north america, or, you’re never too scared

2006

I grew up in the sticks of Vermont, so when all my friends at the college newspaper were talking about their upcoming summer internships, I was like, “What’s an internship?” The answer was, apparently, the very hinge of your entire career and all prospects of future happiness.

“Sounds like I need to get me one of those!” I thought.

So when I got home in May, I emailed the alternative newspaper in Burlington and asked if I could be an intern. They were like, “Uhh no, we hired our interns back in December.” And thus I spent the summer working at Pizza Hut.

The next December, I applied for an internship at a small but respected indie music magazine in Decatur, Georgia. I got it on this question:

Josh (nerdy-hip Ira Glass energy): What bands are you listening to right now?
Me (I can’t believe I’m at an interview right now!!! energy): The Grateful Dead,
Josh rolls his eyes.
Me: Yonder Mountain String Band,
Josh slumps forward and sighs.
Me: and Lavender Diamond.
Josh (perking up): Who was that last one?
Me: Lavender Diamond?
Josh: I… haven’t heard of them. [Note: Hearing this statement is the ultimate social cachet in the world of indie music snobs.]
Me: You should check them out! They’re freak-folk, and their song “You Broke My Heart” is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard.
Josh (sharing a paternal smile with the other interviewer): Well Brooke, we’d like to offer you the position.

The stars aligned when my best friend Lauren sublet D-Land. D-Land was a hipster party house where all the cool film kids lived. It was also two miles from my internship. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was a kid, but I figured I could probably handle a two-mile commute, so I bought a 26” mountain bike for $25.

That’s less than a dollar an inch! thought 2006-era Brooke. 2023-era Brooke would be remiss if she didn’t mention that this bike was roughly 8” too small for me.

I was so nervous before my first day of work that Lauren gave me a ride. On day two, I overslept and she gave me another ride. On day three, I said, “Hey, this is working out pretty well. Maybe you can give me rides all summer!” Lauren gave me a look that said in no uncertain terms, “Girl, ride your bike.”

And so I rode my bike. I didn’t think it was gonna work.

What, the bike?

No, like… you can’t bike to work. It’s gonna take too long. You’re gonna be tired and sweaty by the time you get there. It’s not fair — everyone else gets to drive or take the train, but you have to work really hard before you even get to work. What if you get lost? Or hit by a car? Dude, cars are scary!

But it did work. It took only slightly less time than walking those two miles would have, but I rode my bike to work. I guess… I can do it, I thought with surprise.

That commute was not without its challenges or its surprises or its lessons learned. Like The Hill. At the beginning of the summer, The Hill was my nemesis. It would crest into view, precipitous and looming, and gobble up my momentum until it felt like I was pedaling through clay. Some people sip coffee on their way to work, but for me, it was only the bitter taste of defeat as I pushed my way to the top, cheeks burning with shame and outrage.

But gradually I realized that I was nudging that point of defeat further and further up The Hill — to the lamppost with all the graffiti, to the start of the guardrail, to the Yield sign. And then one day, surreally, I felt myself gliding all the way up to the very top, where I stopped and breathlessly, dramatically punched the air in triumph. I had a special confidence for the rest of the day. I had conquered The Hill.

Then there was the time I got hit by a car… which sounds much more traumatic than it was. She should have been paying closer attention, I should have made sure she saw me, and we both got a lesson and a story out of it. Besides the bruise on my ass, what I mostly felt was relief. I’d been scared all summer that I’d be hit by a car, and now it actually happened and I was fine. The EMT told me it was good I wore my helmet. “I flew off my bike once. Hit a road sign headfirst, and I split my labia.”

Did… I hear that right? I thought.

At the hospital, as a technician wheeled me into the X-ray room, he asked if there was any chance I could be pregnant.

“Haha, nope.”

“Y’know, I used to feel awkward asking lesbians if they were pregnant,” he said, I think by way of making chit-chat. “But now, they can get pregnant! Tech-nology.”

At the end of the summer, I rode my bike to Decatur, just for fun. On a spur of the moment, I sprung for a $10 haircut at Great Clips — that’s big money when you’re working an internship that pays even less than a Pizza Hut in rural Vermont. I loved how I looked in the mirror with short hair. I’d never felt pretty before.

I rode something like 10 miles that day and glowed with pride. At the beginning of the summer I could barely handle the two-mile commute to work, and now here I was on a 10-mile joyride. I lived with my best friend, we were graduating college the next year, and life was good.

The feeling wouldn’t last.