Curly Fries

The Lincoln barreled down the highway, cutting through the crisp air. Inside, a pale man and a slender woman sat comfortably enveloped in the steady roar that came from the passenger-side window. The woman was chain-smoking Camel Blues, and already on to her second pack. Every now and then she’d reach her hand out, gently tap her cigarette, and let the wind scatter the ash. Spiraling uncontrollably the little gray bits would dance around and around before eventually landing peacefully on the backseat, accumulating in a neat little pile. If this bothered her, she didn’t show it. In fact, the driver was almost certain that out of the corner of his eye he could see her smirk every time it happened. Curious, he looked over to try and catch her smile.

“Watch the road!” She howled.

His focus snapped back, staring at the little white rectangles that guided him. He sped up slightly, and thought of the V8 7.6 liter engine controlled by the pressure of his right foot. Or was it controlled by his left foot? Whenever he was tired he tended to confuse his left from right, and by 4:32 a.m. he had been driving for well over 13 hours. Those little white rectangles wouldn’t let him down though. They were his little soldiers marching onwards, leading his expedition. However, unlike Magellan at the tip of Argentina, his soldiers would never dare revolt. He looked at them, repeating on and on in perfect single file. They would never. He was a beloved leader, strong and fair. He just had to stay on their right side… or was it their left side? Again he wasn’t sure. Better switch up, he thought, just in case. He swerved.

There was yelling again, this time accompanied by honking. Apparently a lane change was not appropriate at this point in the automotive journey. He sulked as the passenger chastised him. He never could tell when things were appropriate, a problem he had once discussed at length with a therapist — a wise doctor who had said

“Please call and schedule an appointment. This is my home. You’re scaring my children.”

Unfortunately, that advice didn’t seem applicable in this situation. Other cringe-inducing memories began to flood his mind, like the time he suggested the wedding party go skinny dipping, which of course didn’t garner his expected response. Then there was the time he suggested one of the bridesmaids run away with him, go elope in Vegas. His mind skipped a beat, paused, reorganized. Maybe the skinny dipping did end well? Then why did he distinctly remember getting thrown out of the hotel pool? He looked over at the passenger and saw she was wearing a tacky mauve dress, which reassured him that she was indeed a bridesmaid. He then looked down at his own legs, which were damp and shivering. He certainly had taken a plunge at some point.

The mood lightened when she saw the road sign for the border.

“Canada 20 miles!” She beamed.

At this moment it became apparent to the pale man that the trip had rerouted along the way. They were relying on a GPS he had found in the trunk, and he gave it a hard tap to see if it was still working. It restarted and displayed the brand name in bold letters, which read: Magellan RoadMate.

He scowled at it.

“Have you ever been there before?” She asked. It appeared that even though he didn’t know where they were going, the passenger did. He tried to remain calm, but he felt the inquiry cast a hot light onto his face. He had no idea how to respond. He had to make a wild guess.

“Niagara falls? Never!” The statement flew out with an unfamiliar confidence.

“Me either!” She was giddy again.

Perhaps to the causal observer his pride in properly guessing their destination would seem misplaced, especially considering that it was he, in fact, who had suggested it — but at that moment he felt like he had just won the Daily Double. Unfortunately that feeling must have leaked out, because a couple minutes later he found himself whistling the Jeopardy theme song.

She sensed impatience and soothed. “The journey is half the fun!”

Sage words coming from his companion. She was right again. For the first time in a long time he felt like somewhere he had made a smart decision, he just wasn’t quite sure what it was. They pulled off the next exit, refueling with American gasoline before they were in moose territory.

The exit declared they were in Marysville, a tiny little refuge off the interstate for travelers and truckers. Marysville boasted a McDonald’s, Arby’s, BP, and a Sunoco. Overwhelmed by choice, the couple deliberated and eventually decided on filling the first half of the tank at BP, the second half at Sunoco, going to McDonald’s for McGriddles, and then Arby’s for curly fries. Thirty minutes and $82 dollars later they sat in the car with their bountiful feast, looking over the town they had just discovered.

On a jet black hill the fast food strip shined out in vibrant neon. A light rain began to fall, and they watched The Golden Arches reflect perfectly in an undisturbed puddle that grew in the parking lot. Yellow, red, and green fell onto them, casting shadows in the raindrops racing down the front of the windshield.

He took a curly fry out from the bag, and turned to her.

“Will you” He said.

“I do” She replied. A single tear rolling down her cheek.

He placed the fry upon her ring finger.

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Years later, steady jobs — two kids, the couple had it all. A happy family driving in a minivan, thinking about grabbing a bite to eat.

“McDonalds” Their daughter asked?

“Nah, Arby’s has better curly fries.” The mom replied.