Martha Cooney

Ten years after we graduated, my college friend Cody joined me for part of a cross-country drive to Los Angeles. We were good travel companions because our views aligned on money: no unnecessary expenses; deals and coupons are your friends; keep your standards low. 

 

Cody was from Central Florida and came north to join the suits at Wharton business school. He introduced our freshman dorm to the Kenney Chesney song “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” and waited tables at the most popular restaurant on campus. By graduation he earned a job with a real estate firm that paid a salary so big it could elicit tears, but he wanted to start his own business. 

 

My area was creative work, but we had the same mindset: work incessantly for someone else, then work a little less while working incessantly on your own venture, rack up debt, repeat the process, and believe that no matter how it shook out, if you weren’t following your inner direction, what was the point of doing anything?

 

For the trip we planned that I would cover motels and gas and he would cover food. We were used to working out money stuff. There was nothing we hadn’t done over the years that wouldn’t make Ben Franklin cringe: loaned to, borrowed from, hired and housed each other. Years later when the pandemic hit – after he’d built a successful business but knew all the industries I worked in were shut down – he called and said, what do you need? In our twenties in New York, I put him up on my apartment floor for six months after he got kicked out of an illegal sublet (a cheap room I’d handed down to him after I lived there a year.) Some days he came and sat on my inflatable mattress, wedged between bedroom door and desk, and other days I came and sat on his, inflated in the living room at night and deflated during the day, and we talked shop. “Just push the truck,” he said. “Every day, push the truck.” 

 

There was a place called Crocodile Lounge on East 14th Street that gave out tickets for a free personal pizza with every drink order, and Cody introduced me to his system of scanning the floor for dropped tickets from drunk patrons. A couple extra tickets meant pizza to take home for dinner. We went to Olive Garden for unlimited salad and breadsticks and after a refill and a grace period, packed it up to go for lunch for the week. When he did work for a while in a midtown high-rise building with mirrored windows, art on the office walls and unlimited free Vitamin Water, he invited me at night for pad thai, because the firm provided free takeout if you stayed after 7 pm. (That’s how they get you.)

 

That was his way – when he had money, he insisted on getting the lobster mac and cheese for everyone because he was committed to maximizing a good time, and when funds were low, his view was that when it came to food, enjoyable experiences were not only possible but still an essential part of travel. On this, we also aligned. We loved to eat. Because he was good at picking out food destinations, he took charge of the meal itinerary for the trip.  

 

I picked him up where he was living in Lafayette, Indiana and we hit our first stop, Cracker Barrel, because I had never been to one. It had grits, country ham, and barrels, all on brand to kick off a drive west. Cody said to get the fried apples and include All the Fixin’s with my breakfast order so I could try the buttermilk biscuits.

 

“Are you savoring it?” he asked. He’d gone once to a meditation workshop that included a mindful eating session and afterward made me spend thirty minutes with him working through a nub of goat cheese and ten crackers. 

 

Cody paid the bill and gave a big tip; he always did after his many years in the service industry, same as me. Tipping well was a necessary expense. At the next rest stop, I showed him how I picked motels using the paper travel guides near the entrance doors; I decided where to stay, with free breakfast the only non-negotiable, based on the discount coupons in the back. (That’s how they get you. But I wanted to be got. Leave the light on for me!) 

 

I took the driving shift on Route 70 through Illinois and Cody told me about his newest discovery, called Earthing. The idea was to have direct physical contact with the ground by going barefoot or laying on grass or sand, so your body absorbed beneficial electrons from the earth. I told him that was some common sense shit being repackaged into a trend. Nature is good for your health, we know that.

 

“Yeah, but your shoes have to be off,” he said, excited. “Next time we’re on grass, we’ll do it.” 

 

I knew someone who went on a date in college with a guy who took off his shoes and went barefoot on the subway – the Philly subway. She went into that trauma response where you dissociate, and carried on with the date. 

