Not Quite Stranded

When I pulled open the glass door to the gas station, the air hit me in the face like a ton of ice bricks. We walked in like we owned the place and threw our bags into a booth intended for patrons of the greasy chain restaurant. “Stranded” would imply that we had someplace better to be, but that wasn’t exactly true. We had just fallen asleep the night before after vowing to live every moment for what it was and to not think too far ahead. If we were stranded it was only because we needed a warm and dry place to sleep, and those things seemed nearly impossible to obtain. From the fading orange booth I rubbed the condensation from the pane of glass and peered out into the night. My eyes burrowed through the rain and chased red and white lights on the highway.

Chad was the first to break the silence to ask the question we had all been wondering.
“Guys… where are we gonna sleep?”
The three of us made a collective sigh, re-fogging the window. I glanced to my left, to my backpack and sleeping bag oozing muddy puddles onto the seat and floor. It was the first time since starting this adventure a week ago that I really felt like we might be in trouble. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Duke shivering while he pressed hundreds of paper napkins into his hoodie, leaving behind trails of pulpy lint.

“We just need to find an abandoned building or…” I said, trailing off after realizing that this was not a typical night. Our week had been filled with sleeping in unconventional places – a demo tool shed in a hardware store parking lot, the projection booth in an abandoned theatre, under a wooden castle in the middle of a high-traffic playground – but tonight was different. Everything we had, everything, was soaked. Thoroughly and completely soaked. Sleeping in wet clothes in a wet sleeping bag in some abandoned building in New York state in late October wouldn’t just be uncomfortable – it would be downright dangerous.

“We have to hitch outta here” Duke said through chattering teeth.

Chad and I exchanged looks of dread. That’s how we got here in the first place. Nobody was stopping. Nobody wanted to let three soaking wet strangers into their car. As the pool of watery mud grew on the floor, I couldn’t blame them.

I had a friend from Binghamton, who I called from the payphone. His dorm-mate was out of town, he said, so there was plenty of space in his normally cramped room. “Okay,” I said, “We’ll be there… somehow.” While hanging up the phone I felt an overwhelming combination of fear and relief. Relief that we had a plan, fear of how we could possibly pull it off.

We slid our packs from the drenched booth, slopped them onto our backs, and relished for a moment in the dry air and florescent lighting before pushing back into the darkness.