As we pulled into Sunday’s apartment complex her face suddenly changed. The muscles that had been holding back anger and frustration and disappointment had relaxed and she was, again, beautiful.
I helped carry her massive luggage back into her apartment. We shared a long hug and we said our goodbyes. Sunday, the fourth wheel who inadvertently joined our trip, had become a source of frustration for all of us. She started out as an acquaintance and ended up being my only friend on this trip.
In an very odd way, Sunday and I had become more distant and closer at the same time.
Amongst all of the flirting and confusion and anger and miscommunication, Sunday and I had bonded in a way no one else could ever share. There is something about living through an experience that gives you an unbreakable bond. No matter how hard we could ever try to explain the journey we had just experienced it would never capture the scope of actually living through it yourself.
As we drove away and headed toward Wildwood, the last chapter of our trip was finally being written.
The back seat of the car was lighter and the foot room was available for the first time since we packed Sunday’s luggage almost three weeks earlier. However, even Sunday’s departure could not mend the great divide that had been chiseled between Tim, Beth and me.
Once we hopped onto I-75 South I watched with great anticipation as each mile marker passed, each representing a mile closer to Wildwood, a mile closer to freedom. Considering I was so anxious to get home, I was surprised a just how fast the last hour of the trip passed. Usually, when you want time to speed up, it slows down. Fortunately for me, the opposite was true.
As we pulled into the large gas station at the midpoint between Gainesville and St. Petersburg, I could see Paul waiting patiently in his small tan Toyota Tercel. Seeing Paul there was probably the closest I’ll ever get to the sense of seeing a knight in shining armor. He was my salvation, my escape, my freedom from the hell I had created by suggesting we go on this trip in the first place. He was my Get Out Of Jail Free card.
With newfound energy and focus I unloaded my belongings into the back of Paul’s car, gave a quick and rather emotionless farewell to Tim and Beth, then strapped myself into the front seat and relaxed for the first time in three days.
Tim and Beth departed one way, Paul and I in the opposite direction. It would be the last time I would see or speak to Tim or Beth for over a year.
As Paul and I merged onto the interstate he made the mistake of asking a very simple question.
“So, how was the trip?” he said.
With that simple statement the floodgates of opinion and conjecture and anger and judgment and relief and disbelief and sarcasm opened and the story spewed from me in a non-stop flow of words and exclamations and convenient revisionism.
He found the trip so funny and unbelievable that he had me recount it to my parents when I got home.
I tried to write the story down a few times earlier. Once, right after the trip was over, I tried to recount everything in pseudo-journal form, but some of it was too painful to state. One of the goals I set for myself was to get published as an author, so I thought of using this sordid tale as inspiration for a fictional account, but that attempt fizzled out as well.
It was only now, some 18 years later, because I promised myself that I would write a daily entry into this blog for a year, that I have enough distance and skill to recount the story with any sort of consistency. However, I also know that 18 years have passed. Tim, Beth and Sunday may read this story and discount or argue with some of the details and they may be right. I can only go from my memory, as broken and fragmented as it may be.
So, all of the facts may be out of order or vaguely inaccurate at times, but this is my story about my trip to Cally, through my eyes, through my memory and through my interpretation.
I can say this… that trip to Cally, for all of its flaws and pain at times, is something for which I will never regret. We were naïve and stupid and unprepared, but we did it anyway. Sure, there were bumps in the road, but the important part was that we took the journey.
I wish I could un-know a lot of what I know about life and the world and consequences. I often think if I was a little more stupid about things, I would have accomplished so much more.
And so ended the last day on our trip to Cally.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Friday, August 04, 2006
Goin' Out To Cally – Part 60, Escaping Into The Wildwood
I don’t really remember much of the drive from Illinois to Florida. The only thing I can recall is, during one of the two remaining gas stops, calling my brother Paul and telling him to meet me in Wildwood so he could pick me up and take me home.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you later. But you HAVE to pick me up, okay?” I asked.
“Okay,” he replied.
I knew that, after we were to drop off Sunday in Gainesville that the next stop was to be in Brooksville where Tim would bring Beth home. Knowing Tim and having experienced this trip I knew that we wouldn’t just drop Beth off, we would spend hours there recounting the entire trip… the same trip Beth had just described to her parents for over two hours on the phone in Illinois.
