Trucks are playing soccer with roadkill raccoons, passing the carcasses back and forth between the dashed lines of the highway. The night drive has left me alone with my thoughts while my wife and two boys are snoring gently in the other bucket seats of our minivan.
We are escaping the snow-blocked streets and stone-covered iced sidewalks of Montreal. Leaving behind the 10 below zero temperatures which I have accepted as the norm. Sadly I know that I will be back just like an abused, battered mutt who prefers the misery of familiarity over a better life. But for 17 days I will imagine my residence is in South Florida and that I have an unlimited money supply thanks to two mostly-paid off credit cards which I will again avoid paying for at least an additional three months.
Perhaps because of boredom. Perhaps because I should never be left alone with my thoughts. Or perhaps because of the jealousy of seeing everyone else sleeping, I decided that at the next Randomtown, we will pull off from the highway for a long-deserved fuel break.
As we exit, I see a sign that indicates there is only a McDonald’s and an EXXON. Which bathroom do I choose? At McDonald’s, we always feel the necessity of having to purchase something from their McMenu in order to use their washrooms. While at gas stations you are forced to beg the attendant for his key to the lavatory. We do need gas, I think to myself. I follow the point of the arrow and drive to the EXXON.
“Boys, do you need to go to the bathroom?” I ask as I pull up to the gas pump. They both don’t answer but exit through the sliding side door anyway – they know the routine. You either go now or wait till another Randomtown tempts me off our odyssey just like a mermaid would do to a travel-weary drunk captain and his vessel. My wife has already left the vessel and is inside the EXXON getting the washroom key from the cashier.
The gas station is in need of a modernization renovation to catch up with the rest of the EXXON chain. The pump here is the old style. No credit card – must pay inside. Electric meter instead of digital. I hum a little tune as the electric number wheels keep a running tab of things grinding and clicking rhythmically, continuously keeping the beat. Sadly the convenience of having percussions for my humming adds a few extra minutes to our stop. By the time I finish topping off the tank and paying the cashier everyone has visited the washroom and re-entered the minivan.
“How was it?” I ask.
“Disgusting. One of the worst bathrooms we’ve ever stopped at.” my older son answers sticking out his tongue as though he were about to gag.
“Yeah, it was pretty bad,” My wife answers shaking her head in a manner that makes me feel that this filthy bathroom is somehow my fault and I should have known better. I probably should have.
We always get a bathroom review after each stop. It has become a bit of a family staple. I have gotten pretty good at knowing what the review of the bathroom will be from each member in advance of them revealing it. Even though I haven’t visited all of these Randomtowns, I can tell based on the franchises, or the number of franchises, how the pooping and peeing experience will be for my family. The fewer regional and local franchises, the happier my family will be. The more national chains in a given Randomtown, the less blame I will receive.
“I couldn’t go.” My younger son informs me in a very angry tone. He is always angry when he can’t force himself to urinate. Complete ideal conditions are required for him to relieve himself during our journeys. The bathroom must be it’s own entity without any other stalls or urinals – check. The bathroom must have soap and a hand blower and not a paper towel dispenser – check. The bathroom must have a functional lock on the door – check. The bathroom must be clean – older son’s answer of “disgusting” explains the natural outcome and lack of jubilation from my youngest offspring.
“We should have gone to the McDonald’s,” my wife tells me as we pull away from the EXXON and leave this Randomtown behind.
“I can turn back if you’d like,’ I announce sarcastically – she shakes her head. She is not amused.
We have probably visited thousands of Randomtowns over the years. Usually, they are lined up pressed against the highway; just an off-ramp away. They are places we never remember or even give a second thought to. They have generic names like exit 341 Junctionville or exit 13 Hamletburgh. We randomly get off the highway based on the information on the highway-side signs to get to these little towns. They are unplanned yet expected because we can’t go on forever. They all look the same; nondescript towns with a turnoff leading cars away from their set paths to an assembly of common businesses that the highway traveler would eventually need. Same Gas Stations. Same Fast Food Restaurants. Same People working behind the counters. There is never anything special to remember. These are the places where we stop and clog their toilets with our crap while taking their fuel. No one ever plans to end their journey at a Randomtown, not even the people who work there. These are only via points to stretch our legs…
“Born to Run,” is now playing on the radio from some classic rock station hundreds of miles away. In a half-hour, the station will be replaced by static and then I will have to go hunting again for more music to keep me awake. The snoring is restarting in the back seats but my wife, sitting next to me, is still awake.
“What are you thinking about?” She asks.
