The Trip -- Part III

I've got to get this thing finished! I'm going to be 80 and still writing about the multiplicity of tumultuous events from the trip... (A few big words, just for you, Kitty...)

Ok... so where did I leave off?

Oh, yeah -- the crazy axe murderer.

So... we finally leave the garage in Clinton, home of Elvis Pressley Boulevard (which, by the way, is a scraggly residential side street that, if I remember correctly, eventually becomes a dirt road...), and we're hungry. We start out following the directions of the man at the garage...and we get a little lost.

I know we are in serious crap when Bess chooses to turn around on Elvis Pressley Boulevard.

It was a sign. An omen, even. I swear.

And, no, I didn't misspell the street name. That's it... two S's. Another omen. I mean, I love Jimmy Buffett... and I cannot ever remember how to spell his name (except that I just googled it)... but I'm also not naming my street after him... with his name misspelled. If I only had a red Sharpie... I would've corrected that road sign... even if Lisa Marie and the rest of the clan came after me with shotguns and PB & banana sandwiches...

We finally get back to what looks like a familiar interstate road after turning around in Priscilla's front yard. A few miles down the road, we discover an exit with a McDonald's and stop.

Lunch passes with no issues other than those to be expected when you try to take six kids to McDonald's during lunch rush hour, but those things are oddly reassuring after the morning's adventures.

We get back on the road.

Have I mentioned that it's hot? Like make-you-see-mirages-in-the-desert kind of hot.

It's about this time -- somewhere in the vicinity of Camden, I think, but at this point, I think I've started blocking out the memories, so I'm not 100% sure -- that disaster strikes.

Again.

I'm in the car with Bess; Kel is driving my car; Megan and Teri are sipping sweet tea on the patio of the condo that the rest of us will never see. In Bess's van, we're steadily watching the air pressure computation from her amazing MV console screen, and it's going down.

We're concerned, but like educated adults, we're discussing our options when -- WHAM! BAM! THUT-THUT-THUT!

Holy cow! I'm thinking, "The axe murderer has pulled a Robert DeNiro, and attached himself to the bottom of the van, consequently hitching a ride to Cape Fear, I mean, Litchfield where he was going to slice us to ribbons... but apparently he accidentally let go and we ran over him."

A check of the rearview mirror.

No body.

All the while, it sounds like we are dragging Shamu down a 220 degree road in Nowhere, SC.

So we pull over.

We look at all the tires.... nothing.

We look up..... down.... all around.... nothing....

"Wait! It's this thing!" Bess exclaims, peering down at something hidden from my site by the twelve-foot blades of grass and swarm of locusts/grasshoppers/giant mosquitoes that apparently inhabit this lovely stretch of highway and never get fed but are thrilled by my pudgy, pale arrival.

Me: "What is it?"

Bess: "This panel thing. This happened when we went to the beach. We just
pulled it off and drove on."

(Kelley is on hands and knees, apparently immune to the forty lb. mosquitoes that are doing drive-bys around my head, assessing the situation. It seems that some panel -- the identity of which I still am not sure -- has become partially detached from the underside of the grill.)

Now, in my mind, I'm thinking that pulling major pieces off of the MV is maybe not a great idea considering the tire situation... but hey -- at this point, why not?

Our other option: we can call a tow truck, land a sizzzlin' hot hunk of sweaty redneck man with major butt cleavage, and spend our afternoon in Hell.

Pull that mug off, and let's go. If all of the innards of the Quest are going to fall out in the middle of the highway, maybe they'll wait until we get to a populated area so as to decrease the likelihood of being eaten by ravenous redneck cannibals.

So, with a large piece of the front underside of the van resting peacefully in the trunk of the van, we pull back on the road... just in time to start looking for an exit with a tire shop, as the tire pressure has just dipped below 30.

Part IV tomorrow....