Off the Road

Four days a week, I drove the entirety of the road from the Mouse to the sea-- Orlando to Cocoa Beach. I was simultaneously writing, working as a launch briefer at the Kennedy Space Center and as a wine educator at EPCOT. That meant to and fro on the 528, then known as the Bee Line. Four days a week. Otherwise, I remained at my station by the sea, watching the space shuttle and the ocean rise and fall. I was very much in the process of gaining thirteen pounds.

It rained the first week. We spent the day in our wine tent at EPCOT pushing against the canvas ceiling, spilling the rain over the sides and wiping down the bottles. Soaked tourists crowded up against us while the outside of the little wine glasses clouded over with humidity. On my way back to the shore, there was and Toby Keith on the tinny little CD player on the seat beside me. The sun had set, and I was involved in two activities which, much to the chagrin of my Toyota, sometimes paired: I was speeding, and I was misdirected. I had almost overshot the entrance ramp to the Bee Line.

Almost. I applied the breaks and the steering wheel at the same time. I don't remember the skid, the crash, or the air bag deploying. I do remember sitting with a faceful of chemical powder, reaching up to my face and feeling blood as Toby sang on.

The Corolla was hung up on the hidden leftovers of a traffic sign post, the entire undercarriage scraped and suspended in air. It had likely saved my life, preventing me from sliding back out onto I-4, speed limit 70, driver's side first.

I called the only two people I knew in Orlando-- two co-workers. They were home, and they were generous, fetching me from across town, one putting me in her own bed, first spraying the sheets with lavender water.

I lay in the bed of a near stranger, staring at the ceiling. How did I like me now? How did I like adulthood, grown-up girl life now?