Six Year Olds Can't Drive Across the Country, Even if They Want To

Chapter One

Reno, Nevada - Now

My hands grip the steering wheel.

I should be excited, but I’m not. All I can think about is Dave. I wonder what he thinks of me, why he left me in San Francisco. I think about the way he lied, replay every moment in my mind. I go through it over and over again. Every word, every look, every gesture. What he meant, and what he didn’t mean. I will never actually know the truth, I will only half know.

My eyes focus on the red sedan in front of me. I trace the headlights, the bumper, and the license plate. I’m looking at it, but I don’t really see it. 

There’s a circus in my head. Acrobats of anxiety, round and round they go. Where am I going? What am I doing? Where am I going? What am I doing? 

I want to turn around, but I can’t. I physically can’t. My hands grip the steering wheel, awkwardly, like you would in your junior year of high school when you're taking your driver’s test. With every minute that passes, I am closer to Reno. I hate Reno. There is nothing in Reno, except a river that runs through the city, and grimy casinos that line the main boulevard in town.

Why am I doing this?

I grab my phone, open the “Hotel Tonight” app, and search for a decent place to stay. I want so badly to be in my own bed right now. But wait, I don’t really have my own bed right now. I moved out of my apartment in Oakland, and my parents just sold our childhood home. I am out of options. Even if I did turn around, drove back to California, there would be nothing waiting for me.

I glance at my phone again, scroll through the list of hotels and Casinos, and finally find a room for $79/night, not including tax. Yes, I think. I can do this. I punch the address into Apple maps and keep driving. The hotel is fifteen minutes away.

There are crumbs down the front of me, surely leftovers from the Nature Valley bar I shoved into my mouth a few hours ago. My back is sore. I’m charged like a rocket ship with anxiety. It feels scary to be driving at night, scary to be driving anywhere during the pandemic, especially when people are still sheltering in place.

I approach the exit, put my blinker on and merge onto the right lane. The Casino is a ways out of town, nowhere near the main boulevard. I’m following my phone’s directions, but damn, I miss my turn. Reno is deserted and fear looms over my shoulders.

Finally, I see it.

There’s a sign for the hotel in the distance. But there are roadblocks and barriers blocking the entrance. I drive the wrong way through a 'one-way,’  pull up to the lobby and park.

When I open my car door, crumbs cascade down my sweatshirt and hit the pavement as I notice some questionable people sitting on shabby brown benches outside. I don’t look at them, I just keep walking.

Hotel staff take my temperature at the front door and ask me a series of questions related to COVID-19. I respond "no" to all of them. The guard motions toward the hand sanitizer. I agree, lather it onto my hands, and walk toward the concierge. If you could really call her that. She looks more like a passerby they picked up from a bus stop. Then again, I’m sure no one wants to work this shift. Who, in their right mind, would want to work this shift? It’s honestly the last place I’d want to be at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday night. Yet, here I am.

What am I getting myself into? Is this my future? Deserted cities, hard-to-get-to hotels, arriving at all hours of the night? I hate the thought of it. I just want to go home.

"Hi," I say, "I have a reservation for tonight, under Anna Vatuone.”

“What’s the name?” she asks.

“A--n--n--a. V as in victor, a-t-u..." I start reciting.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry,” she looks up at me from her computer, “but I don't see anything under that name.”

"What do you mean?" I ask, shocked. "I just booked this 20 minutes ago on my Hotel Tonight app.”

I reach for my phone, ready to prove my point, when I see there is nothing registered. There are no reservations booked, and the listing for the hotel is no longer available. I am about to combust. Internally combust. But an emotional outburst requires too much energy, and I don’t have any left to give.

"I must've forgotten to hit accept," I say, looking down at my phone dejectedly. I sweep my hair behind my ears and try to maintain my composure. I think I might cry.

"It's $120 for the night," she says, clearly unfazed, "Do you want to do it?"

Do I want to book this room? Do I even want to go on this stupid trip to begin with? I argue with myself. My mind is very powerful, I've learned. It's always trying to convince me of something. I've already posted about this trip on Instagram, sent out an email to my entire list, and made a big deal about it.

Now what? I’m just going to turn around?

