Sunday I was saddled with the responsibility of driving my father-in-law's car back to Georgia from southern Florida, all in all a ten-hour drive. The bulk of my day was spent on I-75 watching fellow motorists scoff at speed limits, recklessly change lanes, cut me off unnecessarily, pick their noses, yammer on their cell phones and pull off to buy fudge, pecan logs, coconut spread, citrus products, adult novelties, Cracker Barrel biscuits with sawmill gravy and discounted tickets to Disney World and Orlando time-share presentations. A happening drive, let me tell you.
The automobile I was driving was quite the sporty roadster with race car-tight steering and a generous amount of road feel. I didn't tinker with the gadgetry very much because when it comes to figuring out how to work the luxury features in automobiles I am not what you'd call a quick learner. Because my brain is loaded with so many ingenious theories and the solution to much of the world's problems, I just don't have room for such fiddle faddle as how to turn on the rear window defrost or cruise control. Gas equals go and brake equals stop. That's all I know. I was asked to keep an eye on two gages along the way, but I forgot which two twenty minutes into the trip. As best as I could tell though, bass and treble were doing just fine.
The trunk was equipped with a CD changer, but I was not provided with instructions on how to load it. I had brought CD audio books along for the ride, but when I tried to open the changer to put in disc one of Les Miserables, I got nothing but a blinking green light. No tray came out. No door popped open. Nothing.
When I got in the car and pressed the CD button on the console the dash informed me that no CD changer was detected. I got out, tried to open the changer again, checked to make sure there were no loose wires and got back in the car. Again the readout on the dash claimed the car wasn't equipped with a CD changer. I pushed the button again when I was on the road. No CD changer. I waited until I was further in the trip thinking perhaps the car had to be doing at least 70 in order for the changer to work. No luck.
My only choices in listening entertainment were the radio, road noise or cassettes from my father-in-law's personal collection which included such gems as Shagger's Delight, Boogie Woogie Classics or a mixed tape he had hand labeled The Original Little Richard: Not the Fake Little Richard. I found one tape that offered Cole Porter jazz tunes and opted for that.
A brief stop in Bushnell, Florida afforded me a bite to eat at a Waffle House where I had barely escaped being kidnapped by scamsters two years earlier. This particular meal was enjoyed without incident. The place was filled with a colorful mix of Bushnell locals and cross-country travelers. Quite the dichotomous bunch.
I got back on the road where most license plates I saw revealed I was surrounded almost exclusively by Buckeyes, Hoosiers and Michiganders. Occasionally I'd see a New Yorker, and about every fifth car was from Ontario. I know it's silly of me but whenever I come up on a Canadian license plate, I can't help but peek in at the people in the car thinking maybe they'll be dressed in seal-skin parkas and at least one passenger will wield a harpoon. Alas, I have never spotted a single Inuit on the road in traditional garb. I did see a Quebecker chomping down on a McGriddle though, and I think that's wrong on so many levels that I can't even begin to address them here.
For every billboard that said WE BARE ALL there must have been at least that many that tried to sell me a $390 vasectomy. The guys pictured on the vasectomy ads looked like the kinds of men we don't want reproducing in the first place and the women in the Cafe Risque ads looked like their headshots dated back to the Carter administration. Kinda surreal.
Near the end of the trip when I was blazing through Macon, GA, the birthplace of Little Richard, I decided to listen to the bootlegged tape of the original. Cranking up the volume during a traffic lull I entertained myself and others with Long Tall Sally and Tutti Frutti. I thoroughly enjoyed You Keep a-Knockin' and near the Forsyth Street exit I swear I think I passed a girl named Daisy who almost drove me crazy. Wop-bop-a-loo-mop-alop-bam-boom.
I finally pulled into my driveway around 5:00 and I couldn't have been happier. I was greeted by a beautiful wife and a wonderful daughter who was one tooth short from when I had last laid eyes on her. Over dinner I shared stories of my journey. After all, my butt seldom left the driver's seat but through the windshield I saw much of our nation's wonders, including the state peanut monument in Turner County, Georgia and the relocated hurricane survivors in Broward County, Florida. I passed horse farms in Ocala and cotton farms in Vienna.
Even though I stopped at that Waffle House for a patty melt plate, I managed to do without the fresh citrus, pecan logs or coconut spread. As much as I wanted to, I didn't stop in Sarasota to visit the Ringling Brothers museum. I did however stop at exit 374 where a Cafe Risque billboard had invited me to turn right. Instead I turned left so as to get gas. There was a large woman sitting in a folding chair outside the station. I was glad she didn't bare all.
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