“No, I'm telling you, the best ankles in hollywood were on Hedy
Lamarr!“ Dom explained.
“What the fuck are you talking about?“ Jeff said, waking up. He was
jammed at an odd angle into the corner of the car door, neck
crinked to one side and seatbelt digging into his ribs and abdomen
with such verocity, his spleen was now a part of his left leg. As
he struggled to right himself in the seat, a bag of tortilla chips
tumbled to the floor below him with a satisfying crunch.
The 1999 Mercury Sable was a roomy vehicle for day to day driving,
but when crammed to bursting with four oversized men and camping
gear for a week, everyone agreed it could use a few more inches.
Mike was the only one with room to maneuver, and that's just
because he was in the driver's seat. Jeff was, at the moment,
tangled up not only in his seatbelt but also with a tent
ground-cover, three raincoats, Tostitos remnants, and a sexy
picture of Paul's mom. That last item was actually an ingeniously
cut-out head of Paul's mom on top of a flexible russian model's
body, but Mike swore it was just like the real thing.
Jeff spotted the mile-marker flying by and did some mental math.
Four more hours before they hit the trailhead, then four more days
with these jokers.
“What about ankles?“
“Oh, nothing,“ Dom half-explained, “I'm not even sure how we got on
the topic. Some advertising thing of Paul's...“
“You're in advertising now?“ Jeff asked Paul.
“Yup! Well, sorta. My company makes pop-up ads. Real tastful stuff,
though. None of that, 'You've been selected to receive a two free
iPod Nanos!' bullshit. Seriously!“
“They just did some foot-porn thing,“ Dom chimed in.
“Not porn! It was artsy.“
“In a pop-up ad? Can you do that?“ Jeff asked. Paul stuttered for
a few seconds, trying to find the right words to explain it. “No,
nevermind. I don't want to know.
“Mike, can you stop at the next rest area?“
“Sure thing.“
#
The traffic was light on the Turnpike and the gang reached New York
state ahead of schedule. A few seat shufflings had taken place and
Jeff managed to call shotgun in time for the last hour of the
drive. He was enjoying his extended leg room while Dom and Paul
tried playing the longest game of Six Degrees in the history of the
world.
It was a variation of that well-known game, Six Degrees of Kevin
Bacon, where you try to match an actor or actress in hollywood to
Kevin Bacon by linking them through shared films. Like Joe Pesci
was in Home Alone with Daniel Stern, who was in Diner with Kevin
Bacon. So Joe Pesci is two degrees from Kevin Bacon. Well, the
backseat boys had created a whole new monster where they had to
link three actors to one another through three different movies
without reusing any actor or movie or connection. They called it
the Hell's Hexagon and it had kept them busy for a half hour
already, and from the sound of it, would keep them occupied until
they reached the trail.
Meanwhile, an awkward silence had fallen over the front seats.
Mike's attention was set on the road ahead and he made no effort to
spark up a conversation. Jeff, likewise, wasn't eager to start
talking, but had no convenient activity to distract him, and so he
let his mind wander to her, as was his tendency.
Her face was there, clear as day--perhaps more clear than that with
the haze of the Atlantic muddying up the view--and with it, he felt
the pit return to his stomach. Her hair was pulled back into
a french braid while she smiled. It was an image from high school,
from the choir concert their senior year. The little saprano stood
on the left of the stage, up front where he could see her tiny
black shoes. It was so natural for her to be in front of all those
people, performing. Her mouth opened and it poured out Mozart's
Requiem like a fountain. The strings breathed below her as if the
whole orchestra were about to cry out. And then it began.
That was the first time Jeff had heard the Lacrimosa and the first
time he'd ever cried to a piece of music. He felt the pain and loss
in it as if it were his own, but still he struggled for control and
it was there in his grasp until his eyes met hers. Her hands had
come up from her sides and they were shaking across her stomach.
The tears were running down her cheeks and the music had only begun
its crecendo. When the sapranos sang out, he lost control.
Now, again, somewhere along the endless New York State Throughway,
he felt the tears slide down his face. Cold burned against his
forehead as he laid it against the window. The vibrations of the
car ran though him dulling Mozart into memory, but her face
lingered against the passenger mirror taunting him with its ironic
slogan, “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.“
#
“David Caruso wasn't in Hudson Hawk!“ Paul objected.
“What are you talking about? Kit-Kat! Did you even see it? It's,
like, the greatest movie of all time,“ Dom corrected.
Paul rebutted, “Oh, come on! I think we can all agree the greatest
movie of all time was Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret
of the Ooze.“
“Electric Bugaloo?“ Mike chimed in with a grin.
“The Secret of Curly's Gold!“ Paul threw out.
Jeff couldn't resist a smile. “Lost in New York.“
“Oh, good one,“ said Dom. “Uh, Through the Portal of Time!“
“Golden Receiver!“ said Paul, energetically.
“Golden Receiver?“
“You know... Air Bud 2?“ Paul said meekly.
Dom got in first. “You're a fruit.“
The movie quotes and arguments carried on for some time after that.
Paul and Dom went back to their game, but Jeff’s reverie was
broken. He glanced over at Mike who, except his brief outburst in
the movie sequel tag-line game, hadn’t said a word since they
crossed the border. Jeff considered tossing out some cliche
conversation starter, like, “Penny for your thoughts,” but it
seemed to be Mike’s turn to slip off into the land of day dreams.
His friend’s thick eyebrows were lowered and squeezed together,
giving him a rather neanderthal appearance. It was the same face he
remembered from when they were kids trying to get through some
impossible Nintendo game. It was also the face he wore for a month
after Jenny Schwartzman dumped him in the ninth grade. Something
was doing a number on his brain, and Jeff didn’t have to guess what
it was. Neither of them wanted to talk about her, but she was all
either one of them were thinking of. Still, there’s some silences
that men just know to respect. That’s why there were no girls on
the trip. Girls talk too much.
“Chip?” Jeff offered the open Tostitos bag to Mike.
“Hrm? Oh, sure,” a hand blindly fished its way into the bag. His
eyes never left the road, though it was fairly obvious he was
driving on auto-pilot.
