Humor by John Christmann
Are We There Yet?
Human memory is an amazing thing. It is infused with optimism which over time transforms the mundane into the enjoyable. Take our memories of the 1980s for example.
Seriously, how else could we possibly explain the great American nostalgia surrounding family road trips?
Long car rides always seem richer in our memories, something to cherish after time has blocked out all the hopeless hours spent fending off boredom and cramped bottoms and the invading pokes of siblings anxious to see what happens when they willfully invade the personal space of other sardines.
This weekend, my family embarked on a casual, overnight road trip to the beach. Our particular sandy destination was an easy three hour drive away. Four if you add traffic. Five if you add road construction. Six if you add detours. Eight if you add torrential rain.
Did I mention we were casually going to the beach?
I usually drive. I like to pretend I am in control. On long trips, when conversation is at a standstill, I look at the scenery and then later, after we are well beyond our destination, figure out where I missed the exit.
But I am pretty good navigating the beginning of the trip, even though the freeway entrance is often an experience in déjà vu, like I have been there before. Because once we are on the freeway my wife casually asks if I have turned off the sprinkler.
On our return to the freeway entrance, she asks, “Did you remember to lock the door?” I consider this carefully before continuing on. At least no one can steal the car.
After we are well out of town it starts to sprinkle. There is a blinking sign in the distance. As the cars slow to a crawl in front of us, we take in the scenic miles of temporary concrete barriers and heavy roadside equipment caked with dirt.
From the backseat my son asks, “Dad, if they are doing roadwork, why isn’t anybody working?”
I turn on the radio to static and then play Russian Roulette with the tuning knob. I happen on a stuffy talk show debating the merits of organic food. I want to know if there are any health benefits to eating organic tomatoes on pizza, so I continue to listen.
A mile further it starts to rain. Hard. The kids can’t take it anymore. They hold a tube of sunscreen to the back of my head and demand that I change the station. I know what they like so I bounce through the static and commercials and golden oldie stations until I hear something familiar.
I want to be a billionaire, so freaking bad . . .
It’s a sophomoric tune, but catchy. But since this is a road trip I decide to protest purely on the grounds that this experience will one day be nostalgic. I feel compelled to demonstrate to my kids that I am old fashioned and completely out of touch because, well, I am.
“Why do the lyrics have to be so crass?” I ask. “Why can’t they leave something to the imagination?” My rhetorical questions have the desired effect. In the rear view mirror I can see the kids rolling their eyes. They will remember this one day.
After the song is over I obstinately barrel through a barrage of stale hits from the 70s and 80s. The wipers are not loud enough to drown out the dusty music.
That’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it, uh huh uh huh . . .
I quickly turn off the radio. This is not the kind of sophomoric music with unimaginative lyrics I want my kids to hear.
By Exit 44 a fight has broken out in the back seat. My daughter claims the scratch was accidental. He brother claims it was on purpose. My older son is interpreting the law as it applies to air rights above moving motor vehicle seats.
My wife and I forcefully arbitrate the situation, and I shut down their final invocation of The Fairness Doctrine with words they will vividly remember someday.
“Life is unfair,” I tell them. Because that’s how it was always explained to me.
The throbbing windshield wipers can’t keep up now, and I can barely think over the relentless rain. It is dangerous to be on unfamiliar nighttime roadways only sporadically lit with dim lamps, and I grip the wheel tightly and concentrate.
My wife sits quietly beside me over the wet, dark road offering a helpful set of wide eyes. The kids are asleep in the back seat, heads resting on heads, peaceful.
It is uncomfortable and nervy driving, but I am not discouraged. Because after an overcast day at the beach, I will think upon this fondly.
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