Page 3 of Rev

Two Days later;Branson, MO

The woman behind the counter stares at me like I’m a curious-looking bug. “Fine,” she huffs. “My dishwasher run off on me and I need to hire a new one anyhow. Ten bucks cash under the table, till I get a new one hired up. Prolly ‘bout a week. You work the whole day, eight to four. I’ll give you a half-hour break around noon, and I’ll feed ya.”

I nod. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

“Can you start now?” she says, in her raspy, pack-a-day smoker voice.

I shrug. “Sure. Show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m wearing a thick, black rubber apron and elbow-length black rubber gloves, standing at a waist-high wash table. In front of me, a few inches above the wash table, is a window on which the busboy sets the big black tubs of dirty dishes. It’s simple work, but not easy. It’s a busy diner just off the highway, and the dishes come nonstop.

But it’s work, and it puts cash in my pocket for food, gas, and lodging, so I don’t have to touch my stash of cash I got in the divorce, or my little nest egg in the bank.

I have a room in a dirty motel, paying by the night. And even that, I’m reconsidering. Motels every night, even cheap ones, are gonna blow through my cash faster than I can make it, even if I stop and work odd jobs.

I chew on the problem while I work, that first day.

Second day, I get an idea.

After work the second day, I find an army/navy surplus store and buy a two-person pup tent, a camp stove and propane, a propane camp lantern, a few basic cooking necessaries, and a sleeping bag, plus a huge hiking backpack to put it all in—a fairly big outlay in supplies, but camping will save money in the long run. Because shoot, the only vacations I’ve ever been on—except those three trips—have been camping with my family, always to campgrounds somewhere in North Carolina. So if there’s anything I know, it’s camping rough.

Third day, I check out of my dirty, roach-infested motel room and find a campground—it’s a whole heck of a lot cheaper, and it’s more familiar than that crappy motel.

That night, in my new tent, I realize something—I’ve only been gone less than a week, but I’ve barely thought about my garbage-face ex or his skinny, skanky new girlfriend since I’ve been gone.

This may just work.

* * *

Two Weeks Later;The Badlands,South Dakota

I’ve beenthrough five states, so far. I spent four days in Branson, washing dishes. I spent another three in a tiny town in Nebraska, helping some Amish folks raise a barn. They paid me in canned fruit, several pounds of freshly butchered beef steaks in a Styrofoam cooler filled with dry ice, several ears of corn, several jars of jam, a bottle of honey, and an exhausted sense of accomplishment and community. It crossed my mind to stay, because that little town sure as heck reminded me of home, without the memories. In the end, though, I knew it wasn’t for me, and I continued on.

I’d been heading west mostly, but when I left that Amish community, a tug in my gut pulled me north, and now I’m in the Badlands of South Dakota—French Creek Campground. I’ve been sleeping in my car.

Right now, it’s just past dawn, and I’m nursing a mug of coffee, sitting in the open hatch of my Wrangler, watching the sun rise over the alien landscape. Right now, it’s utterly still. I’m the only one here, though I know it won’t be for long—I managed to catch the campground at an odd lull in the tourist season.

I’m trying to figure out where to go next. I’ve got money enough, and all the time in the world. I just don’t know what Iwant. That’s what I’m mulling as I sip my coffee—brewed in a French press I picked up for cheap at a highway-side flea market on my way into South Dakota.

What do I want?

Experiences.

That’s what I’ve gained from this road trip, so far. I’ve met kind folks, worked odd jobs, seen places. I’ve learned that I can stand on my own two feet, make my way without anyone’s help. For the baby of a family of eight, this is new, and big. I was carried around by my older siblings to the point that I didn’t learn to walk till late. My breakfasts were made for me. My lunch was packed for me. It wasn’t till I left home for college an hour and a half away that I learned to fend for myself in even the smallest ways.

That didn’t last long—I met Darren, and that was that. He was about to get his prelaw degree, then transfer to the university closer to our hometown, close enough he could commute to finish his law degree, work his internship in town, and pass the bar exam. I dropped out and set about becoming his wife. Fixed up our home. Spent time with my family, helped out my sisters with their kids.

Point is, I didn’t do squat. Didn’t have kids—and thank the good Lord for that mercy, which I realize nowwasa mercy, since I’d’ve been saddled with that donkey’s hind end the rest of my life.

I went barely anywhere, rarely ventured outside the narrow confines of the podunk hill village I grew up in.

Now, suddenly, I’m in the wide world and discovering I like it out here, alone. I like meeting people. I’m learning to come out of my shell—I was always thought of as the shy one, except around my family.

I cravelife.

So, the question: now where?

Where can I go for maximum life experience?