Last year, a friend and I were about 100 miles outside of Charleston, S.C., jacked up on Bojangles' sweet tea, when my Fall Break dreams splattered across the windshield like a swarm of fat flies.
Yes, I had Fall Break dreams, big dreams. Who didn't? The fantasy of cruising in a Jeep Wagoneer, brimming with college kids wearing fleeces and golden retrievers wearing fleeces, raced through my veins. So what if my fall road trip ideals came out of the backwoods of Maine, where they had photo shoots for mail-order catalogues that sold nothing but corduroys? Like you've never had those thoughts, too.
Well, you know what happens to dreamers like me? They get really lost. At 2 in the morning we rolled into the parking lot of Starvin' Marvin's convenience store, which apparently housed every hot-boxing car that looked like it was just dragged out of the boony swamps. My mother's words reverberated in my head: Stopping at a gas station for directions in the middle of the night is like asking to be tied up with beef jerky and stuffed into some sketchball's trunk.
I said a silent prayer over my leftover Cajun fries that I would make it to Charleston alive. I asked forgiveness for the debauchery of all those college nights, and promised that if I lived, I'd never again
well, never was such as strong word.
Suddenly, I witnessed a shady plastic baggy pass-off between two motorcycle hot-rodders who had painted on their pants with liquid leather. The biker duo went across the street to the Hess Express to complete the deal. Surely they'd be back to take me away to some dank basement, where they'd bandana my head and make me watch "Easy Rider." Then they'd duct tape me for days next to speakers that had "Born to be Wild" on repeat. Ahhh, the torture! It's been known to happen.
I then realized that in order to survive the open road, I must be resourceful. So, like a barroom brawler who's just smashed a row of stools and drunk a handle of bourbon, I grabbed an empty glass bottle off the floorboard. It was a mini, non-fat, vanilla frappuccino bottle
-- compact, yet sturdy. And if they really wanted a piece of me, I had a mocha one coming right behind it. Yeah, I was tough. Real tough. I was 5 feet 3 inches of steel and born with a whale motif on my belt. For full effect I might as well have shouted, "Goonies never die!" Then the bloodshot bug eyes of the loiterers of Starvin' Marvin's Quickie Mart would have really quivered in their sockets.
Yet picking fights with the locals was on the top of my "Things Not to Do on Fall Break" list. Furthermore, I was struck by a series of crazy revelations. Yes, I finally admitted, I was not brave. I was small. I was small and afraid, and I overused the word "sketchy."
The confession poured out like the smoke did from the mouth of the crusty Starvin' Marvin's employee. That's what happens when you're lingering in the neon haze of a convenience store parking lot in the dead of night.
"This is beyond sketchy!" I whispered to my friend, who had become entranced by a display of crab pots for sale. Here we were, faced with our pending doom, and she had the time to contemplate catching crustaceans. I figured she must be delusional from something Starvin' Marvin's had pumped into the air.
I tore her away from the storefront display and we sped off into the night. When my friend began to nod off at the wheel, I cried for her not to leave me, and stuffed a tootsie-pop in her mouth for energy. Who knew you could put so much faith into the caramel chocolatey chew center.
We had to stay awake. It was now 4 a.m., and we were lost. Still lost.
When signs for Savannah, instead of Charleston, started appearing, it was time to break into the last of the Bojangles' sweet tea supply. It had been so good to us.
But I knew there was one, and only one, thing that could really keep us awake on this desolate highway. We reached for the higher power that had once kept Fall Break-ers of generations past staying alive: disco music.
I couldn't believe it had come to this: the Bee Gees, ABBA. We had sunk so low. And as Jackson Five belted out their songs, I thought of the mini-Michael, before the nose reconstruction and the Neverland Ranch scandals. Mini Michael was little, yet mighty, and the kid could dance.
Mini Michael. Mini me. I got inspired and took the drivers seat, and reminded the world that under no circumstance, should you ever let a small girl who's had too much sweet tea behind the wheel at 4 a.m. The power of the engine revved my blood, and soon I saw the city lights as my final revelation dawned on me.
It didn't matter that I was small. What really mattered on the open road was the size your engine, and the bullet I was driving packed a V-8 engine. I had discovered the great equalizer. I beat them all -- the big burly truckers, the packs of motorcycle men and, of course, the police.
Then I said a silent thank you for Fall Break, a thank you for fast cars, and a final thank you for my little lead foot that brought us all the way to Charleston.
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