Monday, May 29 (Day 9)

I like to think of myself as a glass half full kind of person. I’m not going to lie--sometimes it’s a true challenge not to dwell on that ominous empty space hovering overhead. Today was sure to be one of those days.
In an effort to get back on happy grounds with my big sister I had sealed a deal with the juice man to take the morning off. My scheme began with the Flying Biscuit for breakfast—how could anyone hold a grudge with creamy, dreamy grits and moon-dusted potatoes on their plate? Little did I know how badly that optimistic plan would backfire.
Driving down the street associated with food nirvana I instantly felt the air between us lift into a loftier, happy place. I smiled at Renee and she smiled right back in that warm, loving way I’d longed for. A perky hostess led us to a two-person table against the wall and we happily settled down in front of our menus. It only took a moment for me to decide.

““I’ll have the Flying Biscuit Breakfast with egg whites and soy sausage,” I told the waitress.

“The High Flyer please,” Renee said. “And can you bring us some biscuits while we wait?”

Once our plates were placed before us I shamelessly dived into mine. I knew the 4-inch thick biscuit I was nibbling away at wasn’t the best thing for me but I didn’t care. They were too good to pass up even for someone as health conscious as I. There was only a half of a biscuit and a quarter of my egg whites and soy ssausage left on my plate when I decided that I was comfortably full.

“Can I get a ‘to go’ box?” I asked our waitress.

The next thing I knew Renee’s eyes were red and watery and it looked as if she were about to burst into tears at any moment.

“What’s wrong?” I asked supremely confused. One minute I was boxing up my leftovers. The next my sister looked as if she were about to break down.

At first she just shook her head in response.

“Is it because I’m taking my food home?” I jokingly asked, but to my great surprise she nodded her head. “What?”

“That’s part of it,” she said in a small voice.

“Why in the world would that bother you?”

“Can’t you see it?” she shot back vehemently. “You’re doing so many of the same things you used to do. You ordered only egg whites and you didn’t finish your food.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I couldn’t believe Renee was actually trying to accuse me of being anorexic. To her credit, I had been hospitalized for anorexia in high school. But that was well over half a decade ago. I was fine!

“I just ate an entire biscuit and a half and nearly all of this big breakfast. If I were doing the same thing I did in high school I wouldn’t have even touched this food. I am eating the same way I have over the last six years I’ve visited you. No different than I did last time I saw you.”

“Yeah but you weren’t doing all of these sports back then. You need more protein now that you are more active.”

“Really, Renee you are being overdramatic.” I was losing my patience now. “I have always been active it’s not like I am competing in a triathlon. I appreciate your concern but you don’t need to worry. I wish you could have seen me yesterday when I ate a chicken gyro so greasy that the paper wrapping had turned orange by the time I got to the bottom of it.”

But it didn’t matter what I said to her. By the time we left the diner we weren’t speaking.

Silent torture ensued during the car ride to the park. Renee sat curled into the driver’s side door as if to create as big of a distance between the two of us as possible until we arrived at the trailer. She didn’t say a single word as I got out.

“Bye, I’ll see you later,” I said, leaning down level to her window.

She just backed up and drove away. No goodbye and no look back.

I disappeared into the hot tin can of a trailer to change into my juice uniform then picked up my bike not feeling nearly as confident as I had before yesterday’s crash.

“Did you have a good time with your sister?” Tomo asked as I ducked under the yellow banner and into the ten-by-ten foot stand.

“Yeah, it started out good but ended bad. We went to the Flying Biscuit for breakfast but by the end we weren’t speaking to each other.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing really happened,” I said, as my mind attempted to answer that very question for myself.

