A story of my first road trip.
As I stuffed my skateboard and a handful of bikinis into my Element backpack, my eyes rolled across the photos on my bedroom wall. Postcards of pink and orange sunsets reflected in rippling waves, interrupted by black silhouettes of palm trees. Ripped out magazine pages of surfers hanging ten and riding in picturesque barrels. It was finally happening. Only 2,012 miles stood between me and the place of my dreams; Southern California (queue the theme song from The O.C.).
My sister was helping her girlfriend move back to San Clemente, where she’d stay for the three months of her college summer break. I somehow convinced my parents that I needed to skip school for two weeks and tag along.
There I was; I had passed my driver’s license test two weeks prior; I had just gotten my braces taken off and I was busting out of my hellhole of a hometown. I was a new girl starting her new life – and when I said new life, I meant two weeks of freedom before going back to my grey dungeon of a high school.
We had a 2003 Toyota Camry, with a pink butterfly decal on the back window, packed and busting at the seems. We had a snack station in the back seat, complete with a cooler and a litter box. Yes, that’s right. A litter box. Ericka insisted that she take her cat back to California with her for the summer break. Now, maybe someone, in the history of the universe, has had a super-smooth-no-problem road trip that included a cat in the car.
I can assure you, this isn’t one of those stories.
We left my podunk town in Wisconsin in the wee hours of the morning. I was in the passenger seat, navigating the maps (this was before common peasants, like us, had phones with GPS). My sister, Elyse, was rocking the captain position in the driver’s seat, and Ericka was snackmaster and cat wrangler in the back. The plan was to drive straight through, alternating driver’s every few hours. We were set and I was ready to have the best road trip of my life.
Until we got to Iowa.
When we crossed the Mississippi River into Iowa, we had a decent understanding of where we were going. The sun was shyly arriving over the tree tops and illuminating the first day of the road trip. It was time for some tunes. As I rummaged through my backpack to find my iPod, I told everyone about the perfect road trip playlist I had constructed. I had spent hours compiling songs about California and adventures that would set the scene for our epic trip. Immediately, my sister turned pale. She had the look of a captain that was, quite literally, going down with their ship. Something was wrong. Within seconds, a thousand worse-case-scenarios flipped through my head, like a teenager trying to find something to watch on daytime cable television.
“You didn’t,” I demanded in disbelief. “You seriously forgot it?”
All she did was nod.
Before the days of a auxiliary inputs or Bluetooth in cars, we only had iPod docks that mildly worked when hooked up through the cigarette lighter. They were the only things that kept us sane from the repetition of awfully written pop songs on the radio. And, my sister forgot it.
Fail number one.
After seven hours of listening to the radio, we couldn’t take it anymore. As our journey deepened into rural America, the only clear radio stations were the 24 Hour Preaching Network and a slew of country stations that all seemed to play the same four songs. When Live Like You Were Dying by Tim McGraw came on for the tenth time in two hours, Ericka begged me to look through the glove compartment. She had high hopes that a CD might have been left in there from when her parents owned the car. I ransacked the glovebox in desperation, throwing expired insurance cards around like money in a rap video. Just as I was about to lose hope, my hands landed on what I thought was our saving grace. Two CDs. Journey’s Greatest Hits and Top 25 Christmas Songs.
The 90 degree weather had a say in what CD we chose. There’s something about a hot, Nebraskan summer that doesn’t scream Christmas jingles.
If you’re wondering how many times we heard Don’t Stop Believing between Lincoln, Nebraska and Denver, Colorado, it’s eight times. Eight freaking times. I think Journey was taking a toll on Maddie, the cat, just as much as it was us. Every semi that passed us, sent Maddie up the headrest of the passenger seat shaking and meowing.
Have you ever tried going through a fast food drive through with a cat that is convinced she’s being held hostage and forced to endure sound torture? It’s not easy. I could only crack the window about an inch, otherwise Maddie would try to make a break for it. She had her paws over the top of the window, using all of her might in attempt to flatten herself and slide through the small gap. I was trying to order everyone’s coffee over the screeching and hissing, while holding the cat whose space perception was seriously lacking. To say the McDonald’s worker was confused, and concerned, would be an understatement.
Fail number two.
As we meandered through the heart of the Rocky Mountains, our complaints of sore butts, Maddie’s death claws and Journey had subsided. We were in awe of the stunning peaks and gushing rivers. There was so much beauty around us; nothing could be wrong or upsetting. We pulled off at a wayside above a river nestled in a canyon. Ericka had Maddie on a leash, leading and babying her around the rocks. Elyse and I were taking pictures, brushing our teeth, and gearing up for the second day of our road trip. The second day was going to be smoother. It had to be smoother. As we said our goodbyes to our cozy little rest area, we threw our toiletries in the trunk.
I started to slam the trunk shut when something startled me.
As if in slow motion, Elyse shouted, “No, don’t shut it!” when the trunk slipped from my hands. Just then, and only then, did it dawn on me. The keys were still in the ignition. All four doors were shut. All four doors were locked, and the only way into the car was closing at an alarming speed.
I selflessly threw my hand under the lip of the trunk, using my own body as a barrier to keep our last hope from latching. My moment of heroism was short lived when we realized we still had to get through the back of the seats to actually get into the car.
Here we were, in middle of the mountains, with no cellphone reception, at that strange hour of the night where no one is on the road. And, our keys were locked in the car.
Fail number three.
After some inspection, we discovered one of the seat latches that held half of the back seats upright was busted. We were able to push the back of the seat forward, into the car. “See! No big deal!” I exclaimed in excitement.
As the words finished exiting my mouth, the back of the seat abruptly stopped declining. Something was blocking it.
The snack-station was standing in the way of our break-in. The cooler only allowed the seat to decline a few inches, making it impossible for any normal, human arm to squeeze through. The three of us stood in the darkness of the night, staring at the locked car, and looking at our phones with no cell reception. Maddie’s nervous meows echoed through the empty canyon, as if she was singing the song of our woes.
To Be Continued….
The story continues with Part ll
