Road Trip: Friday

The Road Trip New England started out not with a road, but a train. A very crowded train filled with people just like Kristen and I. People who were scrambling onto a packed subway car, enduring the one last press of humanity until they could get home and do whatever they pleased with their weekend. Kristen, myself and the huge duffel bag that had the weight and dimensions to be a dead body instead of two weeks worth of laundry smooshed on the train with only the thoughts of not being on the train again for three days keeping us from ripping the ears off whoever it was who was listening to country music, then gospel music, then oompah music at loud volume.
"There's a train right behind us," croaked the disinterested driver. People continued to push onto the train.
"There's also an Easter bunny and a Santa Claus," I said grumpily, moving my duffel bag so an old woman could lean against the doors. I took a quick look around and said, "I didn't ruin that for anybody, did I?"
Eventually, we ended up in Quincy where Kristen's car was parked. Once I got off the train the sweat that had been pouring down the back of my legs froze. I sauntered up the escalator with the bag and crushed into the elevator with a group of heavily made-up women carrying flowers and Coach purses. I couldn't wait to get out of the city.
I threw the laundry/body bag into the back of Kristen's car and heaved a sigh of relief, my breath floating out in front of me. Kristen flopped into the driver's seat and turned the car on. It started easily, but began to squeal as we backed out of the spot.
"Yeah, go ahead," Kristen snarled, "squeal like the little bitch you are. Go ahead! I don't care." A guy walking to his car looked over at the Subaru like it might explode. You'd think that these people had never been around a car with loose belts before.
Since it had been a long week and a long drive was in front of us, Kristen and I decided that a run to Dunkin Donuts was in order. It didn't have a drive-through, so we had to get out of the car into the frigid ocean air to get our fix. I also got a cookie, because half a bag of peanut butter cups wasn't enough crap for one day. As we left the store, a car pulled up next to us and a couple who barely looked old enough to drive got out. The girl was skinny and cute as most sixteen year-olds are, but instead of having the good sense to put on a coat when it's 20 degrees and windy, she strutted around in low-slung sweatpants and two gauzy tank tops.
"Kids these days," I said to Kristen as I slurped my hot coffee. "That girl should really have a coat on."
We then watched as this dizzy broad tried to open the fire exit which, from the outside of the store, didn't have a door handle. A thinking person may have decided to walk over to the side of the store with the door that could easily be opened, but apparently the synapses in this girl's brain had been slowed by frostbite. The girl slipped her fingers into the space between the door and the jamb and tried to pry the door open. Eventually, she gave up and walked over to the door her boyfriend was holding open for her, Kristen and I laughing uproariously.
"I never would have stopped laughing if she'd lay down on the ground and tried to open the door like a cat," Kristen commented between giggles.
The drive out of Boston was easy. We listened to the wide variety of cheesy mix CDs Kristen owns and called Kristen's Mom to tell her we were indeed on our way. The only traffic we got into was at the tolls on 95 in New Hampshire. We sang along loudly to Ashlee Simpson and Tina Turner as two sailors from Texas looked at the curious sight with looks of fear with the occasional raised eyebrow to get our attention on their Honda with a cracked fender.
We arrived at the Merrill household around 8:30. I brought my bag of laundry into the house and gladly accepted the beer that Rick (Kristen's Dad) handed me. The house smelled like frying chicken and was warm. I started a load of laundry as my stomach grumbled for some actual nutrition.
The chicken was delicious (thanks Sue) and it was good to sit in a proper house for a meal that didn't come out of a box or from a handsome waiter for the first time in weeks. Kristen and Rick discussed football and hockey, both of which I know little about.
"Come on, Amy," Rick boomed at me, "what do you think of Adam Vinatieri's contract? What do you have to add to the conversation?"
"Umm," I said, knowing full well that I was far outgunned by Rick, Kristen and Sue in this conversation, "can we talk about baseball?"
"We're getting there," Rick replied as Sue stole the cherry from his Manhattan.
After some discussion of funny moments in baseball (Rick saying "How is it possible that that bird managed to fly in front of Randy Johnson's pitch at the exact moment that it did? What are the physics of this situation?") we decided to go to bed. I fell asleep, lulled by the sound of my clean clothes tumbling in the dryer, thinking of exploding birds and what Portland, Maine would be like in the dead of winter. I'd find out on Saturday.