OCR Text |
Show accompanied by a more elaborate string of expletives. The narrow Boston roads made my dad nervous. How to navigate a camper the size of a barn through streets built for horses. While the colonists revealed a level of short sightedness only apparent to my father, my mom and I laughed each time we failed to be in the right lane for the tunnel. Finally, we found the highway and its twentieth century widths, though the traffic made the pavement seem less abundant. In order to get enough sleep to drive through the night, my father reluctantly turned the wheel over to Scott and headed for the back. For a few minutes, we resumed our Winnie-on-the-road occupations. My mom and I sat at the kitchen table and played gin while Scott and Bryan sang to Love and Rockets and watched the pale Bostonian drivers work to pass the giant camper. The dark green curtains gently swayed with the movement of the Winnie, pulling on their plastic tethers like dogs considering a break for freedom. The silence didn't last long. Scott wasn't driving the way my dad wanted, not fast enough or slow enough or gentle enough, and soon my father came striding up from the back, rubbing his eyes against the afternoon light, yelling for Scott to get out of the driver's seat. Four long steps and he made it to the front. Get out, he said, now. But Morris Dad, we are Now. In the middle of the highway, cars all around us, Scott left the steering wheel like he might his jacket, the driver's seat empty, the Winnie careening madly down the road. When my dad went to grab the steering wheel he tripped on a shoe and fell. From the 200 |