I always drink Dr. Pepper when I'm driving. Something about that Baby Aspirin aftertaste makes me feel like I'm getting more of a drugged effect. Plus, after a couple of days on the road, coffee produces nothing but delirium, sweat and the runs. I'd been driving for hours along a county highway, one of those 'scenic routes,' that was empty of everything but dirt and scrub-brush. It had been three weeks since I left New York. My hands were perfectly molded to the grooves in the steering wheel. I was lost in a constant blur of flatlands. Buttes became solid for seconds at a time in my peripheral vision, standing up like lightning then melting back into the rush of landscape again. I don't know how long it had been since I'd seen another person or eaten food, but I swear to God it had been years since I'd last taken a piss. Three large sodas and countless miles of nothing. I wasn't in the mood to pull down my pants on the side of the road, so I squeezed and squeaked and sang my little, "I have to fucking pee, motherfucker," song to the tune of stale AM country music and commercials for Mormon-flavored life insurance.

It was beautiful out there in the loneliest way possible. The road was two lanes that only went straight and mirages that went on forever. There were no hills, no curves and no towns for hundreds of miles. When I finally found a gas station, I honked my horn and howled out the window. It was a worn-out, tiny place, its white walls peeling and tinted brown by dust and mud-streaks. I found the bathroom and nearly kissed the door when it opened without a key. I loved everything right then. That cold metal knob was my best friend in the world. The stall door creaking open was a goddamned aria. Then there was that toilet seat under my ass. Perfect. I was pretty much fixated on the feeling of emptying myself out. I think I actually breathed a huge sigh of relief that could have been mistaken for a cry of pleasure - a little bathroom orgasm.

Afterwards, I just stayed there. I couldn't leave the comfort of that seat, that place. This was no ordinary ladies' gas station bathroom. There was a potpourri pot on the back of toilet. The walls were painted with vivid, overlapping, sunflower-sized daisies. And a sticker stuck to the toilet paper holder read, "God don't make junk." The stall was the standard, industrial, muted, army-green, but it was actually clean. I sat with my chin in my palms, elbows on bare thighs, just noticing all the careful details, thinking practically nothing. The toilet paper was etched with these soft, little, pink hearts. There were extra rolls stacked up next to me. The place was so homey, I felt like a trespasser. I leaned my face against the cool metal of the side stall wall, ran my fingers around a dent in the door, and then looked down at the floor and found the only graffiti in the place. It was a sentence, scrawled in almost perfect cursive, just beneath my feet. It said, "What does whale poo look like?"

And I guess I should have laughed. I mean, I was sure it was some weird joke that I couldn't get inside of, some high-school kid's oddball secret. I don't know. I'd like to think that after weeks of driving and a hell of a lot of sleep deprivation, something like that would make anyone bust up laughing. But for some reason I got this real lonely feeling in my gut and I actually just burst into tears. It was sudden. It was like those words, the slant of the writing and the little-hand size of them, they jumped straight into me and I just came apart letter by letter. I started thinking about being out there in Utah, surrounded by all of that beautifully arranged dirt. Totally landlocked. I was thinking about how far away the ocean was. I was imagining this whale, gray and rocky, swimming around thousands of miles away from me. That whale, I could see him, he was looking around with his big eyes. He was taking a dump in the middle of the ocean. He was watching fish float by, watching the seaweed wiggle in the currents. He was alone out there. He'd been swimming for days, migrating again, and there he was taking a break, noticing the water moving around him, how beautiful it was, sensing the bottom of the sea beneath him, the textures and shapes of things in the deep. He was out there in the middle of the ocean and the middle of the ocean seemed a lot like this dry, empty landscape I'd been flying through. And that whale, with his big white eyes, was looking at me. I was looking at him and he was looking at me and the cool aluminum stall against my face was the water against his tough skin and the beauty of my tiny world and his were the same damn thing. The same lonely fucking thing. And there I was in this cold, clove-scented gas station bathroom, pants around my ankles, crying over this fucking pen scribble under my shoes, crying because I wanted that whale to be real more than I've ever wanted anything. I wanted to stay there looking at him forever, wanted him to just say hello and break open this thick and tired silence that seems to never leave me.

