There was the party in a town north of here, in a house not unlike the ones we lived in and moved between on a fixed annual cycle. At the party, some of my cousins, the girl cousins, the ones all just a few years older than I were planning a road trip. It was just to be a quick trip to Tijuana. One day, round trip. They hadn’t been in a while, and I had never been, and it became very important to them that the trip should happen, and that I should go.
But when the moment came to leave on the trip, the people who went were not me and my cousins. A fellow I used to work with was on the sofa at the back of the room, seated, talking with some other people who I knew I was friendly with, or even more friendly than friendly acquaintances, though I couldn’t quite make out their faces.
This fellow explained that, sure, anyone could to to Tijuana and come back in a quick one day round trip. But only he knew the best route to get there the best way, and the trip would be better if he drove, and we all piled into his car which was both a fifteen person van and a sports car that could make the 697 mile trip from northern Michigan in just an hour or whatever he promised.
When we got to Arkansas, we picked up the girl we knew we needed to make the trip a success. It was the plan, and she was doing her part of the plan by talking to a state trooper who she had stopped to make sure he wasn’t keeping an eye open for us. And the fellow drove like he drove, and didn’t change his way of driving, and he drove between the state trooper and the girl we needed, and he drove so fast that her pants flew off, and rode the breeze above the road and settled neatly on the road barrier next to the state trooper. A two-legged sun yellow banner, its work done, resting with might by the side of the road.
And shortly after that, we drove off a cliff.
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