Road Trip Read online

  “This is serious, Jake. How am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

  “I tell a hell of a bedtime story.”

  She elbows me in my arm, which, unlike her punch, is her non-playful way of telling me to stop acting flippant. It’s important to pick up subtle marital codes to ensure a happy marriage.

  I get serious, right after the eye-watering pain has died down: “Grace, what would you like me to do?”

  “Stop joking around, for one.”

  “Done. What next?”

  “Think of a way to make this all right.”

  “The problem is, I think we did the right thing, but I’ll be the first to admit I’m not the greatest when it comes to interpreting what that is. What do you think’s the right thing to do?”

  “I suppose we could phone an ambulance.”

  “On my cell or yours?”

  “Yours?”

  “No way.”

  “On mine?”

  “I’d like that even less.”

  “We could use a payphone.”

  “When was the last time you saw a payphone?”

  She thinks a second. “The last time I saw one, it was to call Mom to say Joey Hedgefield tried to kiss me and I wanted to be picked up.”

  I frown.

  Then she elaborates, “During my prom.”

  “My point exactly. They’re rarer than a hobo’s coin purse. We could go into a bar or restaurant, or whatever, use theirs, but that’s not the ideal place to make an anonymous call saying someone ran a guy over. We’d be remembered, couple of out-of-towners like us. We’ve got L.A. written all over us, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people from outside L.A. don’t like people from L.A. Hell, I don’t like people from L.A.”

  “I don’t look like I’m from there.”

  Grace’s look is a cross between a ‘50s waitress and a Norwegian black metal vixen, minus the slutty makeup. “Honey, you look totally L.A. And me, I have the sort of look that angers anyone with a disposable income below five-hundred dollars a month.”

  “What’s wrong with the way you look?”

  Polo-neck sweater, arms rolled up, worn somewhat ironically, and slim-fit beige kakis, rolled up at the bottom, so that they show an obnoxious bit of ankle and don’t touch the top of my tan boat shoes. “I think it’s fine, but my point is, we’ll standout. We at least look like we’re in the socio-economic demographic that has a cell phone or two between us.”

  “Can’t we just use one of our cell phones and say it was an accident?”

  “We can.”

  She gets out her phone, and then I say, “If you want to spend the next couple of days in lockup. Tell you what, let’s do a bit of roleplaying, get you ready for this phone call.”

  “I feel like you’re going to be facetious, so I’ll decline.”

  “So that settles it, then.”

  “Fine. What do you want me to do?”

  “Put the phone to your ear.”

  She does.

  I say, “Now make a pretend call to the ambulance service. I’ll play the operator, a jaded middle-aged ex-desk-cop, and then the ambulance dispatcher, a skeptical menopausal female with pedantic attention to details.”

  We sit in silence a second. Then I ask, “Is it ringing?”

  “It is.”

  “Nine-one-one, how can I assist you?”

  “I’d like to inform you of an injured man, on Route 66.”

  “Hold a minute. I’ll put you through to the ambulance service.” I change to a nasally voice. “Ambulance service, how may I assist you?”

  “Hasn’t the operator told you the subject of my call?”

  “No, madam. That’s not how it works.”

  She tells me again, using the exact wording as before.

  Then I say, “Are you with the man now?”

  “No. We drove off.”

  “We?”

  “I did. I’m alone in the car.”

  “And who am I speaking to?”

  “Daisy Smith…ridge.”

  “Okay, Ms. Smithridge, are you driving?”

  “No, I pulled over.”

  “Okay, back up a bit. What section of Route 66 did this hit and run happen?”

  “Who said it was a hit and run?”

  “You did.”

  “I didn’t. I just said I saw an injured man.”

  “Okay, my mistake. Why didn’t you stop to help him?”

  “He looked dangerous.”

  “Uh huh… What section of Route 66, madam?”

  “A little ways after Pants, Oklahoma, heading east.”

  “How did you know he was an injured party?”

  “He was walking funny, like he might have broken a leg.”

  “Could it be that the man had a leg cramp and was just walking it off?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “How do you know that? Don’t mind my frankness. I just want to make sure we’re not sending a unit to a man not in need of medical attention.”

  Grace thinks a second, then says, “I saw the car that hit him.”

  “I thought you said it wasn’t a hit and run, madam?”

  Pissed, Grace puts the phone away and crosses her arms over her chest.

  Impersonating Grace, I say, “Okay, I admit it. It was a hit and run. I was just making an anonymous call. Like a good Samaritan.”

  We sit in silence a minute or so, enjoying our honeymoon.

  Then Grace says, “That’s not how it would go down.”

  “Maybe not exactly, but you see the problem.”

  “I do.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I’m sure ole Braylon Cutter’s getting attended to right now. Which reminds me, we need to get this hog off the road.”

  Grace was right about picking up a hitchhiker: It has been exciting. But I’m about all pooped-out for excitement for one day, and I’m sure Grace is, too. We need a motel, stat, preferably one where the parking lot isn’t in plain sight of Route 66.