I guess I should toss feelings like that off as side effects of travel, caffeine, lack of sleep, PMS and whatever else, but I think those kinds of feelings are just as real as anything. I mean, maybe I'm crazy, but I even think that whale was real. In a way I can't explain, I just know it was.

So I don't know how long I was in there crying, making my own Alice in Wonderland river, but at some point this little kid came in. She came in the door, went right for my stall and poked her little kid head underneath it. "You okay in there?" Her hair half-haloed her face and she scrunched up her nose at me. I freaked out a little, got up real fast and pulled up my pants. I forgot to wipe and everything.

"Fine," I said. "Just tired I think."

She stood up and leaned against the shelf of sinks on the other side of the room. I could see her through the crack where the stall and door met. "You from far away?" She was looking back at me through the crack, her dirt-smudged face tilted to the side like some little cat. She had this crazy haircut. I'm pretty sure she must have given it to herself. It was about four inches shorter on the left side and wound around her head in a zigzagging circle. Her eyes were dark brown and she kept squinting them at me, like maybe it was hard to see in through that crack. She was really trying to get a good look at me. Her face was all bunched up into that serious look that kids get, the one that makes them look like they're trying on the faces of their parents. She was wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt three sizes too big for her. I liked this kid almost immediately. But I stayed in the stall. I flushed the toilet, then leaned back and lit a cigarette. I guess I was embarrassed to've been caught bawling my eyes out.

"You from far away, lady?"

"Yeah," I answered. "Pretty far."

She pushed herself up to sit between two of the sinks. I guess she found me interesting enough that she wasn't going to leave. I wondered if she'd come in to pee or just to look for me. She swung her legs up and down. Her shoes hit the pipes intermittently and a bell sound flattened against the walls. "What's yer name?" She asked.

"Elizabeth," I squinted back at her, "Liza."

"How come yer stayin' in the toilet?" She got up and poked her nose into the stall crack.

"I don't know. I just kind of like it in here." I practically had to restrain myself from reaching out and touching her nose.

"Yeah...sometimes I just sit in there for a long time, thinkin' 'bout stuff," she said. She sat back down on the sinks again, then turned around and pulled a monkey face at herself in the mirror and snapped her fingers at the reflection.

"What are you doing in here by yourself? Where's your folks?" I don't know why I had to go all adult on her. Whenever I just want to get down on the ground and play with kids I have to go and ask these condescending, practical questions.

"Mmmm...my mom runs the station. We live here. I fix up cars an' stuff." She kicked the pipe extra hard and it reverberated through the room for a few seconds. She smiled.

"Yeah?"

"How come yer cryin'?" She came and poked her nose into my stall again and stayed right there crossing her eyes to peer in at me. I felt like a zoo animal. I wished I had the courage to come out and talk to her but I was just kind of stuck in there, staring at the kid, glancing at the words beneath my feet and smoking.

"How come yer cryin' Liza?"

"What's your name kid?"

"Jo." She just stayed there, her runny nose sniffling and snuffling in front of my face.

"Cool name."

"How come yer cryin'? Did someone hit you?" She stepped back a little and searched my body for signs of injury.

"No... I don't really know why. I just started crying and couldn't stop." I shrugged, wiped my eyes and gave her a half-smile.

"But you did stop, right?" She looked hard at me with that wrinkled little adult face.

"Yeah. I guess I did," I said. She was grinning at me now. "So what's it like fixing cars?" I asked.

"I like cars. Not too many come by, but I get to fill 'em up. Mostly I play outside or in the store 'til somebody comes." I pushed the stall door open. Jo looked me up and down for a good two minutes. It made me nervous. I don't know why, but I really wanted this kid to like me. "You smoke," she said.

"Sometimes," I said. "You go to school?"

"Mmm... sometimes." She sat down in front of me and hugged her knees. It was nice to see her without that door in the way. She looked smaller, though. I wanted to pick her up and carry her with me like a lucky charm. "School's pretty far from here. Sometimes we can't get there."

"That sounds all right. Going to the same place every day gets boring, don't you think?"

"You ever gonna come out of there?" Jo reached up and touched my knee.

"I don't really know."

"I stay sometimes for awhile after I'm all done, but then I get tired of sittin'. Aren't you tired of it?" She poked my foot.

"Not yet. Maybe soon I will be. I'm tired of driving."

"You can stay out with us if you want to. D'you want to?" She leaned back against the wall and yawned.

