The Tree of Knowledge

My first order of business is to pry as much cash as I possibly can from the ATM before Ryan has the sense to cancel the cards. The good news is I know Rebecca’s pin.

Thanks to the stupid fucking withdraw limit, it takes me stopping at five different ATM’s just scrounge up one thousand bucks.

I careen into the parking lot of Dick’s Sporting Goods, scraping the car next to me as I pull into the space.

Have I mentioned I’ve never driven a car before? I’ve got to ditch the car anyway. They’ll be looking for the car.

I grab my bike out of the trunk and head into the store. I get a cart and load it up. I’m here for backpacking gear. I get a backpack, a sleeping bag, a light weight tent, a canteen, and as many MRE’s as I can possibly carry. I grab a book on edible desert plant life, and another on outdoor survival, which includes a section on making snares and other animal traps. After pondering that for a moment, I head back to the camping section for flint and a titanium mess kit. From the rock climbing section I hurriedly pick out some ropes and ’bineers. I round out the purchase with a pair of hiking boots and some fucking pants, “For my husband,” I tell the cashier.

I ask for sixty dollars cash back and swipe the debit card.

“I’m sorry,” the cashier says. “It says your card was declined.”

“Oh really?” I say, outwardly displaying heroic levels of calm.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Let me try this one.”

I produce a second card from Rebecca’s wallet. It goes through.

Maybe Jesus really does love me.

In the parking lot behind the building, I pack all the stuff into my new backpack and pull on my new hiking boots, tossing the old backpack, shoes, and Ryan’s pants into the dumpster. I also ditch all the crap from Rebecca’s purse. A rainbow of now worthless credit cards tumble in mixed up with lip sticks and a pocket sized Bible.

Now I just need another car.

I head out to the service road facing towards the south bound traffic and stick out my thumb. One little hybrid car slows, then spots my bike and keeps on going. It would never fit.

I feel conspicuous as hell. This was probably not a good plan. I’m just about to leave when a black F150 pulls over.

Perfect.

A congenial looking man in his thirties gets out.

“Where you headed miss?”

He spots my wedding ring.

“Missus. Excuse me.”

“Abilene.” I tell him.

He chuckles. “Well, I can take you as far as Willow Park.”

“That’ll do. Thanks.”

He helps me put my bicycle in the bed.

“I’m George.” he says.

I panic.

“I’m…ummm…Delilah! My name is Delilah. Lila. My friends call me Lila…”

“Okay Lila. Nice to meet you.”

So I clearly picked the wrong car. George asks entirely too many questions.

“Your husband lets you hitchhike?”

“Sure. You know it’s real safe for married girls, I mean women, these days.”

“So what’s in Abilene?”

“Ummm…my…uh…parents. My parents live in Abilene.”

“Your folks live in a tent?” he asks, indicating my gear.

“Oh…no…I…uh…we’re going camping! Yup. Big family camping trip. Annual tradition. My family’s real outdoorsy.”

“Oh really? Where are you going camping?”

Fucking Hell.

“Ummm…there’s this lake…”

“Kirby Lake?”

Thank you Jesus.

“Yup. Kirby Lake. That’s the one. Great lake, Kirby Lake is.”

George wants to know what my husband does for a living. How many siblings I have. He wants to know what we do at Kirby Lake every year.

“Oh…you know…hike…fish…”

“Oh, what kind of fish are you catching out there?”

“…Never caught one!”

“Oh really? You usin’ bait or lures?”

“Lures.”

“What kind?”

There’s more than one kind???

This is non-stop for almost an hour.

Once we get outside of Fort Worth, I wait patiently for an appropriately desolate stretch of highway. The longer the walk back to civilization, the better.

“George,” I say, reaching into my bag, “You’ve been nice. Though a little over inquisitive. And I’m really sorry about this.”

“Lila, what do you have to be sorry about?”

He looks at me. Sees the gun in my hand.

“Oh.”

“Will you please pull over?”

George slows the vehicle.

“You’re taking my truck, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sorry. It had to be something I could fit my bike in. Plus there’s like a billion black F150’s on the road. So when you report it as stolen it’s not going to stand out…I also need your cell phone and your wallet.”

George obliges. He climbs out of the truck as I scoot over into the driver’s seat. George looks up at me before shutting the door.

“Lila, what is a nice girl like you doing this for?”

I sigh.

“See, George, that’s the problem, right there. I’m not a nice girl.”

I slam the door shut.

“I’m going to Hell.”

And I crank the radio and gun it west.