No Blaise: 80 West?

If you ask anyone who knows me or — more important – has driven with me, they’ll tell you my internal compass may be a little, oh, damaged.

Needless to say, getting lost isn’t a situation I’m ever surprised to be in.

Here’s where I’m going with this….

A few nights ago, my friend, Kiwanda, and I decide that dinner’s going to be at Wendy’s – gotta love that dollar menu.

We get the goods: Two five-piece nuggets, fries, Frosty, and a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger. As I pull away from the drive-thru, I remember promising myself I wouldn’t go overboard.

Story of my life….

Anyway, so I make it back onto the main road and hang a right on what I’ve convinced myself is the way back to Iowa City.

Wrong.

A minute goes by and my “Oh, shit” meter goes off. This is definitely not the way back to my apartment. In fact, I have no idea where this is gonna bring us.

Then the fog sets in.

I mean that literally. All of a sudden we’re driving through a thick fog.

You know, like when you look out the window of an airplane and you can’t see a thing cause you’re coasting through a cloud? Well, that’s what consumed my car….

Did I mention it was dark outside? And that on either side of the highway was rural Iowa?

Being from Chicago, I’m not down with these country bumpkin surroundings when it’s light outside – let alone at night when you’re wrapped in a blanket of fog.

Did I mention I had no idea where I was going?

Just as my life was about to turn into a bad, scary movie, I see a Green Sign emerge from the fog: “North Liberty five miles.”

A light at the end of one foggy tunnel.

I pull off at the next exit. As in all good slasher films, there’s a gas station where I can stop for directions.

I pull in, put the car in park, and before I even turn off the engine, Kiwanda informs me: “I’m staying here.”

The wimp.

There are only three other people in the gas station. The cashier, a man with a credit card, and Mr. Credit Card Man’s wife.

Mr. Credit Card walks away from the counter as his wife walks up with a bottle of water. As he walks out of the gas station – credit card in hand – he tells the cashier to put “the water on the card.”

The cashier, of course, can’t do this because said card remains in wifey’s hand. Mrs. Credit Card pulls a few bills from her purse, shakes her head and mutters something along the lines of – “idiot.”

And these are the people who will direct me….

I step to the counter to address the cashier. He’s wearing hoop earrings with spikes on the end and a backwards baseball cap. His attitude reminds me of the dude on Orange County Choppers. If you’ve never seen that show, just imagine anyone who’s ever threatened to beat you up and you’ll get the idea.

Oh, what’s that on his arm? A tattoo that says: “No Regrets.” Well, this just got better.

Okay, class, tonight’s question is: How do you ask someone for directions home if you do not want him to know where you live?

I realize I’ve been silently looking at him for a socially unacceptable amount of time.

“Ugh. Ugh. Ugh,” I say.

He looks at me. Obviously, muttering to myself isn’t amusing him.

Finally, I spit it out. “How do I get back to Iowa City?”

The bell above the door rings and Mr. Credit Card returns.

The cashier starts in with his directions: “Blah, blah, blah – take a right. Blah, blah, blah….”

I have no idea what he’s talking about cause I’m distracted. Must be that tattoo.

“Ugh, I’m sorry,” I say. “But – what?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but Mr. Credit Card cuts him off. “Well, you first go here and then you go there — blah, blah, blah….”

Well, give him credit – at least he’s coherent. Though I’m not sure if I should follow the directions of a man who doesn’t know how to use a credit card.

It turns out I only had to get on the highway and go the other way from the way I was going.

After we pulled up to Kiwanda’s apartment, I considered kissing the ground. But the snow had already turned black.

I told you I was directionally challenged….

by No Blaise