And just like that, she was gone. I downed the last of my drink and flagged down the bartender.
“What’ll this get me with whiskey in it?” I asked, showing him a $5 bill.
“A whiskey sour, whiskey tonic or a double straight up,” he said.
“Gimme the whiskey straight up.”
— The end.
A long time passed without a word. Seconds, minutes, hours - it felt like forever.
Until …
“I promise,” Kristy said.
“What?” I wasn’t paying attention.
“I promise no gun. We’ll get to San Francisco without it. We have enough money.”
I knew I shouldn’t believe her, but the kiss she planted on my cheek forced me.
We drove on silently. Road whipped by.
Until …
“Jeff, look,” she whispered.
“What?”
“It’s San Francisco. There’s the skyline. The Golden Gate Bridge. Everthing. We fucking made it. I told you we would. We made it to the coast.”
She was right. It was there. It was in sight. San Francisco. And we were alive. And not in jail. And here. She took my right hand in her left. I kissed her hand.
We drove toward the city. The sun was high. It just kept growing and getting more and more real. We crossed into the city and I told Kristy I was hungry. She said we should celebrate with a real meal at a real restaurant. I agreed.
We drove until we found one. It was a little burger joint, but it was food - real food. I pulled into the parking lot, parked and turned off the car. We both got out and I turned to stretch. I reached my arms up and closed my eyes, breathing in deeply.
“Jeff, give me your keys,” I heard.
“What do you need my keys for?” I asked, not opening my eyes.
“Give me your keys.” The voice was a lot firmer. I opened my eyes and found myself face to face with Kristy’s .45.
“What the fuck?” I said. I admit, I was only half-surprised this was happening. It didn’t hurt any less, though. Kristy shoved a wad of bills in my pocket.
“Here’s $100, Jeff. You’ll need it. Now, hand over the keys or you’ll never get to spend it.”
I handed over the keys. She went to the trunk, handed me my bag and got in the driver’s seat.
“Kristy, you promised no more guns.”
“I lied.” She closed the door, started the car and drove away.
I should have never believed her. But god help me, I did.
The girl in the yellow shirt is back. She ordered a drink that looked suspiciously like my whiskey tonic. She didn’t need it. She was already two of three sheets to the wind. I was wrong. She wasn’t going to try to kill herself with sleeping pills. She was going to use alcohol. And she wasn’t going to try. She was going to succeed.
I flushed the whiskey tonic, flagged down the bartender and ordered a whiskey sour. I pounded it and ordered another. I was envious of yellow shirt girl.
I started to walk to the car.
“Go ahead and start the car,” Kristy said. “Get the air conditioning rocking. It’s hotter than hell out here. I’ll be right there. I really have to pee.”
I walked out to the car, started it and turned on the air. And I waited.
After a few minutes, Kristy came jogging out. She jumped in the car.
“Drive fast,” she said firmly.
“What the … ” I stuttered.
“Jeff, do it or I will fucking kill you. Drive.”
So I threw the car in gear and I fucking drove. I drove fucking fast. What could I do? She’d already pulled a gun on me once. Why wouldn’t she do it again?
“What the fuck, Kristy? What the fuck did you do?”
“I’m out of money. I was out of money. If we’re fucking going to San Francisco, we need money. And I didn’t have any. And I didn’t know if you had any. But now we have some. More than some. We have a lot of fucking money.”
“Where did we get a lot of fucking money from?”
“It doesn’t fucking matter. We have it.”
“Fuck, man. You fucking didn’t.”
“Keep driving, Jeff.”
“Shit, the barista. Is the fucking barista alive?” I was really fucking worried.
“He’s alive, Jeff. He’ll be fine once someone finds him.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“He’s tied up. That’s all. He’s not hurt.”
“Shit. Fucking shit, Kristy. We were fucking doing fine. No cops. No nothing. And you have to knock over a fucking coffee shop.”
“We fucking needed the money.” Kristy was almost in tears. “And we’ll be ok if you fucking drive fucking fast.”
So I kept driving fast. But not too fast. I didn’t want to get pulled over for speeding. I knew I wouldn’t get away a second time.
