Looking for Adventure Part 2 ...Out on the Highway
I've escaped from Melody and my annoying neighbour and I'm out on the road like Steppenwolf looking for adventure.
In these first minutes of freedom my spirits are high and I'm pulsing to the rhythm of wheels on pavement and the pulsing of rock on an AM station.
But two hours later, the mood has mellowed and I’m listening to New Country on satellite radio.
Independence is so hard to sustain.
I spot a huge lake in the distance and turn off on a side road named imaginatively, Lake Road. I drive another ten minutes until I end up at restaurant with a magnificent water view.
As soon as I pull into the parking lot I realize I’m famished. I left without eating, and judging by the sun, it must be close to three in the afternoon.
I decide to go in, grab a window seat and order something really bad for me, like a juicy cheeseburger combo with greasy fries and onion rings—and maybe a beer—not a light beer, but a real beer, and forget Coors—I want it Canadian and 5 % alcohol, and so cold ice is floating in it.
“Not good for you,” the ghost of Melody smiles, tilting her head to one side, all the while tsk tsking me.
Maybe, I’ll order a jug, I feel defiant. Melody’s ghost vaporizes, fading until only a slight pout remains suspended like a smoke ring in the air.
Serves her right, I snicker. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
“Sorry, Sir,” the hostess smiles, interrupting my train of thought, “there’s only one window table left and it’s been assigned to this young lady here,” —and again, she smiles and beckons to a beautiful girl who must have been standing behind me.
The girl flashes a mischievous smile, “You snooze, you lose,” she giggles.
“Hey, that’s my line!” I blurt out.
She arches a brow, and I feel like Oil Can Harry in the old melodramas—Foiled again.
“Well, it’s usually my line,” I pout.
She tilts her head to one side. “Not used to losing, huh?”
There is a definite sense of déjà vu here. I’m wondering if her name is Melody.
“Why not share—I’m alone, are you?”
She’s grinning at me and I’m grinning back—I don’t know why—my face does dumb things when beautiful women pay attention to me.
“My name’s Chiara,” she says.
“Jay Randall,” I say, mesmerized by her huge dark eyes.
The hostess leads us to our table and I find myself staring at the girl again.
She seems amused. “Do I look familiar?”
“No, No, “ I stammer, “you don’t look like anyone I know.”
“Is that good?” she teases.
“It’s very good,” I tell her frankly, and then add, “You look exotic.”
I have no idea why I said it, and normally a flush would be creeping up my neck into my cheeks, but not this time.
The girl simply nods at my remark as if I said it was a nice day, or the lake was lovely, or she was beautiful.
And then I tell her, “You’re really quite beautiful.”
She smiles, as if happy that I’m pleased, or perhaps she’s content, knowing she expected me to say that—and everything seems to unfold as if predetermined by fate.
I'm dimly aware that nothing about this situation seems real, but then again maybe I'm numb from booze.
Maybe I should have had that Coors Light, or maybe I should have turned around and headed home, but I was looking for adventure and I've found it now.
I read in awe, you have such a Gift.
Thanks, Alan - I appreciate that :)