Red White and Black

Chapter Eleven

Abbie

Simultaneously needing gas, having to pee, and wishing for something to drink, Abbie pulled off the highway and into the parking lot of one of the ubiquitous truck stops lining the highway now referred to as "travel plazas." Somewhere in the world there sits a filthy rich marketing genius who figured out that women always have to pee when the gas gauge drops below half a tank and will then be unable to resist buying armloads of snacks at the same time. After filling her tank and emptying her bladder in a restroom in dire need of a thorough cleansing and disinfecting, she decided to defy her own observation by ordering a meal from the restaurant in lieu of snack food. She counted it a small victory in her battle to thwart being neatly fitted into some pre-arranged demographic slot and ultimately being reduced to just another faceless and impersonal cog in the great corporate machine.

Having just turned eighteen, Abbie Morris had come to live her life resentful of the status quo, always seeking an individualistic path she thought would create her own unique identity and ultimately give her freedom. After discovering that new book by Betty Friedan, the notion of living her life trapped by someone else's preconceived notions and ideals never failed to irritate her. She could fly into a rage with blinding speed should someone make the innocent mistake of asking if she ever planned to get married. That question would earn the questioner a lengthy harangue concerning her views on marriage as form of social bondage for women and how the typical American male had bought into that theory, actively on the prowl for their next submissive victim, all cloaked in the guise of blissful matrimony. It was an argument she recognized contained a few holes and knew a skilled debater could tie her up in knots, but woe to the one who tried. She wasn't of Irish descent without some consequences after all.

While sitting in the plastic booth, munching on a salad served on a plastic plate, using a plastic utensil, all to later be collected in a plastic bag, she considered launching a campaign against the food industry for their gross insensitivity to the ecological biosystems forced to live with these manufactured artifacts for the next millennia. Just as quickly, she considered the volatile brew of chemicals surrounding her from the trucks, the fuel, and the funky odors wafting toward her from both the restroom and kitchen. It struck her the worldwide environmental crisis being inflicted upon future generations had become immediate and very personal. There were more chemicals with industrial sounding names within a stone's throw than could be found in her high school science lab. In disgust, she pushed away the salad and folded her arms, still hungry but unwilling to allow her petty needs to overshadow the crimes another corporate behemoth was perpetrating upon an unsuspecting American public. She sipped at her drink, mollified by her superior awareness over the lemmings of the world. Her self-inflicted boycott now in action, she allowed her conscience to be lulled into silence.

Pulling out the folded Triple A roadmap her mother had foisted on her and smoothing it on the table, she tried to determine how much longer she would be on the road. She was terrible with maps and suspected the tiny mileage indicators listed were printed only to confuse travelers, not aid them. Her secret fear was an unexpected detour would force her to leave the comfort of her pre-planned route and abandon her in the middle of rural Indiana attempting to ask directions from a confused Amish man in a buggy.

Nearby, a young teen mopped the floor, his efforts bringing him closer and closer until she felt obliged to raise her feet for him to continue his work unhindered by the inconvenience of customers.

"Gary? You going to Gary?"

It took Abbie a second to realize the young man mopping the floors had addressed her. She quickly folded the map, irritated someone would be reading her papers over her shoulder, yet unable to ignore the tone with which he asked the question.