Over the years of my carefree youth, I was treated by my grandparents to several road trips and other interstate adventures. They took me to Disneyland a couple of times before I’d reached the age of eight, and in my teen years, they treated me to travels down to Oregon, and back east through Idaho and the oppressive flatness of Montana, to come out on the other side and ooh and ahh in the glory of Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, The Badlands, and Wall Drug. Any time my mother and I seemed ready to come to blows, I would be bundled into my grandparents’ car and off we’d go to explore adjacent states. Now that they are in their eighties, and I don’t have a license, the days of summer road trips have come to their conclusion. I would have loved to have bundled up my wife and son beside me, and take some time off work to go gallivanting across the country in search of adventure and excitement somewhere flat and filled with buffalo.
I’ve been trying to separate the tangled jumble of my memories, anecdotal snapshots mixed together, to try and tell a cohesive tale of the trips I’ve taken through the ages, but they all sort of blend together in a training montage set to early nineties Metallica. A snippet of sheer terror from my time served on the Peter Pan ride when I was four years old. Hitting puberty waiting in the line for Star Tours which I entered when I was seven, not reaching the actual ride until the springtime of last year. The gift shop down at Crater Lake, and the gift shop at the Oregon Caves. A fragment of a memory tinted by countless retellings of coming back up through California and only eating occasional mouthfuls off of my worried grandparents’ plates. They were relieved to get me home, as they’d been preoccupied the whole vacation with what appeared to be my imminent starvation.
But it was the story of our journey in the Summer of ’94 which has stayed with me all of these years,for the most part, still intact, and the purest motivation to brush up on my long-neglected driving skills and take my family out to see The States. If Fed can finally get his license, and Bad Leon Suave can keep a car for over six whole months, perhaps it’s time I reconsider my opposition to motor vehicle ownership. Of course, were I to drive, I would only care to be behind the wheel of an El Camino, and I’m not sure how reliable that vehicle is for family road trips crossing state lines. On the other hand, if David got to be too loud, or rude, or simply uncontrollable, I guess I could just shove a helmet on him, and let him ride out in the back, where only the howling wind which rushed alongside him could hear his protestations, leaving my wife and I to listen to the dulcet noises of Rock En Español.
It was just over two decades past that my grandparents and I took our final road trip. Things had been deteriorating here at home, and my mother and I desperately needed to put a handful of states between us. I don’t remember all I took, aside from piles of notebooks, pens and pencils, and my Walkman loaded up with tunes. In the morning chill of disharmonious domesticity, I loaded up the back seat of the Mitsubishi Galant, and waved good riddance to my mother, disappointed that I’d have to put off my regularly scheduled heartfelt sulking, but secretly excited that I stood a decent chance at being treated like a person. Everyone got settled as I blasted Soundgarden in my ears, and we were soon off on our adventure, heading East, and toward the Buffalo.
The defining characteristic of this vacation was an unending sea of Buffalo. From the front seat, my grandmother must have pointed out each and every Bison from Washington to Wyoming. Every couple minutes, she’d wave her arms again, pointing out towards the grasslands at the herds and stragglers, mighty bison streaks gone by. I really couldn’t fathom why she felt this odd compulsion to ensure I didn’t miss a single shaggy murdercow, but I suppose it might have helped her pass the time. Nothing about my memories stands out to indicate that I felt any different than I otherwise might have, but considering that I was fourteen, I can’t imagine that I projected anything beyond the most rudimentary sarcasm. I’m fairly certain that this must have been the case, as either the first or second night into the journey, I elected to stay in the motel room while my grandparents decided to seek solace in a glass or eight of wine.
It was at least a triple-digit evening, and I had the A.C. in the room cranked up to its highest setting while I perused the channels that our cable package back at home was woefully without. I got some writing done, finishing up a chapter in a novel I would soon abandon, and actually enjoyed myself for the better part of the sunset hour and following dusk. I’d just finished up a movie which no one would have ever allowed me permission to lay eyes on, when I heard the rattling and banging of the key against the door. I was too busy trying to change the channel to something still verboten, but with exponentially fewer boobs, when my grandparents stumbled in the door, dragging an alternative reality behind them.
The cot was out, and I was ordered onto it, by my grandmother, who seemed a bit uncertain as to the correct pronunciation of the words “Get,” ” bed,” “into,” and “now.” More bemused than terrified, I played along, assuming that, if I played opossum, the alcohol would help me out, and I could gain freedom once more. But my grandmother would have none of that, as she laid each single blanket down upon me, tucking them tightly in down below me, pausing only, I’m assuming, as she considered banging on the neighboring door and commandeering their comforters as well. “I’m fine!” I said, struggling to breathe, and I came to understand how pot roast felt.
“Oh, pooh!” she countered, tucking me in tighter still. “You’ll catch your death of cold!”
I looked over at my grandfather, turned away, but reflected in the wall-length mirror just above the sinks. His shoulders were shaking, and tears ran down his cheeks, as though he found something amusing.
-Tex