The Volkswagen Diaries

Day Two.

I slept better than I thought I would last night. I parked in a church parking lot, some big pretty Catholic cathedral with an empty lot. I parked my beast of a vehicle in as inconspicuous a corner as I could find, stuck newspaper over the windows (newspaper I found strewn in the parking lot, tape I found under the seats along with a lot of other useful crap) and settled under my comforter, praying to the God watching over the cathedral that he'd watch over me and Tripp during the night. I take by my awakening alive the next morning that He and I are on good terms. Waves of relief. I woke to the sound of neighborhood kids rolling across the parking lot on skateboards. I waited around in the driver’s seat for them to scram so they wouldn't know I'd been in my van listening to them roll up and down the lot for the last hour, but got really impatient once my stomach started growling like a grizzly. So I revved the engine and peeled out of there, careful not to hit the kid with the beanie and so much hair coming out from under it I couldn't even see his face. I don't know how smart it is to peel out in a VW bus. Oh well. It was another ten minutes of driving along empty provincial streets until I stopped at a diner that looked like it WOULDN'T have roaches crawling over the ancient paper B-grade sign in the window. It wasn’t a bad place, not flashy or retro like the ones back home, and certainly lacking the waitresses on rollerskates, but clean and tidy with a bit of a nautical theme to it. Either that or a bunch of packrat sailors just flew through here and left their mementos behind.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

Bold, coming from a waiter who looked like he was twelve and slicked his hair back like it was 1997.

"Morning Jordan," I replied, reading the nametag. The "o" in his name was a little ship steering wheel. Cute.

"What can I get you, love?"

Holding pen to pad, his wrist was bent at an incriminating angle, and I was tempted to check his feet for pixie shoes.

"Do you have tea?"

"We sure do. Green, black, and assorted herbal."

"Peach?"

"You got it."

"That'll be good for now."

Jordan walked off and I briefly glanced up to check his swagger for any female qualities. Nope. He was safe there.

When he brought back the peach tea and took down my order for a tall stack of hotcakes, I noticed the purse-lip smile. I waited til he brought the stack though to bring it up.

"Jordan, can I ask you a personal question?"

"What's up, babe?"

"Are you gay?"

I think it was the new hair.  This new Liss was bold. Uninhibited. Possibly borderline offensive.

He giggled. I could've taken that as a yes.

"Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity."

"Do you often ask your waiters about their sexuality?"

The pursed-lip smile didn't leave his face.

"I'm keeping a personal record of my travels, Jordan. Classified stuff for my eyes only, of course. But I'd like to know whether I should jot down my encounter with a 'fruity metro' or an 'open flamer'."

His neatly plucked eyebrows raised in interest and amusement. He caught sight of the pen in my hand and the journal beneath it. He tapped the tan leather cover with one finger.

"Extra flaming," he said. "Be sure to add that."

I caught the exaggerated hip movements he added to the swagger this time. Just for me, I'm sure.  I observed my surroundings through the window (I would have been more impressed if it was a giant porthole, but alas) and realized I was in Burbank.  Terrible traffic the night before had had me crawling through LA most of the evening til I’d finally pulled off and stopped at the cathedral.  Funny, I guess I kinda just rolled right through Los Angeles (the one place you expected any traveler to spend most of their time) without any sightseeing.  Must just be habit for someone who’s lived only an hour away from the state’s most notorious city their entire life.

"How's everything over here?" my waiter asked a few minutes later while passing through with a broom.

"Not bad at all, my friend."

"Did you want anything more with that? Side of ham, or bacon or anything?"

"Nah, this'll do it."

"No meat for you today, huh?"

"Are you calling me a lesbian?"

He laughed, kicked his dustpan around a little.

"What on earth...?"

"I'm kidding, man."

"You know, you could be mistaken for one, what with the short hair and what looks like men's flannel."

I was still wearing Randy's shirt.

"Looks like men's flannel 'cause it IS men's flannel. Well. One man's. I sleep in it."

"Ooh, a lover maybe? Not a brother I hope, that'd be awkward. Well, if I was you."

I laughed.

"Lover...yeah, you could say that. Former maybe."

"And you never gave it back?" he asked, prodding at a hard-to-reach corner with the broom.

"Heck nah."

"If a cute boy ever gave me HIS clothes, I probably wouldn't either. No matter how long ago it was. Still make you feel loved?"

"To wear it? Definitely, yes. Sometimes I forget he's not mine anymore."

Jordan smiled with a crinkle of his nose and a sympathetic crinkle in his forehead.  He patted my upper arm lovingly as he passed on his way back to the kitchen.

When I finished up and was getting ready to head out, Jordan came back to pick up the tip I was just shoving under my saucer.

"It was nice meeting you, hon!" he said. "Have a great day!"

"Could you do one last thing for me, Jordan?"

"What's that?"

"Sign my journal?" I shrugged at his expression. "Part of the whole record-keeping drifter thing..."

He smiled, showing his pearly whites this time, and took the blue sharpie. He scrawled "Jordan Levitt" in a typical 16-year-old boy's handwriting in a bottom corner of the front cover. I know he wasn't twelve, but it was more likely he was sixteen.

"Did you think it'd be all pretty and neat and cursive?" he said, catching me laugh softly at myself for expecting exactly what he'd just described.

"Hey, I'm not one to stereotype."

"Mmmhm," he said, shaking his head. "Well it was a pleasure to meet you, Miss..."

"Liss."

"Miss Liss." Pursed smile.

"Nice meeting you too, Mr. Levitt"

"You stop by here next time you're around, okay?"

"Sure thing..." I said. "...babe."

I saw him wink right before the door swung shut behind me. So, there went my first encounter, I thought to myself. Somehow I always knew it was going to start with a waiter or waitress in a diner. They always do, don't they? And that's probably the last time I was going to spend more than 3.99 on a breakfast. McD's will do just fine the rest of the trip. Or granola bars.

That's really the hightlight of what happened that day. When I left the diner I headed north again in Tripp, playing 60's hits CD's the whole way. Well, by 'whole way' I mean until I decided to use my GPS to find the nearest park. Hours I spent laying on the grass watching little kids with their brothers and sisters, or new parents with babies that could hardly walk and fell with a delightful little 'thump' into the soft grass. Dogs being walked or exercised sniffed my shirt as they walked by, and I waved hello as they walked on their way. I sniffed the shirt myself after awhile and realized the scent was fading again. I made a mental note to stop at the nearest Target before hitting another freeway and grabbing the Enrique Iglesias signature cologne sample to re-spritz the flannel with. Then I forced myself to get up and walk around the park, around and around and around, until the enticing calm of the grass lured me back to my meditative horizontal position, and lay flat on the ground for hours more.  I can't remember the last time I did so much nothing.