I don’t know who came up with the idea first, Dutch Decker or me, but it was only a matter of time before the corridors of our dormitory were buzzing with two words. Road Trip.
An afternoon as fine as this was not to be wasted on as trivial a pursuit as studying. Blue sky and asphalt. They were calling.
We knew of only one kid who had a car. Bud Franklin. And we were in luck. We located him, lounging in his room, unable to decide how to spend the remainder of the day. So we decided for him.
While Bud went to fetch his ‘47 Plymouth, the rest of us ran around like mad, assembling any and all manner of provisions we thought we might need to pack along. Several plaid wool blankets, a dozen or so bottles of Coca Cola , Dutch’s portable record player and a stack of 45’s, two footballs, and plenty of food. At some point, someone remembered to invite the girls.
Piling into the car, jackets and cares left behind, we were off-our destination still unknown. That we had taken to the open road, bound for anywhere, was enough. Then, about a half a mile out of town, Bud tried unsuccessfully to drive over a rather large rock that lay directly in his path.
And that was the end of our road trip.
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This little story from my fiction archives was inspired by a spur of the moment road trip back in my college days that a friend and I decided to embark on. I can still see the rock in the road, and my friend’s split second decision to drive over it-instead of around it-and the resulting consequence. Alas, it was the end of our road trip too.
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