Reroute
By Sam Risak
The GPS tells me I am going the wrong way. I do not turn around. You and I are on the outskirts of the Las Vegas Strip, trailing behind a twenty-something couple in a metallic green hatchback. The girl has her feet out the window. She bobs them to a Fleetwood Mac song that plays so loud, she can sing along without knowing any of the words. The license plate on the car says they are from Oregon. They must be on a road trip, too. As they take the next exit toward Downtown, I wonder if theirs will ever end.
The GPS tells me I am going the wrong way. I do not turn around. It is almost noon, and I’ve been driving in impossible loops since midnight. In your beat-up Oldsmobile, I watched the shimmering façades of the Mirage and MGM Grand fade into plastic, the vibrant displays of designer storefronts melt into a grotesque, circus-like display, and the once enticing desert air turn suffocating as it depleted every bit of moisture from my already dehydrated body, making me so brittle that—were I to scream—I feel certain all of me would crack and break apart.
The GPS tells me I am going the wrong way. I do not turn around. I have tried every direction at this point, and in every direction, I have been told to reroute. It does not seem possible, but nothing about the day has seemed possible. How, for instance, could I have driven for so long and not run out of gas? Perhaps, I think, you have placed a curse on the car. You who sleep in the passenger seat. You whose hand is etched with glass and blood from the rearview mirror you punched out last night. You who insist I get us back to Florida, who occasionally wakes and does not understand why we are still in this godforsaken state, who threatens to end this trip for the both of us if I don’t soon get us out.
The GPS tells me I am going the wrong way. I do not turn around. Dust and tar perfume the air, foreshadowing the road work up ahead, and after a mile or so, a row of orange barricades forces me to stop. I idle next to several desert-themed motels and consider asking a construction worker for directions. The GPS is malfunctioning, I could explain to one of the yellow-vested men, and I have no sense of the terrain here. I have no sense of anything. These past few hours have been fueled by alcohol and screams. There has been no sleep, very little to eat, and I am tired. Deliriously tired. All I need is for someone to tell me where to go. Please, I say to the construction worker, tell me where to go.
You are going the wrong way.
I misheard the man. I must have misheard the man. My exhaustion blunted his speech, mangled his words, confused his voice for the one still talking to me through my phone’s speakers. I simply need to wait, and he will repeat himself. Then, I will finally know the correct way to go.
You are going the wrong way.
This time, I nod. You have begun to twitch in your sleep, and I cannot risk having you wake and discover where we are. It is my duty to navigate us, you made abundantly clear. Under no circumstances am I to ask for help.
You are going the wrong way, the construction worker calls again as I perform a U-turn. I acknowledge him with a wave but do not circle back. There is nothing to circle back to. I already know I have lost course: I do not need a stranger to tell me that. What I need is for the GPS to reroute, for someone, somewhere to show me a way out.
About the Author
Sam Risak is a PhD candidate studying addiction narratives at The Ohio State University and the Graphics Essays and Creative Nonfiction Editor at Sweet: A Literary Confection. Her writing can be found in outlets such as The Sun, Lit Hub, Electric Lit, Writer’s Digest, Los Angeles Review of Books, and elsewhere. After five years, she also finishing up work on her Florida Man novel. You can reach her at samrisak.com.
