North of Normal

Heal her, Heaven's only daughter

I'm hurtling down I-94 towards The Fed's bridal shower on the other side of the state. My little car thinks it's back on the autobahn. But officer, all those signs on the road say "94," I think. God, I hate blonde jokes. Folks Like Us is on NPR. A few weeks ago, the host was killing me with the Pete Seeger. I can't stand Pete Seeger. Today he's making it up to me with Stan Rogers. When I cross into Jackson County, I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett's Privateers. The station begins to crackle and cut. It fades to static with Kate Wolf singing give yourself to love, if love is what you're after.

* * *

The shower is . . . it just is. Silly games and awkward conversation. I know almost no one and am trying to pretend that I don't have a record-setting hangover. The west side of the state is a wasteland of Christian Rock and Country. I put the radio on "scan" and leave it there for over an hour. I listen to five-second snippets of things that make my teeth grind and count the exit signs. M-131, Oakland Road, 22-and-a-half Mile. I give up finally and switch to my CD player, flipping through the discs.

Paul Simon, Dar Williams, Emmylou Harris, Wyclef and Dido and Joni Mitchell--I make my own head hurt.

"You said we might get into red flag danger, and I am alone when I'm not with you," as I approach Ann Arbor. State Street, the exit you take to go to The Ark. Where we saw Tangerine Trousers play, on a whim because we decided we liked the name. When I get off the expressway I'll be on Southfield again, I'll be on River Drive, I'll be on Emmons. I'll get out of the car and I'll call This Guy. It will be the first time we've spoken in five days if you don't count last night, which I don't. I was drunk past coherence: I begged him to come get me then yelled at him when he walked in. I cried like a baby, compared him to the ex-boyfriends that he hates with a fiery passion, told him repeatedly to go away and wept myself to sleep when he left.

"You are my sorrow, you are my splendor," Emmylou croons. "You are my shelter through storm and through strife."

* * *

It's been a long day, a long week. I check my email and try to read. I have to kill the time until This Guy arrives but I can't concentrate. My head hurts and my stomach is in knots. I turn on the TV, put it on Food Network. I feel cold and lonely and more bereft than ever. I curl in a ball and fall asleep to a special on Cheese Doodles. I don't know how much later the sound of applause wakes me. There's a cooking competition of some kind on now and I feel disjointed, disoriented.

There in the doorway, with eyes near as red-rimmed as my own, is This Guy.