“No we’re not”, I said, looking at the map. “There’s a beltway around Toledo. We take that.”
“I think we missed it.”
“We didn’t miss it.”
“I think we did. We should turn around.”
“Shut up, Alex.”
“Yeah, shut up Alex.”
I looked up from the map: “You know what, Dave, you can shut the fuck up too.”
Silence. Really uncomfortable silence.
It was hell. Hell in a car. Hell on wheels. Hell since before Memphis. Did it start with the Grand Canyon fiasco? What about the “pool incident” at that 2 slot casino outside Death Valley? How close were we from ending up dead and buried under a cactus? I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure that when it comes to winning the table, the rule is “always, always, always let the locals win”. Always.
Or was that Lubbock?
The whole trip had been a test of nerves and now we were cruising past Toledo on the beltway (I was right) and making our way to Detroit where we’d cut over the Ambassador Bridge into Windsor.
“Don’t say anything stupid at the border this time.”
“Pretty good odds that you will.”
“Coming from a guy who lost $500 on slots, I wouldn’t talk about odds.”
The border was uneventful aside from some dirty looks. By the time we got to Niagara Falls, that bitter blanket of anger and hate that had settled on us had become so thick that none of us could appreciate one of nature’s greatest wonders. Our attitude had reduced it to just a bunch of stupid water falling over a cliff. Bah.
In 9 hours we’d be home. At last.