If I had to sit there and listen and wait and not be home I think I would have gone postal. I would have ended up in Starkey Prison near Gainesville with a roommate named Axel who fancied my shapely tush. My only escape, my only salvation, was my brother Paul.
Paul and I lived together my first year in Gainesville. He was entering as a junior and I was entering as a freshman. We stayed in a dark little mobile home in a darker little place called Shady Nook. It was a two bedroom mobile home that did not have cable television and in which we could only get two channels, the local PBS channel from the university and the local ABC affiliate. We would watch these two channels on a micro-black and white television while sitting on some of the most ill-conceived, badly implemented travesties masquerading as furniture one could ever imagine.
Paul was, at the time, engaged to Jean and during our first year, missed her terribly. He was often depressed and that only added a little more darkness to our first year’s experience at the University of Florida.
The only thing that got us through a depressing week at school was traveling home on the weekend. Paul would get to see Jean and I would get to see family and Tim and my other high school friends. They were my anchors that kept me grounded. I had not yet developed any significant friendships at school so these trips home were critical to our mental health.
Even though Paul and I had spent our entire lives together, we never really got to know each other until that year, until those numerous drives to and from Gainesville. He would teach me about chemistry and I would teach him about acting. I learned that he was far more creative than I ever knew. Growing up Paul was always a bookworm and I was, well, lazy and haphazardly approached school.
Paul found enjoyment in education, I found fun in fart jokes. We were so very different, yet we found commonality during those drives. Not only did we bond through shared experiences that first year, but we found common ground between us, between our interests, that we never knew had existed. I look back on those drives and they make me smile.
Paul and Jean would end up being my greatest fans. They were the only ones in my family to attend every single one of my performances while in college. Trust me, that’s love. Some of those things were downright painful to watch. But they loved me and supported me and they gave me strength to continue to pursue my dreams.
When I finally got into the Fine Arts College Paul and Jean threw a small party and took their limited resources and bought me a small Super 8 movie camera. This was a financial sacrifice for them and I was so touched. Paul, the bartender in that awful black and white video ten years earlier, knew of my passion for film and they bought me a tool to help make that dream come true. Later we would use that camera to shoot a very funny short film called The Term Paper.
Since our time in college Paul and I continue to talk about movies and chemistry. As we’ve gotten older we continue to participate in those areas of each other's lives. Paul reads all of my screenplays and continues to give me excellent feedback. He helped fund the shooting of our first feature film called The Box and he continues to be a source of inspiration to me. Through my day-job experiences, I’m able to share in his challenges as a doctor of analytical chemistry in the oil industry. Funny thing about business, no matter what you build or what you service, the problems and challenges are all the same.
And all of our history together was founded by those two hour drives from Gainesville to St. Petersburg and back, the mid-point of which was a small town called Wildwood.
And that is where Paul had agreed to pick me up and allow me to finally escape this nightmare that was our trip to Cally.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you later. But you HAVE to pick me up, okay?” I asked.
“Okay,” he replied.
I knew that, after we were to drop off Sunday in Gainesville that the next stop was to be in Brooksville where Tim would bring Beth home. Knowing Tim and having experienced this trip I knew that we wouldn’t just drop Beth off, we would spend hours there recounting the entire trip… the same trip Beth had just described to her parents for over two hours on the phone in Illinois.
If I had to sit there and listen and wait and not be home I think I would have gone postal. I would have ended up in Starkey Prison near Gainesville with a roommate named Axel who fancied my shapely tush. My only escape, my only salvation, was my brother Paul.
Paul and I lived together my first year in Gainesville. He was entering as a junior and I was entering as a freshman. We stayed in a dark little mobile home in a darker little place called Shady Nook. It was a two bedroom mobile home that did not have cable television and in which we could only get two channels, the local PBS channel from the university and the local ABC affiliate. We would watch these two channels on a micro-black and white television while sitting on some of the most ill-conceived, badly implemented travesties masquerading as furniture one could ever imagine.Paul was, at the time, engaged to Jean and during our first year, missed her terribly. He was often depressed and that only added a little more darkness to our first year’s experience at the University of Florida.
