Breakin Ankles

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Road Tripping

This past weekend, me and a comrade in arms decided to road trip it.
Where were we going? How were we getting there?
After much debate, we decided to go by car: so we left our tandem bike in the garage and went on our way.

Hour 1 of our journey: I am focused on the road ahead, while my comrade can't help but ponder, "Did I turn the stove off before I left?"
Poetry in motion.

The open road. America. Freedom. Clowns. Dirty Feet. Our journey was well under way.

Hour 3 of our journey: We are weary, and I have lost my patience with the photographer we hired to document our trip. In a fit of anger, I decide to flip him off while my comrade fires up a cancer stick.

Hour 5: We are lost in small town America. I can't recall which state exactly, but one of those annoying Southern states where pie will cost you a nickel, and swearing will cost you your freedom.
My comrade hates pie and I love to swear, so we got the f outta there.

Twelve hours in: My comrade in arms has grown weary. I, on the other hand, am alert and ready for anything after doing 2 lines of coke. It was at this moment that we decided to trek down to Puerto Rico to visit an old amigo.
I tell my comrade/driver to make a left.
She ignores me and makes a right.

Where the fuck are we?! Why, oh why, did she take that right turn?! We run into 2 tribesman who appear to be high on peyote and bear a strong resemblance to don Quijote and Sancho Panza. We know not the language they speak, and the cars they drive look freakishly similar to what we in the states call "Horses". After much back and forth, we realize that we are in Cuba. Using a midget interpreter we had stowed away in the trunk (precisely for emergencies like this), we were able to get directions to Puerto Rico. They also hook us up with some grade-A peyote. Muy bien.
Thank you noble triblesman, wherever you are, the peyote should prove most useful.

Blame it on the peyote if you must (I blame my stubborn comrade), but we get lost once more. After deciding the foul odor in the car was coming from her, my comrade changes shirts and asks a stranger for directions.
He is of no help.
We are lost, hungry, and alone.

I start to hear voices. Is it the drugs? No wait, I hear it coming from the fountain. The noble tribesman have sensed our troubles and are communicating with me via these statues.
I tilt my head ever so slightly and the answer is clear.
We must venture on.

The sun is going down, but we are reaching ever so closely to our destination. Puerto Rico. I can hear the salsa music and J-Lo saying "I do" once more. I can smell the beans and rice.
I am alive. We are alive.

At approximately 6:30 A.M., we see our amigo. Alas! We have arrived.

Comrade wastes no time and goes right for the sauce.
So typical of her.

I follow comrade's lead and we raid the liqour cabinet.
You know, smuggled booze goes down easy in early September.


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