Entering Wildlife Corridor.
Mt. Akron Power Washing.
Bike Path.
Highpoint Manor. Quality Adult Living.
Please slow down.
30 MPH.
School Crossing Ahead.
Carrington Dr.
Maximum truck capacity. 28,000 pounds.
Jenkins for City Council.
Fire Lane.
Construction Zone.
The sharp pines are fading into a drab gray curtain, and it all hurtles by, an assault and a battery. There are two women, one pushing a baby carriage, the other flapping her arms, and gums. A jogger, too, all yellow. And another, all blue. Watch out for that guy on the bike! There’s that lab I always see. Leash. Free. It’s all coming at me in piercing waves, churning whitecaps, and I drive.
Jefferson High School.
Crosswalk Ahead.
Stop.
Yield.
For Sale. Remax.
Royal Garden Chinese. Best buffet in town.
Yard sale. Saturday only.
Entering City Limits. Population 56,000.
Children at Play.
Do Not Enter.
Red Light Ahead.
Prepare to Exit.
I am nauseous, sight unseen. My shoulder aches. Knees and neck too. There’s another mother, hugging a Starbucks cup, two kids in tow, both dressed like twin kaleidoscopes, jarring and bright. And that fast-walking twig, huffing and puffing and chugging uphill. Where the fuck is she going morning, noon, and night, all 95 pounds of her? It’s all blurring and I ebb, and I drive.
Westlake Cir.
Caution.
Truck Lane.
Gas. One mile.
No littering.
Springland Crt.
Pedestrian crossing.
We clean gutters.
No Through Road.
Lost dog.
Speed Bump Ahead.
Merge on Left.
I pull over in the yawning Northlake Baptist Church parking lot—services start in an hour. Me, a lapsed Catholic, the steering wheel my rosary, thumbs rubbing. And I sit, the exhaust from my tailpipe a smoke signal, my personal SOS. I am here. Waiting for a sign. Any sign will do.
And I drive.
Very nice