The only thing that got us through a depressing week at school was traveling home on the weekend. Paul would get to see Jean and I would get to see family and Tim and my other high school friends. They were my anchors that kept me grounded. I had not yet developed any significant friendships at school so these trips home were critical to our mental health.
Even though Paul and I had spent our entire lives together, we never really got to know each other until that year, until those numerous drives to and from Gainesville. He would teach me about chemistry and I would teach him about acting. I learned that he was far more creative than I ever knew. Growing up Paul was always a bookworm and I was, well, lazy and haphazardly approached school.
Paul found enjoyment in education, I found fun in fart jokes. We were so very different, yet we found commonality during those drives. Not only did we bond through shared experiences that first year, but we found common ground between us, between our interests, that we never knew had existed. I look back on those drives and they make me smile.
Paul and Jean would end up being my greatest fans. They were the only ones in my family to attend every single one of my performances while in college. Trust me, that’s love. Some of those things were downright painful to watch. But they loved me and supported me and they gave me strength to continue to pursue my dreams.
When I finally got into the Fine Arts College Paul and Jean threw a small party and took their limited resources and bought me a small Super 8 movie camera. This was a financial sacrifice for them and I was so touched. Paul, the bartender in that awful black and white video ten years earlier, knew of my passion for film and they bought me a tool to help make that dream come true. Later we would use that camera to shoot a very funny short film called The Term Paper.
Since our time in college Paul and I continue to talk about movies and chemistry. As we’ve gotten older we continue to participate in those areas of each other's lives. Paul reads all of my screenplays and continues to give me excellent feedback. He helped fund the shooting of our first feature film called The Box and he continues to be a source of inspiration to me. Through my day-job experiences, I’m able to share in his challenges as a doctor of analytical chemistry in the oil industry. Funny thing about business, no matter what you build or what you service, the problems and challenges are all the same.
And all of our history together was founded by those two hour drives from Gainesville to St. Petersburg and back, the mid-point of which was a small town called Wildwood.
And that is where Paul had agreed to pick me up and allow me to finally escape this nightmare that was our trip to Cally.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Heading Home
We extended our stay in Savannah an additional day so we could take in Fort Pulaski and the lighthouse on Tybee Island. We're heading home this morning and should be arriving in Safety Harbor later in the evening.
Fort Pulaski is interesting because it was the fort involved in a battle that made such forts... and all forts, basically, obselete. See, the Union used a rifle cannon for the first time against the Confederates held up in the fort, destroying the outer wall. The rifle cannon used a cannon "ball" shaped like a bullet instead of a ball. It was much more effective than standard cannon balls and the impact to the fort was devastating. From that battle onward, all such forts lost their value as strongholds.
Below are some of our pics from our journey today.
Dea, Gabe and DC at one of the cannons in Fort Pulaski.
Some of the damage done on Fort Pulaski by the Union cannons.
The deeper red brick is where the wall
was fixed from being riddled with rifle cannon hits.
Dea, Gabe and DC at the fort on Tybee Island
where the rifle cannons were shot.
The Lighthouse on Tybee Island.
DC and Dea enjoying Ben and Jerry's ice cream
on the riverfront of Savannah.
It was brutally hot in Savannah during this trip. I don't think I've ever sweat as much as I have over the last few days. The city is extraordinary and it would take another week to see the rest of the historical sights. It was a great adventure and we've enjoyed our visit immensely.
By tomorrow night we'll be back home, in bed.
Fort Pulaski is interesting because it was the fort involved in a battle that made such forts... and all forts, basically, obselete. See, the Union used a rifle cannon for the first time against the Confederates held up in the fort, destroying the outer wall. The rifle cannon used a cannon "ball" shaped like a bullet instead of a ball. It was much more effective than standard cannon balls and the impact to the fort was devastating. From that battle onward, all such forts lost their value as strongholds.
Below are some of our pics from our journey today.
Dea, Gabe and DC at one of the cannons in Fort Pulaski.
Some of the damage done on Fort Pulaski by the Union cannons.The deeper red brick is where the wall
was fixed from being riddled with rifle cannon hits.
Dea, Gabe and DC at the fort on Tybee Islandwhere the rifle cannons were shot.
