The Long Trip Home

My wallet was stolen at McDonald's in St. Martinville at 7 a.m. last weekend as I stopped for morning coffee to boost myself for that long nine hour drive back to Atlanta. At least, that's what I told Larry. Actually, I placed that shiny red wallet on the hood of my car as I wrestled with my huge purse and jangly keys so I could unlock my car door, and then I drove off. How does one say idiot in French?


I didn't realize it until I stopped for gas in Breaux Bridge. I had to drive back to St. Martinville, interrogate the McDonald's staff,  borrow cash ffrom Murray and Carolyn for my trip back, then back to Breaux Bridge to gas up my car. By the time I got back on the road, it was 9 a.m. I was driving to Atlanta with no license, no credit cards and four $100 bills.


The first time I stopped for gas, I lifted the nozzle then noticed the sign on the pump read, "Pay inside for cash purchases." Of course. I walked into the Shell station and stood in line behind 15 people.


When I finally reached the attendant, she noticed my $100 bill and immediately blurted, " Mam, we ain't got no cash that big." Huh?


I responded,"This is a viable business establishment. How can you operate with no cash?"


"Saw those people in line? They all cashin' checks. It Friday pay day."


A nice woman of color standing behind me asked me to step outside. She had just returned from the bank. She told me she had gotten money to buy her grandson a cell phone and would gladly trade me five twenties for my hundred dollar bill. I thanked her and told her that I would pay it forward.


I mused as I pumped gas the convenience of credit cards. Swipe, and you're done. Cash is inconvenient. You have to stand in line, wait for the attendant, who moves at glacial speed, to enter your purchase, watch her dip into the register to fish out bills and coins, then hand you a receipt. I thought, "People who shop with cash live in an alternate universe."

I seldom carry cash. I use my debit card to purchase coffee at McDonald's, shop at T.J. Maxx, purchase a bike for Jake at Walmart, and swipe for my expensive stylist who makes my hair behave.


Using road signs bearing the names of small towns and cities I have memorized over the years on my trips from to and from Louisiana and Atlanta, I could tell you exactly the distance and time I had left to drive. When I reached Mississippi, an overturned tractor trailer blocked the highway, and traffic was at a dead stop. Madame Defarge was knitting my fate again, and it didn't look good.


While I sat there, I called AMD to check on her day, noted the current Facebook stream of posts, recited a rosary, sang along to Jason Aldeen and Kelly Clarkson, checked my cell phone for calls, and periodically moved my car to the shoulder to see if the 18 wheeler had been moved off the highway. I questioned the feasibility of driving onto the shoulder to the exit lane, but that was also blocked. After that one hour delay, the traffic moved. On to Alabama.


I stopped whenever my car registered half empty to fuel up. I saw too many episodes of WITHOUT A TRACE to risk running out of gas, stopping at truck stops, or rest areas. I got back on the highway and set my cruise control again.  I was driving without a license. I could not risk being stopped by a policeman or state trooper. I traveling so slowly that an elderly woman riding a bile passed me up. Not taking chances was my mantra.


When I arrived at the Geogia state line, the sky burst: torrential rain, thunder, lightning. Chicken Little was right.  I put my emergency blinkers on and crept along for miles until the sky cleared.


I arrived at the lake at 10 p.m. exhausted.  Larry and two other couples greeted me on the boat. We sat and talked until the witching hour.


As I dressed for bed, I wondered how many more trips to Louisiana I had left to visit with Mom.