“You know how sometimes when you’ve done something in the past and people keep judging you by it assuming that you’re never going to change?” I paused to catch Tomo’s knowing look before I continued. “I know she’s doing it because she loves me but she doesn’t understand that it’s just hurting me and ruining the only time I have with her. And there’s no telling how long it will take her to start talking to me again.”
“Well you look nice today,” he answered.
“Oh. Uh, thanks,” I smiled back. Wow. Did he just say that?
That diminutive compliment got me through the rest of the day.
Matt, the worthless Travel Channel guy, spent most of the time away from the juice stand filming Josh at the trailer. Which left me and Tomo to have fun flirting with our customers (and each other) while raking in the tip money. Renee was pushed to a far corner in my mind until late in the evening when I felt my phone ring in my back pocket. I took the phone out and flipped it open to see Renee’s face smiling back at me on the caller ID. I quickly exited out the back of the tent before hitting the answer button.
“Hello?” “Where did you say you guys’ stand was again?” Renee’s voice was muffled by background noise of what sounded a lot like the jazz festival.
“Are you here?” I asked in disbelief.
She was.
“I’m standing in front of a funnel cake booth.”
I darted around the side of our tent into the flock of jazz patrons scanning the multitude of funnel cake signs with my heart racing. Then I saw her and she saw me. We rushed into each other’s arms and stood in that spot, clinging to each other as we professed our apologies until a redneck muttering ‘that’s hot’ brought me back to the present. I pulled away from her embrace to look at her face all squished up in emotion.
“I’m so sorry, Shelly. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I don’t want to push you away.”
“Well I’m glad you came, “I said giving her hand a little squeeze. “It means a lot to me.”
She told me she was too upset to eat anything all day so I took her over to the ice cream place to ‘trade’ some lemonade for a chocolate-dipped ice cream bar. But they had run out of ice cream and only had one cheesecake on a stick left for dipping. Renee took a couple bites of it and attempted to pawn it off on me. I humored her by taking a nibble off the side before passing it on to Tomo, the happy recipient of anything classified as food.
“Well what do you want then?” I asked her, knowing she was hungry and feeling the motherly need to nourish her. “A funnel cake?”
Renee nodded exuberantly at the mention of the deep-fried mass of dough sprinkled with sugar. How I used to adore the things as a child was beyond my comprehension but Renee had somehow managed to grow into her thirties with all of the ignorance-is-blissfulness of her youth still intact. So I fetched a funnel cake and sat beside her as she munched away.
It was our last night in Atlanta so Josh let us leave the stand early for some last-minute sisterly bonding. The only logical thing to do was drink so we got in the Cavalier headed for a local pub by the name of the Highlander. I ordered an Ace and Renee asked for Guinness. Then we carted our pint glasses to a table outside and I nearly fell off the back of the seat.
“What the?” I got up and stood, staring down at the faulty woodwork. The bench was apparently missing a screw or two, which would deem it an operational seat. Of course I’d get the broken bench.
“What do you think about Tomo?” I asked Renee as I slid over to the sturdy seat to my right.
“Mmm, I like him. I think he’s a cool guy,” she answered.
“Good, because I think I like him.”
I told her about how the instant I saw him I had a crush on him. But I was almost in a state of denial about it.
“I really didn’t want any romantic complications to get in the way. I told myself when I left LA that this trip would be about me and only me. No Boys. And here I am fanaticizing about a boy! I’m pitiful.”
“No, you’re Shelly. That’s what you do. But dating a coworker is tricky—especially when you’re living with your boss—in a trailer. That could be messy fast,” Renee said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty silly of me anyway, right? I mean he’s from New Zealand. I don’t even know if he likes me,” I said. End of discussion.
Foolish romantic notions aside, the night was a perfect one spent reminiscing, laughing and smiling in my sister’s company. That evening I fell asleep in the comfort of knowing things were going to be okay between me and Renee although I knew it wouldn’t be exactly the same.

Sunday, May 28 (Day 8)

The Travel Channel’s cameraman showed up today. His name was Matt and I didn’t like him. He took Josh back to the trailer to interview for a few hours. When he got back he miked up Tomo and had him do a few cheesy bits while squeezing lemons for the camera. I have to admit I was sort of expecting for him to interview me next or at the very least ask me my name and how I got involved with the road trip. Instead he and Tomo just kicked back in the rear corner of the booth for hours talking about New Zealand. Granted my appeal probably didn’t measure up to a slang-talking, longhaired, surfer kiwi but I was beginning to get a little pissed. I was supposed to be a real part of the group but the cameraman was treating me like nothing other than eye candy.

I was taking my anger out on the citrus, smashing lemons and oranges with all my mite when Josh came up beside me. “We need to look more into wake boarding. The camera man has been asking me a lot about what we have planned after the festival.”

Uh Oh. The three of us had brainstormed potential sporting activities during the drive to Atlanta but hadn’t come up with any solid plans.

“Let me try to call Renee,” I said, ducking out of the booth to make the call. She had mentioned she knew of a guy at Liberty Tattoo who was a wake boarder.

“Hey, Renee you said there was a tattoo artist at Liberty that’s a wake boarder...right?”

Silence followed so I asked again.

“Yes,” she answered after another uncomfortable pause.

“Uh, well I was just asking because we still need to find a place to go wakeboarding and I was just curious if you could call him and ask...”

I trailed off hoping for a response but nothing followed other than increasingly uncomfortable silence.

“Or I could call...I guess,” I began amicably, but then I snapped. I couldn’t ignore her behavior anymore. “Renee what’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing, I’m working and I’m tired,” she said and she hung up.