The Lighthouse on Tybee Island.
DC and Dea enjoying Ben and Jerry's ice creamon the riverfront of Savannah.
It was brutally hot in Savannah during this trip. I don't think I've ever sweat as much as I have over the last few days. The city is extraordinary and it would take another week to see the rest of the historical sights. It was a great adventure and we've enjoyed our visit immensely.
By tomorrow night we'll be back home, in bed.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Some Vacation Pics
DC at Mom's 80th Birthday Party. Steve S'sMom is in the background.
Pete and Kristi at Mom's 80th Birthday Party.
Gabe at Mom's 80th Birthday Party.
Dad and Pete.
Paul with his popsicle.
Dea hangin' at the Smith's.
Mary, Mom and Rusty
Gabe, at nine, almost fits into Dad's oldcheerleader uniform that he wore in highschool.
Gabe in Heaven (aka, a Candy Shop in Savannah).
DC, Pete and Gabe on the river in Savannah.
The stunning St. John the Baptist Catholic Churchin Savannah, Georgia.
DC, Dea and Gabe in St. John the Baptist Catholic Church.
Dea and Pete at the Uptown Restaurant.Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Goin' Out To Cally – Part 59, Time Mismanagement
The long journey home through Colorado, Kansas and Missouri was as boring as the trek through western Texas, except this time our nerves were all frayed and exposed. Tim and I had discussed, prior to the trip, of trying to visit as many baseball stadiums during our journey as possible. Our first attempt in Dallas to see the Rangers play the Red Sox was nixed when we found out the teams were in Boston.
We looked at the schedule of the Dodgers or Angels while in Los Angeles, but none of the games coincided with the times we had not already booked. In San Francisco, we didn’t have enough time to watch the A’s or Giants play. And as we drove through Kansas and Missouri, our chances of seeing the Royals in Kansas City or the Cardinals in St. Louis evaporated along with our dreams of ending this trip on a successful note.
We finally made our way to Illinois and by seeing the world in five hour increments, which was the amount of time a full tank of gas would last, we knew we were three more gas stops away from being home. We were getting anxious to finally escape the Acura that had turned into a blue cocoon for all of us.
During one of our stops to get gas Sunday and I pooled our change together and had just enough to buy a loaf of bread and a small jar of peanut butter. We were less than 15 hours from home and we felt we could easily survive eating and smelling like peanut butter for the last day in the car.
After filling up with gas, Tim and Beth, whose wallets were stuffed with Sunday’s San Francisco cash, decided to stop at a McDonalds and indulge in a hit of McLunch before heading south. Or so we thought.
Tim and Beth entered McDonald’s while Sunday and I remained in the Acura meekly making our peanut butter sandwiches, struggling to get the little plastic knife to retain its shape as it tried to move through the thick, crunchy peanut butter. We looked up and, instead of finding our travel companions in line to get something to eat, Beth was on the phone talking to her parents.
Her body language and hand gestures were large and expressive as she was conveying her frustration at the current state of our trip. Sunday and I looked on, swallowing our anger along with the peanut butter, as the conversation wore on and on. Minutes turned to over an hour with Beth still on the phone, apparently recounting the entire trip.
I was furious. In the amount of time she spent on the phone talking to her parents we could have been home and she could have told them in person! Each minute that passed while we were in that parking lot was another wasted minute in the 15 or so hours that awaited us on the road. I was so pissed off I could have spit fire.
Sunday and I stewed in the car as two hours passed with Beth talking on the phone to her parents. Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand two hundred seconds… wasted in a McDonalds parking lot in Illinois. Shortly thereafter, Beth finally hung up the phone and, despite my overflowing anger, I was just happy to get back on the road. The sooner we got back home the better.
That’s when things got just a little worse, like pouring salt into an opened wound or, more accurately, slowly pushing a hot iron into your skull through your eye socket. See, after spending two hours on the phone recounting a trip that we had not yet completed, Tim and Beth decided that they wanted to eat something before they left. Could they have eaten while they talked on the phone? Sure. Could they have gotten the food to go so we could get on the road? Sure. But they didn’t. Instead they sat down and ate in the restaurant, the clock ticking, minutes passing, rage building.
