Sick
Van
We left the Excalibur Hotel in Las Vegas around 7:30 am
amid the casino’s ringing bells and early morning excitement. Mom, Dad, my
younger brother, Nick, and I were surprised at the high number of elderly
people hoping to strike it rich so early…or so late, depending on how you look
at it. It made me want to try my hand at my first Blackjack table, but Dad
wanted to avoid the onslaught of the desert sun on our trek to Uncle Bob’s
house in Yucaipa, California.
The
valet could not find our vehicle in the sea of Cadillacs and Rolls Royces. Our
newly-minted family van was hideous, a bright white and forest green swamp
plopped in the middle of a palace. Dad started pacing like a caged lion, his
precious cool morning minutes dwindling away before the full force of the
blazing sun joined the fray.
By the time we found our ride, it was steaming outside,
and so was Dad. His plan for making good time in cooler weather was scorched.
While I pulled out of the lot, Nick looked out the passenger window and saw a
temperature sign. “It’s 106 degrees!” he yelled.
“Itisadit?!” My dad was so shocked that his words were
smashed together like the morning’s continental breakfast in my stomach.
The morning rush-hour traffic was no cause for concern
with me at the wheel. The road was bending at my will as I swerved in and out
of traffic like Lightning McQueen. Soon the skyscrapers were in the rear-view
mirror, but so was my dad’s face. It was turning fifty shades of green. “Drive
a little slower, son,” he said. “I am not feeling good.”
He lay down in the back, and Mom started tending to him.
I looked over at Nick and said, “Looks like it’s just you and me all the way to
L.A.!” I cranked on 88.1, a Las Vegas hip-hop radio station. Nick was only
fourteen, so he could not help Dad and me drive on the trip. It was nice having
him as my sidekick. If I needed any drinks, snacks, or a talking partner, my
little brother was there to help. I had just turned twenty-one and would be
starting my senior year of college the following fall. The trip to California
was possibly our last family vacation before entering the next phase of my
adult life.
Mid-way through MC Hammer’s “Too Legit to Quit,” Nick and
I had a request (i.e. demand) from the back: turn off the radio and shut-up.
Mom said that Dad was getting a bad headache and needed all noise to cease. I
tried to keep the volume low, but that wouldn’t suffice. Uncle Bob’s house was still
3 ½ hours away. Mom was relaying Dad’s mandates for him; his headache was
morphing into a migraine. He would motion for Mom to place her ear next to his
mouth, and Dad would whisper his needs to her. She had to cover his eyes with a
towel to keep out the sun, something about him seeing flashes of light. This
was indeed a major migraine…or the Las Vegas casino spiked his Diet Coke while
he was winning $350.00 at the Blackjack table the previous night.
Nick
and I stared out into the distance, mountains and desert surrounding us. We
assumed the 106 degrees was climbing as the morning grew to nearly noon, but we
were in relative comfort with the air conditioning flowing. Everything was
quiet in the back, and the miles were progressing; we had recently crossed the
state border into California. I would periodically check my speed to make sure
I was clipping along effectively but not going too fast for the state patrol. I
lowered my head to again check my speed, but this time the gauge to the left
caught my eye. The van was overheating. Nick cautiously relayed the message to
Dad, and as he came back to the front seat, his face looked ghostly pale. “Dad
looks like death, and he said we have to crank the heater to cool the engine.”
I
learned that very day that one of life’s most confusing ironies is how to cool
a van. In order for the engine to cool, the heater needs to run on high. In
other words, hot equals cold. I am not a mechanic or meteorologist, so that
didn’t make sense to me…but it worked. I turned on the heater to full blast,
and the engine started to slowly cool. We opened our windows to avoid the
assault of the heater, but it didn’t help. It was like having multiple flame
throwers blistering us at the same time; we were sweltering in a desert sauna
without an oasis in sight.
About
half an hour later, the eerie quiet was broken with a thunderous noise: Dad
emitting the dinner buffet. We could hear the spray of chunks splash and Mom’s
whimper as she gripped a thank-the-good-Lord-it’s-empty Kraft mayonnaise
container while Dad filled it up. Mom twisted the lid shut afterward. Dad
groaned that the smell of mayonnaise was making him even more nauseous, but
there was nothing else in the van that could hold his spew.
