Full.

I sit in the driver’s seat of my first car, affectionately named Walter after my grandfather, who had passed away and left the vehicle in my name. One leg is bent, my knee mashed against the doorframe, my foot falling asleep beneath my right thigh. The steering wheel feels hot in the warm, Texas moonlight. I grip it tightly, trying to stay awake, Ryan Adam’s voice carrying through the stereo as I drive through the vast wastelands of the south. Fourteen hours of driving west from Waco will land you in Las Cruces New Mexico, a small border town with excellent Hispanic dining. The town right before it, El Paso, provides you with a clear view south of the border from the freeway, displaying Mexico as a dingy mirage that wavers in and out of focus in the distance. I have absolutely no idea what town I am currently roving through. There are no signs welcoming me to this unfamiliar territory, nor do there seem to be any gas stations or rest stops. In abundance, however, are the yellow-green bugs that smash and die against my windshield every six seconds, their miniscule lives ending in a matter of painful, blurry moments. I curse, and turn on the wipers, which only smear the entrails of my road trip companions even further across my line of vision.

For the first time in my life, I feel a tiny glimpse of what it must be like to be free. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, save for miles and miles of stretching, unpaved road ahead of me, and, as far as I can see with my car stuffed to bursting with suitcases and hanging bags, even less behind me in my rearview mirror. The road is never unkind to a traveler seeking answers. It is soothing to spend hours of the day spinning by farmland and cloud formations, watching the changing climate around you while you maintain homeostasis within the microcosmic world of your vehicle.

When I was small, the only thing I ever dreamed of doing with my future was to get out of my hometown, get out on my own, and go someplace far, far, away. I wanted to run away to a better life in a place where I could be lawless, unabashed, and uninhibited. I would watch the Wizard of Oz and shake my head at Dorothy for wanting to go back to Kansas to live with her hick, un-tornado-proofed family when she could have easily sparkled in the Emerald City for the rest of her life. “If it was me”, I whispered to myself, as I watched in horror while she clicked those gorgeous ruby slippers together once, twice, three times, and was transformed into a feverish, black-and-white version of her once beautiful, Technicolor self, “I would keep the heels, run away with the Scarecrow, and find myself a happily ever after somewhere over the rainbow.”

Today, I find myself hypocritically whispering, “There’s no place like home,” as I make my way through four states towards the house I grew up in. My eyes fill up with tears, and I can taste the Pacific. I shiver. Another burst of freedom overwhelms me, and I stare ahead at the glowing horizon, my heart set on California, my gas tank marked full.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.