At this point, I wanted to be home that instant, utilizing a Star Trekian transporter, if necessary. However, with such technology unavailable to me, Sunday and I just sat, waited and hated.
We looked at the schedule of the Dodgers or Angels while in Los Angeles, but none of the games coincided with the times we had not already booked. In San Francisco, we didn’t have enough time to watch the A’s or Giants play. And as we drove through Kansas and Missouri, our chances of seeing the Royals in Kansas City or the Cardinals in St. Louis evaporated along with our dreams of ending this trip on a successful note.
We finally made our way to Illinois and by seeing the world in five hour increments, which was the amount of time a full tank of gas would last, we knew we were three more gas stops away from being home. We were getting anxious to finally escape the Acura that had turned into a blue cocoon for all of us.
During one of our stops to get gas Sunday and I pooled our change together and had just enough to buy a loaf of bread and a small jar of peanut butter. We were less than 15 hours from home and we felt we could easily survive eating and smelling like peanut butter for the last day in the car.
After filling up with gas, Tim and Beth, whose wallets were stuffed with Sunday’s San Francisco cash, decided to stop at a McDonalds and indulge in a hit of McLunch before heading south. Or so we thought.
Tim and Beth entered McDonald’s while Sunday and I remained in the Acura meekly making our peanut butter sandwiches, struggling to get the little plastic knife to retain its shape as it tried to move through the thick, crunchy peanut butter. We looked up and, instead of finding our travel companions in line to get something to eat, Beth was on the phone talking to her parents.
Her body language and hand gestures were large and expressive as she was conveying her frustration at the current state of our trip. Sunday and I looked on, swallowing our anger along with the peanut butter, as the conversation wore on and on. Minutes turned to over an hour with Beth still on the phone, apparently recounting the entire trip.
I was furious. In the amount of time she spent on the phone talking to her parents we could have been home and she could have told them in person! Each minute that passed while we were in that parking lot was another wasted minute in the 15 or so hours that awaited us on the road. I was so pissed off I could have spit fire.
Sunday and I stewed in the car as two hours passed with Beth talking on the phone to her parents. Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand two hundred seconds… wasted in a McDonalds parking lot in Illinois. Shortly thereafter, Beth finally hung up the phone and, despite my overflowing anger, I was just happy to get back on the road. The sooner we got back home the better.
That’s when things got just a little worse, like pouring salt into an opened wound or, more accurately, slowly pushing a hot iron into your skull through your eye socket. See, after spending two hours on the phone recounting a trip that we had not yet completed, Tim and Beth decided that they wanted to eat something before they left. Could they have eaten while they talked on the phone? Sure. Could they have gotten the food to go so we could get on the road? Sure. But they didn’t. Instead they sat down and ate in the restaurant, the clock ticking, minutes passing, rage building.
At this point, I wanted to be home that instant, utilizing a Star Trekian transporter, if necessary. However, with such technology unavailable to me, Sunday and I just sat, waited and hated.
Monday, July 31, 2006
80th Birthday Party
Saturday we all enjoyed ourselves at my mother's 80th birthday party. We arrived in the morning at my parent's house to visit with my brother John, my brother Paul and his son Jonathan, and my parents. Later that evening John's daughters Laura and Catherine arrived and we all shared a lot of laughs.
That evening we went over to a cabin on the lake at the Hinton Center where my mom was surprised to find her cousins Rusty and Ann had driven all the way down from Massachusetts. My mother was speechless and her eyes full of tears. When you turn 80, there aren't a lot of people still around from your childhood, so the fact that Rusty and Ann made the long trek down just for Mom was a great gift.
Attending the outside party was Dea, Pete, DC, Gabe, John, Laura, Catherine, Paul, Jonathan, Mom and Dad, Rusty and Ann, Stephen, Stephanie, Paul Eric and Jackie, Marie, Charles, Betty, Christina, Jack, Michael, Christopher, Brianna, Andrew, Elizabeth, Chaz, Lisette, Terese, John Paul, Stephen, Maria, Carla, Luis, Bob, Loretta, Mary, Steve, Katie, Brian, Sarah, Luke, Kristy, Robbie, Tyler, Lauren, Peter, Paul and Michelle and Andrew. I think that's everyone. We had a wonderful time and are so grateful for the large family and the love that surrounds us all.
