No Exit
I am completely convinced that the reason my family doesn’t take trips anywhere anymore is because my father refuses to ask for directions.
My dad never gets lost, mind you. He simply likes to take “the scenic route.” I suppose you could argue that ten miles of I-95 South towards your destination is every bit as scenic as the ten miles of I-95 North he’s just accidentally driven, but then he would claim that he was merely taking a slightly longer route around “the city” and why don’t you take a nap or something?
One summer my parents decided to take us to the Boston Museum of Science. It would be a long ride, but my father insisted he knew how to get there. To appease my mother, we brought along a map just in case. My mother designated me the navigator, a title of which I was quite proud.
For a short time.
I kept a vigilant watch of road signs and tracked our progress on the map, shouting out directions whenever I deemed necessary.
“We need to take the next exit!”
“No, we don’t get off the highway here.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, then we’ll have to drive through most of the city. We’ll get off further up.”
“But–”
“I know where I’m going!”
I’d holler out the next street we needed to take. He’d randomly pick one he liked. Soon I had no idea where we were.
“Come on, Stacey. Where did you put us?”
“Where did I — ? What?!”
“You have the map. Where the hell are we? Don’t you know where we’re going?”
At that point I knew that my mother’s claim that she gets carsick reading maps was a strategic fabrication. I glared at her through the seat.
“Turn up here,” I growled.
“Nah, we’ll turn further up.”
“We’re going to miss it.”
“We’re taking the scenic route.”
“You’re going over a bridge. We’re not supposed to go over a bridge. You’re taking us right out of Boston!”
“I’m going to turn around further up.”
“Where? Maine?!“
“Enough you two,” my mother interjected. She craned her neck to peer into the backseat. “Stacey, stop arguing with your father.”
So I did what any other kid (or young woman who knows she’s right) would do. I crossed my arms and pouted. My father and I didn’t say another word to each other. The car was quiet.
After an eternity of my pouting and my father continuing to drive straight ahead, my mother began to get antsy. She looked at me, but I refused to offer further assistance. She looked out the window, checked the time, and finally built up the courage to say something to my father. “Hon, where are you going to turn around?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know where the hell we are. The kid got us lost.”
“I got you –”
“Oh, I see a police car!” my mother interrupted. “Please, dear, ask the cop for directions.”
My father finally acquiesced and pulled over to talk to the officer. He rolled down the window and nonchalantly asked, “How close are we to the Boston Science Museum?”
The police officer looked at my mother’s pleading face and then at our disgruntled expressions in the backseat. My father smiled confidently. The officer cleared his throat and backed away from the car a step.
“Um, sir,” he said, “you’re in New Hampshire.”