Adam clutches the rim of his Canadian Club and 7-Up, working the room of fellow farmers while I grip the cap of a Nestle water bottle. At the open bar I catch the crevasse of his back, pluck his third CC and 7, take a sip, and rise to his jaw: “I’m ready to go when you are.”
He tips his head back, dumps the lingering gold down his throat. He swishes the cubes with his tongue, crunching them between his teeth. “Yeah.” He flings the cup to the nearest table and shoves his hand in his pocket, where he jingles his keys.
I ask him if he’s good to drive while he moves for the exit, always three steps ahead of me. He kicks the door, and I follow him.
At the Amigo he orders a Bud Light. He retreats to the Keno machine, thrusts out his wallet, and inserts a twenty.
“I’m hungry,” I say. Twenty minutes ago, I ordered him a jumbo sausage and pepperoni, extra cheese, extra sauce. Food is a sure diversion. He grips a can of Copenhagen Long Cut, glistening gold in this windowless cave. He flicks his wrist, and his pointer finger beats the edge of the can—smack, smack, smack! He unscrews the lid, fingers a chunk, and stuffs it in his jaw.
Adam hits “PLAY” and the machine bellows its six-note melody. The cards shuffle, flashing their sevens and cherries. I watch and wait the gamble.
Two more twenties and another Bud Light later, I try a second hand. “Would you like me to drive, babe?”
He answers no. Another fruitless round.
After the third bar and the seventh drink, I track him across the asphalt, cracked with decades of determined drunks. Out of desperation or delusion, for the final time I play the same cards. “You sure you’re good to drive, babe?”
Adam clicks the driver’s side door handle. “Yeah, I’m good to fucking drive,” he bellows over the height of the cab. “I hate it when you ask the same stupid question over and over again.” He stabs the key in the ignition and the truck sings to life. The vents scream at my cheeks.
On Highway 87, I watch the speedometer. Fifty climbs to 60, to 65, to 70, the limit on this infamous stretch, lined with crosses that range from rusted to fresh. We pierce the flat through Black Horse Lake, dry and defeated. We climb the hill to Portage, where ranchers turn right. I search for the Highwoods to the east, that oasis mountain range of pine trees nourished by showers. Adam settles at 75. His gaze softens, and it’s safe to speak.
“Sorry I kept asking you the same question over and over again.”
“It’s fine, babe.”
“You know how anxious I get sometimes.” I reach to the console and rub the skin of his hands, baked to leather like his soil. “You want to know stress, babe?” he’ll say to me, after a day of adjusting my lesson plans, counting missing assignments, fielding emails from irate parents that my class is too rigorous and it’s preventing their son from getting a scholarship to college. “Try putting $200,000 worth of seed in the sand and waiting on weather.”
Adam grips the wheel while we curve through Carter, that checkpoint fifteen miles south of grace. My neck protrudes, mustering us forward. In the miles ahead I spot what is sure to trigger his turbulence—a car going too slow.
He presses the gas. I know what he’s going to do. I grip the handle on the passenger’s side and reach into my bag of tricks.
First, I try relating: “I hate it when people go too slow on this highway.” We climb from 75 to 80, 80 to 85. He bites his lip; his nostrils curl in disgust. I can read the fine-print on the bumper sticker of a beige minivan: “Don’t Buffalo Me.”
Then, I try guilt: “Babe, you’re making me nervous.” I steady my hand on the dashboard as he climbs from 90 to 95 and 95 to 100.
And last, I try pity: “Adam, you’re scaring me.”
We graze the rippled ribs of the double-yellow. Adam squeezes the shoulders of the steering wheel and shakes them, wailing with rage. I look to my right at the roadblocks in his way, a caravan of Dodges, Hondas, Fords, one after the other following a sluggish semi. The next entry point is at least a quarter mile ahead—plenty of time for an oncoming car to speed around the bend and smash us to bits.
I hold my chest and hide.
Through my barrier of bones and flesh I hear the muffled horns, a chorus of cries from anguished bystanders, Adam screaming profanities and death threats in response. I lift my head. The wipers flick east and west while raindrops pound the windshield. I tighten, desperate and seething. I steady my hand on the dashboard and fold once again.
I don’t pick my head up until I feel the rumble of the double-yellow lines. The pickup steadies back to 70. The road ahead lies desolate. Adam roars with glory.
He turns to me. “Ooh, scary,” he mocks—manic, possessed, and self-impressed.
Adam marches to the coffee table and snatches the remote, ready to berate the boys of his alma mater. Upstairs I check my email, outline a lesson, distract myself in a color-coded planner. When I feel him settle, I Google the score: 48-18, Grizzlies. I descend the stairs to the living room, where Adam sits on the ottoman, his face four feet from the screen.
“Your team win, hon?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he tips the ice of a light blue Gatorade-water mix down his throat and crunches a cube. I lift the lid of the pizza, ease two slices onto a plate and pop it in the microwave. His elbows rest on his knees. I grab my dinner and go to him.
“Can I sit here with you?” I ask.
“Of course, babe.”
I set my plate on the coffee table. “I’m sorry I freaked out earlier.”
“It’s fine, babe.”
“I just get so anxious.” The light from the TV illuminates the pores of his face while he stares ahead. “Are you mad at me?”
“No, babe.” He leans into the crevasse of the ottoman, brings his hand to the small of my back and rubs me in circles. “But, babe,” he continues, still glued to the padded players, running this way and that across the green and yellow lines. “I do think that you have some serious anxiety issues.”
I nod.
“I mean,” he shakes his head as he grabs his glass, tips more ice down his throat. “You know I’d never do anything to make you unsafe.” He turns to me, his gaze earnest, level and sure. “There was nothing for you to be afraid of.”
On nights when we’re confined to the glow of the kitchen, Adam and I really do have good conversations. I perch on the counter, he simmers garlic in butter, and we catalogue the injustices of the world. He feeds America, I teach America, and neither of us get the money or the credit that we deserve. His soil cracks with saline and my hair thins to strands, both of us stuck in a losing game of catch-up.
“What’s the definition of insanity, babe?” he’ll ask, drizzling soy sauce over stripped steak. “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
I swing my hips and lift my legs to his lap. I bring my hand to the back of his head and guide his gaze to me. “Thank you, babe,” I say, “for always being so patient with me.”
“Of course, hon.” He cradles my calves and rubs the skin of my knees. We peck on the lips, and I know that we’re finished.
I grab my plate and retreat to the couch. In four days, I’ll turn to the last page of the weekly paper. I’ll save the phone number for that one-bedroom apartment that’s always available, a bailout for losses like these and women like me.
*
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(Photo: John M. Cropper/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- The Definition of Insanity by Catherine J. Dorian - January 23, 2025