Ronnie and Jessica (from Hung) were arguing in the front of the car as we drove down a country road. Neither could agree upon the best route to take to the campground . “You know what guys?” I said from the back seat. “I’m outta here. Tell me when we get there.”
Rolling down the window, I climbed out and onto the tall aluminum ladder attached to the side of the car. As I reached the top of the ladder, perched 20 feet above the roof of the small car, Ronnie stomped on the gas. I clung on tightly as the car accelerated and clung even tighter as it veered suddenly to the left. The whipping wind plastered back my hair and I strained to keep my eyes open under the onslaught.
The ladder started shaking violently as the car turned again to run atop a set of railroad tracks, the shock of the tires on the heavy wooden ties making my teeth chatter. Apparently this was the route we were taking. Rapidly approaching ahead was a slower car also traveling on the tracks. Ronnie maintained our breakneck speed, swerving around the car and back onto the tracks. The ladder swayed precariously back and forth, sending me hanging out over each side of the car. I narrowly missed colliding with the overhanging branches of pine trees lining the tracks.
I could see our destination ahead. A campground set in tall luscious grass, fenced in by tall chain link topped by barbed wire. Another family was headed there too, about to beat us. Ronnie made a screeching turn just as we reached the fence, careening around the corner. I leaned the ladder up and over the edge of the fence, dropping down and rolling in the grass to absorb the shock of my landing. The other family left, disappointed we had reached the spot first.
I sat there on the grass, enjoying its feel under me. I eventually realized that I was quite hungry. Sam Burns approached me and offered a PayDay candybar.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll see what’s over on the shelves.” She shrugged and began eating it herself. Something on the shelf caught my eye. The Breakfast Energizer. A foot-long slab of semi-solid processed cheese, three inches wide and half an inch thick. Attached to the package was a small bag of pretzels. I turned the package over in my hands, seeking the nutrition facts. 35% daily cholesterol.
“Ouch, this stuff is terrible for you.” I elected to go through a bag of old, fallen apart Ritz Bitz sandwiches, putting them together as best I could before eating.