When The GPS Directs You Back Home

by Angela James...Blake sighed about how sexy he found Julie’s British accent. You had wanted to scream at him: “She has lived here in Canada since she was four!"

You find the British accent and haughty tone of the GPS objectionable. Unfortunately, you have never been very technical so you endure it. “Take the right lane and exit in one km onto Exit 283,” the GPS says in that voice that reminds you so much of Julie Wentworth, your unwitting rival for Blake’s affections back in high school.

The GPS cuts out and the sounds of the Hair Metal Marathon satellite radio show return. You wonder if Blake still thinks Jaguars are sweet rides and if he will be impressed when he sees you pull up to the steak house where you agreed to meet. You dare to hope his face will light up. Even though you know you more closely resemble Tawny Kitaen in her Celebrity Rehab phase than when she was cartwheeling across Jaguars and pawing at David Coverdale in the old Whitesnake videos.

“Stay in the right lane,” the Julie voice intrudes. “And take the exit.” You fume at being ordered around by that voice. More than 35 years ago, Blake sighed about how sexy he found Julie’s British accent. You had wanted to scream at him: “She has lived here in Canada since she was four! What she has at this point is a speech impediment!”

“Stay in the right lane of the exit to merge onto Mill Street South,” the Julie voice says, interrupting “Cherry Pie” by Warrant. Then: “Continue on Mill Street.” Yes, and keep driving past the movie theatre complex, you imagine the Julie voice directing. The complex which had been brand spanking new and where you, Blake and a handful of friends paid to see the 9:00 p.m. showing of Cocktail, an abysmal movie starring Tom Cruise. Remember how you boldly handfed Blake an unwrapped Hershey’s kiss but yanked your hand back when he licked your index finger as you worried it might taste of Clearasil medicated coverup. 

Also drive past the community centre, where they used to host the teen dances. Where you once slow-danced with Scott Hutton to “Alone,” by Heart, with you sucking in your stomach as his hands grasped your waist for the entire duration of the song, even during the guitar solo where you both rocked awkwardly on your heels. Remember how you scanned to see if Blake was looking even a little bit jealous only to find him talking to one of the theatre girls, her head thrown back and nose crinkling as she laughed at whatever it was he was saying.

“Stay on Mill Street for a further 700m,” the Julie voice says. And speed on past Duncan Street, where your family used to live in a squat red brick bungalow. Where you leaned against the brown and orange floral wallpaper in your kitchen, twisting the chocolate brown cord of the rotary phone and talking to your frenemy, Lori. Remember working to keep your tone and face neutral as your mother peered around the corner and Lori relayed her suspicion that maybe Blake simply did not like you “in that way.” Remember how the call concluded with one of Lori’s typical underhanded statements: “Oh, guys can be so shallow!” 

“Turn left onto Colborne Street, and drive a further 800m,” the Julie voice says. And drive past the hockey arena where Blake’s band was the opening act at the concert in honour of the town’s 150th anniversary. Remember how you stood and cheered when Blake took the stage in tight Levi’s and a black motorcycle jacket. Remember your heart almost thumping out of your chest through their covers of songs by Def Leppard, Poison and Ratt. Remember when the band led into what they announced was an original ballad and how you swayed and closed your eyes only to have to them snap open at hearing the name “Julie” in the chorus.  And how you caught sight of said Julie rolling her eyes with her friends. A situation you were all too aware Blake could have avoided by simply using your name, which also had two syllables and ended with a long “e” sound.  

“Turn right on William Street and continue for 800m.” And drive towards the park, the one where you and Blake hung out that following night, your fingers entwined with the frosted swing-set chains instead of either his warm fingers or his chestnut waves. Where you listened to him lament his heartbreak at being rejected by someone he was just so crazy about. 

“Recalculating,” Julie says, and routes you through a number of turns to bring you back to a place you had passed.

“You have reached your destination,” the Julie voice intones. A destination close to your old house but 167 km from the life you made after graduation. 

You see Blake waiting by the door of the restaurant. You already knew from Facebook that his hair is now cropped. You understood that the motorcycle jacket is also likely a thing of the past. You can see, though, that he’s dressed up for the occasion. And you see he has the same devastatingly high cheekbones. He flashes you the grin that always melted your insides. Skid Row’s “I Remember You” blasts as you open the car door. You wonder how many times back then you had tried to say, “I love you,” without a sound.

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Angela James is a lawyer by day and a lover of flash writing, Americana music and comedy. Her words have been published by lovely people in places such as Wrong Turn Lit, Cowboy Jamboree and Blink-Ink. She lives in a small Canadian community with her spouse and many pets.