The only things left to break are records.
Speed and volume.
We left the desert in the dust back around noon and the children are starting to act like victims of a kidnapping. They've been allowed to read too many books.
"When I was your age I stared out the fucking window!"
Even when I point at things, nobody seems to give a shit. Nobody appreciates the scenery, or the small animals you sometimes see on the side, perched on claw-tips, staring, waiting, wondering—caught between heading back home with an empty belly and making a break for it across the pavement.
Nobody even cares about the time we're making.
"It's tough to love the road unless you're driving," she says, like it's a universal dictum. "And it's impossible for anyone if you're driving."
I cant even threaten to turn the thing around anymore. I scream: "DO YOU NOT LIKE THE MUSIC?"
This is what everybody wanted. We talked about it and discussed alternatives in detail. It's not my fault all roads led away, but suddenly it's my fault we're driving? What happened to commitment? What happened to excitement? What happened to taking responsibility?
There's no justice when someone's buying power is invoked.
Yours or theirs.
The sign on every gas station we've passed since breakfast has been either framed or backed in red, white and blue. But I havent seen a cop since nine Tuesdays ago.
"Lets stop somewhere with a pool," she says.
And so we do. The kids cant wait to get into their bags. I should spend more time cleaning out the car before tomorrow's leg, but I'd rather find a towel and a room service menu and just get on with things here, where we are. She said she was going for ice but that was an hour ago.
I'm on the porch when the door bursts open.
"Did you see the view?" they shout. "And the diving board is ten feet high!"
I've been working on a new meal prayer lately, mulling it over on the road, and I show it to them to see what they think so far.
But what they really want to do is have me throw them in the water, and that was the whole point anyway. It's not the first time I close the notebook up unfinished, and it won't be the last. You have to keep a little something for tomorrow if you can handle putting it away.
We need something to take the edge off the teeth in pursuit.
We're building distance.