We were on our way to Casa Grande, Ariz., making our way back East towards home. We had been cruising up and down California for what seemed like weeks — I never got used to the time change, and the weather is beautiful, but weird to someone from Ohio. George was driving hard, every available hour of every day was still going to take us four more days to get home, and I think he was a little tired of me whining about missing our kids.
We made Arizona in the dark. I had to pee, there was construction on the highway and he was tired. We pulled off at a truck stop amidst torn-up roadway and a startling lack of signage. The exit ramp back onto the highway was closed, and there wasn’t any information as to where the long, dark road ahead may eventually come to an exit for the highway. We were half a mile into the abyss before the awful realization set in that we were on a cow road, in the dark, in the middle of nowhere (which just happens to be a giant desert with mountains in it).
“This isn’t good.”
When normal people are driving and they say, “This isn’t good,” it usually means the Taco Bell drive-thru is really busy, or something equally as unimportant. When George Parker is driving and he says, “This isn’t good,” it means you’re potentially about to experience a fiery death crash. He is the absolute calmest, safest, most well-prepared driver you could ever want to get into a truck with. If he hasn’t already been to where you’re going, he’s been somewhere close and can find his way without a problem. (This is one reason I think he’s probably an alien, or at least a tweener, or maybe just has a metal plate in his head.)
When he says, “This isn’t good,” I grab for a map and act like I’m going to do something awesome to save us.
“What do you mean, ‘this isn’t good?’”