I spin a narrative in my mind, as though there's an entire office of PR agents working ‘round the clock. I could just tell everyone I’ve changed my mind. That’s it. Sometimes, the best thing we can do is change our minds and be courageous enough to admit we’ve made a mistake. Yeah, that’s good. I can work with that.

I often make decisions based on the story. If I can't figure out how to make a decision work for me, if it doesn’t fit inside the narrative I’m spinning, then I usually don't do it. The story is everything. It's the reason I decided to take this trip in the first place, right? To tell a good story? Suddenly, I’m not convinced that’s true. Why am I doing this?

“Do you want to do this?” the lady asks me again. She hates me, I can feel it.

“Umm, yes, yes, I’ll take the room.” I say.

She pulls out a map and circles something in a red pen and flatly recites the lines she must say a hundred times a day...

"Make a left out of this building, take a right at the stop sign, head towards the main boulevard, and make a left at the brick building on the corner. Your room number is 8041.” 

I'm not listening, but I nod anyway.

As I reach a massive parking garage with levels upon levels of parked cars, I’m strangely aware that all these vehicles have been here long before me, and will likely be here long after I have left, because as of tomorrow morning, I am out of here! Going back to Gilroy. No doubt about it, I have made up my mind. Come what may. 

On level 13, I find an empty parking spot.

It’s chilly outside, so I reach for my navy blue sweatshirt from the backseat of my Jeep. Gonzaga Law School is written across the front of it. I stole it from my Dad’s closet right before I left. It makes me think of my parents, and how I want to be with them. Not as an adult, but as a little girl, twenty years ago, when I was six years old and didn’t have a license and couldn’t make a decision to take a cross-country trip during a pandemic.

Six-year-olds can't drive across the country, even if they want to.

I open the trunk of my Jeep and stare at the two black Away suitcases piled in the back.

One contains my winter coats and scarves. The other contains my everyday clothes for the trip. It’s late October, and the days are still warm. It’s hard to imagine needing these coats in the second suitcase. But I don’t know how long I’ll be on the road for. Will it be days? Weeks? Months?

I pause to consider that I’ll most likely be driving back to Gilroy in the morning. Look at this car full of stuff. Won’t it be a shame to turn around? The thought passes quickly as I haul the first suitcase out of my trunk and roll it towards the elevator. People stare at me with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

I have a pack of my own in my purse. Marlboro lights. No one knows, though. It’s my secret. I blame my old roommate, Jon. Last summer, when I was trying to lose weight, he told me to start smoking cigarettes. So, I did.

I roll my suitcase through the casino and towards the elevators. There are men with beer bellies sitting on black spinny chairs, drinking cocktails, and fishing for luck at the bottom of a slot machine. I feel bad for them. Who is waiting for them at home? Would anyone ask where they were? And who was I to judge? I suppose they were probably wondering the same thing about me.

I keep rolling my suitcase towards the elevator. It’s a big casino. There’s a lot of ground to cover. When I get to the elevator, I push the button and the doors open immediately. I step inside and rest my head against the back of the wall, take a deep breath, close my eyes. Ding. I am on the eighth floor. I roll my suitcase down the long carpeted hallway. It smells like smoke. When I reach room 8041, I wave my key card against the sensor on the doorknob and it opens. It’s a large room with two queen beds, a massive bathroom with old stained countertops the color of throw-up green, and a fridge in the corner with a mini Keurig on top.

I look around the room and carry myself to bed, collapse, burst into tears. This was so stupid, naive, irresponsible, and the worst thing I could’ve done for myself and my business.

I pull out my phone to text my mom. It’s 2:45 am but I know there’s a chance she’s awake. I need her more than anything right now. I need someone.

“Is it too late to turn around?” I text.

Swoosh. Sent.

What will she think of my brilliant plan now? I would hate to tell everyone I am coming home, but at this point, I don't care. My ego is in shambles on the floor right now. I would just have to bear the shame of my impulsive mistake. I wipe the tears from my eyes and get up to go to the bathroom. The toilet is positioned high off the floor so that when I sit down, my feet hover an inch off the ground. I sit in silence, too exhausted to move.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It’s almost 3:00AM and all I want to do is bury myself in a mountain of covers, but I think it’s probably gross if I don’t take a shower first. I need to rinse off the drive. The dirty casino. The men with beer bellies sitting at slot machines. I need to rinse off the mascara on my cheeks and the weight of the day that feels heavy on my back.

