Overpass

Overpass

      Baby leaned out far and let loose a wad of bluish spit that landed squarely on the roof of a minivan rushing below us.

      “Cow-a-fucking-bunga,” she whispered, making a weak fist pump in the air. I nodded sagely, and passed her the bottle of blue wine.

     “My mother,” she paused and belched. “My mother always said she wanted me to be more like you.. you remember that?”

       I nodded. 

“I didn’t think you did,”she said. For some reason, this struck us both as hilarious, and when we caught our breath, she wiped her eyes, leaving a smear of black eyeliner and a few specks of silver glitter down her cheek. 

       I had stopped in a gas station store after work, all tired truck drivers and smeary surfaces. I was out of coffee at home, and I knew the brief in my bag would keep me up until at least two or three am. There were long lines at the registers. I busied myself digging out my wallet and checking my phone. Looking up,  I heard a tall woman two places in front of me ask for a pack of menthol cigarettes. I studied her back. Good legs balanced on high pumps, a pair of dry heels squashing out of the backs. When she turned her head, the unmistakable angle of cheekbone and small, slanted eye froze me in place. She wore a leather jacket and carried a cheap, gold bag. When she stepped away from the register, shoving the cigarettes in her bag, I said “Baby.” 

       She looked me up and down without a flicker of recognition. 

       “Elizabeth, “ I said softly.

       Her face lit up. “What the fuck,” she hollered, punching my arm. 

       “Let’s GO,”the cashier snapped, annoyed. 

       Baby whirled around. “Keep your panties on,” she snapped. “I ain’t seen this girl in thirty years.”

     The last time I’d seen Baby was a party at her parent’s house. Her older brother’s friends had been there. People were in and out of the sliding door to the pool, tracking wet footprints on the floor. The house was heavy with the smell of marijuana and chlorine. I was sitting on the bottom step of staircase, petting her mother’s German shepherd. Baby was hanging out with older girls, smoking cigarettes, their conversation interrupted by peals of screeching laughter. One of her brother’s friends leaned over the back of her chair, his hands on either side of her shoulders. He had a snub nose and a sunburned face, and wore a loose, black t-shirt. His hair was longer than mine. He kept reaching down and her cigarette, dragging on it and handing it back. I had slipped out without saying goodbye to anyone. I walked through the cool grass of neighborhood backyards in the darkness. I didn’t hear from Baby the next day, or week, or the rest of the summer. 

     We had gone to the casino adjacent to the gas station,  and then back to the store again for the bottle of blue wine. We had walked out to the overpass, where we sat with our legs dangling over the edge. She still wore her high-heeled gold sandals; I had taken off my pumps and placed them primly in my leather tote.

     “Actually,” I said, “I think your mother said she wished you dressed more like me.”

     She lit two menthol lights and passed me one. “Maybe,” she blew air out of her cheeks. “All those little blazers and wool sweaters and shit.” She held the lit cigarette up and squinted at it. “She’s still alive you know. Condo in Florida.”

     “I thought that’s where you were. Last I heard.”

     “I may go back.” She shrugged. She leaned past me, peering at my bag. “What the hell do you carry in a bag that big?” She asked. 

      I ran my hand self-consciously over the leather surface. Hundreds of dollars, incongruous on the overpass edge, plopped in the loose gravel and cigarette butts. A dirty pacifier lay by one handle. I turned back to her. “All my shit,” I replied seriously. 

     This sent her into gales of laughter. She leaned over and spat again. “My shit?” She widened her eyes. “My shit is all right here.” She tapped her temple and flicked her cigarette over side. Abruptly, she stood; as she did, one ankle buckled unsteadily. “Motherfucker,” she said angrily, and took off the gold sandals; I saw the cheap labels were dirty and pushed to the side of the soles. She threw them angrily over the side of the overpass. 

|

     Shocked, I leaned out and watched them strike the pavement below, the first landing a second or two after the first. They promptly disappeared beneath a semi truck. When I looked up, stunned, she was walking away, the gold bag swinging from her arm. 

‘Hey,” I called, “Where are you going?”

“Got a date,” she replied, turning. A pinched look I remembered from her teenaged face appeared. “You got a date?” 

I ran my hand over the smooth leather of my bag. “No,” I replied. “I thought we were hanging out.” 

She fished the pack of cigarettes out of her bag, tore open the plastic, and dropped it onto the gravel. She snorted. Squinting, she lit a long cigarette and studied me. I thought she was going to ask me to come along; I began to formulate an explanation about all the work I had in my bag. 

“You were always such a good girl.” She kicked a bit of gravel with her bare toe. “But men don’t like that shit.” She gestured at me, nodding. “Suits and bags of papers.” She looked down the ribbon of interstate. “Yep,” she said, almost to herself. “Places to go, people to see.” She turned and began to pick her way through the trash to the pavement of the overpass.

     “Wait,” I whispered. I leaned over, clutching my elbows. The blue wine had made me sick, and I laid my forehead on the metal railing. When I looked again, she wasn’t there anymore, and the cars and trucks continued to slide under the overpass.