Left for Dead in Wichita
It’s one of my favorite stories, you know? I was eighteen years old and I begged you to go. Nothing doing, I wanted to see the west because I’d never been beyond Indianapolis. That was back when the sex was still new and my influence was like a drug. I had the kind of pull on you that only new love has. It only took the look and the plea and you couldn’t resist, so to Wichita we went.
I had no idea it was a town the size of Portsmouth, except flat. (Of course you know how I am, no one could have told me anything.) No interesting architecture, no tall buildings, nothing remotely resembled a state capitol at all. It looked like an old factory town after the factory had gone bust, leaving in its wake a depressed city full of filthy, seedy, pay by the hour motels. One after another, their rates boldly displayed on the marquis’ out front with letters partially missing beckoning to potential customers. The signs themselves dilapidated, hazards of falling over and harming passers-by. My jaw gaped open as I took in the tired sites. Amazed yet so disappointed. I’d heard of things like this, even seen them on television, but here it was in real life, I could not believe my eyes. An actual pay by the hour motel where one could meet a lover or worse-a prostitute! I was horrified. The new civic center, dog track and modern chain hotel about ten miles out of town, in stark contrast to the dismal inner city, seemed to be waiting for the population to grow up around it, appeared to have high hopes for new development.
As you well remember, you went to check into that new hotel outside the city and I stayed in the truck. As I sat there, I saw a newer Ford F350 four door dually with a ground effects package parked in front of us and noticed personalized license plate, “QTRHRS”. After having been through the down trodden city we’d just toured and seeing the string pay by the hour motels, I was appalled by the license plate and now more convinced than ever that we had come to the very den of iniquity my sweet little church going grandmother had warned me about. As soon as you got into the truck, I said, “Look! Look at that license plate! Can you believe they’re advertising it right on there in plain sight?”
“What,” you asked calmly but confused.
In the time I’d had time to consider the type of vehicle it was, since we were in the west, I thought, it would certainly be almost like a limo. “Well, I bet you could get a lot of people in one of those things.” I even imagined it pulling a trailer full of ladies of the evening, them waving at gentlemen as it passed by.
“What are you talking about,” you asked more confused.
“Don’t you see the license plate? See it? Q-T-R-H-R-S! It’s an advertisement,” and I didn’t just say it, I clearly and emphatically exclaimed, “Cuter Whores!”
You looked at the license plate, then slowly turned and looked at me with what I now realize might have been pity and placed your hand on mind. “Honey, do you think, just judging from the vehicle—maybe it means quarter horse?”
I remember holding your look of disenchantment for only a moment as the blood rushed to my face. I also recall staring briefly at the ‘Ranger XLT’ crest on the dash and trying to make an appropriate acronym out of it.
Really
Anal retentive
Naïve
Girl
Exposes
Roots
Then I got to the “X” and gave up.
And when I tell that story I always end it by saying, “I swear, I still don’t why he didn’t just open the door, push me out and leave me for dead in Wichita! I certainly deserved it!” Yet, as many times as I’ve told that story and laughed, I had a sudden epiphany today when I told it and realized that I truly was left for dead in Wichita.
A few years ago I asked you, when discussing that trip if you had married me for what you saw-the ‘raw, unfinished’ me, the me who came to you as I was, or if you had made sort of an investment in me for the potential you hoped I could be after a bit of polishing and exposure to the elements of life. And you said ‘both,’ that Wichita only confirmed what you already knew, which was that I very much needed to get out of Adams County.
Until today, I had only thought of it as a long, lousy trip that ended with a really funny story to tell. Now, after two decades, I see that it was a belated lesson learned. Wichita showed me the boundless depth of your patience. I became fully aware of your compassion because it may have taken nearly twenty years, but I now realize you never laughed about it until I was able to laugh about it. You never laughed at me. And most of all you still chose me, and you loved me no less after I proved in grand fashion how much I had to learn.
So, sweetheart, it may seem like a silly thing to say, but I was left for dead in Wichita. It was where I shed my proverbial skin. For a such a flat state, Kansas was where my world took shape and got much bigger than Adams County. There was some version of me that died, some childish, immature version of me that I happily left behind when you held my gaze and my hand unwavering. I knew without a doubt that you saw me with all my flaws (even the ones I took such pains to hide) and all that I was not (and maybe never would be), and you saw the road that lay ahead and you still signed on for it, Wichita and all.
You know, I don’t think I ever thanked you and I realize it‘s a little late. For that I‘m sorry, but from the bottom of my heart I thank you for Wichita and every little thing it means. Perhaps more than that, I thank you in advance for all the Wichita’s to come. I wouldn’t trade it or you or this life for anything in the whole world.
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