I walked back into the booth deflated. I was trying my damndest to shake it off but tears were burning the corners of my eyes. How the hell has it gotten to this? I tried to retrace the past days’ events to figure out what I had done to have pissed off my sister so bad.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you mad now?” Tomo asked.

I looked over and met Tomo’s gaze. Worry and concern etched in the lines of his face.

“Am I mad? Mad about what? The cameraman? Oh no...I don’t care about that.” And that was the truth. My earlier annoyance was the farthest thing in my mind. “It’s my sister.”

“What happened?” he wanted to know.

“Nothing,” I said, stepping back from the counter as tears began to pool in my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I wasn’t okay--I was about to cry, so I turned and ran. I ran out of the booth and into the field behind it gasping as I began to sob. Tomo hadn’t given up his pursuit and was now standing right beside.

“Are you all right?”

I couldn’t look at him. I feared if my eye caught his I would lose it. “I’m okay but I won’t be if you keep asking me.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

I nodded my head ‘yes’ and he turned and walked away. I stood there for a while looking up into the sky trying to keep the tears at bay as thoughts raced through my mind. What have I done? Somehow I have wrecked my relationship with my sister and my Dad. For the second time in my life I had left everything of monetary value behind, this time to go on the road with two guys I didn’t know anything about to sell lemonade under the false hope that I was going to be portrayed on reality TV as an actual member of the group.

The weight of my now seemingly foolish decisions pressed down heavy on my shoulders as I returned to the booth. Yet I somehow managed to work the rest of the day without shedding any more tears. I put on a happy face and showered our customers with phony cheerfulness ignoring the fact that the camera guy who was supposed to be documenting us was just hanging out exchanging stories with Tomo.

We shut the booth down that night by eleven p.m. I was following the guys as we biked through the park back to the trailer. The street was packed with festival goers so Tomo jumped over a curb and onto the sidewalk to bypass the crowd. I opted to go around and up the flat part. Ironically this decision despite its safety-preserving intentions resulted in the opposite. I was quickly approaching two black poles and had a short amount of time to position myself in the middle of them. Of course, I didn’t make it.
One of my handlebars clipped a pole and I flew off my bike slamming into the other. Instantly the sound of laughter filled the air as a girl sitting with friends on a nearby concrete wall jumped to her feet and literally doubled over at my expense.
God please don’t tell me Josh saw that, I silently prayed as I quickly picked myself up. I didn’t even care about the girl howling in laughter at my peril. She could laugh herself into oblivion for all I cared. What concerned me was that I had ruined my image of being any kind of credible mountain biker to this guy who had hired me under the pretense that I was going to be able to keep up with the guys.
I had just swung my leg back over my bike about to press on when I heard...
“Are you laughing at her?”
I shuddered as I recognized the voice of none other than Josh’s. I didn’t dare look back but pressed my feet into the pedals and biked off as fast as I could. I was doing the combination to the locked trailer door when Josh rolled to a stop at my right.
“I wanted to kick that girl’s ass,” Josh fumed. “What a bitch.”
I tried to respond but couldn’t say one word as my throat clenched shut and tears stung my eyes. My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was Renee. I walked off to the side of the trailer to take the call but couldn’t catch my breath in between sobs to say hello.
“Shelly? Hello?” I could hear Renee saying.
Finally I was able to say something in the form of a response.
“What’s wrong are you okay?”
I shrugged as if she could see. She told me she was about to pull into the lot. I looked up and sure enough there was the white Cavalier turning the corner my way--just like the white steed in the fairy tales, carrying my knight in shining armor to whisk me away from humiliation. The car eased into a spot beside the trailer and I got in--covered in sticky juice and dirt, my arm stinging from the crash.
I fell asleep on the way home but Renee kept talking. I felt really bad that I couldn’t rouse my sleepy brain out of its fogginess because I had the feeling that she was trying to tell me something important.

Saturday, May 27 (Day 7)

The beeping of my phone pierced rudely into my sleep just after six a.m. Thoughts of staying in bed were seriously tempting but I had decided the night before I would start the morning with a run. So I pulled myself up out of the comforts of my sister's bed and out into the surprisingly cool air without any real plan as to how long I would run or where I would run to.

All I thought I was doing was getting a little exercise but as my feet began their steady pace pounding the dewy pavement an unexpected sense of freedom coursed through my body. It dawned on me that I had never in my life walked out of my front door and just ran. Suddenly I was forced to be with nothing other than my thoughts. For those thirty minutes that my feet carried me to destination unknown and back, that time was mine. I felt alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Alive and very hungry.

Food was the first and only thing on my mind when I returned to Renee’s apartment so I agreed with her suggestion to nab breakfast at the Farmer’s Market. But as we pulled into the parking lot my heart sank at the sight of a line of people gathered around the storefront. The clock on Renee’s dash read 9:50. Oh balls. I have got to get to work. It was my first day of lemonade life.

