A Crappy Roadtrip

A *somewhat* comedic short of a spin-off of my first road trip. (The idea of the road trip did happen, but the plot/story itself is mostly fiction.) An older piece of mine that I attempted to fix up!

I was surrounded by dry, dusty dirt that was the color of freshly baked burnt chocolate chip cookies. The wind could easily blow it -- bending it, breaking it and throwing the lifeless powder to its own accord. To my left were rocky, inexpressive hills with little amounts of gray, dead foliage. To my right was the same, yet instead of being speckled with lifeless plants, it was dotted with a plethora of different monotone-colored rocks -- ranging from brown, white, black, and other boring, gray-scaled pigments. These rocks made the sky, painted a light blue, “pop” from the background, seeming more as a work of art than that of nature’s natural beauty. In fact, if one looked close enough, you could probably see the brush strokes of a talented artist in the white, fluffy clouds.

We were driving down a narrow, deserted road, unpopulated by neither humans nor animals. The cool rush of air from the car’s conditioning system felt nice blowing upon my face, unaffected by the one hundred eighteen degree heat of the blistering summer’s day outside. Our backs, buttocks, and overall frame of our bodies became sore from the same sitting position we were trapped in for hours. Nevertheless, we trudged, or rather sat, through it all; an uncle we had never met before wanted my family to come to Arizona to say hello.

Incidentally, the radio had stopped working, and we were listening to a constant string of static. Earlier last year, my mother had lost the car’s antenna in a drive-thru car wash, and ever since, we have been listening to a select number of stations occasionally washed over by small waves of “CHHH CHHH.” Unfortunately for us, none of these stations were accessible while surrounded by towering hills in a desolate desert.

CHHHH CHHHHH

“I’m just going to listen to my own music. Can you plug in my charger?” I asked my mother, who sat in the passenger seat of the van.

She responded with a “Sure,” accompanied by a nod. She reached behind her and took the long black cord I had handed her.

CHHHHH CHHHH

“Me too, please!” Exclaimed my sister, obviously annoyed by the constant static.

This time, my mother did not respond, yet reached back once again and took hold of Renee’s white charger.

“Thanks,” her and I both said in unison, fitting the heads of the earbuds in our ears.

Similarly irritated by the static, my dad took his right hand off the wheel and shut off the car’s radio station.

Soon after four, perhaps five, long songs that made the time seem to pass quicker, the car began to slow. Almost as if in a “Looney Tunes” or Disney cartoon, the car sputtered its last remaining fuel supply and came to a complete stop.

An “Uh-oh” could be heard from under my dad’s breath, followed by hands lightly slapping the rubber of the steering wheel.

“I guess I forgot to put some gas in before we left,” he suggested, scratching his head with the tip of his pointer finger.

Exasperated, I thought to myself, “ ‘Ya think?!” Yet I kept my rude comments to myself, because I’m a nice person.

“I’d say so,” said my mom, tightly pursing her lips -- a sign of irritation that only my immediate family knew.

“There’s no need to panic, guys,” reassured my dad. My father has a habit of refilling the tank at the last minute, which meant that everyone knew what to do.

However, this comment was not so true. The whole ordeal wouldn’t have been too terrible, if not for my ill-timed, troublesome need to take a crap.

Everyone got out of the bluish-gray van and proceeded to the back of the car, which seemed to be grinning at the whole debacle through its taillights and back bumper. Luckily for my noodle arms, fear of public humiliation, and inconvenient bowel movements, the closest gas station wasn’t too far down the road, and there were townspeople that eventually helped us.

Once we neared the town, a small, white car, noticeably a hand-me-down by its dirty, ramshackled appearance, pulled over to the side of the road. A well-built young man, probably in his early 20’s, got out of the driver's side car and asked if we needed assistance. Thanks to him and a few other people down the road, I was able to walk alongside the car instead of pushing it (or rather touching it, while other people pushed).

As soon as we got to the station, I quickly ran to the restroom as fast as my short, stubby legs could take me. After sprinting a few yards, I thought to myself: “Man, am I out of shape, or what?” My sides were cramping, my heart was beating way too fast, and I had only reached the front door. I proceeded to briskly walk to the restroom, which happened to be the farthest room from the entrance.

“Finally! I’ve made it!” I thought to myself, filled with triumph and poop. I turned the corner of the disgusting, dimly-lit convenient store into the hallway, where the putrid stench of the restroom filled my nostrils. I stopped dead in my tracks, and my heart fell out of my chest, most likely past the cement floor and down into the gates of hell -- there was a line for the restroom I desperately needed to be in five minutes ago.

