moving on

I was in Virginia. Near a town called Vienna. There were no free tables in the picnic area: I would have to share one with some other travelers. after a brief survey of the crowd, I decided to sit at the end of a table whose opposite end was occupied by a pudgy and awkward father and son who sat eating burgers in seeming silence. I lugged my overstuffed knapsack on to the table. It made a dramatic “thud” sound that caused the young boy and father to jump up in fear and turn around with meek, fear-filled eyes and upturned eyebrows. They stared at me as if waiting for further violence. Their mouths were agape, still filled with food as the surprise had stopped their jaws from continuing the motion of chewing. I shrugged apologetically, surpressing my urge to tell them to quit acting like girls. I unzipped my knapsack and extracted my journal and the giant bag of red vines I had stolen. I put the flinching father and son act out of my mind and sat absent-mindedly eating one red vine after another while scribbling away about events that took place over the last 24 hours. I had to be sure that i remembered everything for my blog.

When finished updating my journal I continued to sit and eat vines. My gaze drifted from one fussing family to the next. I watched the activity at the trash receptacles. Some men made grand displays of chivalry by holding the swinging door of the garbage receptacle open so that women and children could dispose of their trash without having to incur the impact of crashing their trays into the door. I listened to the crack the empty serving trays made as people politely stacked them in the designated repositories atop the trashcans. I watched the cleaning attendants, mostly pimply teenage boys and a few girls with dyed-blonde ponytails issuing out from the stiff brown and maroon baseball caps they wore as part of their uniforms, as they roamed the area wiping down tables with rags of questionable cleanliness.

The father and son got up and waddled off to one of the trashcans. It troubled me that they were moving on, essentially leaving me in their dust. I was beginning to feel like my journey was losing steam. Day one was on the wane and as far as I knew I was nowhere near a cemetery. When one of the ponytailed cleaning attendants came over to wipe up after my departed chubby tablemates, I decided to ask for direction.

Lucy was pretty in spite of her drab uniform. Her maroon polo shirt was way to big for her but clean and neatly tucked into the tiny waist of her requisite black workpants. To exert her individuality she had a Guns and Roses pin next to her name tag at the top left of her brown apron. She wore blue eye shadow and mascara to enhance the color of her eyes no doubt which were more grey than blue. She chewed gum mercilessly. She seemed thrilled to make a new friend and blow off her table wiping duties for a bit. I told her my story. She said there was a cemetery about a half an hour south of the rest stop. Her shift ended in an hour and a half. She said I should wait around for her: she’d give me a ride. We’d stop at her place first so that she could change into "normal clothes". she also said we could steal pot and vodka from her older brother who was home from college. She even had a ouija board and candles.