“I don’t think I have time for breakfast,” I said as calmly as possible.

“But they have really great bagels,” Renee persisted.

Inside I was dying of anxiety and hunger. I was trying my best to be patient with my sister but the notion of arriving late was consuming my every emotion. I called Josh to let him know what was up.

“Oh good,” he said. “I need you to stop at the bank before you come here. We need money for the register. I’ll pay you back.”

We wound up buying the bagels and Renee asked me if I wanted to go back to her place to eat. I said I didn’t have time. Then she asked if I wanted to go to the bench to eat.

“We don’t have time for that, Renee,” I said feeling like a broken record.

“Fine!” she fired back at me as she slid into the Cavalier.

“Renee, don’t be like that!”

“Don’t yell at me!” she yelled back, as she careened out of the parking lot towards the exit.

“Sorry,” I said, “but I keep trying to tell you that I have to be somewhere and you don’t care. I am really stressed out right now about money, especially after I just dropped thirty-something dollars at the piercing shop.”

Oops. Did I say that?

Renee kept her eyes glued to the road ahead as she sped down the highway toward the Kroger-housed bank. She didn’t flinch until I told her how Dad hated me right now.

We pulled into the parking lot. She put the car into park and sighed. “Well, you quit your job to sell lemonade.”

We carted the hummus and bagels over to some plastic patio chairs on display and sat down with plastic knives and napkins to have our breakfast as we spoke about how it was to be our father’s daughters.

“You know what Renee? I don’t think I’ve ever realized before just how much I’ve been seeking his approval over the years. I think I finally understand it’s something I’m never going to fully have,” I paused as my mind tried to put together the broken emotions filling my heart. “It’s easy to think of Dad as a saint. Over the years he’s done so much for me. He bought me an apartment’s worth of furniture I gave away two years later. He bought me every car I ever owned. One of which I left in Michigan, the other I left parked in Santa Fe. He’s bailed me out time and time again and did I ever pay him back? Nope. At a time like now all the unpaid debts and broken promises are making me feel like scum.”

“You are scum,” Renee said with a warm smile. “Are you ever gonna shower?”

After what seemed like an eternity of a morning, we finally arrived at Piedmont Park but we still had to get past the security guard at the park entrance.

Renee rolled her window down and he peered expectantly inside. “Passes?”

“I’m just dumping her off,” Renee explained. “She dropped out of society so she can sell fucking lemonade.”

“All right,” the guard waved us through.

I changed into a denim skirt and a tiny Just Squeezed Juice tank top. Renee shook her head from her car and said good luck. She drove off.

Then it hit me. This was it! My first day of the ‘Just Squeezed Juice’ tour. After quitting my job, leaving all my friends and angering my father in exchange for miles of open road and Chevron showering--after all that I would finally get to see what Josh’s ubiquitous dream was all about. Was it possible one could truly attain freedom from squeezing lemons and oranges in a free market economy? I picked up my bike and rode in the direction of the juice booth to find out.

From the instant I slipped under the blue tarp of the Just Squeezed Juice booth I knew I had entered a land like no other. Tomo stood shirtless before a makeshift ‘counter’ constructed of two wooden carts. One with a wet bar-like sink, one without—both bore an allotment of halved oranges and lemons hanging in rectangular metal trays. A lone juicer sat beside the lemons. Towers of stacked cups ranging from twelve ounces to thirty-two lined either sides of the cart counters beside a sticky cash register to the right. Zip-tied to the bamboo stalks lining the countertop I saw a plastic goldfish bowl with the word ‘tips’ crudely Sharpie-marked across its front. Boxes of plastic yard glasses lined the scaffold walls disguised by sheaths of hula grass which created the perimeter of the ten by ten plot. Three nozzled tubes hung from the rafters, one tainted with the hint of yellow, one pink and one bionic orange. I looked up in search of their source and saw Josh moving between the slats.

“Oh hey, Shell,” Tomo said over his shoulder in between lemon smashing. “Josh is up top making some lemonade,” he explained before tilting his head back to holler, “Hey Mate, she’s here."

Josh’s head popped out from over the edge of the second floor. “Hey Shelly, I’ll be down in a minute to explain all this to you.”

His head disappeared behind the metal and his feet appeared in its place, dangling down from the rafter. I watched in slight wonder as the juice man clamored down a metal ladder and leapt down to the earthen floor with the dexterity of an overgrown leprechaun. He wiped his hands of lemon stick and quickly went to the business of explaining just how juicing works.

