On Tuesday, Brenda started driving east. On Wednesday,
she stumbled out of the motel and continued driving. On Wednesday afternoon, her
engine light went on. Smoke came out from under the hood. At least there was a
service station up ahead. The proprietor's shirt said "Jose"; Brenda
was glad that she knew Spanish.
The car needed a new fan belt. Jose didn’t have one
for her type of car, and to order one would take a day or two. Brenda had no
choice but to find a motel and wait.
Jose's brother, Rafael, led her to the nearest motel.
Then he asked her out to a movie. Having nothing else to do, Brenda said
"OK". She lived to regret it.
They were late to the movie because Rafael had to get
gas. He (and/or his perfumed deodorant) smelled so bad that Brenda had to keep
the car window wide open. After the movie, they headed for the door.
Brenda stopped and took a flyer out of a rack. When
she turned around, Rafael was gone. She stood and waited by the door for ten
minutes, wondering how she would get back to the motel.
Pretty soon, Rafael walked by, too busy conversing in
Spanish with a lady Brenda's age and a teenaged boy to give her more than a nod.
Brenda followed them, smiled at the lady, and said something in Spanish. But
Rafael wouldn’t let her join the conversation. He finally said
"adios" to the Spanish lady, and they left.
Once they got back to the motel, Brenda confronted him
about his rudeness. He replied, "But they don't know English!"
Brenda was glad that the car was repaired by the next
day. She got back on Interstate 80 and continued toward Washington D.C. She
hoped that, once she was a university student, she would meet intelligent men.
Brenda was eating breakfast at a Mississippi truck
stop. It was fun listening to the truckers tease the waitresses in their
Southern accents. Until one trucker noticed Brenda. He called her "little
girl" and asked why she was sitting there all alone.
Brenda didn’t answer.
"You're the one's got that little Chevette out
there ain't you?" He moved over to her table. "This is a dangerous
place for a little girl like you to be traveling all alone. But ah'll protect
you." He smelled even worse than Rafael had.
Brenda looked down and tried to finish her breakfast.
A big man came over. Although he spoke in a friendly manner to the harasser, the
harasser left quickly.
"Thank you for getting rid of him. He was
crazy," Brenda said to the big man.
"You're confusing 'crazy' with 'evil'," he
said. "I'm crazier than he is."
"You're mentally ill?"
"Yep."
Brenda was surprised. He looked relaxed; he was
smiling and friendly. She tried to save face. "I have a friend who became
mentally ill from working too hard."
"Baloney," the man said.
"What do you mean, 'baloney'?"
"Mental illness is inherited."
"But he was fine till he started working all the
time and stopped relating to the people in his life."
"He looked fine. But he must have had the
genes for mental illness all along. Then one day he got too stressed out and
broke down."
"Overwork doesn't cause a breakdown?"
"Not unless it's accompanied by a severe
stressor."
"Oh. I'll have to talk to a psychologist about
this."
"You think mentally ill people can't be
psychologists?" He grinned
Brenda looked at him. "Thanks, Dr. --"
"Dr. Goldman." They shook hands, and she
left.
After Brenda made it to Washington, D.C. and found an
apartment, she sent Rob a postcard saying, "Relating to the people in your
life is more likely to make you ‘crazy’ than not relating to them is."