So do I cry? Do I freak out? After all, my second favorite thing in the world, my car, is dead. (My first favorite thing is Claudia, assholes.) No, I take it in stride. Ok, how do we get out of here? At this point, most of the counselors have left on the bus to New York City. Let’s rent a car. Ok, wait, I’m not 25 and my credit card is maxed out. Great! So our friend Graeme is driving the camp van, another pile of shit, to a dealer to trade in for a new one and he’ll give us a ride to the Albany airport. Awesome, that’s closer to Pittsburgh than here.
After the trade-in, we hop into a brand new Nissan Rogue which totally mocks the fact that I will not see a new car in a very very long time. So here we are, outside of the airport with all of our shit—I have SO much shit, on a balls hot day, with no intention of taking any flights whatsoever. My father heroically drives the two hours from Binghamton to pick us up.
You think you’re a grown-up sometimes don’t you? Oh yes, I’m so independent, making my own way until you take away my car and remind me that I’m a grand in debt. Daddy, bail me out please. I should be making my millions as a school teacher like you and mom said. Oh well, LB and I arrive in Binghamton, NY and have a night’s rest in my little house, I reunite with Claudia and tomorrow we’ll figure something out.
After many, many attempts we find a locally owned car dealership that will give us a rental despite my age and cash-only situation. Up rolls a fucking PT Cruiser. And it’s PURPLE. I’m driving a purple PT Cruiser to Pittsburgh and back in 24 hours. But we will do this because youth and determination are fuelling it. LB needs to get to this boy no matter what it takes! Or how many people are involved, for that matter!
Of course we get lost and show up late at night, but she’s there! And of course, on the way back, I think I’m doing so well, I’m going to get the car back on time all is well---HOLY SHIT IS THAT A………woodchuck. I killed it. First roadkill ever. And so now I’m crying in the PT Cruiser, saying phrases like “I didn’t mean it” and “I couldn’t swerve” twice, maybe ten times. That miserable latching on to a phrase and repeating it, sniveling all the while, syndrome.
Punks: 1. Woodchucks: 0.