Traveling
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gulcasa, Roswell, or Nessiah (Sting does); Camry © Toyota. The idea for this living situation is mine, though.
(10pokes prompt #9 – road trip; these are the times that life has a rhythm)
The car was an old black Toyota. It had been battered and abandoned on the side of the road when Roswell had discovered it; his descriptions of how forlorn it had seemed made all three of them sure that they had to have it. There hadn't been much wrong with it; it had only needed a body job and some basic repairs to start running again. Of course, once they'd thought they were finished with it, Roswell had gone on and made their joint expenditure funds bleed converting it to run on diesel, then bio-diesel. Gulcasa had been furious; Roswell had explained, patient but annoyed, that this would save them a great deal of money and trouble later on. He had turned out to be right. Gulcasa had never apologized.
As a last touch, Roswell had carefully and lovingly airbrushed three roses haloed in leaves and thorns on the side of the car, in the space between its back left door and wheel: black-to-burgundy for himself, blue for Nessiah, red for Gulcasa. And it had been theirs.
The time of year varied. Sometimes it was right when spring slipped towards summer, sometimes it was during the transition to autumn. But whenever it happened, they loaded the trunk with changes of clothes and fuel and a tarp and oversized blanket, and off they drove.
At first there was always a kind of excitement and pent-up energy to it. They'd fly down highways and country roads with the windows down and the radio cranked up and blasting, or a mix tape or CD in where at least one of the three of them was always singing along. At sundown, they'd start looking for a motel, and would spend the early hours of the night wearing themselves into exhaustion with nearly frantic lovemaking. They'd sleep close together in a tangled ball of limbs until an hour or two past sunrise, treat themselves to whatever the buffet had to offer, and leave.
After the first few days to the first week, the energy would wear into simple enjoyment, and they would settle into rhythm and routine—they'd spend days driving without a single stop. During the nights, the driver would take his turn for a few hours, then pull out onto the shoulder and come to a stop. He'd get out and open the back door on where one of the others would be sleeping, poke him awake, and take his place; whoever was riding shotgun would slip behind the wheel, and whoever'd been rudely awakened would sit up front and watch the lights and listen to the soft music until he was functional again.
For food, they would stop at restaurants—whenever they were passing through town and they knew they had to eat something. Or, if they were heading out where they knew there wasn't any habitation, they would stop at a store and stock up on something just in case.
Once their routine had been set, the stops at motels only came when they could no longer stand their proximity without physicality. There were times when they weren't able to find anything; on one such incident, when they'd parked beside an open, abandoned field, Roswell stole into the backseat with Nessiah while Gulcasa slept up front. With the door open a few inches to avoid any telltale window fogging, they made slow and silent love—they couldn't have borne not to touch each other for any longer.
There was never any set destination. The first few times, they had placed a pin in a map and headed wherever it landed; once they knew that they were only driving for the driving, they would simply travel until they felt it was time to turn around and head home.
There would always be at least one such trip every year.
It wasn't because they needed the thrill, or wanted to explore. It wasn't because it was the cheapest available vacation—quite the contrary; even without petroleum fuel, the restaurant and motel stops always burned a deep hole in the money they brought. Rather, the road trips they took had become a tradition because of the way they'd found that this was the easiest way they could live in harmony, find a natural rhythm—the kind of cooperation there was never interrupted by jealousy or sexual power struggles.
On the road, they could simply be.