The Getaway
By Mark D. Crantz
Let me start by way of an apology. I was on vacation recently. Scratch that. It was a three-day getaway. It’s over now, and I’m still unsure what we were getting away from. When we got back home, I looked around, and everything looked the same. I couldn’t find anything troubling to have caused the abrupt getaway.
When my wife initially suggested the getaway I did ask her what we were getting away from. She told me it was none of my business and to just get in the car. I didn’t push it. I got in the car on the passenger side to get away from something I couldn’t see, but I did look over my shoulder to see if anyone was following. So far, the coast was clear.
It was a pleasant trip. I pointed out all the curious things I saw along the way, such as, the donut shop. I asked, “Why are there holes in donuts?” The question was left hanging without a follow-up. My wife wasn’t answering. Why wasn’t she answering? Did she not hear me? Or did she have a bad run-in with a donut as a child? Maybe we were getting away from donuts, and I stumbled onto a sensitive area. Better to move it along.
I saw some cows. “Do you think cows drink milk?” The question fared no better than the donut question. I decided to push it, thinking there was no way my city-raised wife had a bad experience with a country-raised cow. I stepped bravely into the cow pies. “Maybe cows are lactose intolerant and they can’t drink their own milk. Wouldn’t that be a cruel trick of nature.” I side-eyed my wife for a reaction. Her gaze was riveted to the highway. I looked forward to see what had caused such deep concentration. It was an empty four lane highway clear of all vehicles in both directions, with a sign stating next service exit in 48 miles. At this point, I kept my third question to myself. I asked myself, “Do you think cows play the car license plate game? You know, the game where you try to count the most state license plates, and you lose those plates if you pass a graveyard on your side of the car.” I answered myself, “I don’t know. Can a cow pass a cemetery if he’s restricted by a fenced-in pasture?” Well, I might not know the answer, but I answered myself in a timely manner. It was a good start on what was becoming a longer felt getaway. Maybe like a vacation.
I sat in silence for a good half hour, longing for a sign to renew some dialogue. I saw my wife’s white knuckle grip on the steering wheel loosen. Her knuckles were now a rosy color hue. I jumped at the sign and hoped she’d come around to telling me why donuts are lactose intolerant and cows have holes in them. That’s when it hit me. I forgot to take the Indy to hold up for a picture when residents go on vacation. Well, this getaway wasn’t as long as a vacation, but it surely felt long enough in the silence to warrant an Indy taking picture. I blurted out, “You have to turn around. I forgot the Indy to hold up.” My wife’s knuckles lost their rosy glow. “I’m not turning around. We’d add four hours of driving and four hours of inane roadside questions.” I stuck out my lower lip and quivered, “But we have to because, ah, just because.”
My wife stared ahead, saying nothing. But then, with all time running out, I said, “Fine. I’ll turn around.” And to my sheer delight, my wife returned to retrieve the Indy. I ran into the house with nothing to get away from and picked up my Indy. As I ran out the front door, my wife took off without me and the Indy in a quick getaway.
I asked myself, “Self, can I still take a picture of me with my Indy in the driveway?”
Crantz tells the Indy that he just got a picture of his wife holding up an Indy. She must have gotten her own Indy somewhere. Her getaway looks pleasant.
