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E merson

Sunday morning comes faster than I wanted it to. Layla helped me carry my two bags down to my car and then we hugged each other for a solid five minutes. I had laughed, hugging her tighter as we both reminded each other that it was only for a few days.

It’s just been a while since we’ve gone more than a day or two without seeing each other.

I know that we’ll be texting and talking on the phone all week.

I made Layla promise to check in with me every twelve hours to make sure that her friend hadn’t murdered me.

Layla is avoiding a deadline so I know that she’ll be looking for any excuse to be away from her laptop.

From the few text messages that we’ve sent, I have a feeling that this is going to be the road trip from hell.

The guy can’t seem to stop calling me dude which is a huge pet peeve of mine.

I had wanted to correct him so badly when he first called me that, but I was hoping that it was just a slip or some kind of mistake.

I pull onto North Soto Street and park outside of the apartment building that Anthony sent me last night when I checked that he would be ready by ten a.m. He had called me dude–– again –– but had assured me that he would be downstairs and waiting for me on time.

I have to circle the block twice before I can find a parking spot and I notice that there’s no one waiting out front. I pull into the spot, happy that I was able to find one right by the front door. I text him, letting him know that I’m in the navy blue station wagon out front.

My old Subaru Outback has already been gassed up and I’ve set my stuff on the right side of the trunk so that there’s room for his bags on the left.

When he still isn’t down a few minutes later, I grit my teeth and send him another message, growing even more annoyed.

By quarter after ten, I’m seriously debating just driving off.

I’d have to survive off of peanut butter sandwiches the whole way and sleep in my car but maybe it might just be worth it.

I’m checking the traffic, about to hit my blinker when a tired, disheveled looking man in his late twenties comes rushing out of the apartment building, dragging a black suitcase behind him.

He looks around, spotting me in my station wagon, idling out front of the building.

He looks confused for a minute and goes back to searching the streets and I shift into drive, thinking that I dodged a bullet.

I didn’t want to drive across country by myself but I really don’t want to drive across country with some man-child who can’t be on time to save his life.

I’m about to hit the gas and block the dude’s number when that man runs over to my car and jumps in front of the bumper.

I frown, not in any mood to deal with this lunatic.

“Are you Emerson?” he shouts, his hands resting on the front of my car as he bends over the hood and meets my eyes.

I debate shaking my head. This guy is… not what I was expecting.

Even with wrinkled clothes, messy hair, and bloodshot eyes, he’s heart-stoppingly beautiful. His eyes are like sapphires, sparkling in the morning sunlight and framed in the thickest lashes.

Those eyes are locked on me and I stare back, debating if I should drive off or admit that I’m who he’s looking for.

His hair is dark brown, almost bordering on black, and is sticking up in every direction. I wonder if he just woke up.

He’s more muscular than I expected. I thought most comedians were either out of shape with beer bellies or super skinny and pale. This man is neither.

He’s a bit lanky and is easily over six feet tall but I can see his biceps straining against the sleeves of his shirt he rests on the hood of my car. He’s not super ripped but the beer belly is nowhere in sight.

“Are you Emerson?” he asks again and I jerk my eyes away from his arms to meet his dark blue eyes.

“Yeah. You’re late.”

He pushes off of the hood and grabs his suitcase as he heads for the rear of my car. I reluctantly hit the button for the trunk and try not to grumble as he tosses his suitcase in the back and slams my trunk closed a little too hard for my liking.

He slides into the passenger seat, somehow making it seem like he’s taking up all of the space in my car and I roll my eyes, turning onto the street.

The weather is beautiful and I slide my sunglasses on as I merge into traffic and head for the highway. Anthony shifts in his seat, trying to flip down the passenger seat visor but it hasn’t worked since I bought it.

“I have an extra pair of sunglasses,” I tell him reluctantly, not wanting him to break my car.

I pass him the extra pair of Ray-Bans that I have and he mumbles a thank you as he slides them onto his face.

We hit the on-ramp of the highway and I reach over to turn on the radio. I broke down and updated the stereo a few years ago so I can hook my phone up and play music that way. It was getting really hard to find cassette tapes.

“I thought you were a guy,” Anthony says out of the blue and I look over at him, wondering if he’s crazy.

“Why?” I ask, confused about what I could have said that would give him that impression.

“Your name. Emerson sounds like a dude’s name.”

“Stop saying dude,” I say, an edge to my voice as I glare over at him.

“Okay,” he says, drawing the word out like he thinks I might be the crazy one.

We drive in silence for a bit and I’m starting to hope that he falls asleep when he speaks again.

“Where are we stopping tonight?” he asks me.

“I was hoping we could make it to Cedar City, Utah.”

“How about Las Vegas instead?”

“Las Vegas? That’s only like four, maybe five hours away!”

