Thelma, Louise & Me

We’re in Louise’s jade-green T-bird convertible heading west out of Deep-Shit Arkansas to Ass-Wipe Oklahoma, gunning it- The Eagles’ “Take it Easy” in sync with the tires’ hypnotic whine. Louise almost smiles, tossing me her pack of Salems. Maybe she forgot about the gangbang in Texas, but she won’t forget blowing Harlan away in the parking lot. We’re trying like hell to outrun our lives: Losers who never got asked to Prom. Girls too drunk, too sad, too sexy, or not sexy enough. Girls who always pick the wrong guys. Passing me a diminutive bottle of Comfort as if we’re flying first class to Vegas, Thelma says she likes the feel of the snubnosed .38 and the look on the faces of the folks she robbed. It’s a surprise party! only none of us gets the prize. She also gives sage advice: “don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.” The freeway’s riddled with no-count cowboys killer cops: more bullets than love out here, west of nowhere. Bitches from Hell-that’s us-who’ve had it up to our asses with unpaid bills, the blues, with bending over 18-wheeler semis. Louise turns sharply south, pitching Thelma & me like we’re Raggedy-Ann dolls. When the car soars over the Canyon, we’re awake among the sleepwalkers, without fear, that unwanted guest who’s taken up residence in our guts. Without fear for the first time in our lives.

Maggie Jaffe Reprinted with permission from