“Just tell me one thing, Kristy. Was that it? Can you promise me you won’t pull the gun on anyone else? Can you make it to San Francisco without pulling that fucking gun? And keep in mind that if you answer wrong, I’m fucking stopping. I don’t fucking care if you shoot me.”
Kristy was completely silent.
When you’re on a plane at 37,000 feet in the air, there is nothing so important that you need to check your e-mail or send text messages.
But apparently the girl sitting next to me on the Boeing 757 recently didn’t agree. It started before the plane took off. I sat down next to her and she was texting and checking e-mail. The first announcement to turn off mobile electronic devices came and she continued. We backed away from the gate and headed toward the runway. Another announcement came and still she texted and e-mailed. A third and fourth announcment came, and she didn’t turn off her mobile device, though she did finally throw it in her bag. About halfway through the flight, she took it out, sent a text and checked more e-mail before throwing it back in her purse.
Sorry, lady. You’re not that important. Whatever was occupying your mind, there was nothing you could do for or about it in-flight. You’re trapped there. You’re in the air. You’re not leaving the air until the plane does. You don’t need to text or check e-mail in flight.
And beyond that, you’re putting us all in danger. A pilot friend of mine told me that the warnings about turning off mobile communication devices are there because those devices can, in fact, mess with an airplane’s communication equipment, making communication with folks on the ground difficult if not impossible. And that’s not good.
I admit that I don’t turn my phone off until the first warning. And when we land, I turn it right back on so I can tell whoever is picking me up at the airport what’s going on. But I never have it on in flight because I know I’m not that important. Whatever is happening can wait until I land because there’s no other choice. And it can wait until you land, too.
Roadside coffee is supposed to suck. It’s supposed to be weak, watery and gross. You drink it only to stay awake on long road trips. It’s not supposed to be good at all.
I wasn’t expecting a whole lot when I spotted a sign indicating a restaurant at the next exit. I figured I’d be able to get a crappy cup of coffee, load it with sugar to give it a little flavor and take it in the car.
Imagine my surprise when I pull off the highway, turn right at the bottom of the ramp and see an actual coffee shop. I thought I was delusional.
“Is that a fucking coffee shop?” I ask Kristy, as I start to turn into its parking lot.
“It looks like one, that’s for sure,” she said.
We get out of the car. Kristy was right. It did look like a coffee shop. A black sign with a coffee mug and the name Cafe Sin Fronteras - Spanish for coffee without borders - painted on it in white hung outside the brown brick building. We walked in and were greeted by two giant roasters and the smell of fresh coffee. It was nearly empty, so we walked up to the counter. The barista was a guy of about 19, spiky hair, tattoos all the way down his arms and lots of metal in his ears. I liked him already.
“What can I get for you?” he asked pleasantly. Aside from the pleasant demeanor, he definitely seemed like a barista.
“A large of whatever your darkest roast is to go,” I said.
“You got it.” He took a large cup - 20 ounces, by the look of it - over to a pot labeled Ethiopia, filled it and set it in front of me. He looked at Kristy. “Anything for you?”
“No,” she said. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“No problem. That’s going to be $2.10.”
“Shit,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “That’s damn cheap. How the hell do you survive in the middle of nowhere with prices like this?”
“We serve the only non-Folgers coffee for about 150 miles in any direction and we’re open 24 hours. Our customers are mostly long-haul truckers who don’t want gas station crap.”
“Right on,” I said. “Thanks for the caffeine fix.”
There’s a baseball game on TV. Fitting, I suppose. I’m kind of glad it’s not the River Bandits.
The whiskey tonic in front of me is dynamite. Not much tonic and almost too much whiskey. Almost.
Everything is moving in slow motion. Or maybe I am. It’s a good feeling - one I’ve not had in a long time. It’s going to suck if I wake up tomorrow. But for now, it’s fantastic.
I don’t even know where I’m going to wake up tomorrow, if I do. But it will be nowhere good. The last of the whiskey tonic hits my stomach, burning my chest on the way down.
It’s a bright day. So far it’s been good. Kristy is still batshit crazy. But I think I’m just as nuts for going along with her. Strangely, I’m ok with this.