Yesterday we played baseball at a local ball field and later that night made smores around a campfire.
Right this second, Paul is making breakfast (waffles and bacon) and later today my family is driving down to Savannah for the next few days.
I'll upload pics when we get back from vacation.
That evening we went over to a cabin on the lake at the Hinton Center where my mom was surprised to find her cousins Rusty and Ann had driven all the way down from Massachusetts. My mother was speechless and her eyes full of tears. When you turn 80, there aren't a lot of people still around from your childhood, so the fact that Rusty and Ann made the long trek down just for Mom was a great gift.
Attending the outside party was Dea, Pete, DC, Gabe, John, Laura, Catherine, Paul, Jonathan, Mom and Dad, Rusty and Ann, Stephen, Stephanie, Paul Eric and Jackie, Marie, Charles, Betty, Christina, Jack, Michael, Christopher, Brianna, Andrew, Elizabeth, Chaz, Lisette, Terese, John Paul, Stephen, Maria, Carla, Luis, Bob, Loretta, Mary, Steve, Katie, Brian, Sarah, Luke, Kristy, Robbie, Tyler, Lauren, Peter, Paul and Michelle and Andrew. I think that's everyone. We had a wonderful time and are so grateful for the large family and the love that surrounds us all.
Yesterday we played baseball at a local ball field and later that night made smores around a campfire.
Right this second, Paul is making breakfast (waffles and bacon) and later today my family is driving down to Savannah for the next few days.
I'll upload pics when we get back from vacation.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Goin' Out To Cally – Part 58, Twenty-One Wishes
I was pulled from my deep sleep as the Acura jostled over a large bump in the road. I looked over to see Sunday staring out her window at the passing landscape, her eyes looking past her current surroundings to somewhere else, somewhere far away. She seemed sad, but I wasn’t sure why. I could only imagine it was the result of this trip, but I was reluctant to ask.
After a stop at a rest area where we all cleaned up, changed clothes and where I washed my hair in the sink, we continued on. The car was so quiet during this phase of the trip, but the silence had weight, substance. We all gazed out of the windows imagining we were anywhere but here. The stress of the trip was even taking its toll on Tim and Beth. Their allegiance in our game of Survivor was still strong, but even they communicated only when necessary.
Sunday’s melancholy continued as the day wore on. We passed Lake Tahoe and were heading toward Denver, Colorado. Even though the thought of adding more depression to this suicidal trip was too painful to comprehend, I was growing concerned about Sunday and finally asked what was bothering her.
“Today… today is my birthday,” she said quietly.
“Oh…” I said with both surprise and sympathy.
“My twenty-first birthday…” she said even more quietly.
Tim and Beth overheard us. “Wow! Twenty-one!” Tim chimed in, sincerely trying to lighten the mood. “That’s great!” he continued.
I thought quietly to myself… how awful for her. There are so few birthdays in one’s life that have epic value. Any birthday between one and 10 is important, then when you’re 13 you become a teenager, when you’re 15 you can get a driver’s permit, when you’re 16 you can drive on your own, when you’re 17 you can see R-Rated movies, when you’re 18 you can vote and get drafted, and when you’re 21 you can drink legally. Plus, turning 21 is an official kickoff into the long term journey of adulthood. There’s no turning back.
So, we were all depressed and empathetic to Sunday’s dilemma of being forced to celebrate such a momentous occasion in the middle of Colorado in a car full of people she had grown to despise.
The only positive about the event was that it initiated conversation in the car again that did not revolve around the immediate history of this trip, for which we all now hated. Sunday smiled a bit when she mentioned that she and David were going to have a quiet celebration when she returned to Gainesville. It wasn’t much, but it was the only part of the day so far that had given Sunday hope.
Our experience in Eureka had taught us that traveling across the country without a AAA Trip Ticket was not a good idea, so Tim and Beth found a AAA location in a run down mall on the outskirts of Denver. As Sunday and I waited in the car, I heard a little “pop” and found my shirt suddenly dotted with ink. It appeared that a pen in the passenger door compartment exploded from the change of pressure in the mile high city.
