Rooting for the Apocalypse (5)
Chapter 5: Take Charge of Your Destiny
Drama ensues when Athena invites her dirtbag boyfriend on her dysfunctional family’s vacation.
A faded sign from a more optimistic era looms over the highway, welcoming us to paradise. I reach over to squeeze Athena’s hand. She looks away from the window and gives me a wan smile.
Helen, Athena’s mom, occupies the navigator’s chair. Her thin lips are curled in a scowl. She says, I did have the directions written down. They’re right here. But I need my glasses to read them.
Then get your glasses, Frank says, slamming an open palm against the wheel.
I am getting my glasses. They’re in my purse.
We’re coming up to a fork. Which way do I turn?
I don’t know!
Fine then, fine! Frank jerks the wheel to the right and we barely avoid smacking into the guardrail.
Stop it, Frank! Steph yells. You’re driving like a maniac.
I do not like it when you comment on the way I drive, Frank says. I haven’t had an accident in thirty years.
That doesn’t mean you can’t have one now, Steph says.
I’m ready with the directions, Helen says. She peers through thick lenses at a piece of scrap paper covered in chicken scratch. We were supposed to go right back there.
And we went right. So everything is fine, Athena says. She gives me a look and then pantomimes blowing her brains out with a gun.
We drive through a tunnel. The margin is cluttered with debris. The traffic slows to a crawl. An ice cream truck has broken down, blocking its lane entirely. The air is so thick with exhaust I think I might pass out.
Fucking assholes, Frank grumbles.
Helen hums to herself.
The tunnel disgorges us into a scene of packed urban decay. A wide gray band appears and occasionally becomes the ocean. Every few minutes we pass a high rise, most of which are derelict.
God, those things are ugly, I say. They look like prisons. Or those hospitals where you just go to die.
Athena puts a finger to my lips and darts her eyes to the front of the car. I give her finger a little kiss.
After hours of flirting with the ocean, we find ourselves roving the outskirts of a city. We pass tire shops, strip malls, commercial parks, fruit stands coated in the dust of passing cars. The industrial squalor gives way to restaurants and bars, supermarkets, liquor stores, and curio shops. A cruise ship extrudes throngs of waddling tourists.
Do you have the directions ready? Frank asks Helen.
Yes, I have them, Helen says. It says we continue straight on this road until we pass a park with four giant heads.
Now what the hell is that supposed to mean? Frank slaps the wheel.
I’m sure we’ll know when we see it, Athena says.
That guy has a big fat head, I say. I nudge Athena and point to an enormous cruisegoer shaped like a yam.
Keep your eyes peeled for giant heads, everyone, Helen bleats. Frank, if you see a place to stop, I need to use the restroom.
Oh, for god’s sake, we’re almost there, Frank says. You can’t hold it?
We’re a half hour away, Helen says. And we still need to pick up the key.
The going is slow. We travel one car length a minute. Everyone is fidgety and anxious to get out of this hot car, which is feeling increasingly cramped. With horror, I realize that I also have to pee.
We pass a park with four giant bronze heads, a tacky fake castle, a golf course roamed by packs of strays, and a giant flag, all of which are signposts in Helen’s fever-induced directions. Every turn is an emergency, every stoplight a bout of shouting and recriminations.
Turn here! Helen yells.
The car jerks onto a dirt road and into a pothole so large we lose gravity for a second. Dust flies into a cloud around us. Through the dust we see a trailer park, a parking lot that’s now half swamp, and what looks to be an improvised garbage dump. We’re driving down a narrow spit of land, a sandbar, with a bay to the right, and the ocean to the left. The road becomes asphalt again, and the trailers give way to huts, and then houses, and then bigger houses, and then nicer houses, and then big, nice houses.
Turn left at the smiley face, Helen says.
A camper van with a smiley face painted on its side rests on cinder blocks on the side of the road. Frank turns left onto a long driveway and stops at a guard booth. He rolls down the window.
Hello, he calls. Hello? There’s no one there.
There’s supposed to be a guard on duty, Helen says. That’s what it said in the rental description.
I know that, Frank says. But there’s no one there. The damn thing’s empty.
He rolls up the window and guns the car down the driveway, kicking up a tornado of dust.
Dad! Steph screams. Watch out!
A big black mutt lounges directly in our path.
Shut the fuck up! Frank screams. He hits the brakes and the car slides to a stop a few feet in front of the mutt. The mutt yawns and wanders up the road.
How many times do I have to tell you not to bitch about my driving! Frank snarls.
Dear, Helen says.
You’re drivingly like a fucking maniac, Steph yells. You almost killed that dog!
Everyone calm down, Athena says.
Forty-five fucking years, Frank yells. Not even a goddamn fender bender in forty-five fucking years. You think I’m going to hit a fucking dog!
Frank revs the engine and guns the car forward. He skids and swerves in fishtails that kick up waves of dust left and right, accelerating at every turn. I grip the edges of my seat. Athena grips my hand. Steph screams. Frank skids to a stop in front of a pink house and kills the engine.
See! he yells. No accidents. No one got hurt. Frank yanks his door open and trips on his way out. He slams the door. Helen follows him and they wave their arms in argument.
He’s such an asshole, Steph says, and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
It’s okay, babe, Chadbrad says, squeezing her arm with his spidery fingers.
Why does he feel like he has to do that? Steph asks.
I need to talk to your dad, I say to Athena. I think he might be insane.
Steph laughs through her tears, and says, What would you say? Stop running over dogs?
It’s a nice thought. Athena pats my head. But it would only put him in another one of his moods.
I gotta get out of here. Steph opens the door and hops out. Let’s go, babe.
Babe, wait, shit! Chadbrad hops out after her. Steph walks down the road, Chadbrad following.
This is going really well so far, I say, cheerfully.
Sadly, it is, Athena says. Imagine if dad had hit that dog. Oh my god. Vacation over. Let’s go check out the beach.
Okey dokey.
Athena crawls out Steph’s door and I follow. Giving Frank and Helen a wide berth, we walk to the end of the driveway, where a hip-high wall separates us from a mass of dunes that slopes down to a wide, sandy beach. Up and down the sandbar sit tightly packed houses perched on the edge of the dunes. To the west, a mountain rises from the ocean, seeming to spear the sinking sun, whose light casts fae speckles across the water. A group of people riding horses trots along the beach, and are passed by two racing four-wheelers.
What do you think? Athena asks. There’s a lot of seaweed on the beach.
Thanks, I say.
Thanks?
Thanks for inviting me. This is really nice. I don’t — I never could have come here in a million years if it weren’t for you.
Thank my dad.
I’ll try.