“This is the lemonade, Josh’z Original,” Josh said taking the pale yellow of the three hanging tubes in his hand. “We pre-make it by the batch and serve it through these tubes. That one is pink lemonade,” he said gesturing to the pink and then to the orange, “And that is orange mango.”

“Where does the squeezing come in?” I asked.

“Right here,” Josh said walking up to the counter and picking up a lemon half. “It depends on what size you’re making. One lemon half goes in a twelve-ounce, two in a twenty-four and three in a thirty two. The oranges are for the orange mango, you only use one orange half for all sizes…cuz that’s a lot of juice,” Josh said as he let the lever down on an orange half to release the ‘excessive’ amount of orange drip. “You want to fill the cup with ice to about here,” Josh continued, pointing to an invisible line about three-quarters of the way up. “The lemonade isn’t cold so you’ve got to have enough ice to cool it off.”

“Yeah, hot lemonade is foul,” Tomo said, making a retching sound to add emphasis.

“A small cup costs six dollars, medium is eight and large are ten. But what you really want to sell are these,” Josh said picking up a fuchsia-colored yard glass out of one of the cardboard boxes rimming the interior. “They come in purple, blue and red. They cost twenty bucks but have unlimited refills.”

“How many lemons go in that?”

“None, they’d just get stuck,” Josh answered, dropping the ‘purple’ yard back in its cardboard box. “But this is what you want to know about,” Josh continued pointing to the goldfish tips bowl. “You can make anywhere from one dollar to fifty. It’s all in the presentation.”

I stepped up to the rubber-matted ‘plate’ and picked up my first lemon halve. “All right, I’m ready.”

It wasn’t all that tough of an equation to crack. The secret to selling lemonade came down to two things: heat and thirst. Smile, show skin and flirt. As long as the sun is shining and there isn’t another lemonade vendor in near proximity your odds are looking good.

The greater wonder was the strange ‘carnie-land’ surrounding me. Propelled by a common code of cheap labor, minimum sanitation, maximum profits and ‘trading’, the carnie clans are a gruff bunch. Mostly comprised of mothers and fathers; brothers and sisters; cousins and nephews and cousin’s cousins, all toiling under the same white tarp roof. They work long hours, clean the grease off their fryers infrequently and sanitize their utensils in buckets of chlorified water. In true form of a self-survivalist’s world you quickly learn how to eat and drink for free by ‘trading’ your product for your neighboring vendor’s goods.

By the end of the day I was covered in a thick layer of sweaty lemon funk and forty dollars brimming in my plastic goldfish bowl. The work was a far cry from glamorous and I was sure by most people’s standards it was pure torture but to me my first day of lemon-pedaling was near nirvana. I had escaped the rooms without windows and the yawn-inducing cubicles. I never would have guessed my salvation would come in the form of a ten by ten plot of festival grounds but I truly felt I had found a secret treasure in this strange carnie-land. I had found freedom and it tasted like…lemons.

Chapter Three, Lemons: Friday, May 26 (Day 6)

It’s a straight walk past the T-shirt and ceramics displays of the Cracker Barrel gift shop. No trying to discretely slip by without making eye contact before you reach the safe haven of the women’s restroom. I liked this because for some reason I couldn’t get over the feeling that I was doing something wrong. I guess its something about walking into a restaurant with all your toiletries stuffed into a backpack that makes you feel like you’re breaking some kind of ordinance.

The enchanting aroma of pancakes and coffee had ignited my stomach the instant I entered the home food cookery. Sadly my hunger would have to wait. Josh had plans to visit the tire place across the street before feeding us. Sigh.

Tomo and I stayed outside while Josh went in search of trailer tires. I got out of the truck to stretch my legs and spotted a neighboring car wash.

"We could take a shower over there," I said to Tomo through the open car door. "Can you imagine it? We could have Josh drive us through and we’d stand in the bed of the truck."

I was seriously debating the feasibility of a car wash shower when a lady parked by the dumpster in an old Ford truck yelled over at me.

"Nice trailer!"

"Huh?" I looked at the lady, followed her gaze to our shabby rig on wheels and looked to Tomo for back up...he shrugged. I looked back over at the lady.

"That sure is a nice trailer," she repeated. "I wish I had one like that."

"Oh, this?" I stuttered, turning around to take a better look at the rusted 30-foot monstrosity on wheels that had become my home. "Thanks." I guess.

"Can you believe that?" I whispered to Tomo. "This thing? Nice?"

"Oh no...you’ve got company," Tomo said, his eyes looking over my head. "She’s coming over here."

"No! Is she?"

He nodded, smiling now.