  And as fate would have it that, that’s exactly what we come across. As we roll past, we read the neon sign at the same time: “Motel Already Counted Sheep - Where Rest Is Priceless. Looks like a nice place.”

  8.

  After we’ve checked in, dropped our bags off, and found out we don’t have a hot tub, Grace has gotten her third wind. I’m a little beat, but I’m pretending like I’m ready to get some shut eye. I’m lying on the bed, trying to work out how to flick through cable TV channels, my eyelids at half-mast, and Grace is inspecting every inch of the motel room, not for roaches, but for things she can get excited about.

  “Look at this, Jake. They have a Bible and a copy of the Quran in the dresser drawer. Isn’t that cool?”

  “That’s great, honey.”

  She puts her hands on her hips, cocks her head to one side, and asks, “What’s wrong, silly dummy?”

  Not waiting for a reply, she runs and jumps on the bed, and I groan. Then say, “I’m just tired, is all. Driving does bad things to me.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was thinking about turning in after watching a little cable. Do you mind?”

  Neighboring the motel is a bar and restaurant. I saw Grace’s eyes light up when she spotted it. Like her, I’d rather spend my evening in there than in some motel room, hot tub or not, but I kept my mouth shut, spotting an opportunity.

  Grace says, while twirling her hair in her fingers, “I was thinking about going and getting a steak and getting a little loaded.”

  “At that place next door? I don’t know. I’m kinda beat. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Hmph.”

  I continue trying to work out how to use the TV remote. Grace can’t keep still beside me.

  She says, “Come on. There’s obviously nothing on. And you know how you are when you go to sleep early. You’ll be awake at three tomorrow morning, and be shit-tired the whole day.”

  “I don’t know. I kinda like this documentary about the Dalai Lama.”

  She glances at the
screen. Some British documentary maker is asking the Dalai Lama about spiritualism or some shit.

  “Really?” she asks.

  “I could get into it.”

  “If you come, I promise you’ll be shit-tired for a different reason tomorrow, and not because we drank too many piña coladas.”

  “Sounds good, honey, but I don’t think I can get off the bed.”

  She tries to push me off, and fails.

  Then she says, “Okay, if you make the effort to come, I promise I won’t mention what happened today or feel bad about it tomorrow,” something I knew would definitely happen, and something she knows would irritate me.

  I say, “You’ve twisted my arm. I’m getting up.”

  Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting in the bar, having just been served the first round of drinks by a waitress who was a little flirtatious with me.

  Grace says, “Thanks for coming along.”

  I take a sip of the cocktail I ordered, something called an Old Fashioned. It’s delicious. And then I say, “Don’t worry about it. This is what husbands are for, to make sacrifices like this.”

  “I can try to find that documentary you were watching, on Netflix or YouTube or whatever, so you can watch it another time, if you’d like?”

  “It’s cool. I can find it and watch it by myself. I know stuff like that doesn’t interest you.”

  “I can pretend to like it. Maybe I can ask the barman to put on the TV up there?”

  I put my hand on hers. “It’s okay. I understand learning about enlightenment and… What’s that religion beginning with B?”

  “Buddhism.”

  “I understand that learning about enlightenment and Buddhism doesn’t float everyone’s boat.”

  As we sit in silence the next ten or so seconds, Grace has a funny little smile on her face. Then she asks, “Why do you like learning about it, Jake? I’m interested.”

  “The Buddhism?”

  “Yeah.”

  She leans forward, her elbows on the edge of the table, resting her chin on her knuckles.

  “I just think it’s cool to like stuff that isn’t stuff.”

  “Stuff that isn’t stuff?”

  “You know, to not be distracted by the shallow things in life—like a designer wardrobe, an immaculately furnished apartment, or lots of money and fake happiness—and to just care about getting to know yourself better… spiritually.”

  “Cool. And enlightenment, what do you like about that?”

  I think a second. “To be enlightened is to… find the light that hasn’t been lightened for you, from the dark.”

  “Lightened for you from the dark?” She chews on that thought, and then says, “I never knew you were so deep, Jake.”

  I thought it sounded a little pretentious, but the look on Grace’s face says otherwise.

  Nailed it.

  Grace says, “Let’s make a toast.”

  “Let’s.”

  We raise our glasses. Then she says, “Here’s to love, happiness, and to not trying to get brownie points for doing stuff you wanted to do in the first place.”

  I ask, “At what point did you have me figured out? When I said that stuff about enlightenment?”

  She smiles. “Before then.”

  “When I couldn’t remember what Buddhism was called?”

  “A little further back than that.”

  “When, then?”

  “The moment you put that documentary on.”

  “I could’ve liked it.”

  “Remember that time we babysat for Randy, and you struggled to read that Postman Pat book out loud?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I knew at that moment that my future husband would never make me sit through a documentary about spiritualism, or anything that doesn’t have naked chicks in it.”

  “You got all that from me not being able to pronounce choir correctly?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “Wow.” A little offended, I say, “You’re not the sharpest cookie in the toolbox yourself.”

  “Let’s change subjects.”

  “What? You afraid I might prove I’m smarter than you?”

  “I just don’t want to have another argument.”

