“Shawn, I know we’re tired. But I’m wide awake now. If we’re going to get to Macon on time—wait, is that a tiger?”
I wake up around 2 am. Or maybe I hadn’t slept. Shawn and I switch driving duties just west of the Louisiana border. Or maybe we’re east of the Texas border.
I’m not really sure where we are. If not for my phone, I wouldn’t know the time, either. I know simply that we aren’t yet to New Orleans and we don’t yet have sunlight. I’m hoping my third low carb Monster of the past twelve hours will keep me driving until then.
How did my parents do this? Our yearly summer trips to South Carolina must have gone a similar route—Columbia is right there on our projected path to Brooklyn. In their mid-30s with three children crammed in the backseat of a ’92 Grand Marquis and no money to spare for a hotel, they drove straight through each time. And here I am about to pass out west of Jefferson Parish.
+1 in the “Not as adult as my parents” column.
(As if being married, having a child—on purpose—and being settled in the town in which they would reside for the next 25 years at the same age which found their man-child of an eldest son traversing the globe in order to discover “what he wants to do with his life” hadn’t already closed that debate.)
But enough of that—focus on the road. With everyone else asleep in the car, my body seems eager to join them. Maybe a change of music will serve me well. Yes, that helps a little. But I’m still tired. Alright, the Tiger Truck Stop is the next exit. Let me get out and walk around and that’ll wake me up.
I pull the car off and get out when I notice Shawn has woken up. Kimmy and Michelle, too.
“I’m just getting out for a second.”
This fails to impress Shawn, who thinks we should stop here and sleep.
“But, Shawn, we’re already behind schedule. And if we’re going to spend time in New Orleans, we need to keep going.”
“Safety first,” Michelle volunteers from the back seat as I begin to wonder who invited her. (Several times in the coming day I would be notified that I was indeed the person who suggested she join us.)
Shawn steps outside to smoke and I join him to discuss what we’re doing next.
“Shawn, I know we’re tired.”
You might have read that we’re at the Tiger Truck Stop and have this image in your head of where we are. I’m assuming you probably are thinking of something like your local Tiger Mart. Clean, well-lit, with those fancy 44 oz. sodas to which you can add flavors like vanilla, lemon, or cherry by pressing an extra button. And at no extra cost!
“But I’m wide awake now.”
This isn’t one of those places. This is a truck stop. Nevermind glass ceilings or wage gaps. Places like these make me grateful I was born male. I’d be afraid of getting hepatitis by using the restroom here. I scan the grounds to make sure I know all the possible escape routes.
“If we’re going to get to Macon on time—“
No, I really can’t be so tired I’m hallucinating. I’m at least five hours away from that.
“Wait, is that a tiger?”
Tiger Truck Stop. It all makes sense. Why didn’t I assume there would be a live caged tiger just off the highway at a gas station? That’s just logical.
The tiger party to our deliberations, we decide to drive until noon with an hour stop in New Orleans. The slowly rising sun is giving me an extra bit of energy and this will put us in Montgomery, Alabama close enough to our desired destination that this seems like a good compromise.
We pull away from the Tiger Truck Stop in all its glory and within a couple hours we’re in New Orleans. The latest round of liquid caffeine has begun to wear off and I’ve been to New Orleans enough that I opt to sleep in the car. I assume this means I’m going to miss bead throwing, jambalaya, and drunken revelry, but I’m informed upon their return that apparently none of these happened.
We take off from New Orleans and head to Montgomery, where sleep—in a real bed—and showers—in a real shower—await.