By L. Fuller
Born on the left-angle cross of migration.
Gratefully, I found my way to the road. I could have easily stayed crying on the ground forever. Or hiding in a closet. Or bathroom.
I think to myself “there is a secret club of us,” as I lock the door from the inside of a bathroom in a place where I know I’m safe. At a friend’s house, or my even my own house. Muscle memory. I think of us
as I choose to go ahead and lock it anyways.
feeling the relief and the comradery of this club:
“Not all things can all people understand.”
I got the poison and it’s antidote. The depression and the fight. The hopelessness and the chaos to tear everything dead to shreds. my things
would often end up in bags. After he threw them and broke them. Or because I could never get it organized. Packed up like it was garbage, like I was garbage, or like I was meant to leave. I did eventually. And now, over and over again, I repeat my escape.
Enough times that these bags no longer feel like shame
but commitment.
Sorting, sorting through it all. Re-sorting. Resorting. Realizing how little and how much I need in order to be able to live. Beginning to feel myself again in my own skin. On the road, you need to be organized.
On the road, time is real and beautiful.
Supplies real with dust
and the desert reminder that we are too
(dust and real).
Time made real by space.
I know how long each fruit has traveled with me.
I know where I bought this toothpaste.
A pear from Utah, that I let rot and thew away in MacArthur Park. Tangerines from Vegas. Where I got them and where I ate them or left them.
After decades of so many thoughtless apples.
The last lemon of the last lemons ever from my grandma’s tree.
From San Diego, the end of December. A whole bag of them. One per day. Some shared along the way. Even to people I hate. Just to be sure they would not go to waste. Plus, the hope that the bitter, sour, sweetness could be some kind of witchcraft remedy.
Santa Monica, across the desert, back again.
Finally, the end of January, I ate the very last lemon.
Because Its time would have come anyways,
whether I ate it or not, so I did.
And now they are gone.
but, yet,
I can smell it now.
Running close to the road. Running on fumes. Running on tires that are dry and threatening. So far, I have enough to keep me getting free. One more step free. One more re-packed suitcase, re-organized bag and destination. One more slightly-worn welcome.
One more lonely road I might lay down on in despair. Or speed off on, in hope and bliss.
It’s good that we have cars.
And gas station toilets.
we have what we need to keep going until we find home.
I love gas stations - the objects, art, and snacks. Big foot, spherical margaritas, slot machines. Mess, crap, kitsch, grit, necessities. markers of human meaning.
I love rest stop simplicity.
I even love truck stops. I love them until something happens to remind me that – though I feel like just one of the guys on the inside...that’s not what they see on the outside.
And then, I love my own fear.
And I love the toilets.
My favorite part is when they have wildly specific signs.
Rules so specific that you know that…something clearly went down.
Something that travelers do in trying to get by. On an open road, under a cold starry sky, or warm still low-hanging farm air. Asphalt warm from the day. floorboards flooded with trash. A second wind to keep going through the night. Hoping to keep driving
until we organize every part of ourselves. until we make it to freedom. until we make it home.
This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #3. To return to the table of contents, click here.
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