Summer Road Block

Family road trips are suspossed to bring families closer. Until you want to kill them.

Summer Road Block

         The annual pilgrimage from Des Moines, Iowa to Cody, Wyoming, is not merely a vacation; it is a test of marital endurance and genetic sanity. My parents, in their infinite optimism, decided that stuffing seven human beings and a suitcase of snacks into a single, aging minivan was an exercise in "family bonding." With five children ranging from "loud" to "vibrating with erratic energy," our departure usually resembles a disorganized military retreat.

         The trouble began approximately forty miles outside of Des Moines, when the minivan made a sound reminiscent of a blender chewing on a wrench. It wasn't a catastrophic explosion, but rather a rhythmic thwack-hiss that signaled our engine was nearing its breaking point. Dad, ever the stoic, turned up the radio and insisted it was "just a leaf in the radiator." It was not a leaf.

         By the time we hit the Nebraska border, our GPS, a device possessed by a digital demon with a grudge against humanity, decided it preferred the scenic route. We were "lost" in a technical sense, then "lost" in a geographical sense, and by the time we hit the third wrong turn in a town that consisted of one gas station and a very confused goat, we were simply "geographically embarrassed."

         The second engine failure occurred near the Wyoming border. Steam billowed from the hood like a vengeful dragon, and we spent the night in a motel that smelled faintly of damp carpet and regret. The next morning, we checked out, packed the kids, and drove three painstaking hours toward Cody. That was when Mom reached into her purse to pay for lunch and realized the motel clerk still had our primary credit card.

         "Turn around," she whispered.

         "We are not turning around," Dad gritted through teeth clenched so tightly they threatened to crack.

         "There is no 'we,' Dave. There is only a card with our entire vacation budget on it, sitting on a laminate counter three hundred and fifty miles behind us."

         The drive back was silent, save for the youngest, who had discovered that screaming sounds exactly like a dying hawk. After retrieving the card and suffering through a second night in the same motel, the clerk looked at us with a mixture of pity and confusion, we set out again. We were determined. We were focused. We were fueled by pure, unadulterated spite.

         We reached the twenty-mile mark, the final stretch of our odyssey. I could almost smell the mountain air. Then, the inevitable happened: a massive road block. A bridge was out, or perhaps a localized apocalypse, but there was no getting through. The detour sign pointed us toward a dirt path that looked like it hadn't seen a vehicle since the Gold Rush. Three hours of dusty, bone-rattling driving later, we finally rolled into the outskirts of Cody.

         We pulled into Aunt Sarah’s driveway, the minivan steaming like a marathon runner, the suspension groaning in agony. We piled out, bruised, smelling of stale Cheetos and despair, ready for the warm embrace of family. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked louder. Silence. Finally, Mom pulled out her phone and dialed.

         "Sarah? We’re here. We’re in your driveway. We’ve been here for three days. Where are you?"

         There was a pause at the other end, followed by the sound of ice clinking in a glass. "Oh, honey! We thought you meant next week! We drove down to Des Moines this morning to surprise you guys with your annual visit. We’re sitting on your front porch right now."

         Dad looked at the minivan, which was now leaking a mysterious, neon-green fluid onto the driveway, then looked at the silent house, and finally at us, his five hostages. He didn't scream. He didn't cry. He simply sat down on the curb, leaned his head against the hot bumper, and pulled out his phone to order a pizza.

         We had traveled over a thousand miles, endured two engine failures, three navigational catastrophes, and a circular trip that would have made Homer weep, only to trade places with the people we were trying to visit. As the sunset over the mountains, casting a golden light on our miserable, stationary van, I realized that this wasn't just a vacation. It was a masterpiece of incompetence, and honestly, I wouldn't have had it any other way. We were stranded, broke, and exhausted in the middle of Wyoming, and for the first time in three days, nobody was asking "Are we there yet?" because, technically, we were nowhere at all.

Word Count: 756
Prompt: Summer Road Block