I concentrate and try to think very hard about what I just thought about but I don’t want to tell her I am mulling over the lyrics to “Born to Run” so I reply with “Nothing.”
“I was just thinking about the beach,” she tells me although I thoughtlessly did not ask her about her thoughts.
She tells me more about her beach reflections but I zone out and start being one with the highway again. I see the Walmart trucks and the other 53 foot rigs sharing their highway with me. They pass each other, signal, flash high beams, and flick on their hazards, communicating in their own secret language. The night highway belongs to them. I feel like I am a guest on their road.
“So what do you think,” she asks me.
I stumble through my thoughts and try to give her the proper answer. “Yeah, me too,” but she doesn’t fall for it.
“You weren’t listening.”
“Sorry I was concentrating on the road.”
“I hate when you do that. I am trying to tell you about how I feel and you’re ignoring me.” She then continues to explain to me what she is going through “What I was trying to say was I have been looking forward to this for months and I can’t believe we are finally going to be there.”
“Yeah, me too,” I answer, this time to her satisfaction.
Back at home when a subject is brought up and I am preoccupied, I can escape any arguments by going to the bathroom and announcing: “It’s an emergency.” However, on the highway, I have been unable to find a way to avoid confrontations other than through apology.
The traditional family cross-country infighting is the main reason that these trips are becoming extinct with most of the families we know. Nobody seems to have the patience for this 27-hour trip. When we first started going to Florida, I was 10 years younger and coincidentally so was the rest of my family. Back then, it seemed like every family in my children’s school used to drive down to Florida but now it is just us.
I have seen the best parents of my generation destroyed by the madness of howling youngsters in the backseats and a disapproving spouse in the front. Dragging themselves through the dark streets at dawn looking for a restaurant offering breakfast but to no avail. Breakfast only begins at 6. Air-headed yuppies burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry nights in the machinery of the family. Instead, the lost art of driving with the family has been abandoned replaced by 5-hour flights and one carry-on. The roads are almost void of automobiles filled with families with one notable exception: OURS! We are defenders of the family road travels. Woo-Hoo. We won.
“The first night is the easiest,” my wife reminds me as she looks back at our sleeping children.
“I know but this is easier than normal.”
“You say that every year. Remember the kids are tired; they had a full day of school.”
The kids aren’t the problem this year – but my internal clock is.
How I miss our bed. It is usually at this time of night when we are at home, staring up at the bedroom skies and contemplating the worries of the world. There are so many fears we have and so many problems real and otherwise. The bedroom skies were once a place where my wife and I used to discuss our future plans but our future plans are now in the past tense. Now we discuss the mountains of issues our family faces. We have to deal with trials and hormones of 2 teenaged boys. We have to deal with the new wishes and plans of my middle-aged bride. We have to deal with me wanting to trade in this minivan for a motorcycle (it’s not going to happen). We face all these predicaments until I fall asleep and dream about anything else.
Rumble. Rumble. Rumble.
“What are you doing?” My wife screams as she turns the steering wheel back onto the highway and away from the rumble strips.
“Wha-what? What? Sorry, turn was greater than I thought,” I lie to her as I regain control of the steering wheel. I rub my eyes. I am tired but I have to force myself to drive further because we hardly have put a dent into the hours that are remaining in this drive.
“We don’t have to get there in one day. I’d rather we just get there,” my wife reminds me.
I’m a little bit disappointed that I won’t be completing the trip in a single day but I reluctantly agree with the Mrs. “Fine, next stop with a hotel we will get off for the night.”
She gently shakes the children to wake them up while I yell “Boys!!! We’re getting off.”
My older son is already up thanks to the rumble strips and my wife’s gentle taps “Why?” he asks.
“It’s late and I’m tired.”
“So we’re not getting there for tomorrow?” He is now very upset at me. “You told me we would be there by supper time.”
There is no chance of me consoling my older son unless I can manage to pull together a second wind. However, my wife stares back at him and says in her motherly and patient manner “Today we did very well. We are close to where we need to be.” He seems satisfied with her.
The GPS locates a hotel in some other Randomtown 15 minutes away on the corner of Kennedy and Lincoln streets. My younger notices this and says “Dad, Kennedy got his and Lincoln got his too. Do you think Obama’s gonna get his too?”
“What?” I ask, worried that my son is about to become Lee Harvey Oswald.
“Do you think they are going to name a street after Mr. Obama too?”
“Probably.”
We enter the hotel, exhausted. My older son is still very angry at me and pretty much every member of the family wished we flew instead. At the end of the day, you have to live with the decisions you make…..also at the end of the day, it is night.