Change is Gonna Come

In the pit of her stomach it sits, like a half baked potato, starchy and raw, undigested, heavy. Today's the day, she can feel it. A big ol' ball of anxiety has made her digestive tract it's home which can only mean one thing. Something bad is coming. Or something good. She can't differentiate anymore, all she knows is change is a comin'. Her life is like a bad country song, cheatin and lyin and boots a knockin with bad boys and pickup trucks with gun racks and bourbon mash and whiskey sours. From eastern seaboard Ivy League to middle of America; small town, red neck, Christian small c Conservative, lost somewhere between the Blue Mountains and Pensacola. After three days of riding, winding through $29 Dutch Inns, skirting hurricanes in the Carolinas, she turns her phone back on and waits. The apple appears, the circle spins, then she enters her passcode. Searching for a signal. She's in. Roaming for sure, eating up data she can 't begin to fathom how she'll pay for. A symphony of electronic sound. Thirty four text messages, 67 emails and fourteen missed calls. One voice message. A knock on the door. The vertically challenged Vietnamese desk clerk with a New Jersey drawl asks her if the Honda is hers and if she has a lock for it. If not, she better roll it into the room cause it may not be there in the morning. Casually tossing the phone on the polyester explosion of flowers covering the bed, she follows the clerk out. She tilts the bike off it's kickstand, rolling the V45 750 into the cinder blocked room, resting at the foot of the bed. The comforter vibrates. Her phone is ringing. Time to face the music or roll back out and ride off into the sunset. Or maybe lake Pontchartrain.