I turned around and sure enough here she came crossing the length of the lot smiling from ear to ear. She wore her mouse-brown hair pulled into a haphazard ponytail covered by a straight-billed trucker hat. Styleless circle glasses sat atop her nose which jutted out over a face covered in pimples, her skin weathered by a life less glamorous.

"How much did you pay for it?" she wanted to know, now standing inches from me.

"Uhhhh..." Not only did I not know how much the beast cost but I think I was still in a state of shock that I was actually having this conversation.

"It’s not ours, it’s our buddy’s," Tomo answered, making up for my dumbfounded silence. "He’s inside getting some new tires."

"That’s nice," she repeated, as her eyes longingly scanned the length of the trailer. "I just bought me one over eBay, got a real good price on it, four hundred dollars. Now mind you mine’s not nearly this nice but it’s still a real good deal. I’m a flea marketer...I know how to spot a bargain."

I could see Josh exiting the building over the top of the woman’s head. He shot a curious look my way and climbed into the truck with Tomo.

I needed to make an escape but the lady rambled on as I patiently nodded my head--until I heard Josh yell from across the way.

"Shelly!"

I turned to see the guys motioning for me to come back over to the truck.

"I’ve got to go before they leave me. Nice to meet you!" I yelled over my shoulder as I jogged over to the rumbling Dodge.

"Made a new friend, Shelly?" Josh asked, a sly grin playing across his face.

We crossed the street back to the Barrel where we cleared our plates of pancakes, eggs and biscuits in record time. Then we pushed on for the next mission of the day. Lemons.

If you’ve ever wondered what the innards of a wholesale produce house is like I’d ask you to imagine walking into a real-life Frogger game. Everywhere you turn little forklifts full of melons and various citrus zip and zoom past going meep meep. I felt like I was watching Wiley Coyote dodging the Road Runner as Tomo nearly got flattened out by a zipping forklift but jumped back just in time.

Josh met up with the man to be spoken with. Paperwork was signed. Money exchanged hands and we left, headed for the festival grounds loaded up with more lemons and oranges than I’d ever think I'd see in one place in my lifetime.

Once we arrived at Piedmont Park the guys sprang into action pulling out long steel beams and planks that looked like they belonged to a high school stadium’s bleachers. I wanted to find some way to be of use to the set up process but was at a loss as the guys began to pull out bamboo stalks.

"This will all make sense to you after one or two shows," Josh said reading my confusion. "It’s probably best just to watch for now."

So I stood back and watched in amazement as they constructed a two-story fortress out of it all. I wasn’t the only one impressed. All the other carnies kept stopping by in awe of the design, tilting their heads back to take in all twenty-five feet of its glory.

"I’ve never seen one that’s two stories," the hippie to my right gushed.

I followed his gaze down the row. The gyro stand to the right sat level to the corn dog booth, which stood even to the funnel cake cookers, which was connected to the snow cone makers.

"Yeah, you’re right. I don’t think I have either," I said, acknowledging the power of the oddity for the first time. I stood a little taller and puffed out my chest ever so slightly wondering if this was how the man who built the first skyscraper felt.

"Hey Shelly, I’ve got something for you to do," Josh said, pulling me back in from the crowd of admirers. Yay! A job.

I was given the duty of making the lemonade banner. It sounded like a fun, artsy project but resulted in me spending an hour and a half kneeling over a blue tarp meticulously pressing yellow letter transfers into it. The goal was to do this without trapping air in between the yellow and the blue which resulted in ugly bubbles. The job was painstaking.

Lucky for me Renee came by to pick me up after work. She arrived just in time. I was covered in five days worth of funk and ravenously hungry.

Renee is my older sister. She’s the night time version of me. If we were Barbies I would be Malibu Beach Barbie, all sunny and sporty. While Renee would be Downtown City Barbie, with dark hair, dark clothes and dark past time hobbies ranging from burlesque to trapeze.

"What do you want to eat?" she asked, as she slid into the driver’s seat of her Chevy Cavalier and reversed out of the park.

"Oh I really don’t care. Anything would be good at this point. "Food."

Renee guided us to a generic-looking fast food joint wedged into a strip mall.

"What is that? Titanium?" Renee asked.

"What? This?" I lifted the hair off the top of my ear to give her a better look at the industrial piercing. "I don’t know...why? Weren’t we just talking about food?"

"Because Brian can color it and make really pretty, but not if it’s stainless steel," she said, whisking out her phone to dial. "Hey Brian, how long are you going to be around tonight? My little sister is in town and I want to take her by to get her jewelry dyed."

This was followed by a series of uh huhs and mm hmms. Then she turned to me with her eyes all aglow.

"We can make it if we hurry."

