Sleepwalk With Me_ And Other Painfully True Stories - Mike Birbiglia [29]
The way back was an anarchic wilderness of coloring books, six-month-old Christmas tree needles, and often a lone peach or strawberry, withering away toward a slow death. And since my mom has always driven with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake, it was a pretty bumpy ride in the way back. But I loved it. The way back was like watching the world as a movie. The rectangular window offered a panoramic view of everything. No one ever knew what was happening in the way back. It was like a separate hotel room attached to the car. I could wave at people. Occasionally moon people. Flip them the bird when I figured out what the bird was. I remember one night on the trip home from seeing The Nutcracker in Boston, I made eye contact with a girl about my age who was also sitting in the way back. For twenty minutes on the highway, she drifted in and out of my life. Through our gaze, we shared dreams of upgrading to the back.
When my sisters Gina and Patti got their driver’s licenses, my brother Joe moved up to the front and I was upgraded to the back. The back was a comfortable chalet with some privacy still and gave me the chance to chime into conversations. I was able at least to be a backseat driver. I could say things like, “Where are we going?” and “What time is it?” When Joe got his own car, I moved up to the front seat. Wow. This was big. It felt like I was being born again at age eleven. Seeing the world in a whole new way. From the front. My mom and I would shoot the breeze. Stop in some place for a slice of pizza. Pop into CVS for some baking soda. No biggie. We’re in the front.
In seventh grade I went on the Shrewsbury Middle School’s annual trip to Washington DC. If I thought the front was eye-opening, a trip to another state with no parents was like diving into a pool full of ice water. We were chaperoned by our history teacher, Mr. Hutchinson. Every year he would cart a few busloads of students down to Washington DC by himself. For four days. And every year this trip was the same. I knew that because my sisters Gina and Patti had been on the trip and my brother Joe had too.
“Now here’s what we’re gonna do,” Mr. Hutchinson would shout in the classroom for months leading up to the trip. He repeated this over and over. “We’re gonna load up these buses at seven a.m. And if you’re not here, we leave without you.”
Oh my God. They leave without us? Then what?
“Last year Jeremy Pile missed the bus. He spent the week picking weeds in his parents’ lawn.” There was always an example of what had happened to the last person who didn’t follow these strict rules. Smart tactic.
“And then when we get to Washington DC, we meet up with Huntah.” By the way, my sister Gina is eleven years older than I am. Different tour guide? Nope. Huntah. He goes by one name. “Huntah.”
“And Hunter shows us around to all the monuments. All the museums. And we eat all our meals at Roy Rodgehs (Roy Rogers).” Mr. Hutchinson would say with a straight face to a bunch of impressionable children: “Washington DC has the best Roy Rodgehs.” I later lived in Washington DC and discovered that the DC Roy Rogers really isn’t that much different from any other Roy Rogers up and down the Jersey Turnpike, but at the time we took it as absolute fact. I actually remember repeating it to my parents: “They have the best Roy Rogers.” My parents didn’t even correct me. I think they just wanted me to stop talking.
We saw everything in Washington DC on that trip: Washington Monument, Jefferson Memorial, Vietnam Memorial, several Roy Rogers. The trip gave me a taste of a world outside of Shrewsbury.
• • •
When I finished college, I asked my mom for her car.
I had met with a comedy booker named Carl Hasselback. Carl’s office smelled like pot and he had a Rolodex of the worst gigs in America. If you’ve ever driven by a motor lodge that inexplicably has the words “Comedy Night” illuminated on a sign out front, Carl probably booked it. I could call Carl more often than other bookers