 

We were half an hour away from St. Louis – the end of our driving for the day –  when a billboard at the side of the interstate yelled FOOT HIGH PIE, NEXT EXIT. “Ooh! Can we?” I asked, looking over at Cody. We had a two-second conversation using only our eyes. Yeah, fun food stops were part of the journey, but we had other ones planned and were so close to finishing this drive, could we please not make any stops right now? But this is what a road trip is all about and we have to! 

 

He sighed and gestured: I know you’ve made your mind up, so let’s just go. “Get over,” he said, pointing to the exit coming up on the right.  “Get over!” I changed lanes; we made it. 

 

We drove to the Blue Springs Cafe and looked at the menu. What even are gizzards? There were pickled beets, lemon-orange Ski soda, corn dogs, and the “foot high pies by the slice” in coconut, chocolate, lemon, or banana. I ordered lemon – classic! Rustic! A pop of yellow against the blue checkered tablecloths! Americana!

 

The server delivered our slices. I looked at mine. It was all meringue, a pile of meringue on top of a normal sized piece of pie, and the whole thing clocked in around six inches tall, seven tops. I looked at Cody and used the quiet tone people use in restaurants when they’re breaking up. “This is not a foot high,” I said.

 

His expression from the car came full circle and he mouthed, “Did you really expect it to be a foot high?” 

 

“It said a foot high,” I said. I scooped a bite of chewy fluff. Who could eat this much meringue? I couldn’t believe we had gotten off the highway for this sham pie. 

 

“This is not good,” I said to Cody. 

 

“Just shut up and eat it,” he said. 

 

The more bites in, the more it fell apart. Meringue flopped all over the plate. The lemon filling and thin crust sog at the bottom couldn’t get a word in. The pie was sad. Like an aging child star wrung out by the industry and singing for her supper, chain-smoking in the dressing room talking the other pies out of signing up for this life. Stay a classic two-inch, kid – (Brushes bronzer on meringue peaks to get them toastier) –  Once you’re on this pedestal, all you do is disappoint people, over and over again. 

 

I tried to love the pie, but I couldn’t. I ended the relationship and we drove to St. Louis for barbecue. We headed to Pappy’s Smokehouse on Olive Street, stood in a long line of happy people, and ate ribs with green beans and potato salad, all of which made up for the pie. 

 

I cashed in a coupon at a motel outside the city and we opened our room door in the morning to the reassuring smell of syrup. It blazed the trail to free hotel breakfast (make-your-own waffles, meats and eggs, melon). “Don’t get used to this,” I told Cody when he set down his waffle plate. “We got lucky with the hot breakfast. With these coupons we’re going to get what we get.” He would not have expected nor desired it any other way. We got on Route 44, which ran through Missouri into Oklahoma. 

 

Oklahoma was flat and flat. We chewed on some business ideas and self-empowerment book summaries. There was nothing but cattle ranches all along the route; black and brown cows with numbered ear tags poked their heads through the metal fences. I told Cody we should stop the car and meet them. “What do you expect to happen?” he asked. “Just so we can see them up close!” I said. 

 

“Fine,” he said, and pulled over. We opened the car doors and the cattle turned and ran away across the field. Cody looked at me. Fine. There were the short trees along the ranchland to see, with their curly-twig branches. I looked it up later; they’re corkscrew hazel trees, but are also known as Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, after a Scottish comedian who always carried a branch of it onstage. There must be so many other fun names for trees. Who gets to decide? That guy who cross-pollinated peas in his monastery garden back in the day? Or Darwin? Are there trees we could give new names to, once copyright runs out?

 

Next on the agenda was Braum’s Ice Cream & Dairy for burgers and fries. At the adjoining market I picked up some bananas and cherry tomatoes, so I wouldn’t get scurvy. 