Sunday and I looked around the car for unopened soda cans or any other potential explosions. Under the car seat I found one can of Pepsi that had been unopened. Neither the idea of being doused voluntarily by opening the can or involuntarily by it exploding on its own appealed to me, so I exited the car and threw it away.
Just as I was about to reenter the car, I spotted Tim and Beth exiting the mall. When they arrived at the Acura, they pulled out a small stuffed animal and gave it to Sunday.
“I know it’s not a lot,” Tim said, “but, Happy Birthday.”
Sunday was touched, not only from the gift, but more from the sentiment. It shined a little light on the dark cloud that was our trip to Cally. She hugged everyone and thanked them. I was both happy for Sunday and uncomfortable, as the change left in my pocket did not allow me to participate in Sunday’s gift.
But, the important thing was that Sunday was happy, if only for a moment. I’m sure if she were to blow out her twenty-one candles she would include twenty-one wishes of getting home.
Fortunately for her, and us, as we neared Illinois we all knew were only three stops away from returning home.
After a stop at a rest area where we all cleaned up, changed clothes and where I washed my hair in the sink, we continued on. The car was so quiet during this phase of the trip, but the silence had weight, substance. We all gazed out of the windows imagining we were anywhere but here. The stress of the trip was even taking its toll on Tim and Beth. Their allegiance in our game of Survivor was still strong, but even they communicated only when necessary.
Sunday’s melancholy continued as the day wore on. We passed Lake Tahoe and were heading toward Denver, Colorado. Even though the thought of adding more depression to this suicidal trip was too painful to comprehend, I was growing concerned about Sunday and finally asked what was bothering her.
“Today… today is my birthday,” she said quietly.
“Oh…” I said with both surprise and sympathy.
“My twenty-first birthday…” she said even more quietly.
Tim and Beth overheard us. “Wow! Twenty-one!” Tim chimed in, sincerely trying to lighten the mood. “That’s great!” he continued.
I thought quietly to myself… how awful for her. There are so few birthdays in one’s life that have epic value. Any birthday between one and 10 is important, then when you’re 13 you become a teenager, when you’re 15 you can get a driver’s permit, when you’re 16 you can drive on your own, when you’re 17 you can see R-Rated movies, when you’re 18 you can vote and get drafted, and when you’re 21 you can drink legally. Plus, turning 21 is an official kickoff into the long term journey of adulthood. There’s no turning back.
So, we were all depressed and empathetic to Sunday’s dilemma of being forced to celebrate such a momentous occasion in the middle of Colorado in a car full of people she had grown to despise.
The only positive about the event was that it initiated conversation in the car again that did not revolve around the immediate history of this trip, for which we all now hated. Sunday smiled a bit when she mentioned that she and David were going to have a quiet celebration when she returned to Gainesville. It wasn’t much, but it was the only part of the day so far that had given Sunday hope.Our experience in Eureka had taught us that traveling across the country without a AAA Trip Ticket was not a good idea, so Tim and Beth found a AAA location in a run down mall on the outskirts of Denver. As Sunday and I waited in the car, I heard a little “pop” and found my shirt suddenly dotted with ink. It appeared that a pen in the passenger door compartment exploded from the change of pressure in the mile high city.
Sunday and I looked around the car for unopened soda cans or any other potential explosions. Under the car seat I found one can of Pepsi that had been unopened. Neither the idea of being doused voluntarily by opening the can or involuntarily by it exploding on its own appealed to me, so I exited the car and threw it away.
Just as I was about to reenter the car, I spotted Tim and Beth exiting the mall. When they arrived at the Acura, they pulled out a small stuffed animal and gave it to Sunday.
“I know it’s not a lot,” Tim said, “but, Happy Birthday.”
Sunday was touched, not only from the gift, but more from the sentiment. It shined a little light on the dark cloud that was our trip to Cally. She hugged everyone and thanked them. I was both happy for Sunday and uncomfortable, as the change left in my pocket did not allow me to participate in Sunday’s gift.
But, the important thing was that Sunday was happy, if only for a moment. I’m sure if she were to blow out her twenty-one candles she would include twenty-one wishes of getting home.
Fortunately for her, and us, as we neared Illinois we all knew were only three stops away from returning home.
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