Epistles: from the Road

Dear Rob,

It's dark as I write this. I'm holding a Maglite in my teeth - sorry so sloppy. Timing belt snapped. It's the only spare part we don't have. Even if we did, it would be a hell of a job to fix it. Nobody's come this way for hours. We're stuck for now. If nobody comes by nine tomorrow morning we'll walk 'till our phone can get a signal. We're about 150 km west out of town. We turned onto the logging road fifteen km ago. Not a light to be seen whichever way you look.

Jess is sulking in the car. She can't handle things like this. Something doesn't go according to plan, she breaks down. I think she's crying. I feel like crying, but I'm not going to. It can't be helped. We'll wait and count stars and listen to the crickets. Well, I will, anyway. It's cold, but it could be colder. We'll survive. Two weeks from now it will have been "an adventure" - that's the way she'll tell it to all of our friends. Her fear will be glossed over. Her childishness will be made myth - the audience will understand that hers was a natural reaction. I, as always, will be the stoic Man, the Rock, the to-be-relied-upon. My name condemns me. My feelings won't figure into the story. How could they? The humour would be lessened. Audience and couple will once more express their reverence for that Ideal, the one that says the girl must be girly and the man manly. I could use less girly right about now.

This trip was supposed to be exciting, a break from the ordinary. Instead, in the tiny world of the car, all problems are amplified. That feminine lack of perspective. You know what I mean. Molehills become moons, breaking out of orbit, threatening the extinction of happier planets. The tension is never resolved, just swallowed. There's no relief in love-making, just a mutual, grunting acknowledgment of animal desire. We've brought too much of the ordinary with us in this tiny hatchback; amazing we could fit it all in, what with her FIVE traveling cases. I'm not amused by this anymore. It's not cute or endearing. Sorry to ramble.

She's stopped crying, I think. I'm supposed to go comfort her. I will, of course. For the sake of this trip we have to get along (our liking one another is always contingent on something else). A counterfeit kiss, then waking hours. She'll sleep, I won't. Good night, Rob.

-Peter