Escape from Coolville. Sherman Sutherland

front desk so he can let me in the door right away and as long as there’s no dumbass at the time clock trying to swipe their card backwards a million times, saying, “Why won’t this stupid thing ever work?”

      So I was thinking all that as I came up to the turn and I just . . . kept driving. I don’t even know why.

      I just kind of stared at the little green street sign—Dixon Rd—and I drove on past.

      Then I drove across the Hocking River right there, and then past that little rest area and then I was in Belpre, then Parkersburg and on the I-77 onramp and, before I even really knew what was going on, I’d driven past Ripley and Charleston and some town with a bunch of strip clubs, and then another town and then I drove through this long tunnel and when I came out the other side, there was this “Virginia Welcomes You” sign.

      Weird.

      The thing it reminded me of more than anything was in fifth grade when we had to fill out those surveys.

      “Don’t put your name on it,” they kept telling us. “These are anonymous. We want to know what you really think.”

      When it got to the question, “What do you like least about school?” I wrote, “Bitchy teachers.”

      Even though I wrote it in different handwriting, I was still scared they’d know it was me. And when I handed it in, I felt the same way as I did today when I watched myself drive past the turn onto Dixon Road. Kind of giddy and relieved and nervous and scared all at the same time.

      Hopefully Mom and Dad won’t be waiting for me when­ever I get back home. That would suck.

      At least in fifth grade, I could say, “But that’s really what I like least about school!”

      Now, all I’d be able to say is, “Uh, Radiohead was play­ing. And the song wasn’t over. And I was really really high.”

      They’d bitch slap me into next week.

      * * *

      rules and Regulations of Waysides and Rest Areas that I either plan to, hope to, or expect to break:

      #3: When posted, parking shall be limited to the two-hour period specified.

      #4: No overnight parking will be permitted.

      #7: No vehicle shall be parked in such a manner as to oc­cupy more than one marked parking space.

      #9: No person shall pick any flowers, foliage or fruit; or cut, break, dig up, or in any way mutilate or injure any tree, shrub, plant, grass turf, railing, seat, fence, structure, or anything within this area or cut, carve, paint, mark or paste on any tree, stone, fence, wall, building, monument or other object therein any bill, ad­vertisement or inscription whatsoever.

      #12: No threatening, abusive, boisterous, insulting or in­decent language, gesture or behavior shall be used or performed within this area. Nor shall any oration or other public demonstration be made, unless by spe­cial authority of the Commissioner.

      * * *

      Cast

      (in order of appearance)

      ME: Twenty-two-year-old bundle of telephone psychic awesomeness who’s currently confused about his present job situation, among other things.

      THE OTHER ME: The person in my head I talk to when I talk to myself in my head.

      SCENE ONE

      Driver’s seat of my car, parked in the second-to-last spot at the Rocky Gap Rest Area in Virginia. It’s late night-early morning. An orange street light/sidewalk light/rest area light shines in through my windshield so I can see to write. Outside, a stranger sits on a picnic table nearby. Every few seconds, a truck or an occasional car can be heard speeding past on the nearby interstate. Closer, but less frequently—every several minutes, maybe—a car passes slowly behind before it picks up speed on the nearby interstate onramp. On the other side of the rest area and welcome center building, a truck’s airbrakes will make that squonking truck airbrake sound. Sometimes people talk on their phones or to each other as they walk to the restroom, but never loud enough to make out their conversation through the car window that’s rolled down just an inch to let out the cigarette smoke. Me is talking to Other Me, but the conversation is taking place entirely in my head while Me does his best to dictate the conversation verbatim.

      ME: Thanks for visiting your psychic advisor in the front seat of my car. This is Antonio. May I have your first name and—

      OTHER ME: Why are you talking to yourself?

      ME: I’m not talking to myself. I’m thinking to myself.

      OTHER ME: Whatever. Why are you thinking to yourself?

      ME: I’m trying to make this feel like a real reading. I figure maybe it’ll work better that way. I give people advice all day, so I—

      OTHER ME: That’s scary.

      ME: Do you want to do this or not?

      OTHER ME: You know you’re not really a psychic, right?

      ME: All of us are born with inherent psychic abilities. It’s just that some of us were raised in an environment where—

      OTHER ME: Cut the crap. You don’t even believe in this.

      ME: I sort of do. Sometimes. There’s Irene, at work, she’s totally psychic.

      OTHER ME: Maybe she’s just better at lying than you are.

      ME: Okay, but what about when I have those nights at work when the cards are exactly right on every single call?

      OTHER ME: That’s just the law of averages. When you do twenty or thirty readings a night for a year, the cards are bound to be right every now and then.

      ME: You don’t believe that. You think, at the very least, that there’s some subconscious Rainman part of our brain that knows the answers and is shuffling the cards just right to show us what those answers are. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.

      OTHER ME: Just shut up and deal the cards.

      ME: Okay. I need you to quiet your mind as you think of your question.

      OTHER ME: What’s my question?

      ME: You want to know if you should go back to training or not. On the one hand, if you go back to training, you won’t have to worry about getting fired. On the other hand, you’ll make three dollars less an hour, which sucks, because you can barely pay your bills now. On the other other hand, training is boring, and it’d be super boring the second time. But it’ll also be easy, so you’ll get paid to do basically nothing, which would be nice. On the other other other hand, everybody will think you’re an idiot for going back to training, but since when do you care about what everybody else thinks anyway, especially everybody else at ATS? On the other other other other other hand, training is at nine in the morning, every morning—for three whole unholy weeks—but you’d also have normal weekends for a change, instead of Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, when all the bars have their stupid Eighties Night or Lady Gaga Night or Drink This Crap We Found Under the Sink Night.

      OTHER ME: Whoa! How do you know all that? Maybe you really are psychic.

      ME: See? Maybe this will work after all. Now quiet your mind and tell me when you feel I should stop shuffling the cards.

      OTHER ME: What’s that noise? Is somebody chanting in the restroom?

      ME: No. That’s me. My landlady’s been playing this crazy music nonstop since yesterday morning and I can’t get it out of my head.

      OTHER ME: E-jean boo lawn chi wren ling Ming John she ah me toe foe you chew shin John Zen’s eye Cheech in she wren John she zing booed yen Dow gee duh wan shin ah me toe foe gee lug whoa two—

      ME: Please stop. I can hear it just fine without you singing along. Just ignore it and tell me when to stop shuffling