Full of doubts and uncertainty, a college-bound student heads for Phoenix

By Elissa Thompson

Arizona didn’t need me. I needed Arizona. I needed to be in a place so unfamiliar it would force me to find independence, freedom, confidence and passion.

20 hours, 47 minutes. One thousand four hundred seventy-four miles.

“Don’t drive too fast,” Mom had said.

“Keep your doors locked. Don’t stop at any of those rest stops or talk to any truckers,” Grandma chimed in.

“Wear a bra, keep your shorts on and don’t tan naked,” Grandpa said with an old, wet kiss on the cheek and swift pat on the butt.

With two suitcases, one exercise ball, one trash bag of shoes, one pack of cinnamon Trident gum, a case of Dr Pepper, a cooler full of ice and an atlas with an X over Tempe, I drove west to my new life at Arizona State University.

I-35 wove me south through the grasslands of Iowa and Missouri. A dilapidated barn of rustic cerise sat cockeyed, crutched against a stockpile of firewood. In Wichita the hungry yellow coin collectors of the Kansas Turnpike tollbooths ate my first four loads of laundry. In Oklahoma I left the car only long enough to refuel an empty stomach and gas tank. Cicadas, roaches and other multi-legged, buggy-eyed pests ran at my feet, their large, dark wings buzzing so loud the hairs on my arms stood erect and goosebumps rippled down my legs.

Cattle X-ing next 5 miles. Along the cotton belt, I sang jarringly to Alanis Morissette, Britney Spears, John Mayer and homemade CDs. Tucumcari, New Mexico, last stop of day one. At the front desk of the Hampton Inn, I forged my mom’s signature on the credit card form. I could drive, smoke and vote, but I couldn’t rent a hotel room.
Five hours after daybreak, with foot on pedal, I again took to the road.

* * *

Photo courtesy of ADOT
Taking mother’s advice, a few belongings and interstates heading southwest, the author begins a new life at Arizona State University.

2 hours, 23 minutes. One hundred fifty-eight miles.

Sweat seeped into the crevasses of the seat and ran in long streams, meeting in puddles at the backs of my thighs. Rays from the sun poured through the untinted windshield, burning my bare, white legs. Squinting through my Target sunglasses, I winced as I pried my sweat-soaked legs off the leather seat, straining forward over the steering wheel to read the interstate marker: I-17 South. The green roadside marker said “Phoenix,” and I quickly calculated I should arrive in about two hours.

I settled back in my seat, once again burning my exposed shoulder blades. I never knew Arizona had mountains. Now I was winding down a red and orange sea of them. A thicket of sage and pine nestled in their valleys, raking the mountainsides and ascending to their peaks.

The road veered right and then left, and all I could see for miles were the mountains and evergreens I never knew Arizona had. The gradient of the road rapidly decreased. My foot jabbed the accelerator too sharply, synchronized with the onset of ringing in my ears. I popped Trident gum into my mouth as the panging in my ears spread into my head. Four pieces later I was chomping as fast as I could, trying to swallow—anything to relieve the shrill pain that extended through the roof of my mouth, ears and forehead.

The road blurred. I sped into the rest stop. I unlocked the door and swung my feet outside, my hands holding my head. Sobbing, I heaved to find air.

“You okay, honey?” I heard a woman say.

“What’s wrong, honey?” the voice repeated. She was talking to me. I looked up at a woman of about 50. She was slim in the face but thick and soft through the hips.

“Well, crying isn’t going to help it any. Here, sweetie, take this,” she said, pulling a tissue from her pocket. I dabbed at my face.

“Iowa, huh.” We small-talked, then she asked, “So where are you headed?”

“Tempe. ASU,” I managed between sniffles.

“Well, you’d better get going, or you’re going to hit traffic this time of day. Do you need directions? Can I get you anything?”

“My ears are killing me. I don’t know how I’m going to make it down the rest of the way.”

“Here, take two of these.” She poured ibuprofen into my hand.

I let her buy me a Coke and pack of gum. I didn’t know her name, I never would, but she helped me find solace in the brown suede of Arizona’s desert landscape. Arizona didn’t need me. I needed Arizona. I needed to be in a place so unfamiliar it would force me to find independence, freedom, confidence. Passion. I needed passion to find all of these things that I envisioned for myself.

With two pats on the trunk of my car, she said good-bye and sent me down the mountain. Somewhere among the four crumpled Trident wrappers, a dozen empty Dr Pepper bottles and a cooler now only half-full of ice, I had everything I needed to make my new life. I had it all but the gold, strappy Melani sandals that almost perfectly matched the brushed metallic bullion of my 1998 Nissan Maxima.

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The Devil’s Tale showcases the coursework of individual students at the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication, Arizona State University.