Drama ensues when Athena invites her dirtbag boyfriend on her dysfunctional family’s vacation.
Athena and I sneak into the master house to secure breakfast supplies. Frank is on the patio, yelling at a guy who looks exactly like him walking two mastiffs on the beach.
Pick up after your dog! Frank yells.
Hey fuck you, his clone yells back. Do you see anybody else picking up after their dogs, huh, buddy? The beach is covered in shit!
Frank looks like if he had a gun he’d open fire, but he doesn’t — hopefully — so he comes inside and slams the door.
Fucking animals, he says. Pick up after your fucking dogs.
How did you sleep, Daddy? Athena says.
I slept okay, he grunts.
He looks hungover. A war movie is paused on the TV, and the plate of pistachios is there, but there’s no bottle of wine or giant glass.
Don’t use the kitchen sink, Frank says.
Why not? Athena asks.
It’s broken, Frank says. The pipe isn’t connected to anything. It drains into the cabinet.
Athena and I investigate. A pond of brown water covers the kitchen floor. I open the cabinet under the sink and reveal a shallow depression with a layer of sludge at the bottom. There’s a pipe coming down from the sink, and one leading into the wall, but nothing to connect them.
Holy crap, I say. This place is a dump.
Shhhh, Athena shushes. I guess they were fixing it and forgot to replace the pipe.
Athena fetches a pen and a piece of scrap paper from the living room, and scrawls out: Do not use. She puts the note in the sink.
For Steph, she explains.
We wad up paper towels and mop up the water on the floor as best we can and then peek inside the new grocery bags on the counter. They’re full of corn chips and salsa and tequila, limes, and triple sec.
Did you go to the store this morning? Athena asks Frank.
He pauses the movie and says, What?
Did you go to the store this morning and buy corn chips?
Yeah. Those are the best corn chips.
Frank resumes the movie. Athena and I grab avocados and cheese and a bag of corn chips and return to Lavender House.
Oh my god, Athena says. I’m so hungover. Do you want an avocado? I’m not going to cut you one unless you ask nicely.
Yes please, pretty please, I say.
Eh, good enough. Were you pooping for like ten hours last night?
You were up? Why didn’t you keep me company.
Yeah, it’s my dream to watch you poop.
You missed out. I watched a train of ants carry an entire dinner into the bathtub. I can’t even imagine how infested it must be.
Ew.
Yeah, and those eggs we found yesterday are literally everywhere.
I’d rather not think about it. Oh, heads up, mom’s itinerary for the trip has us doing a family activity today, so prepare yourself.
I am so ready. Your family is the best TV show I’ve ever watched.
I’d appreciate it if you’d stop egging on my dad.
I’m trying to bond with him.
It’s mean. He doesn’t get what you’re doing.
What am I doing?
You’re making fun of him.
Seriously. I like your dad. He’s a real card.
He’s a real something. He was actually seriously going to try to drive home last night.
Glad Chadbrad was sober. I’m Chadbrad glad.
His name is Chad...goddamnit, you’re making me doubt myself now. Are you gaslighting me over my sister’s boyfriend’s name now?
Are you mad that I’m Chadbrad glad? I’m sad you’re mad it made me Chadbrad glad.
Do you want an avocado or not?
Yes, I told you already.
Wrong answer! Ask me nicely!
We bounce along in the rental, which Athena and I have nicknamed the battleship, en route to the family activity, passing lot after lot of dusty cars and the occasional strip mall. The ocean peeks in and out of view, but I’m too rattled by the convoy of trucks we’re stuck in and Frank’s need to overtake them to sightsee. Helen stumbles through the notes she scribbled in the margins of the guidebook like a fourth grader giving a class presentation:
This is one of the largest blowholes in the country. Waves force air into a sea cave, which causes a spout of water and a loud noise. The phenomenon repeats every minute or so. The blowhole is a popular tourist destination. It has bars, restaurants, and shopping.
Sounds really fun, mom, Athena says, and then nudges me.
Yeah, it sounds awesome, I say.
It’s a geyser? Franks says.
It’s a blowhole, Helen says.
What’s the difference? Frank asks.
A geyser is geothermal, right? Athena says.
The battleship slows to a crawl behind a line of traffic. Our road winds down a hill, and we descend at the rate of car lengths. Frank grips the wheel with white knuckles and mumbles curses to himself. At the bottom of the hill, the road dissolves into a sprawl of dirt parking lots, each with an attendant goading us to enter with glow sticks and spinning signs.
Help me, please, Frank says angrily. Could you please look for a good rate, please.
We scan for signs and do their obfuscating calculations on our phones: Three hours for twenty dollars. Two hours for fifteen. Three dollars for thirty minutes. The exception is Helen, who does the math easily in her head.
That one, there, she says, pointing to an attendant dressed as a clown. I can’t imagine we’ll be here more than three hours.
Frank pulls into the dirt lot and we dismount. Dust from a million cars and trucks and busses stings our eyes and chokes us. Car horns honk incessantly. We cover our heads and flee the filth and noise of the parking lot to the filth and noise of a market.
To our left, stone cliffs drop into the ocean, the crest of waves just topping a low stone barrier. To the right is a steep desert slope. In front of us yawns the maw of a narrow street clogged with shops and shoppers.
I guess it’s that way, Helen says. She squints at the guidebook.
A tour bus full of squashy geriatrics rumbles up behind us, blaring its horn and curtailing further discussion. We hurry into the market. Tourists throng the street, shoveling oysters and clams down their gullets and guzzling watery margaritas from wacky plastic cups. It’s impossible to take a step without bumping into someone, or brushing their arm and having their sweat stow away on your shirt, or having someone yell, Cheap rug! in your ear.
I hold Athena’s hand in a death grip. We tail Frank and Helen. Steph and Chadbrad are already lost, eaten by the crowd when Steph stopped to consider a poncho.
I hate this place, I whisper in Athena’s ear.
Cold beer, two dollars! A man yells in our faces. He waves at his bar like he can create a vacuum with the speed of his hand and suck us in.
This is ridiculous, Frank growls and then charges through a wall of tourists, breaking a stalemate that has us trapped between dueling stereo systems.
Frank, wait! Helen calls, and plunges into the gap after him.
My god, I say. They’re gone.