My BFFs and I decided yesterday to take an old-school 70s family road trip next summer, preferably in a caddie convertible towing an Airstream trailer (or we could just rent an
Aztec). We want to see the Grand Canyon and go to Graceland and eat pie at truck stops and drive across the desert. As we ate lunch we talked, with increasing excitement, about how lithe we'll somehow become and how much longer our legs will be given that they'll be sun kissed and clad in cut-offs and how long and sun-bleached our hair will grow. And the smiles! Oh man, so much smiling! And the mix-tapes! SO MUCH STEVIE NICKS. Then as after we'd described in excruciating detail how the wind would blow our hair
just so across our faces and how we'd run straight to the ocean pausing only long enough to take off our cowboy boots and how we'd just breeze into people's lives like ethereal puffs of smoke before disappearing back on the road as dawn broke, Rebekah says that she's got some "kinda" bad news: We're going to die on our magical road trip. Rebekah does do a lot of premonitioning so odds are that when she says that things will go Shirley Jackson/Cormac McCarthy/James Dickey, they probably will. Which is a shame but we really want to go on this road trip. Grisly death or not, I
want need to be on the open road, blasting Beth Orton, laughing with my best girls.
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Alex Snider reads books, writes fiction and bleeds ink. Her website is What Fresh Hell is This and her Twitter handle is @what_freshhell.
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