Free The Leisure Seeker by Michael Zadoorian Page A

in the middle. Bright as the sky,mouth open and smiling, squealing children diving off his concrete back into the water. I sweep my arm forward and am suddenly swimming with the whales.
    Sometimes when you least expect it, your life becomes a National Geographic special.
    Before Tulsa, I direct John onto the I-44 bypass. We pick 66 back up at Sapulpa. Suddenly, I’ve got some considerable discomfort. I want to take a little blue pill, but I don’t want to do it until we’re settled.
    “John,” I say, trying not to sound too weary. “I’m tired. Maybe we should find somewhere to stay for the night.”
    “What time is it?”
    The clock in the van has been broken for years. My watch says it’s only 3:05, but I don’t want to get into it with John about not traveling long enough.
    “It’s after five,” I say, lying to my husband. “Let’s keep our eyes peeled for a place.” I go into my purse for my little blue pills. I try to break one in half, but it won’t break. Against my better judgment, I take the whole thing and wash it down with a sip of Faygo Root Beer.
    Within ten minutes or so, I feel a little better, but start getting drowsy. Up ahead, there’s a billboard for a gas station in a town called Chandler. I remember something from my guidebooks about a good place to stay there. No sooner do we enter town than I see the sign for the Lincoln Motel.
    “John, turn in here. I’d like to sleep in a real bed tonight.”
    John does what he is told, I’m happy to report. We turn in and park by the office. Even feeling as rotten as I do, I have tosay that the place is just darling, an old-time motor hotel from the ’30s. Luckily, there’s a vacancy.
    When we drive along the back to park near our cabin, I notice something. “John, look at all these old cars.”
    “How about that,” he says, giving a little whistle.
    I point to one bulbous, bullet-nosed, gray-green car in particular. “John, there’s a 1950 Studebaker. Remember? We had one like that a few years after we got married. You taught me how to drive in that car.”
    “I’ll be damned,” he says. “That was a good car.”
    “God, did you scream at me that day. I was so mad at you.”
    John shakes his head. “You were an awful driver.”
    I want to tell him to cram it, but the fact is, he’s right. I was an awful driver. I never really got the hang of it. I was always afraid of going too fast. I hated freeways and left turns and parallel parking. I was constantly getting yelled at, either by John or people in other cars. Still, it’s hard to live in Detroit if you don’t drive. Yet as soon as the kids were old enough, I let them drive me everywhere. I gave it up for good right after Kevin got his license.
    “There’s an old Imperial. That’s a beauty,” says John, checking out a gaudy lavender boat with gargantuan fins and ringed taillights like gun sights.
    Yes, we are definitely from a car town. We park next to a shiny red Ford Pinto with a license plate that says:
    IBLOWUP
    Our cabin is small, but clean and comfortable and all I want to do is go to bed, but I have to make sure that John is settled in as well.
    “Let’s take a little nap, John. Then we’ll bring in our things.”
    “I’m not tired.”
    “Well, I am.” I turn on the television to distract him. We start watching an old rerun of M*A*S*H and John is immediately absorbed. I swear, he’s seen every episode a hundred times, but he still loves to watch them. I think that’s why he can still enjoy them. They’re familiar, but new. I lock the door, then settle into the too-soft bed, deeply weary.
     
    When I wake up, John is gone. It’s only 5:25 P.M. , so I haven’t been sleeping long. I pray that he has not wandered off somewhere. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and raise myself, using both my cane and the night table. Standing somehow makes me feel better, as if I am fooling my body into vigor. I open the door of our cabin and am relieved to see John