 

After a coupon stay near Tulsa with cold continental breakfast (hard-boiled eggs, spineless coffee), I took us on Route 40 toward Texas. Near the border I got off track – I was imagining living here on the open land in a little cottage planting flowers, with only the weather for a friend – and went the wrong way. We drove on a dirt road through a tiny town with nothing in it except a one-pump gas station and a post office the size of a (DON’T SAY IT) where a fourth-grade kid with a mullet mohawk – the mayor? – stared us down from his bike seat. (I feel so nostalgic when I see a kid without a bike helmet.) I never mind getting lost. I almost like it. There’s more to see. On that one Cody and I didn’t align in full.

 

We rode on into Texas and passed Shamrock (ooh!), near the Devil’s Rope Museum (“A tribute to barbed wire.”)  The Texas dirt was a little more bumpy and exciting. We tumbleweeded along, stopped at a dirty gas station store, and listened to country on the radio. Cody had our next food destination: The Big Texan Steak Ranch in Amarillo. 

 

The Big Texan Steak Ranch was the size of a high school and canary yellow, with the sign “Everything’s Bigger ’N Texas” (grammarians: go), six state flags waving on top, and a two-story-high bull statue working security. (I wouldn’t be smiling either if all my friends were being grilled and served on melamine plates inside the establishment.) 

 

Don’t get excited – we didn’t try it – but if you eat a 72 ounce steak at The Big Texan Steak Ranch, it’s free. You also have to eat the sides – a baked potato, salad, shrimp cocktail, and bread roll – and all in one sitting. They have a live stream available where you can watch people try to do it. It’s disgusting. This is just one of the many things The Big Texan Steak Ranch offers by way of entertainment. There’s an arcade, shooting gallery, live rattlesnake in a tank and gift shop. Cody and I walked into the restaurant through the gift shop and saw a glass case full of homemade fudge. 

 

“Ooh!” I said. “Fudge!” Cody did his thing where he rubbed his hands together like the Joker and agreed we had to get it on the way out. Even though our spending came out pretty equal, it was fun not having to pull my card out for food or treat purchases, getting to feel powerful and pretend I had courtiers taking care of all my details every time Cody paid.

 

The dining room was an Old West Hogwarts made from 100% wood: long tables, high ceilings, wagon wheel chandeliers, heads of dead deer watching from the upper deck. I loved the saloon vibe and three-piece band roaming around playing old-timey songs. We sat at the black and white cowhide print tablecloth and looked at the menus. If I were a kid I could get the Howdy Doody (chicken strips) or the Annie Oakley (grilled cheese). If it were breakfast I could get the Panhandle Pancakes. If I were a priest during Lent I could get the Fried Fish Feast. Tonight – even though I didn’t know what it was exactly – I asked for the Giant Chicken Fried Chicken. It seemed like the thing. 

 

We drank Cokes and the food arrived. Someone had planted the flag of Texas into my chicken with a toothpick, in case I forgot what territory I was on. Underneath the chicken, the dinner plate read “Feeding Folks Since 1960!” and “Young man, we fed your grandfather!” There were mashed potatoes and cream gravy, fried okra, and a basket of dinner rolls in red and white checkered tissue paper. Cody had the steak – “a Texas cattleman’s favorite selection.” The three-piece band stood near a neighboring table and played “Take Me Home, Country Roads” and then “Ring of Fire.” I love atmosphere!

 

The music trio came up to our table; between them they had a guitar, banjo, fiddle, string tie, leather vest, and ten-gallon hat. The one with a long white beard looked at me and smiled: “Is there a song you’d like to hear?” 

 

I thought fast. How did he want me to respond here? I had to give him something – here they were doing their job and interacting with customers; I didn’t want to be unsupportive of the mission. Cody kicked me under the table, but I kept eye contact and went through my mental jukebox. It had to fit the theme. I said, “How about ‘On the Road Again?’” Cody kicked me again.

