clue what sound is coming out of the speakers, but it’s not normal. I feel like an alien has invaded the stereo and is trying to communicate with me through their native tongue. This girl did not get the Groupon for Rosetta Stone. I don’t speak or understand alien or whatever it is that’s screeching through the car.
Pushing every button over and over doesn’t stop the sounds. Rihanna isn’t singing, “Please Don’t Stop the Music.” Rather, I’m screaming, “Stop the noise!”
The off button is staring back at me like a cruel joke. It doesn’t budge. I try turning the volume knob all the way off. It falls into my palm.
“No!” This can’t be happening to me.
I inhale and begin pushing all the buttons, trying to short-circuit this sadistic machine. Yet, the weird sounds clamor on. I have no choice but to unroll the windows. The wind roaring outside the car is my only salvation against these horrible, repetitive beats.
I lean my head out the window to try and silence the clamor. Whoosh sounds are pouring in through my left ear while my right is full of offbeat wind chimes and deep throated chanting. This is torture. What the hell is this music? Actually, that’s an insult to musicians. This is noise. My mom doesn’t listen to this. It sounds like something you might hear in a patchouli factory or something.
“Aurora!”
Aurora must have used my mom’s car earlier and listened to this…this…abomination. I’m driving fifty miles an hour down an open Texas highway with nothing but road in my rearview mirror and even if someone was near me, they still couldn’t hear me because of this blasting noise! This is the worst.
The little blue dot on the map is a bit farther than I thought it would be. Halfway there, super! Half-full thinking, right? I try to tune the monstrosity out of my head. A text message pops up on the screen. It’s from Megan. Not really interested in reading what she has to say right now. The little red circle with the white number one can stay in the upper right corner of my green box. I’m not going to check it out.
Go to your happy place, Lauren, go to your happy place. What is my happy place? A beach—yes, a beach. Ooh, white sands. It’s powdery. Powder reminds me of the brown water I had to choke down this morning. This is not my happy place.
Go back to the beach, Lauren. Okay, I’m in the sand. There’s a tan, hunky guy bringing me a margarita. He smiles and offers me the frozen goodness. It’s rimmed with big chunks of salt. I lick the salt and take a drink. Ooh, that’s tasty. The breeze from the ocean gently blows my hair, while the sun is warming my skin. Paradise.
Bumpity bumpity bump. Oops! I’ve merged into the other lane. Thankfully, I’m still alone on the road. No close calls there. I shake my head. Regardless, I need to pay better attention. I scan down at my phone again. I’m three-fourths of the way there.
“Move, blue dot, move!” I shout into my phone.
This noise is beyond horrible. It’s like something out of Zero Dark Thirty—the kind of sounds used to break terrorists. This could possibly be worse than waterboarding. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. My phone beeps at me. Another text message, she can be so persistent. As if she can will me into responding. Not going to happen. I’m not even reading it Megan, so there.
Deep breaths, Lauren. Just concentrate on breathing and driving. You can do this.
My chest rises and falls. I wipe some of my hair from my eyes. I am not a fan of hair blowing in the wind, at least not at this speed. These better be the best freaking pecans in Texas. No, the planet. Scratch that, the world! I shake my fist at my car’s ceiling.
They probably are the best in the world. My grandmother has impeccable taste. She always has and most likely, despite this possible lapse in judgment, still does. These pecans will be the crunchiest, tastiest pecans that anyone has ever sunk their teeth into.
Hmm, does my grandmother still have her teeth? I run my tongue along the tops of my own. Each ones feels securely in place. Having dentures has always been a fear of mine. But the idea of dental implants is even scarier to me. The idea of a dentist drilling into my jaw to secure the metal to hold onto a fake tooth. I shake my head and shoulders. I need to focus on good things.
Thinking about my grandmother brings happy memories. She is a sweet woman. I can do this. The perfection of the pecan pie is my motivation. I ignore the chanting from the stereo. My blue dot is getting closer to the destination. I breathe and concentrate on the road.
My phone beeps again. This is getting ridiculous, doesn’t Megan realize I’m driving? There is a law about no texting and driving for a reason: it’s dangerous. I roll my eyes.
Finally the Tibor’s Pecan Farm sign appears in the distance. Obviously the pecans stand on their own accord, because this sign has seen better days. It’s flapping in the wind, surely flipping pieces of rust with each buckle of metal moving back and forth. I can’t imagine it surviving a stronger wind than this. If I hadn’t grown up in Tornado Alley, I’d be doing more trembling than the sign and looking for cover. The pecan orchard is massive. There have to be thousands of pecan trees and they are so evenly spaced. I bet they look amazing from a plane. I nod my head in amazement and turn my wheel to the left as I ease onto the unpaved road. The parking lot is packed with cars and people. Where were all these cars on the road?
Everyone is staring at me. Some people are giving me unfriendly stares. An older woman with a young girl is eyeing me with one of the largest slack jaws I have ever seen. Ah yes, my patchouli music. I momentarily forgot due to the distraction of finally finding the pecan farm. I roll up the windows as fast as the motors will allow, desperately hoping that I’m drowning out the sounds. Fortunately, I find an empty spot at the back of the parking lot. I steer my mom’s obnoxious vehicle in between the two cars, neither of which has left much room for me to park. But I manage to squeeze the car in. I turn the key to the left and slump my shoulders.
The vanity mirror reflects a magnificent sight. There’s nothing like a windblown mess to reel in the guys. Not that I would expect to find any at a pecan farm in the middle of nowhere, but that’s beside the point. I channel my inner Marilyn and get out of the car. This is good. This is good. I can do this.
I try to comb through my hair, and my fingers get stuck. Really? I shake them out of my tangled locks, wincing at the pain with each pull. This is going to require some serious conditioning. Which reminds me, Aurora put some sort of health-nut, free-of-dyes, and ingredient-specific conditioner on my list. Maybe I’ll borrow some when I get home.
I throw my purse over my shoulder as though I’m
