Road trips, coming of age, and tacos

Another OV anecdote. Don't think I'll be running this one, though. Just something I had fun with.


Car trouble - more than booze, hunger or sheer stupidity - tends to put people in situations that they wouldn't otherwise dream of being in. Begging greasy men with fourth-grade education levels for a scrap of pity. Banging senselessly on metal casings with a wrench. Checking into shady motels, all alone, under the leering eyes of truckers and serial killers. Somehow, we take these risks into account each time we slide behind the wheel, and few think twice about it. And when disaster strikes, it's sometimes difficult to decide whether to recognize the hilarity of the situation or run like hell.
My trip started off well enough, with no indication of the unpleasantness I would soon find myself facing. I left Eugene fairly upbeat, actually, and anticipated the trip to my mom's house - a mere 17 hours away in Montana - to be an uneventful one. I'd undertaken such journeys before, and handled my share of disaster and bad decisions. Two days after receiving my driver's license, I'd driven my little sister, our dog and cat from Arizona to Montana, narrowly missing a golf-cart sized heifer who'd wandered onto the highway in the dark and taking a rock through my sunroof in the Rocky Mountains' monsoon season. A few months later, I visited a friend in California via car and on the way found a surprisingly nice hitchhiker - not to say I should have so willingly accepted his form of payment, at least not while driving.
This trip would be different, I assured myself on my way up the I5. First off, the only trip I was taking was physical, not mental, and I'd learned my lessons regarding pets, farm animals, and driving late at night. Nothing bad would happen to me now because I was in total control.
I'd forgotten about car trouble. The Jeep I'd owned for most of high school and into college had never given me problems, and I'm not a believer in taking a car to a mechanic just to see if he or she can divine some sort of information on whether it will break down next week.
So when the little orange "check engine" light came on in my dashboard, with its accompanying "ding" from the car's computer, I was a little taken aback. I'd been cruising effortlessly through the Columbia River gorge, gone past the enormous dams and was almost ready to cross the river into Washington. One thing about this area is that where there is a dam, there's activity, life, and almost no sign of poverty. When my light came on, it was in one of those spaces between dams, where there are somehow still towns but they appear deceased; forgotten and gathering dust beside the freeway with its blur of cars.
Nonetheless, I was determined to prove that I was a more responsible road-tripper than I've been in the past, and made every effort to take this subdued little warning from my vehicle seriously. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the light came on just before an exit, and that there was at least a place to stay beyond that exit. And I do - it's just that it was four in the afternoon on a Sunday, there was no mechanic around who would be open before the morning, and I wasn't sure quite what to do with myself in those long hours. Undeterred, I pulled into the town's one motel and parked.
It was a hot afternoon in June, the dry wind shifting about in unusual ways and speeding up the flaking of the paint off the long, single-level building. The sun beat down mockingly from overhead - "What, quitting already?" I ignored it, slammed the broken Jeep's door, and walked toward the lobby.
On my way, I noticed a man standing by a white pickup in the shade, smoking a cigarette and attempting to make eye contact. His vaquero hat was pulled low down over his face, but his smile was friendly enough, so I muttered "Hi" as I walked past. He nodded.
The receptionist, who resembled a pile of cottage cheese, only more human-shaped, gave me a room and confirmed the mechanic situation. Nobody would be out until tomorrow. I left the air-conditioned stillness and walked back into the dusty courtyard, where the man still lurked outside the door.
"Car trouble?" he asked with his soft Spanish accent. How did he know?
"Yeah," I said. "Just gonna quit early."
"We could go get a drink in town." Wow, that was fast. I looked around, not even able to see a town from this freeway pitstop.
"That's ok," I said. "I need to find some food and get some rest." I forced my legs not to break into sprint as I retreated to my room.
When I thought he would be gone, I came out again. I really was hungry, and there was a gas station just down the road.

COLLEGE...

So proclaims John Belushi's t-shirt in Animal House (filmed in part, coincidentally, on the University of Oregon campus), summing up with its capital letters an experience that only those who have been through it can relate to.

I think that image of Belushi, with his dazed yet purposeful expression, must feel so timeless because it really does convey the transforming effect of the experience. The letters on his sweatshirt are as large as the feeling of power one gains with each new gem of knowledge, each new connection with people who, for once, share your interests. It's a time of near-constant exhilaration - and not just because of the Animal-House caliber parties.

Like any good buzz, however, the COLLEGE high winds down to a low that varies in intensity from person to person. And for some, that low almost removes any good they might have seen in the experience.

Recently, I ran into a friend from my high school days who has spent the last year or so waiting tables at a Montana cafe. He did the college thing, and it wasn't for him, he said. I nodded my head in what I hoped would be a knowing manner, but not so knowing as to draw attention to the fact that despite my understanding of college as somewhat of a crock, I haven't yet gone as far as to drop out. But he's a thinking person (which is why college failed him, I'm sure), and the nod did not appease him. After all, he'd probably expected a disapproving frown or at least a shrug of the shoulders from the seemingly successful college junior before him. I sighed and elaborated, glancing down at his Green Day t-shirt as I spoke. "You mean, you feel like all you're getting is training that will allow you to become a well-oiled part of the machine?" He lit up; I continued. "And you'd rather spend your time educating yourself instead of receiving their brainwashing, then having to spend time sorting out fact from fiction, and then figuring out whether its even worth fighting the system in the first place?" I'd hit it. "Yeah, pretty much," he said. That, and his definition of success didn't involve either money or power, he added. I agreed, nodding again, but not making any sort of statement to the effect that I wished I were doing anything differently in my life.

It's not that I walk around in a Belushi-esque daze. I'm perfectly aware of what's happening, and that "they" (be it the corporate powers that rule our lives or the more vague threat of conventionality) might reach me in the end through this so-called education. And if I hadn't invested so much time already in doing what people expect of me (going to high school, getting good grades, setting my heart on a certain career), I might be also following the path of my waiter friend. The thing is this: I can wait tables when I graduate with my less than high-demand Journalism degree anyway. In the meantime, I think I am able to balance questioning everything I hear with taking what they feed me to get the slip of paper. And maybe that's what I should have told him, if it didn't sound so darn self-rightous.

Instead, I turned around and walked out the door, leaving him in his cafe. School starts again in two weeks, and there is precious little vacation time to lose. I've got a lot of un-brainwashing to catch up on.

More ranting on this subject to come, perhaps at a later date.