Hilarity bound to ensue when vacationing on the open road

Thelma and Louise had it right.
Actually, that isn’t very accurate. I would never kill a rapist and commit suicide by driving a 1966 Thunderbird convertible off a 2,000-foot cliff while seat-buckled to the driver’s seat. What I would do, however, is go on a cross-country road trip with my BFF (though, fishing in the mountains of Utah is far from my ideal vacation; hitching a flight to the island of Saint Martin – heavily spiked Sex On The Beach in hand  – better tickles my fancy).

Packing multiple people into a beat-up car, driving to the west coast and screwing with as many innocent bystanders as possible has to be the gnarliest idea ever. Every innate responsibility bestowed upon riley 20-year-olds, including being blatantly irresponsible, is jam packed in the concept of flipping the bird to harmony and riding off into the sunset.
Crusading to California has long been a dream of mine. I’ve never been there before but the Golden State has an alluring quality to it. There are countless reasons to go: the surf of the Pacific shoreline, the elitism of Hollywood, the curves of the tan and beautiful people, the I.Q. of the tan and beautiful people, the greenery of the scenery and the mere possibility of seeing Lindsay Lohan wipe out on a sidewalk. I could go on. Being stuck in my particular town for the summer has its drawbacks. We have a population of about 30,000 and half of them are over sixty. I came to this conclusion by turning the vehicle circulation of the Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru I used to work at into a statistical study. On average, the glass ceiling on the senior citizen discounts processed by that window was broken through by 2 p.m.

We’ve all felt trapped to some degree. A road trip could be the greatest form of metamorphic liberation there is. What better time to hit the open road than during the laziest season of the year? My decision has been made. I’m going. Well, I’m going to try to go. All that’s left to do (besides feeding my checking account until it gets a stomach ache) is to break out the charm and do some convincing.

My hometown friends are a special cluster of people. Some of my fondest memories would have never been created if it weren’t for Tom, Matt, Erica, Rachael and Nina. You can bet all the corn beef in Ireland a journey to Cali (or, as I hope the locals pronounce it, “Cali-forn-i-eigh!”) would never become a reality without the Bridgewater, Mass. crew as passengers. For the sake of nourishing my own delusions and forgetting summertime employment exists, I will say they are all in for the long haul without question.
Hypothetically, I’ve assembled a dynamic road trip scenario. You don’t know this because you’ve most likely never met me and you’ve never met the silly folks coming along. But what you will know by the end of this column is what will almost certainly happen to us if we ever do load up a rusty, piece of shit automobile and trek over to the skateboarder capital of the world.

Our first conflict inexorably results seven minutes into the ride from a clashing of tastes in music. Immediately, I recognize without telling anyone this is my fault. Although, I won’t apologize for being the only person in the car who would rather listen to Green Day – a band that isn’t cool to listen to now even though they were the cat’s pajamas in 1997 – than Ke$ha, the melodic equivalent of white trash. Ke$ha wins, the girls start singing and I contemplate exiting “Luke” (Nina’s white Ford Explorer and traveling wheels of choice) while he’s going 85 mph on Route 24.

The first motel stop is going to be pretty sketchy. Anyone who has seen the motel in “No Country For Old Men” – when Llewelyn Moss has to hide the briefcase from the cattle-gun carrying killer with a bowl haircut – will know of what sketchiness level I speak. A new species of insect might be found in the sink. What exactly caused the stains on the retro carpeting becomes question of the night. The beds are such that two sets of three people have to sleep together, meaning every time Matt and Tom break wind in their sleep I have to risk my safety to go outside into the drug-dealer parking lot and begin to inhale oxygen again.

Luke has to break down right by a Scandinavian hitchhiker halfway there. If he doesn’t, life would cease to be interesting.  So there we would be, somewhere between a cornfield and a thrift store, in the middle of Kansas. Two thirds of us don’t know how to change a tire and cumulonimbus clouds overhead hint at the idea of a twister killing us all. In a bout of luck, Luke is able to get his digits up again and our venture into the unknown rages on.
By this time, Erica’s mix CD featuring Black Eyed Peas, Rihanna and Rascal Flatts has been cycled through the car deck numerous times and the Punch Buggy game causes significant bruising on my left arm.

I’m going to allow one over-the-top situation on the trip. In real life, Rachael drunkenly hooking up with a gigolo in Las Vegas – cutting down a good majority of our vacation funds in the process – isn’t probable in the slightest. But were she to confuse the ringleader of pleasure for an average-looking gentleman, god bless her, no one would be surprised. I don’t mean this as an insult; stuff that posthumously amusing happens to her all the time. A very perceptive individual once said, “Raising a young person is like nailing Jell-o to a tree.” A young person nailing a gigolo and not remembering any of it, on the other hand, is another matter entirely.

None of these adventures have happened yet. Maybe they never will. Maybe the lunacy of my imagination is getting the best of me. I am sure of one thing, though; the shenanigans of that drive, or any drive, bear more weight in the memory bank than our fantasy antics in sunny SoCal. Sure, we’d get some color. You can’t rule out engaging in a bar brawl with a gang of water polo players. I may or may not fall in love with a lifeguard. On the contrary, those fun moments we all share are reflections of a bigger picture; that feeling alive on the open road with the wind in our hair, albeit with a few entertaining close calls, is what got us there; that it’s the journey carrying the nostalgia, not the destination.

Greg O’Neil can be contacted at goneil@keeneequinox.com.