Nick
and I looked at each other in horror as the stench of the prime rib mingled
with the broiled shrimp and chocolate-covered strawberries. We thought the wind
flowing through the van would take the foul smell outside, but it lingered
instead. Another half an hour passed, but the outside and inside heat seemed to
hold the odor in place. The thought of the bucket full of vomit was ravaging my
mind; I could imagine the deathly liquid bubbling in the van’s heat like Uncle
John’s oyster stew boiling on the stove.
As
the morning turned into early afternoon, the temperature rose dramatically.
Fiery rays shone on the gray concrete of Interstate 15, making it look like
water was always on the horizon. The seconds, minutes, and miles seemed to go
slower…and slower…and...slower. The bad combination of overpowering heat, not
much sleep, no relief driver, no radio, and no Mountain Dew was taking its toll.
It was putting me in a trance. I needed something, anything, to stay awake. Then
I remembered there was a package of veggies sitting in a cooler in the back.
Eating them on my first nighttime driving shift from St. Paul to Sioux City,
Iowa, had kept me awake and alert while everyone was asleep. “Nick,” I
whispered. “Go get me some carrots from the cooler. I need something to chew.”
“No,”
he responded without hesitation.
“I
am exhausted and getting sleepy. I need something!” I yelled as loud as I could
while still falling under the definition of a whisper.
“No.”
“Your
life, all our lives, are in my hands! The heat is making it impossible to keep
my eyes open!”
“I
am not going back there. You expect me to go next to the nasty barf pail to get
your stupid carrots? I might wake up Dad! No way!”
I
had a sudden urge to belt Nick in the face. I could feel the van coast to the
side of the road as I grew more and more exhausted. But the thought of beating
up my brother heightened my senses a bit. I looked over at him. He was staring
straight ahead, sweat dripping down his face, still locked into a stubborn, no-way-am-I-budging-from-this-spot
look. I had a daydream of taking my foot off the accelerator and smashing it
into Nick’s jaw, but a quick, loud rip brought me back to reality: the mayo lid
was torn off once again. Dad was hurling breakfast this time. His booming voice
echoed into the can and reverberated throughout the van. It sounded like he was
trying to get a dead rat out of his throat. After a few hacks, Mom again
whimpered something and put the cover back on. I noticed she wiped her brow
after she put the pail down. She must have gotten hit in the face with the splatter.
Even
without the carrots, I managed to stay awake through the never-ending desert
until the eastern-ring suburbs of Los Angeles finally came into view. Soon the
Yucaipa population 41,207 sign appeared. It was hard to notice all the
beautiful palm trees and gorgeous view of the sun over the mountain horizon;
Dad was sitting up barking orders, trying to ensure we made it to the right
exit…and ensure that I completely lost my mind. I had made it all the way from
Vegas. I was not going to allow myself to get lost. I had to get out of the pukemobile;
it was 1:00, and four hours was enough to last a lifetime. We found the exit
and pulled into the 711 to meet Uncle Bob. Before anyone could greet one
another, my dad bulled his way out of the van and sprinted into the gas
station’s bathroom. He came out and trudged right back to his makeshift bed. At
least he finally upchucked somewhere else.
We
followed Uncle Bob to his home. Once we got there, my dad had to properly
initiate yet another septic system. I never asked him afterward, but I assume
green bile joined the party since all the previous night’s dinner and morning
breakfast exited the premises long before. Mom flushed the little pail of doom
afterward, ensuring Bob, Nick, and me that we were not going to enter that
house of horrors until it had been bathed in bleach.
Nick
felt nature’s call, so Uncle Bob escorted him to the master bathroom. Aunt Nan
obviously loved her porcelain throne to be clean. It was immaculate. Everything
sparkled. Even the handle reflected perfectly. My brother went first…and last.
He came out looking as guilty as a criminal getting caught red-handed. “I just
plugged the toilet,” he mumbled. Then the boom: “And there is no plunger.”
Poor
Uncle Bob. All those years living in California, and we finally visited. Then
what happened? His brother-in-law puked in the first bathroom and disappeared
into the guest bedroom, and his nephew plugged the only remaining outlet for
relieving life’s necessary evils. To this day, none of us remembers who took
care of the problem. Poor Uncle Bob.
My
dad came out the following morning, and except for looking a bit shriveled due
to losing weight, he was back to his old self. We stayed at Uncle Bob’s for four
days. It actually became the highlight of our trip. As we left Yucaipa and
began our trek north toward Yosemite National Park, I was glad to know we were
heading north instead of east toward the desert. I realized that in times of
peril, valuable lessons can be learned. If you’re going to drive through the
desert in the summer, don’t go in an overheating van, especially when there is
an overheating dad in the back.