But something is missing. Coffee. I think I need coffee. I know I need coffee.
“Kristy, start looking for exits that have gas station of restaurants,” I said.
“Why? You have a full tank and we just left that rest stop.” Kristy was cute when she was confused.
“I need coffee.”
“Why do you need coffee?”
“Because I don’t have any.”
“Jeff, you sound like that Aflac commercial with Yogi Berra.”
“You know who Yogi Berra is. I’m impressed,” I say.
“I love baseball,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
“So where do your baseball loyalties lie?” I asked. “Yankees or Mets.”
“Oh god, neither,” she said. “I only lived in New York. But I’m from Davenport, Iowa. I am and always will be loyal to my Quad City River Bandits. They’re a minor league clue - a single A Cardinals affiliate.”
“No shit. I worked in the QC area for a few years. I went to a few Bandits games in my time there.” Kristy smiled. “You’re well on your way to being the perfect girl.” She blushed. “Last question - do you enjoy beer? And if so, what kind?”
“Beer is a wonderful thing. Dark beer. Stouts and porters are my favorites, though the Belgians produced some wonderful dark ales.”
This was incredible. No wonder I went along with her schemes. This was by far the closest thing to a perfect girl I’d ever come across.
“Shit, Kristy. Where were you when I couldn’t get a date in high school?”
“Odds are I was smoking weed in the bathroom. High school wsn’t exactly my thing. School in general wasn’t exactly my thing.”
“Me either. I went because I had to. I didn’t think I was going to graduate high school, but I did. Then I went to college because it’s what you do after high school.”
“Yeah, I split and got married and we all know how that turned out.”
“I think it turned out well.” I smirked a little.
“How do you figure?” Again she looked confused, with one eyebrow raised and her head cocked slightly to the right.
“Well, you’re on your way to San Francisco with a handsome, charming gentleman. Somehow, you’re neither in jail nor dead. And though you decided it would be a good idea to have sex in a very public place, you were, thankfully, not caught.”
“I didn’t see you objecting to the very public sex,” she said.
“I didn’t. I’m just pointing out that I am very thankful you were not caught, for it means that I was also not caught.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re thankful. I’ll make sure that during my next public sex adventure, you are once again not caught.”
“Thank you, Kristy. I appreciate that.”
“Well, you know. I’m the perfect girl. So even when I do imperfect things, I do them perfectly.”
Drinking a lot of beer is like eating a loaf of bread. Sure, it tastes great, but you start to feel full very quickly. I say quickly, but I don’t really mean it. I’ve had what - 8, 9, 10 - so far? I don’t know. It’s only 11:15.
The problem is that I’m full. It’s like I’ve eaten a loaf of bread. If I have another beer, my body will rebel, I think.
But the good Lord has blessed me with a solution. I think I need whiskey. I know I need whiskey. Time to get some whiskey. Straight up? Sour? Tonic. It’s early. I’ve got time for all of them.
I believe in what I do. I belive in the mission and power of the press. I believe a free press is a vital and necessary part of our society. And perhaps most importantly, I believe in the power of truth and the power of information and I am honored to be counted among those who disseminate information to the public.
But some days, I wonder why I bother.
The most frustrating part of being a reporter is that no matter what, some people just don’t understand what I do or why I do it. To some, I will always be someone just seeking to pry into people’s personal business, glorify criminals and stir up controversy.
And being reminded of that shakes me. It shakes my belief in what I do and my purpose as a reporter. You hear something enough and you start to believe it. And I don’t really believe it, but the idea that it could in fact be believable is a bit jarring.
But then there are days like today, where I’m being hit from all sides by people who think that I’m nothing but a gossip-monger, someone who wants to glorify criminals. Heck, someone even commented on a story of mine today that they were giving up their subscription to the paper because of the story. Today, by all accounts, should have been one of those jarring days.
But it wasn’t. Today reaffirmed my belief in what I do despite all the attacks. What’s weird is that this is about the worst round of attacks I’ve taken. But I know that the story I published was the right one. It was a story that needed to be told and that no matter what anyone says, it is better that the story has been told.