As exciting as the idea of a beautifully dyed piece of jewelry sounded the grumbling in my stomach was demanding attention. "Ok, that sounds cool but we are going to eat first though, right? I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’ve been sweating my ass off in the Georgia heat."

In honor of my request we zipped into the Zaxby’s for a time-efficient nutritional fix. She ordered a house salad with Ranch and I got a Santa Fe with low fat ranch.

"Do you want to try it? It’s amazing," Renee said, lifting her fork.

I thought I noticed a disapproving look as I declined the bite. Was it my imagination that her scowl then landed on the tub of dressing sitting to the left of my salad plate which I had only used half of? No...that would be silly. How could she judge me for not using all my dressing? I dismissed it as nothing.

We drove to Little Five Points and turned left toward Candler Park where The Piercing Experience sat across the street from one of Atlanta’s finest dining establishments--The Flying Biscuit. Brian, the dude on the phone, checked out my jewelry and told me not only was my piercing not titanium but that it wasn’t pierced through the right places in my ear which was causing my ear to be agitated.

"I can fix you up though. I’ll just add a little bend here and get you a new piece," he said, still fingering the rod with a scrupulous look.

He tried to sell me on some crystal balls that were painfully beautiful. I wanted them very badly but couldn’t swallow the idea of spending thirty-six dollars on them. Come to think of it, the idea of spending any amount of money stressed me out. I had a father’s grim disappointment to weigh heavily on my mind.

Dad had made no secret that he greatly disapproved of my decision to quit a steady-paying job with benefits to travel cross-country selling lemonade out of a trailer without compensation. I could understand why it would cause any father a great deal of mental trauma but in this case I knew the rift ran deeper. I owed him money and I had made a very conscious decision not to make any. I hadn’t talked to him in weeks. He hadn’t returned any of my calls and wouldn’t pick up the phone. The silence was killing me.

So, with that in mind the present situation was making me feel more than a little uncomfortable. I had a sinking feeling that all these ‘favors’ Brian was proposing to perform on my ear weren’t going to be free. I felt trapped. I looked at the door desperately wanting to quietly sneak back out where I came from and escape this money pit I had walked into.

"Are you ready, Shelly?" Brian asked, holding my new jewelry in gloved hands.

I grabbed Renee’s hand and followed him back to the piercing room. I barely noticed as Brian slid the old out and the new in. I was too busy rambling on and on about my newly transformed ‘carnie’ lifestyle and how I hadn’t showered in five days.

"Well, that’s what that smell was," Brian said with a smile, sitting back on his stool. "You’re all done."

"Really?" I asked, fingering the new piece of jewelry.

We stopped at the market on the way to the car at my request. It had been close to a week since I had had a drink and at the risk of sounding like an alcoholic I was in dire need of a margarita. I found some new ‘margarita in a bottle’ and carried it over to the cashier. I was reaching for my ID when the clerk stopped me.

"That’s okay," he said in a ‘don’t bother’ kind of way. "You look like you’ve had a margarita or two before."

Wow. Thanks. What a charmer. I walked out into the parking lot with a paper bag-wrapped bottle in one hand and the other searching my face for wrinkles. Man I really needed to take a shower, I thought.

I entered the foyer of Renee’s apartment, threw some laundry into the wash and poured myself a glass of the margarita. Then I went to find out what my big sister was up to. I found her knee-deep in piles of clothing covering her walk-in closet floor.

"What are you doing?"

"I have all these old clothes that don’t fit me anymore. I’ve been meaning to drop them off for charity but I always forget. So I figured I’d let you take a look at them."

She was standing beside her bed now laying the ‘give-away’ clothes out for my inspection. My eyes followed the action and noticed something familiar.

"Holy shit! Are those my old GAP pants? I gave these to you like a decade ago...I cannot believe you still have those."

Suddenly I was enthralled as my hands worked through the layers of clothes that I never thought I’d see again. It was like flipping through the pages of an old photo album as if each shirt was an old friend with stories to tell. Against my better judgment I picked two shirts out to take home.

We stayed up well into the night until I was dozing off sitting up. I didn’t shower.

Thursday May 25 (Day 5)

This morning started as I was beginning to imagine every morning would, which consisted of a gas station sink shower. Then it was back in the Dodge and on down the road.

I was getting pretty excited the closer we got to New Orleans; a city I had many fond memories of. I had bought a beer from a bar back when I was just a sophomore in high school.

Apart from nostalgia, I also hadn’t seen the city since Hurricane Katrina hit and I was curious to see what it had become in her aftermath.

Telltale signs of a hurricane-ravaged land became evident as our mini-caravan rolled in to town. Street signs leaned to the left and makeshift trailers filled parking lots that seemed to be providing temporary housing. Before I could truly reflect on what I was seeing Josh pulled off the industrial road we’d been traveling and parked at the cup warehouse.