“Yeah, but I can hit up a few open mics. Plus, it’s not like we don’t have the time. We can stay for cheap in Las Vegas and then get an early start tomorrow morning. As early as you want,” he says like he’s being charitable.

I chew on my bottom lip. If we started really early tomorrow, then we could get to Denver, Colorado tomorrow night. Or maybe he could drive tomorrow and we wouldn’t have to stop or get another hotel room.

I look over at him. Do I trust him to drive my car? He almost broke the visor when he first got in and he slammed the trunk so hard I was worried that he was going to break it.

“If we stop in Las Vegas tonight, then we leave at six in the morning tomorrow and drive to Denver.”

“Deal,” he says way too quickly and I realize that he probably has another open mic set up in Denver.

“Wake me up when we get to Las Vegas,” Anthony says, closing his eyes and pushing his seat back as he crosses his arms over his chest and promptly falls asleep.

I roll my eyes but I don’t mind really. This way I don’t have to worry about making small talk.

I need gas right outside of Las Vegas and pull off of the highway and into the first gas station that I see. Anthony wakes and stretches as I pull to a stop, sitting up in his seat.

“I’ll pay for gas,” he says through a yawn as he climbs out of the car and I start to feel better about having him with me.

Maybe he isn’t such a dick.

I let him pump the gas as I run inside to go to the bathroom. I finish quickly and am headed outside to the car when I see that there’s a McDonald’s attached to the gas station. My stomach rumbles and I turn, heading over there when Anthony walks inside.

“Do you want anything?” I ask, nodding to the fast food chain.

“Big Mac meal with a Coke, please,” he says as he heads to the bathroom.

I order our food and grab a bottle of water from the gas station before I head back to the car. Anthony is outside, stretching his legs and he grabs the food from me as soon as he spots me.

“Thanks,” he says, popping some french fries into his mouth.

“Thanks for getting the gas.”

“Did you want me to drive?” he asks as I grab my keys out of my hoodie pocket.

“No, we’re almost there. I can do it.”

He shrugs and climbs into the passenger seat as I shove a chicken nugget into my mouth and start the old station wagon.

We finish off the food quickly and then silence stretches between us. It’s a little awkward and I search my brain for something to say. What the heck do people talk about when they want to make small talk?

“Why are you headed to New York?” he asks me and I tell him about my interview.

“So are you an artist?” he asks, wiping his hands off on a napkin.

“No, I mean I can draw some but I’m not going to be the next big artist. I just love art. The talent, the way artists can use nothing but a brush or some paint to make you feel whatever they want.”

I have a feeling that I sound like a dreamy, gushing fool, but I can’t stop myself.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t make fun of me or seem put off by my monologue. Instead, he asks me about my favorite artists and I’m surprised when he knows who they all are.

“Are you into art too?”

“I kind of have to be. My dad is an art history teacher at Harvard,” he says and I gape at him.

Luckily, we’re at a red light, so we don’t get into a wreck.

I can’t contain myself and I think that I ask him about a million questions but he’s a good sport and humors me. The conversation moves onto comedy as we hit the Las Vegas city limits and I ask him about his audition on Friday.

“Or is it bad luck to talk about your set before you do it? Are there rules?” I ask, unsure if he’s superstitious or something.

He laughs. “No, you can talk about it.”

Anthony convinces me to drive down the Strip so that we can see all of the cool hotels. We’re going to be staying in one of the older motels on the old Strip since it’s cheaper but since I want to see the sights too, I swing left onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

Traffic is rough but it gives us time to look around. Anthony points out the Excalibur and the Luxor and we debate which hotel looks like the coolest one to stay at. He says the Luxor but I choose the Bellagio. I remind him about the fountain show and he relents and chooses the Bellagio too.

“Are you going to come to the open mics with me tonight?” He asks.

“I don’t know. It depends.”

“On what?”

“Am I going to have to pretend that I loved your set and that you were great afterwards?”

I expect him to be offended or to make some sarcastic snide retort back but he surprises me by laughing.

The sound is full of confidence and it skitters across my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

I turn to him, wanting to see the smile that goes along with that laugh and I catch a glimpse of a cocky, self assured look on his face.

“Oh, trust me. It won’t be pretend,” he promises me and I can’t help but smile at how sure of himself he is.

It’s a little strange to meet an artist who doesn’t seem to have any doubts about their work.

I could barely handle critiques in college. I can’t imagine getting up on stage every night and having to deal with drunk unruly people.

What if you bomb?

I don’t think that I could handle that and it makes me respect Anthony in a way that I would any artist who is brave enough to get up on stage.

As we drive past the Bellagio, he promises to take me to see the fountain show after his set tonight.

I start to think that maybe stopping in Las Vegas won’t be so bad after all.