"No. That's alright."

"Got someplace to be?" She walked her fingers over the tiles, making sure not to touch the lines.

"Nope."

"Me neither." She walked her fingers across my shoes and I watched, smiling.

"Hey, do you know what it says on the floor in here?" I asked her.

"No..." Jo used her right index finger to trace the words. "What's it say?"

"Says, 'What does whale poo look like?'" I grabbed her hand and held it in mine for a second. A really long, very quiet kind of sweet second. We just looked at our dirty hands and those pretty cursive words underneath them. Then I let go, tapped her on the forehead and said, "Who d'you think would be nuts enough to wonder a thing like that?"

Jo just started laughing. She laughed until she had to gasp for air. Her laugh sounded like some crazy birdcall. Her cheeks got all red, and when she looked straight up at me, all her teeth showing, her wide eyes tearing, I couldn't help but crack up. I let out a kind of yelping giggle that made both of us laugh even harder. When we started quieting down a little, she pointed up at me and yelled, "Whale poo!" Snot dribbled from her nose and she busted up all over again. Five minutes later, my stomach and jaw were aching and I was wiping tears from my eyes. I handed her a strip of toilet paper and she blew her nose.

"So, what do you think it's like?" I asked.

"Huh?"

"You know," I whispered, "the poo."

Jo giggled a little more, then grabbed the soles of her shoes. She kind of curled into herself and got this far away look in her eyes. "I don't know," she said. She was looking at the words beneath my feet. "It's part of a dumb book. My mom bought it."

"But don't you wonder?" I asked her.

"A baby book." She squeezed her shoes.

"It's not a baby question," I said.

"I'm not a baby." Jo hugged her knees and stared at the floor.

"No," I said. "Me neither. But, I still wonder. I mean, I've seen fish poop, so whales have to poo, right?"

Jo shrugged her shoulders. "I guess," she said. Then she looked at me like she'd had the greatest idea ever. "Have you ever seen one?"

"One what?"

"A whale!"

"You mean in person?" Jo nodded her head. "Yeah," I said, "from far away, I saw one come up out of the water. You know, sort of jump the way they do." I suddenly wanted to tell her why I'd been crying, but I had no idea how to do that. "They're beautiful," I said.

She nodded. "You really saw it?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I've never seen the ocean." Jo stood up and flicked a strand of hair from her eyes. "Is that where yer goin'?" She asked me.

"Sort of," I said.

"D'you have to go now?" She asked.

"No," I said.

"I gotta tell my mom where I'm at." She squinted her eyes at me.

"I'll stay here," I said.

"You won't leave?" She put her hands on her hips.

"I promise," I said.

Jo pulled open the bathroom door and ran off.

I got up and walked over to the mirror. It was freckled in randomly placed stickers - unicorns, hearts and teddy bears. I washed my hands and splashed cold water over my face. My eyes were swollen from crying. The soap smelled like lavender. I wasn't in the mood to meet another adult, but I decided then, that I loved Jo's mom. I loved her for the attention she gave to the bathroom, for her kid, for living in the absolute middle of nowhere and staying there.

I never stay anywhere. This was my fifth time driving across the country. I would be in Washington, my new home, in less than a week. I had friends there. They were starting an organic farm. I was so excited when I left New York; sure I'd finally found the place. I'm always looking for that perfect fucking place, the place that will rise up and meet me, the place that will feel like home. Halfway through the trip, though, I realized that I'd never find it. Maybe I just lost hope, but it seemed like I'd always be moving. And, in the middle of that tiny, flowery Utah bathroom I couldn't come up with a single goddamned reason to get back in the car. I could move to Alaska, Brazil, Iceland. I could move anywhere, and it wouldn't ever work. My reflection glared back at me. My sweatshirt was coated in dust and fast food stains.

Manhattan seemed like the perfect place when I first got there; it was so alive. Then I got used to the noise, the vibrancy faded to the background, and I woke up one day and realized I was lonely. It happens every time. There's always a reason to leave. I stay in a place for months or years, and then I look around and it's like the whole world has turned gray and two-dimensional. Nothing meets me the way I need it to. So I start packing. I'm not depressed. I don't think I'm crazy. I'm just running from blandness. There's so much of it in this world. So many people, like my parents, who are nearly dead. They go through the motions; they celebrate the scheduled holidays and buy the best new stuff. But their worlds are insulated in thick plastic. It creeps up on me whenever I live someplace for too long - this numb, dulled feeling. I'm running from it, but it always finds me.

