In the darkness, I tiptoe through the living room. On my knees in front of the couch, I blindly search for my high heels. My fingertips find my purse on the coffee table. In the kitchen, I take three beers from the refrigerator and head towards the front door.

I pause with my hand frozen over the front doorknob. Sheets slide against plastic as Bobby Lee turns over in the waterbed. I hold my breath. There. I exhale slowly. He's still. Low-volumed rap music from April's radio drifts out from under her closed bedroom door. She says she can't sleep without the radio on. Used to tell my folks the same thing. I muffle the doorknob with a cupped hand before locking it and bringing it quietly to.

The night air is cool and heavy with juniper. A full moon shines over the bare hills to the east. A gorgeous night for a ride. I raise the garage door and open the door to my '59 Chevy Impala. Sweetest thing Jake ever done was to get this car for me. Black and a convertible too. That paint job is holding up real good. I slide across the red leather tuck'n roll seat and close the door with a hush. I pump the gas pedal a few times before turning on the ignition. C'mon girl, hurry before Bobby Lee wakes up. Big Beauty starts right up, roars and then calms to a purr.

I back out of the garage using the brakelights to guide me and wait a half block before turning on the headlights. The gas gauge is at half a tank, more than enough.

I flick on the radio. The Supremes are in the middle of "Stop in the Name of Love." At the stop light, I hold my hand out and go through the motions as I sing along with them. I saw the Supremes once on Ed Sullivan doing this routine. April always dies if she's with me and I get going. She sinks into the floorboard with her hands over her eyes. Too bad that kid don't have a sense of humor.

I reach in the back seat for my black rabbit jacket and slip it on as the light turns green. I kick off my heels and drive barefoot. Don't want to get heel dents in the new floormats. I turn right on to 101. Big Beauty's huge 348 engine kicks in as I tromp the pedal to the metal and she takes off. Like driving through the twilight zone with these freeway lights and hardly no cars. Doesn't feel real. I grope for a beer in my purse and twist it open. Loose strands of hair whip around my eyes. Where's my sunglasses? I put the beer between my thighs. God, it's cold. I snap open the glove compartment and grab for my sunglasses as they tumble out. These are my favorite--black and shaped like a cat's eye, just like Big Beauty's taillights. I slip them on and take a sip of beer.

The cool air numbs my face, but I like it. Cleans out my head. Puts things into perspective. I'm no longer Mother, Wife, or Secretary--just me--Myra Marie Thompson. I turn up the radio. Roy Orbison sings "Only the Lonely." I sing along helping poor Roy out.

I pass the Alum Rock exit and take another sip of beer. Most of the high tech companies are passed by. 680 exit goes by too. Residential areas now line the freeway, only kept at bay by walls: nice, neat blocks of identical houses, all beige, all with red tile roofs. That's where Bobby Lee would have us if he made more money, stuck right in one of those houses forever listening to Tammy Wynette and watching ESPN. Jesus, here he was last Sunday counting the years till he retires and I still haven't figured out what I want to be. Yeah, me, and with a daughter almost grown.

Lord, I could cry if I thought about it long enough. I know April's just goin' through a phase where she thinks she knows it all, even criticizes my makeup and clothes. Calls them tacky. But I like clothes that are cheerful and fun, like these purple pedal-pushers. She just tells me to act my age. I would've never said a thing like that to my mother.

Time must've flown out the window. Can't believe how long it's been since I came out here from Wicksville. Met up with Bobby Lee in Little Rock one weekend. April was two. Told him from the beginnin' I was going to LA. He said he'd take me there rather than chance losin' me. I was gonna sing and he was gonna be my manager. We stopped in San Jose. He said it was to catch our breath. We'd just stay at Donald and Ruby's long enough to get some money and then we'd be on our way again. But after that, it was one excuse after the other...Honey, I can't quit this job--it's the best one I've had; just a little while longer, Sugar; yeah, I know I said we'd go but Myra Darlin', I almost got us enough money saved for a down on a house...you're tired of livin' in apartment buildings ain't you, Sweetie.

Only high point was when I got fed up with his excuses and left for a while. That's when I met Jake, a trucker, always on the move. Said 'Sure, little lady, I'll take you to LA', but we just didn't get quite there either. That man sure was crazy about me though. Bought me Big Beauty. Said a woman like me ought not be drivin' round in some puny Toyota. When me n' Bobby Lee got back together, he was jealous of my car, demanded I sell Big Beauty. I told him, "No dice, Hon. It's me and her or I'm takin' off again." He gave in but I've had nothin' but grief ever time money is spent on her. He's going to die when I tell him I want a new carpet for her next. I throw my empty beer bottle out the window and open another one. Got to keep her neat 'n tidy.

I speed by the East Dunne Road exit like a comet. That's the one I usually turn around at. But I want to go a little further tonight, it doesn't feel finished yet. Wouldn't take too much to make me just keep goin'. April'd be glad. She'd stay with Bobby Lee or he'd take care of sendin' her to my folks in Wicksville. No, wouldn't take much at all.

City lights are fewer. It's spooky out here, so dark you can see the stars. Just a few other cars and me. A trucker passes in the left lane and honks. I smile and wave. Looks so mysterious up there in that cab. He pulls in front of me and turns on his right signal, but doesn't pull over. He must want me to stop. How cute. I wonder if he'd look like Jake.

I honk while passing on his left and shake my head. The trucker flashes his brights once as I move in front of him. Masten Avenue exit is coming up. Guess it's time. I flip on my turn signal. The trucker behind me honks his horn. I honk back, drive up the ramp and turn left. I let Big Beauty idle in the middle of the big, empty overpass.

The truck zooms out from underneath and he blasts his horn for me one more time. A deep sigh escapes as I watch the strand of taillights on 101 sparkle like a red rhinestone necklace all the way to LA.