June 15, 2005

• Final Minutes

  It’s late afternoon on a sultry Tuesday as our rented Dodge Caravan
  closes in on home.  I'm the vacation’s designated driver; now a master of about 18% of all the vehicle’s buttons, dials,
  gages and levers (tallied at 67 by the kids before they got tired of
  counting).   We're at a soap opera moment, and key to today's drama is Ms.
  Sick, who’s been
  fighting a fever and worsening sore throat for two days and has just
  thrown up copiously (a mini-catastrophe expertly managed  by my
  mother, armed with paper towels, brisk
  efficiency and sunny sympathy).  Ms. Sick's sister, Ms.
  SickOfSitting, has perfected the art of trapping an air bubble in her silly putty and
  popping it like a firecracker.  The fifth occupant is
  an older gentleman whose identity we’ll fully protect by naming him
  merely Mr. BackSeatDriver. I’m nearing the apex of a spiraling
  tension that began this morning somewhere around Indianapolis, when I
  phoned Ms. Sick’s doctor and set an appointment for 4 pm.  375
  miles of construction, bathroom stops, lunch breaks and gas stations
  later, we’re about forty-five miles from the doctor and it’s almost
  three.  We've just passed a mini-metropolis with 25 stoplights
  on the only thoroughfare.  There is a half-completed bypass.  Mom and I mull
  over the Hobson’s choice and lose.  A semi blocks the detour back to the
  main route, and our spedometer's at creep speed.  

  
  Ms. SickOfSitting:  [cracking her silly putty] POP.  Are we lost in a cornfield yet?
  Mom:  Looks more like lost in a residential district.
  
  Ms. SOS:  [singsong] Lost in a residential district, lost in a
  residential district, lost in a residential district, tee hee hee hee
  HEEEEEE [shrill screech]
  
  Ms. Sick:  [coughing rawly] Kah, kah, kah, kaaaaggghhh.

  
  Mom leaps up with the paper towels.  False alarm.

  
  Mr. BackSeatDriver: [waking up from a lengthy snooze and taking a
  gander outside] Do you mean to tell me you took the BYPASS instead of
  going THROUGH?  When I said you’d make the appointment I was
  thinking you’d go THROUGH.
  Me:  [something tense and snide]
  
  Mr. BSD:  [acrid rejoinder]
  Me:  [something raw and tear-filled]
  
  Ms. SOS:  POP.
  
  Mr. BSD:  [mild apology]

  
  We make it back to the  highway and I put us behind
  a Taurus exceeding the speed limit (theory:  the cops’ll go for
  the
  leader).  The ocean- liner-sized thunderhead overhead turns black
  at the edges, and lightning streaks down in a nearby windbreak. 
  Simultaneously a warning buzzer thrums behind the steering wheel.

  Me:  Oh, shit, we need gas.  
  Mom:  [an "it'll be okay because I say it is" tone]  We have enough.

  The clock reads 3:35.  Two more strikes of lightning shatter the
  near horizon.  I press down the gas pedal and turn off the air.

  
  Mr. BSD:  It’s exactly 23 minutes from here in GOOD weather.
  Me:  [sotto voce] How does he know?
  Mom:  [nervously] He doesn’t.

  
  A microburst buffets the van.  The trees along the two-lane are
  leaning sideways and even on highest power the windowscreen is almost
  opaque in the downpour.  A sapling crashes across the other
  lane.  We edge into a small town.  All the stoplights are
  out.  I stick to the bumper in front of me as a fire truck screams
  out of a side road. 

  
  Ms. SOS:  Whoa, it's a firetruck!  [sets up a rhythm] Firetruck,
  firetruck!  POP.  Firetruck, firetruck, firetruck,
  firetruck……..

  She doesn’t break pace, even as Mom bursts suddenly into song in her clear soprano.

  Mom: Oh, the E-righ-ee
  was a' risin', and the gin was a gittin' lo-o-oww.  And I scarcely
  think we'll get a drink 'til we get to Buffalo-o-o, 'til we get to
  Buffalo.  LOW bridge, everybody down, low bridge, everybody down,
  low bridge….
  Me:  Nice harmony.
  Mom:  Thanks.
  
  Ms. SOS:  Except for the ‘firetruck’ part.  TeeheeheeHEEEE.

  
  The van sways and  the rain pours down blindingly.  It’s 3:42.

  Me:  Can you make a call on my cell?

  
  Mom, a bit of a Luddite on the personal technology front,  pulls
  the phone gingerly from my purse with two fingers.  She does appear to
  be holding it right side up.

  Mom:  How do I turn it on?
  Me:  It's on.  Just push numbers…. 5-9-….
  Mom:  How do I talk into this thing?

  Me:  Just talk.  Talk loudly.
  Mom:  HELLO?  HELLO?  I’M CALLING ABOUT MS. SICK WITH A
  4 O’CLOCK?  WE’RE TRYING TO GET THROUGH THIS DREADFUL STORM AND
  WE’RE ALMOST THERE.  CAN WE BE A LITTLE LATE?

  
  I glance sideways.  She’s got the phone pressed to her ear and the
  other hand is cupped around her mouth as if shouting down a well. 

  Mom:  How do I turn this off?
  Me:  What did they say?
  Mom:  4:10 or we shouldn’t bother.
  Me:  Okay.

  
  It’s 4:01.  I take the first exit.  The rain is pelting
  slightly less severely.  Some asshole in front of me is going the
  speed limit.  I’m on his bumper, and when he slows to turn off I
  nearly plow into him.  It’s 4:04.

  
  Mr. BSD:  You’ll never make it.

  
  I turn onto a back route.  The van heads down a vertical residential
  street with parked cars on either side.  I notice Mom’s hand,
  clenched on her seat, is white-knuckled.  I trust that the van’s anti-lock break system doesn’t require activating Button
  #68.    Even Ms. SOS is
  silent.  We go temporarily airborne over a rise.

  Mom:  [under her breath] Wheee.

  The light at the base of the hill turns yellow.  I floor it.

  Me:  [careening through back lots] Okay, I’m going to put it
  in park and run to your side.  You unlock the door and unbuckle
  Ms. Sick.  We’ll go in and you guys get gas.
  
  Mom:  Right.
  
  Ms. SOS:  Oh, NO.  I’m not staying in the car.
  Me:  Oh, yes, you are.
  
  Ms. SOS:  Oh NO I’m not.
  Me:  Fine.  Get out then.

  
  The clock hits 4:10.  I come to a quick halt, punch the parking
  brake, and leap into the soft rain.  I pull Ms. Sick from her
  seat.  Ms. SOS shoots out of the car, then, remembering her silly
  putty, starts to go after it.  All three adults instantly lash out
  at the top of their lungs.  She ejects herself again, wild-eyed.
  
  
  
  We dash off the elevator at 4:11.  The kids and I stare white-faced around the empty room. 

  The receptionist smiles calmly and re-opens her window.
  
  
  Postscript:  Mr. BSD (not, incidentally, my spouse) is a well-loved member of the
  family whose many good qualities are sacrificed here on the alter of good 
  tale-telling.

  • 12:03 pm
  • 14 Comments