Josh went in leaving me and Tomo out back to get the trailer ready. It didn't really require much work though, just opening up the back.

“Are you guys looking for something?” a tall black guy wanted to know who had just walked out of the warehouse.

“No we’re with the guy inside,” Tomo answered. “We’re picking up some cups.”

Moments later Josh came out followed by a short black dude who sidled up next to the curious tall guy. They both stood, hand on hips surveying the trailer space that already appeared to be filled to the rim with kayaks, surfboards and lemonade paraphernalia.

The short guy spoke first. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to fit all this in there?”

“Sure, mate. It’s just like Tetris,” Tomo said, as he began sliding the boxes in to the left and to the right...some to the side and some upside down.

The Louisiana cup-dudes spoke in unison. “Where are you guys from?”

Clearly they had come to the conclusion that we weren’t local.

“Well I’m from New Zealand, she’s from California and Josh is from Colorado,” Tomo explained.

What did he say? ‘I’m from New Zealand?’ Oh my God! I laughed out loud.

“What’s wrong with her?” asked the short cup dude.

“I thought you were Australian,” I said.

The tall cup dude asked. “Is there a difference?”

“Get off the grass!” Tomo exclaimed. “Yeah there’s a difference! We don’t have big hairy spiders and we play rugby better than Aussies.”

“So you’re a Kiwi?” I asked, shaking my head.

“Ki-What?” the cup brothers asked.

“Hey will you guys take a picture of us?” I asked, pulling Tomo over to where I was standing on the trailer door.

“I sure will,” the big guy answered, taking my digital camera in hand.

“That’s a real nice picture,” he said, after snapping the shot. “You should take a look.”

I did take a look and I had to admit that Tomo and I didn’t look bad standing next to each other. A fleeting thought entered my mind that we’d make a cute couple. But that was followed with the firm reminder that he was from New Zealand—and I’m American. It could never work.

After all the picture taking and Tetris box packing our business was done at the cup warehouse; and it was time for our caravan to barrel on towards Bourbon Street.

We took the Euclid Street exit, drove down to Decatur and found a space to park out front of The Old Mint. Hunger was calling so we set out on a hunt for good Cajun food.
We found an old historic hotel called Pierre Anthony’s with a menu out front boasting all the basics: red beans and rice, jambalaya and etouffee. The hostess led us over to a square table against the wall that happened to be at just the right angle for Tomo to get a good view of the sidewalk outside...and wouldn’t you know, there was a group of cops standing in a circle at the corner of the street.

“Look at them just sitting there talking. They should be out fighting crime or something,” Tomo scowled. “Filth.”

“How much crime do you think there is to fight at three in the afternoon?” Josh countered.

“A lot,” Tomo shot back.

“It really bothers you to see cops not working, huh?” I asked, remembering his disgust with the gang-o-cops outside Chevron the night before.

“I dunno, I guess. Why do you say that?”

“Well you said the same thing about the cops we saw last night at the Chevron in Lafayette.”

“Yeah because they were checking you out when you walked by. You didn’t see what I saw,” Tomo answered. “It’s not right. The city of New Orleans doesn’t pay for them to sit around and check out pretty girls.”

He paused to look at me for a reaction and probably confirmation. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“I don’t know, not really. I guess you just get used to it. Cat calls and honking--it sort of comes with the territory of being a reasonably attractive girl.”

But Tomo wasn’t satisfied. He kept shifting an anxious eye out at the sidewalk throughout the length of our lunch.

“Watch,” Tomo said as Josh paid our tab. “I bet you if I go out there with the camera and record them as you walk by...you’ll see.”

“No! Are you really going to do that?” I exclaimed.

“Of course I am!”

“I want to see this,” Josh chortled as he stood up dusting bread crumbs off his lap. “How are we going to pull it off?”

Josh and I stayed behind in the foyer to give Tomo a head start. He snuck out the restaurant and took his position on the corner of the street, camera in hand ready to catch the so-called peeping Toms on camera.

“All right, here we go,” Josh said, as we set off down Bourbon Street in an attempt to appear as natural as possible.

Tomo didn’t end up capturing any photos that would incriminate the fine officers of Louisiana but suddenly it was as if I could feel the eyes of every male passerby on me. Thanks Tomo.

We were back on the road headed north out of Creole country when we heard an unpleasant noise emanating from the back end of the trailer. Josh pulled over to the side and Tomo jumped out to help. After a few idle moments spent in the cab I got out of the truck and walked around to see what was up. A flat tire. Flat like my hair. Flat like Texas. Flat like the long stretch of highway between us and Atlanta.