| rdfs:comment
| - Sometimes you have to take risks. My next-door-neighbor, Phil, is an average guy in many respects; however, on occasion he does a thing I react to the news of with a mix of horror and admiration. Thus, when Phil told me his sister was getting close to giving birth as a single mom in Los Angeles, and she needed him there for support, I knew something bizarre was about to ensue in what would normally be a regular cross-country trip. You see, Phil doesn’t make much money. Phil briefly glanced over at my shivering form.
|
| abstract
| - Sometimes you have to take risks. My next-door-neighbor, Phil, is an average guy in many respects; however, on occasion he does a thing I react to the news of with a mix of horror and admiration. Thus, when Phil told me his sister was getting close to giving birth as a single mom in Los Angeles, and she needed him there for support, I knew something bizarre was about to ensue in what would normally be a regular cross-country trip. You see, Phil doesn’t make much money. That meant Phil wouldn’t be taking a plane, train or rocket ship from Connecticut to California. He would be driving his full-size, second generation, leatherette seated, two-door, vintage, collector-plated, red 1972 Buick Skylark. The one that pumps gasoline fumes into the passenger cabin, forcing you to drive at high speed with the windows down. But I knew that wouldn’t be my main concern. As you know restaurants, with their high overhead and fancy spreads, are expensive. Phil was going to have to make some pretty interesting choices as he ate his way across North America; and I found I had to tag along with him to see what those choices were. I was due for a break anyway. It was going to be awful. Not just sleeping in the car (because motels are expensive too), or camping, which would be worse; not just the damp smell of used socks that would fill the car every time we stopped and rolled up the windows for safety; no, the very worst thing about this trip with Phil would be the constant, monotonous vibratory drone of Eisenhower-era “national defense” (read: not expensive) highway concrete. After awhile, it gets into your teeth. The expedition began at 4AM. Something was missing, however. Phil tried knocking, then throwing rocks at my bedroom window. The sun was up when we pulled out of the driveway. Wasting no time, Phil headed us west and away from the coastline. Pretty soon we rolled onto the highway. As he had in town, Phil drove at a constant 55 MPH. My clamped teeth started to harmonize with the concrete vibration almost immediately. “Do you think we could roll the windows down now?” I managed to ask. Phil nodded. Hand cranks were turned. Wind rushed in. “Where do you think we’ll stop for breakfast?” Phil briefly glanced over at my shivering form. “No time for breakfast. We’ll conserve our energy, like the pioneers, and have a large midday meal. It’s healthier for you that way.” Many hours later, having left Connecticut long behind and passed through part of New York state, both of us listening to my stomach gurgling to advise its emptiness, Phil stopped the car to fuel up just outside Scranton, PA.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)