Thank god for the Big Spunk rest stop on I-94, thought Max. He should have probably stopped in Melrose, Freeport, or Albany but he’d never heard of any of these stupid towns because they weren’t in Clay County where he grew up. All he knew was that he either had to pee in the empty Mountain Dew bottle from the gas station in Alexandria – he had heard of that town – or his bladder was going to explode and he was going to die.

He still couldn’t believe that he was driving himself to the “Twin Cities” as they were called by everyone from his home town who had never been to Melrose, Freeport or Albany either. He had loaded up his Ford Explorer to the point that he couldn’t see out the back window but it didn’t really matter because there wasn’t anyone behind him. Everyone seemed to be in a big god damned hurry – the speed limit sign said 65 but that was obviously just a suggestion as he was being passed by every vehicle on the road – even by minivans driven by someone’s grandparents. He wasn’t totally sure that his truck, loaded down like an Oakie on his way to California, could exceed the posted speed limit anyway. The engine was fighting him to get above 55, which was all the faster it ever went back home – the minimum speed on the sign actually said 45, which sounded pretty good. Max was so nervous about driving on the interstate and potentially missing a turn and being killed and robbed by angry gang members. His dad had told the story at least a hundred times about missing a turn on the interstate in St. Louis on the way to visit relatives in Arkansas. It got more colorful and dire every time. They drove through a rough part of the city filled with gangs for about an hour before they stopped at a gas station and got directions from a clerk with a gun behind bars and plexiglass. Max was pretty sure there weren’t any rough areas in Melrose, Freeport, or Albany but he also didn’t want to take any chances. He just wanted to make it to his apartment in St. Louis Park which he was sure was totally different than St. Louis, more green and less rough. There was a Menards across the highway and a Bennigan’s within walking distance. Menards, of course had everything, “save big money at Menards” is what the jingle said on the radio. So true. He’d never heard of Bennigan’s before but it sort of seemed like it wanted to be a cross between Cheers and an Irish pub and all the waitresses were pretty, they had beer, and a lot of the food was fried so how could you go wrong. The biggest challenge that Max faced now, after finding, pulling over, and not being murdered by gang members or local townies at the Big Spunk rest area, were the directions. He had flown down for his job interview and someone drove him around to find an apartment so he had no idea where he was going. He had the turns written down and memorized but he still wasn’t sure that it sounded right – 94 East to 494 South to 394 East? Why were they all versions of 94? Were all the other numbers taken when these roads were named? He thought that if he got lost and murdered or run off the road by all the cars passing him, everyone at his funeral back home would be murmuring that it’s just not safe down in the Twin Cities. Then he imagined the conversation with his parents in the afterlife, when they would say, “we told you not to move down there, those cities are just too big and dangerous.” Was there passive aggression and guilt in the afterlife? If his mom was there, absolutely. Then a sign flew by above his head, or maybe it passed slowly by, but either way, he missed it, because he was preoccupied by the thought of guilt in heaven. This was it, he thought, he was lost, and then five more signs appeared in the dark over his head. He saw them all but not one of them said “turn here for your new apartment in St. Louis Park you idiot” but all five of them pointed in different directions and had some version of 94 on them. One of them even had a six in there somewhere. He was dead and his mom was going to be so mad at him.