Wrangled

“You even sound different. You must have so many stories.”

Have I lost my southern twang? “A few.”

Virginia types for a while longer, then stops and gives me a look. “I heard you’re doing fashion in LA. Is that true? Are you some big-name fashion designer now? Oh, do you ever model your own stuff on the big runway? That’d be a total trip to see! Is that one of yours, what you’re wearing? Does it have a name? Is it ‘Goodwin Designs’ or somethin’ fancier?”

“No, it’s—”

“I don’t have vacancies on the first, unfortunately, what with the reunion and everything. Is the second floor fine? I’ll be there, by the way,” she adds with an excited little titter. “At the reunion. Everyone will be.”

I experience a wave of nausea at that very notion. I was very much hoping everyone wouldn’t be there. I can already name about ten or eleven people I would happily go the rest of my life never seeing again.

“Second floor is fine,” I answer her.

Virginia dances in her chair, then taps away on the keyboard. “I’m so glad you’ve come. So, so, so glad. Maybe we can grab some coffee or dinner in a few hours? I’m off at six!”

“I think I’d rather rest, but thank you.”

“Oh, right. Jet lag, or somethin’.”

Sure, I’m suffering a jet lag of two hours, I’ll take it.

“Here’s your key. Room 202, right by the elevator. Oh, but it’s broken,” she remembers suddenly, then sighs. “The stairs are—”

“I’ll find my way. Thanks, Virginia, you’re a doll.” I take the key off the counter and head for the stairs to the tune of Virginia calling out at my back: “I’m so glad you’re here, Lance! You were always my favorite! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

The stairs creak loudly as I climb them, threatening to break open beneath my feet and swallow me right up. My heavy luggage thumps on each and every step, the wheels proving little help.

In other words, if anyone was enjoying an afternoon nap, they were just woken up.

Sorry, not sorry?

The door to my hotel room shuts at my back, and I drop onto the squeaky bed by the window with a sigh.

I haven’t stepped foot in this town since I hightailed it to the west coast, and yet it feels like I was only just here a week ago.

It’s strange how time flies, yet stands perfectly still.

Even this hotel room smells like Spruce.

After a phone call to my bestie Salvador (who doesn’t pick up, even though he’s staying in my apartment while I’m gone), I jump in the shower and wash away the long, tedious plane ride and the Uber drive out here to Spruce. Somehow, when I’m still wet and staring at myself in the mirror, I feel dirtier than I did before getting into the shower.

I guess you can wash the boy out of Spruce, but can’t wash the Spruce out of the boy.

I’m here, and the southern stench is on me now until I go.

Despite claiming to be tired, an hour later finds me walking Main Street, which hasn’t changed in ten years. I expected at least one sky-scraping corporate building shoved between these mom-and-pop shops. Or at the very least a Burger King. Or a Starbucks.

But like its straw-chewing citizens, Spruce is one stubborn, mud-spackled, never-changing son-of-a-gun.

Maybe that’s why I left.

It’s nearly dusk by the time I settle on a quaint bar-slash-late-night-restaurant-joint I’m certain no one will be in—and I’m right. The lighting in the place is dim, and the smell of pine and smoke has settled into every corner of the room. I take a seat in the back corner by a window and poke through the menu for some dinner. The server—some middle-aged woman I don’t know, thank the gods—takes my order, thanks me for being her first customer in a whole hour, and before long, I’m staring at a juicy, fat steak the size of my head cocooned by a modest (huge) mound of butter-slathered mashed potatoes topped by a pool of oozing white gravy. After ten long years on the west coast, I guess I was expecting something more like a pretentiously tiny cut of meat and three seasoned potatoes topped with a fancy, inedible garnish.

I forgot the portion size in Spruce is always enough to feed a family of four. Or a small yeti.

Before I can even cut my first bite, the door swings open, and a trio of guys come in with a burst of laughter. The bartender calls out to them, bored from the lack of business, and the men join him at the counter for a rowdy chat. Each one is even more of an obnoxious, boot-wearing country boy than the next.

And I know each one of them. The two tall, skinny guys sitting on barstools are Owen and Jeremiah, and the big-bellied, bearded one leaning against the counter is Kirk. All of them graduated my same year, and I’m sure they’ll be at the reunion tomorrow.