  “If you didn’t want to have an argument, you shouldn’t have inferred I have the intellect of Homer Simpson just because I thought ‘church chore’ was a thing.”

  “Honey, I know you’re smart, just in your own special way, is all.”

  “Very nice, Grace. But two can play at that game.”

  “What game?”

  “Backhanded compliments.”

  She raises an eyebrow, says, “It wasn’t a backhanded compliment. I just meant you’re a little ditsy sometimes, in a cute way. And that sometimes your cleverness surprises me.”

  “You know what surprises me?”

  Playing along, Grace says, “Go ahead, Jake, tell me what surprises you.”

  “That a ten-point parking maneuver is a thing.”

  She sighs. “That was one time, and that space was really tight. You even said so yourself.”

  “How’s that for a backhanded compliment?”

  “I’m pretty sure that was just a straight-up insult.”

  “I’m not finished yet” I think a second. “You invented the maneuver. I’m impressed.”

  “Are you finished?”

  I take a sip of my drink while trying to identify the emotion I’m experiencing.

  Then I say, “Is my feeling like a jerk a good indicator of that?”

  A little sassy, she says, “I’d say it’s a pretty solid one.”

  “Jeez, I’m getting a little snappy lately. Sorry. I don’t know what’s getting into me.”

  “Maybe you’re just missing the Hollywood lifestyle?”

  “You think? I didn’t think anyone could miss wading through crowds of tourists, bums, and hookers.”

  “Or maybe it’s because you haven’t decided what your new career’s going to be yet?”

  “I’ve already thought of it.”

  “Jake, it takes years of training to be a lion tamer, and besides, it’s really dangerous.”

  “I could totally wing it.”

  I take another drink, and then hold the glass up, looking at the iceberg-sized ice cubes in it. “There was like three sips in this thing. I knew I should have ordered a beer.” I look around. “And where’s our waitress?”

  “Ms. Flirty Panties?”

  Distracted from looking around, I say, “No, Jenny.”

  “You read her name badge?”

  “No, she told us her name.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Okay, I admit it. I may have glanced at her name badge. Anyway, that’s not the point. Why do shitty bars insist on providing table service? At this rate we’ll be lucky if we’re drunk by the time it takes the Donald to work out it’s economically impossible to build a wall from Texas to California out of Lego.”

  “She’s over there, attending to that party of Japanese businessmen.”

  “Knowing our luck, those motherfuckers are probably all ordering Irish coffees.”

  “Jake, relax and take a deep breath. We’re on vacation.”

  I try it, breathing in and out deeply. It works for a second, until I notice the party Jenny’s attending to is ordering food.

  “Fuck it. I’m going up to the bar to get us some drinks.”

  “There are no rules against it.”

  “You just watch that barman give me sass.”

  I get up and start walking to the bar. When I get there the barman’s got his back turned to me, so I get his attention by saying excuse me.

  And when he turns around, it blows my mind.

  9.

  Having collected our drinks, I walk swiftly back to our table and put them down.

  I take my seat and say, “You’re not going to believe what just happened.”

  “The barman wasn’t sassy about you finding a rational solution to a waitress no
t doing her job fast enough for your vacation?”

  “No. That guy behind the bar, it’s our friend from earlier.”

  “Who?”

  “Braylon Cutter. Only it wasn’t him.”

  She frowns. “How can it be him but not be him?”

  “He looked exactly the same, only his hair’s slicked into a side parting instead of all mussed up like a lunatic’s, and he’s wearing a pinafore instead of a fanny pack.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. He looks exactly like him. Like an ugly version of Dustin Hoffman.”

  She thinks a second. “Maybe he’s his twin brother?”

  “I doubt it. He’s got a non-English British accent. Irish or Scottish, or maybe Welsh, I can’t tell them apart.”

  “It could still be his twin, but just raised in Great Britain. Or maybe it’s just a guy who looks like him.”

  I rub my face. “Or maybe I’m just seeing things. I’ve been overdue an acid flashback for quite a while now. Do you mind going up there, putting my mind at rest?”

  “What difference would it make to our evening if he did happen to look like him?”

  “You’ve got to admit, it would be really weird.”

  “People look like other people all the time.”

  “This guy doesn’t just look like him, he is him, only he isn’t.”

  She sighs. “Do you want peanuts or chips?”

  “Peanuts.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I watch Grace go over to the bar. She has a short conversation with the barman, and then comes back over, carrying a small bowl of peanuts.

  When she’s sitting, she says, “Is he looking over here?”

  I glance behind me. “No. He’s emptying the dishwasher.”

  Then she leans forwards, whispers, “Holy shit! It is him.”

  “But not, right?”

  “He’s identical, so I looked at his name badge, to, you know, see if they were twins, and that guy’s name is Braith Davis.”

  “Good thinking. The name badge.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “So you looked at Jenny’s but not Braith’s?”

  “Hers was there, right in my face, and besides, I was too freaked out to think to glance at his. Anyway, you’re getting off topic.”

  “Right in your face?”

  “At eye level.”

  “I don’t see what difference that makes. Just admit you glanced at her breasts. I won’t get mad.”