Stone
like it or not
Somerset is the smallest town I've ever been in for an extended amount of time. Ever.
Sarasota was on the small side for Florida cities, but our population still surpassed fifty thousand. Maybe if I'd come here from home, it wouldn't be such a shock to me. But after living in Jacksonville, the most populous Florida city, for a year, Somerset's welcome sign freaks me out.
A lot.
Welcome to Somerset, Kentucky. Population: 12, 360.
- - -
The sky is dark. I pull into a gas station off of the highway; my GPS says that there are a few hotels for me to choose from a few miles down the road. I set my destination for one of them, the Super 8, and continue on.
The room is fifty-eight dollars a night. The room is sticky and the air stinks of smoke. I chuckle to myself at this as I lay my small duffle on the mattress; I've been a smoker for the past how many months and the smell is still foreign and disgusting to me. I scrub my teeth in the dimly lit bathroom and leave the day's outfit hanging over the chair by the air conditioner.
I pull the top cover down from the bed, but leave the sheet. I crawl onto the unyielding mattress, shaking the pillowcase that had been tucked into a side pocket of my bag around the lump that the Super 8 had left for me to sleep with. The fabric is cold against my legs. I close my eyes and drift off.
- - -
When I wake up, I'm cold. Extremely so. The air conditioning unit under the window is spitting air through its vents, lifting the curtains from their otherwise static position. Little beams of sunlight drift over the bed and my face as the fabric shifts. I slide out of bed, shaking, and drop to my knees by the bathroom door, rummaging through my duffle for bottoms of any sort.
I pull on the pair of purple Soffie shorts, grab my only key card from the dresser drawers the TV sits on, and head out of the door. My bare feet hit the pavement outside and I'm not welcomed by what I need: heat. At least, not the kind I'm used to.
The grass between the building and sidewalk is chilled and dewy. The sun is bright to my eyes, but my skin isn't warming. Not fast enough. I take a seat on the curb next to my blue buddy, wrapping my arms around my knees. I sigh. I'll have to get used to this weather.
I think for a second. It probably snows here, too. I've never seen snow before. Not real, heavy snow. I've seen the random flurries that never stick in Jacksonville, once or twice, last winter. I don't know how I'll get used to this, honestly. Somerset is already showing itself to be a tough opponent.
I start to reach behind me, for my pack. That's where I used to keep my cigarettes, when I smoked. Which I don't, not anymore. This isn't Jacksonville. I'm not a smoker. I don't work at the convenience store anymore. I don't party at the local venue anymore. The cute bartender, Brian, won't ever hit on me again. I won't reciprocate his feelings again. I'm not a smoker.
This isn't Jackson.
This isn't Sarasota.
This is new. This is real. This is home, whether I grow to like it or not.
Sarasota was on the small side for Florida cities, but our population still surpassed fifty thousand. Maybe if I'd come here from home, it wouldn't be such a shock to me. But after living in Jacksonville, the most populous Florida city, for a year, Somerset's welcome sign freaks me out.
A lot.
Welcome to Somerset, Kentucky. Population: 12, 360.
- - -
The sky is dark. I pull into a gas station off of the highway; my GPS says that there are a few hotels for me to choose from a few miles down the road. I set my destination for one of them, the Super 8, and continue on.
The room is fifty-eight dollars a night. The room is sticky and the air stinks of smoke. I chuckle to myself at this as I lay my small duffle on the mattress; I've been a smoker for the past how many months and the smell is still foreign and disgusting to me. I scrub my teeth in the dimly lit bathroom and leave the day's outfit hanging over the chair by the air conditioner.
I pull the top cover down from the bed, but leave the sheet. I crawl onto the unyielding mattress, shaking the pillowcase that had been tucked into a side pocket of my bag around the lump that the Super 8 had left for me to sleep with. The fabric is cold against my legs. I close my eyes and drift off.
- - -
When I wake up, I'm cold. Extremely so. The air conditioning unit under the window is spitting air through its vents, lifting the curtains from their otherwise static position. Little beams of sunlight drift over the bed and my face as the fabric shifts. I slide out of bed, shaking, and drop to my knees by the bathroom door, rummaging through my duffle for bottoms of any sort.
I pull on the pair of purple Soffie shorts, grab my only key card from the dresser drawers the TV sits on, and head out of the door. My bare feet hit the pavement outside and I'm not welcomed by what I need: heat. At least, not the kind I'm used to.
The grass between the building and sidewalk is chilled and dewy. The sun is bright to my eyes, but my skin isn't warming. Not fast enough. I take a seat on the curb next to my blue buddy, wrapping my arms around my knees. I sigh. I'll have to get used to this weather.
I think for a second. It probably snows here, too. I've never seen snow before. Not real, heavy snow. I've seen the random flurries that never stick in Jacksonville, once or twice, last winter. I don't know how I'll get used to this, honestly. Somerset is already showing itself to be a tough opponent.
I start to reach behind me, for my pack. That's where I used to keep my cigarettes, when I smoked. Which I don't, not anymore. This isn't Jacksonville. I'm not a smoker. I don't work at the convenience store anymore. I don't party at the local venue anymore. The cute bartender, Brian, won't ever hit on me again. I won't reciprocate his feelings again. I'm not a smoker.
This isn't Jackson.
This isn't Sarasota.
This is new. This is real. This is home, whether I grow to like it or not.