Bliss, Idaho
by Kelly Spitzer
Seven a.m. and still black outside Twin Falls' Super 8, the only light buzzing from sodium street lamps, the fluorescents in the lobby and though it's winter, I still find this darkness ridiculous. We eat burnt bagels and cinnamon rolls, watch the cat, who has wandered inside from the Shucks next door, squat on a chair, lick his paw in concentration. Ice balls, I nod in his direction. Stuck in his fur. Happens to all cats with hair between their toes.
Outside, dawn cracks, splinters fog's spirit rising from the Snake River valley. Pulling out, our tires slip on ice panes the clearest blue of the Caribbean and my mind's gone — Barbados, Barbuda, Antigua, St. Lucia, right now, even Corpus Christi will do. You crank the heater, put Seb Fontaine — a techno CD my brother burned for us — into the player. I think it's too early, but we must have something to pump blood through our veins.
Forty minutes later I worry the car will run out of oil and, while sitting on the side of the freeway waiting for help to come, we'll be whipped away by the wind, tumbled across frozen scrub grass on our way into Bliss, Idaho, population 185. Never trust a local who says killer wind gusts are impossible.
We stop for gas, oil, call in a day late to work, hope for coffee without scum on top. The roof over the pump lifts, drops, lifts, a corrugated metal hand waving welcome to the building storm. Inside, the man behind the counter wears plaid, a sweater-vest, watches the station sign break dance to the tempest. I think how brave people are to live here, where nature's a burden and beauty a horizon away. In the distance, raw land gives way to huddled cows, and a long stretch of interstate full of city cars going too fast.
Kelly Spitzer lives in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has appeared in Vestal Review, NOÖ Journal, and other publications, and is forthcoming in The Cream City Review. She received a Pushcart Prize nomination for the 2008 edition. Visit her at www.kellyspitzer.com .