rules are a good idea,” he nodded. “Hungry? Feel like a sandwich? Your mom made up a bunch.”
Actually, I did feel like a sandwich. “Sure.”
“Okay, rule number one, you’re in charge of the sandwiches.”
I reached into the back seat and grabbed the bag Mom had sent. It was heavy. I pulled it into the front seat and opened it. There had to be six or seven of those see- through baggies things in there. That’s a lot of sandwiches. Plus fruit and a couple of juice boxes.
I studied the baggies. “Looks like roast beef, cheese with jam, and maybe tuna. What do you want?”
“Roast beef … unless you want it.”
I shook my head and passed him a baggie. “Want a juice box?”
“Not right now.”
“Rule number two,” I said.
He opened the baggie, pulled out the sandwich and took a bite the size of a small town. Then he looked over at me, chewing and nodding like he was ready to hear the rule.
I started unwrapping a cheese and jam. “We switch up on the music every couple of hours. If I have to listen to that shit all the way to wherever we’re going, my brain will turn into Cream of Wheat.”
“Not a bad rule. You say ‘shit’ in front of your mom?”
I shook my head and bit into the sandwich.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t say it in front of me.”
“Is that a rule?”
“Not a rule. A suggestion. Don’t talk with your mouth full. That’s a rule.”
“You asked me a question.”
“Good point.”
“And your mouth is full.”
“Was full.” He opened it and showed me, which was about as mega-gross as you can get.
“When are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“Why don’t you switch up the music? You remember, rule number two?”
I messed with the radio for a while until I found a rock station. I listened to a couple of songs — one oldie, Fleetwood Mac, I think, and “Rock Star” — Nickelback. I wasn’t a big Nickelback guy, but it was way better than what we had been listening to. I looked at my watch. “Twenty after one. You can change it back at twenty after three. I’m giving you a break. We had country a lot more than two hours.”
“Gettin’ more like a buddy movie all the time.”
“No, it isn’t, you know why?”
He looked in the rear-view mirror and shrugged.
“Because in a buddy movie both buddies know where they’re going. I don’t know sh—crap.”
“Fair enough. I’ll tell you at twenty after three.”
“Why then? Why not now?”
He nodded at the truck’s radio. “I don’t want to take away from your two hours.”
I reached out and hit the on-off button. Silence. “I’d like to know now.”
He crumpled up the baggie from his sandwich and flipped it over his shoulder into the back seat. “Minneapolis.”
“Minneapolis.”
He nodded.
“Why Minneapolis?”
“Airport.”
“We’re going to the airport in Minneapolis?”
He nodded again.
“Why?”
“Why do people usually go to airports?”
“Okay, so we’re getting on a plane at Minneapolis. Then where?”
He reached across and hit the button on the radio. Aerosmith, “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing.” “We talk at twenty after three. You don’t wanna miss this thing.”
Just a zany guy.
At a quarter past three, I said, “Five more minutes.”
The old man looked over at me. “You don’t look like I thought you would.”
“What did you think I’d look like?”
“Taller, skinnier maybe … pimples.”
“I’m one of the tallest kids in my class. I’m not exactly fat. And see those? Those are zits.”
“I thought your hair would be brown. That’s how I remembered it.”
“Yours isn’t brown.”
“No, but your mother’s is. You’ve got her dark eyes. I thought you’d have her hair. That’s how I remembered it.”
I wondered why he said that twice. “Maybe it was brown then and sort of blonded up as I got older.”
“Blonded up?”
“Got lighter.”
“I figured that’s what ‘blonded up’ meant.”
“So you think I look like you?” I hadn’t thought about that until right then. I didn’t want to look like him.
“No, you look more like your mom. I’m better looking than either of you.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t plan to laugh at any of his jokes. Maybe we had a couple of rules for driving and maybe we’d had a minor conversation, but this still wasn’t any damn buddy movie.
I looked at my watch. “It’s twenty after three.”
3
“Saigon.”
That was it. One word. No explanation. Not even where exactly Saigon was. I’m not bad on geography. So I’d heard of it. Watched some war movies, so I had an idea about the place, but that was it. What I didn’t have was an idea as to why people would go there. Why I was going there.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Saigon. Vietnam. Southeast Asia.”
“I know where it is,” I said. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are we going there?”
“You might learn something.”
I was getting tired of people saying that. “I learn crap all year long. That’s what school’s for. I don’t need to learn in summer.”
“School’s about half of one percent of what you need to learn to get along in life.”
“What’s the other ninety-nine and a half percent?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out. Starts with Saigon.”
“Does my mom know you’re insane?”
He laughed hard at that. “I think she’s got a pretty good idea.”
“What if I just say no. Like drugs. Just say no to your old man who’s a couple of beer short of a case?”
He laughed again and reached over to change the station on the radio. Back to country music.
“All this conversation is cutting into my two hours.”
4
I kept waiting for him to call me “kid.”
Most of his sentences sounded like they should end with “kid.” You might learn something, kid. Starts with Saigon, kid. But he didn’t call me kid. Come to think of it, he hadn’t said my name