I maneuver my jeans off my legs, let them fall to the floor, and flush the toilet before standing up.

I look at myself for the first time since leaving Gilroy and sigh at my reflection.

I peel the layers back. First, my earrings, then my sweatshirt, then the necklaces which are tangled around my neck. I am wearing a black, cropped tank top from Aritzia and a pair of silky, black underwear. I look at my body up and down. I am the leanest I have been in years, which makes sense, considering I spent the entire summer smoking cigarettes and obsessing over my weight.

Part of me wonders, as I look at myself, if I have strayed too far towards the opposite spectrum. It's hard to live in the middle. I've always been more comfortable with extremes.

I step into the shower and let the water spray onto my face. My hair is up in a bun so I don't get it wet. Better not to waste a "wash day" on shitty casino shampoo. After a quick rinse, I step out of the shower, put my phone on the charger, pull an oversized t-shirt over my head, and crawl into the left side of the bed. I am done. Before I even have time to think, I drift off to sleep.

---

In the morning, I open my eyes and try to remember where I am.

I can’t fathom it. Why did I decide to do this? What was the point of this? I grab my phone, zero notifications. Ugh. It’s 9AM. I slept for 5 hours. I dial my mom’s number and she doesn't answer. Damn. So, I scroll through TikTok to pass the time, but I am growing more anxious by the minute. I need to make up my mind. I need to figure this out. What am I going to do?

I want to drive home, back to Gilroy. I formulate a story in my head. I will tell them I’ve decided to prioritize my business. I will tell them I am going to put my head down, and keep working until I have decided where I want to go next. I will tell them I have decided to do the “responsible” thing.

20 minutes later, my mom calls me back.

“Hi honey,” she says. 

“I can’t do this,” the hysteria starts. 

“What the fuck was I thinking? There is no way that I can drive across the country right now in the middle of a pandemic.” I yell into the phone.

“Okay, honey, slow down. What’s going on?” she asks, softly. 

“It was a mistake to leave California. I feel like I’m being so irresponsible right now, and the thing I really should do is drive back to Gilroy, put my head down, and work on my business. I mean does that even make sense, what am I going to tell people?” I recite the story I just crafted in my head, trying to hear how it sounds. 

I swallow the growing lump in my throat and sit in silence, waiting for her to respond. Nothing.

“I just feel torn,” I say, starting again. “I told everyone I was going to take this trip and now what? I’m just going to turn around and come home? That’s so lame. I’m going to look like such a moron. I’ll be coming back with my tail in between my legs. But if I continue, where the hell am I going to go? What am I going to do?”

There’s a pause.

Until she says, “Okay. How about if we don’t look at either of those scenarios, but try to figure out where you are right now.”

“What is driving this intense reaction this morning? Last night you couldn’t wait to get out the door.”

“I just feel like I need to do the responsible thing and come home. I have a business to run, bills to pay… I can’t be traipsing around the country right now. Not to mention we’re in the middle of a global, fucking pandemic. This just feels really stupid,” I say.

“You can absolutely come home, you can always come home," she says. “There is no shame in turning around if you really believe in your heart this was a mistake. But don’t try to write the end of the story. If you’re not acting out of fear, then come home. As far as your followers, you can explain it to them, too. But, if you are acting out of fear, and you turn around, then you’re going to regret this, Anna. So, you can come home, but I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

I can’t believe she is saying this. I thought she would tell me to come back to Gilroy with arms wide open. Instead, she’s telling me to go?

We talk in circles for an hour and a half: unraveling my motivations and ironing out the wrinkles in my great American road trip.

“Where’s your next stop?” she asks.

“Salt Lake City” I say, “And then Colorado, I have an airbnb booked in Denver.”

“Make it to Denver,” she says. “At least make it to Denver and then you can reevaluate.”

I pause. Take a breath.

“Okay, I say. “I’ll drive to Denver.”