Jo stood in the doorway, her back flooded in harsh sunlight. "Hey, Liza," she yelled. "Want me to fix yer car?"

"I don't know," I said. "Are these all your stickers?" I pointed at the mirror. I wasn't sure I wanted to leave the bathroom yet. I wasn't ready to go back to the car. I wanted to stay there and count the flowers, stare at my dazed reflection.

"I can wash yer windows. We can play, maybe." Jo tilted her head and looked me up and down.

"Play?"

"Yeah, c'mon Liza. Please?"

It was bright outside. I sat in my car. Jo swaggered up to the driver's seat with a rag in her pocket. "What can I get for ya' today ma'am?" She pretended to spit some chew. I wondered if she had a father.

"I'll take six million dollars, a hot air balloon, and a tank of gas."

"C'mon!" She pulled on my arm.

"Alright," I said. "Fill 'er up, please. And wash the windows while you're at it."

"Yes, ma'am!"

She twisted off the gas cap, inserted the nozzle and filled up the tank with the confidence of a professional. A woman appeared at the window of the station, thick curly hair tied at the back of her head. Her lips were pursed; she squinted in the direction of my car. When she saw Jo, she smiled and waved at both of us. I waved back.

"That your mom?"

"Yup." Jo replaced the pump and looked up at the numbered dials. "That's gonna be ten dollars and eighty-two cents," she yelled in my direction. Then she walked up to the window again, screwed her face into a sneer and said, "That'll be ten bucks and eighty two cents, ma'am." She put her hand out.

"Alright if I just give you eleven?"

"Sure," she slapped the door. "Yer windows sure are dirty, ma'am. Long drive?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Might need me to check yer oil, hmm?" She rubbed her cheek, smearing a streak of grease across her face. She was standing with her legs spread apart, that big shirt dwarfing her like a giant cape, her arms crossed at her chest. She was so tough and so little all at the same time. I froze for a second, looking at her. I almost started crying all over again.

"Ma'am?"

"Your mom looks nice," I said.

"Mm-hmm." She twisted the rag around her hand.

"How come you don't always go to school?" I asked.

Jo sighed. "She's a painter," she said.

"Your mom?"

She nodded her head and leaned against my door.

"An artist?"

"Yeah." She squinted her eyes at the road. "Sometimes she forgets stuff."

"Like school?"

Jo nodded again. "She just forgets."

"Because she's painting?" I asked.

"Yeah." Jo tapped her hand against the door.

"What does she paint?"

"Colors and shapes and stuff," she said. "Sometimes she paints me."

"That's cool," I said. I rested my head on the open window, next to her shoulder. She turned towards me and tapped my nose with her thumb. I laughed.

"Where's yer mom?" She asked.

"Boston," I said. "That's in Massachusetts."

"Where are you going, Liza?" Jo leaned back and propped her head against the window, her face close to mine. She looked up at the sky.

"Washington." I said.

"Wow," she whispered. "You gotta go now?"

"Pretty soon, I guess."

"Doesn't your mom miss you?" She pursed her lips, like she was concentrating on something.

"Sometimes." I said, "But I'm old. She's used to me being gone."

"You miss her?" She asked.

"Sometimes," I said.

"D'you still feel like crying?" Jo looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

"No," I said. "I'm okay."

"Are there whales there? In Washington?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Really?"

"Yeah, all kinds." I said. "They migrate, you know."

"They swim all over the place. I saw about it on TV," Jo said. "They go so far."

"Mexico, Canada, America..."

"Why do they do it?" She was watching a cloud crawl across the sky.

"I'm not really sure," I said.

"They need to find the warm spots in the ocean," she said.

"Is that all?" I asked her.

The breeze coming through the open window smelled like baking dirt and gasoline - the road. It's not that I didn't want to keep driving, I just wasn't sure I ever wanted to arrive anywhere. Out there, everything made sense. The world rushed by and I could stop and meet it, or I could keep going and dream about what it might bring me. Out there nothing was rooted but the weight of mountains and gravity. Everything was alive. Jo was watching the sky change, her lips curled into a slight smile.

"Yeah," she said. "I think so."