A line of fidgeting men and women, all doing the potty dance and holding their bladders, buttocks, or all of the above. All waiting for the blue, postered door of the single, one person restroom to be unlocked from the inside (because some idiot had locked it from the inside, and the man at the counter couldn’t find the key).

I should probably rewind a bit to explain how I got into this messy, crappy situation to begin with. Here goes:

Last summer, my mom proposed the idea of a short, simple, one-day road trip. Having never been before, simply the thought of the entire thing made me ecstatic, to say the least. The night before the trip was to happen, I couldn’t sleep. Due to the anxious/excited energy that stay pent up inside of me, I stayed awake and pulled an all-nighter. When the day finally came, I ended up packing the entire kitchen, my room, and everything else I could get my hands on into the van. If I weren’t paying attention, I’d probably have packed my dog and cat in a luggage, as well. After what seemed like ages, the car finally made a low growl, shaking a bit before getting started.

Once we finally reached the freeway, I put in my brand new, white Apple earbuds, despite having a Samsung smartphone. To kick off the ride, I turned on a Spotify album named “Indie Pop-Rock” with the description of “Perfect for a Roadtrip!” under the title. Listening to Matt Corby, Birdy, East Love Music, and other various bands I’ve never heard of, I put on my Snuggie, put my seat back, became filled with content, and enjoyed the view that others might call unsightly. At the time, it was perfect: brown dirt reminding me how far from home we were, a clear, blue sky unpolluted from the car smog, street lights, and any other aspects of suburban life, and hills that were especially photogenic to an artsy boy looking for his place in nature. Granted I was listening to a good-vibes-only kind of soundtrack, it was everything I ever hoped for, and more.

After a while, my sister proposed an idea: “Why not listen to some White people music?”

We responded with “alrights” and “okays,” unashamed of our cringey whiteness.

She proceeded to play “Don’t Stop Believin’,” “Sweet Caroline,” “Come on, Eileen,” “Sweet Home Alabama,” “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” and any other songs you might relate to as “White People Music,” all of which was sung along to with no regret whatsoever.

Good things do have their limit, though. Soon after our singing, the many Netflix episodes of “Supernatural,” and the same boring scenery, my head started hurting from motion sickness, my back started aching from sitting in the same position, and I began to fidget; I don’t usually like spending lots of time in the same cramped area for too long. To my horror, I began to feel the urge to pee, which, quite frankly, was not possible in a moving car. After all, despite all my packing, I could not fit the toilet in the trunk. The urge to pee soon turned into something even worse: the urge to poop. The next exit wasn’t for a while, so I kept quiet about it, said a few prayers, and tried to forget the crappy feelings I had. An hour later, the car started screaming at us, beeping and beeping and beeping and never stopping. Then, it started to slow.

Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on the way you think about it), there was no one in sight, which meant no one was there to run us over when we got out. However, that also meant my college tuition wouldn´t be paid for by a stranger who hit me. Shame.

Anyways, fortunately for me and my puny body, the gas station was no longer too far, so we were able to get there fairly quickly.

After running to the bathroom and finding a line of people waiting at a locked door, I ran up to the man at the counter and was the twelfth person to tell him that the restroom was locked. He replied with a monotone, uninterested sigh,¨I’m waiting for my coworker to show up.¨

By this time, my food baby was way past delivery; my water must have broken ages ago, because my stomach felt like a war was going on inside, and people were trying to break through the front door (if you know what I mean). By good fortune (or my ugly, aching face), the old man, middle-aged white woman, and other people standing in line all allowed me to go first. By the time I left the restroom, I felt like a new man who lost 5 pounds and gained a new sense of self-accomplishment. I thanked the people in line and apologized for the pleasant aromas that might be waiting inside.

Looking back, I realized that I’ve learned quite a few things:

• ALWAYS use the restroom before road trips

• One will never be prepared for the “battles within”

• Road trips make for great experiences

NEVER return to the San Simon Rest Stop restroom, in case it still reeks of my adventures.

Author's Note

Any feedback is greatly appreciated! I'm aware it may be a bit choppy since it's one of my older ones. Feel free to butcher me with comments/suggestions!

Reviews

[SRMarx]

You have a lot of interesting and funny ideas here. I'd try organizing it around a theme or central conflict. You have your narrator list a few things he learns at the end. I'd probably hint them at the beginning.

[Quisby]

Thank you for the review =) I'm not too sure on how to organize it, however? Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated! If you can, could you also review my other short story? Thanks!!