 

The band started playing and singing loudly. I looked at Cody. He was not happy. What? Was he mad I made an executive decision on song choice? You have to speak up in this life. Nothing is going to get handed to you. And so what? He made me listen to his current motivational Clay Aiken number four times last night in the motel room. 

 

What? I mouthed. I tried not to show too much emotion in front of the band. They were already at  “Goin’ places that I’ve never been… Seein’ things that I may never see again…”

 

Cody mouthed back, You know you have to pay. You have to pay for a song.

 

Wait. What? I smiled at the guitar player in the string tie. Nothing to see here, band. I do? I mouthed.

 

Yes. Do you have money? Quick sassy hands-out. He assumed I didn’t have cash in my wallet. (He was right.) All I have is a twenty, he mouthed. Tipping well was his religion, remember? He would never not tip (neither would I, if I knew I was supposed to) – but you can’t take change out of the church collection basket. 

 

“We’re the best of friends…” the band sang.  “… Insisting that the world keep going our way.” 

 

The band fiddled away Cody’s twenty dollars. When they finished he smiled politely and handed over the cash.

 

“I thought it was included!” I said when they walked away. 

 

Cody threw up his hands. “Did you think they were just going around doing that for free?” 

 

“I thought it was part of the ambience!” Why wouldn’t this rootin-tootin’ rodeo theme park have full-time paid serenaders employed to walk around and sing “Happy Trails”? How should I know? Were you expected to tip at Disney World? Who was keeping up on current labor laws of itinerant minstrels in every state? I was under the influence of the longhorn skulls and the atmosphere. They got me! 

 

I told Cody I’d pay him back, but it wasn’t the money so much as the principle. I’d engaged an unnecessary expense. 

 

He shook his head. “You are not allowed to have any fudge.” 

 

“No! That’s not fair,” I said. 

 

“It’s your punishment,” he said, joking but not. “You need to learn to think!” 

 

I could have paid for my own fudge with my card. It was not the five dollars, but the principle. We ate our Texas dinner and browsed the gift shop, then converged in front of the fudge case, where Cody sighed and relented. He said he would get the fudge but I wasn’t allowed to have a piece for twenty minutes because I had to learn my lesson. Eye roll. He got Tiger Butter, a mix of white and milk chocolate with peanut butter swirl. 

 

In the car, I played the game for five minutes, then whined. “Okay, come on. I’m having some fudge now. Don’t be mad.” 

 

“Fine,” he said. “But you need to learn how to listen and pay attention to your surroundings.”

 

“I have many other skills,” I said, and bit into a chunk of Tiger Butter. “Mmm! It’s so good!”

 

“I just need to remember you’re like a thirteen-year-old child full of wonderment,” Cody said, in his personal development self-coach voice. “I have to be patient.”

 

We entered New Mexico in the dark, past a sign that said “Land of Enchantment.” The last coupon of our stretch was cashed near Tucumcari, and the next morning was warm and sunny. We drove past all kinds of cactuses (I’m not saying cacti) – flat, fat, short, tall, flowered – toward the airport for Cody’s flight home. (It’s called the Sunport! Isn’t that good?) Cody picked a spot for good Mexican food and we ate chiles rellenos, spicy refried beans, and chips and salsa for our last meal. High altitude combined with extra spicy regional chiles isn’t always friendly to a sea-level digestive system, so we parted with urgency at the Sunport. 

 

I drove on and arrived for the night in Gallup, where the stars were so low I could have peeled them off the dark. The rest of the way to California, I was solo. 

 

I’d planned to stay in LA longer  – at least a year, to see how it went – but realized way sooner that it wasn’t the place. I wasn’t sure what was next and I was pretty down. I called Cody so we could meet up in Indiana on my way back east.

 

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll go to this place with famous root beer.” We had burgers and seasoned curly fries and the signature root beer in frosty mugs with chips of ice. This time we split the bill. The next day we sat on a grass hill, took off our shoes and Earthed. It was actually great. 

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