Numerous Tequila shots, lap dances, and hot sexes later, I arrived at our apartment. I'm told it was about 4:30 in the morning. I don't remember that, but I do remember that Tucker was standing in the living room with his arms crossed like an angry dad. I also remember that my pants were on inside out.

Tap tap tap of the foot, grimace, and "Are you ready to go?"
"SURE! Lesh go. I'm ready, so lesh go."

We packed up some odds and ends; sat Maxie on my lap, and headed out for Austin, TX at 5am. Tucker drove the first leg. Obviously.

And that, my friends, was the beginning of the adventure.

Saturday 1pm: Cairo, Illinois
The car violently swerves, a pissed off driver honks, and I awaken. Maxie is still on my lap and Tequila is pouring out of my skin. I drink a half-gallon of water and am a bitch, because Tucker is always violently swerving and pissing off drivers. The radio is set to a country station. I ask, "Gorilla (Tucker's nickname), you want me to drive?"
"No Bunny. You go seepy."
"No. You don't boss me!"

Tucker tells me a story about Cairo, which used to be a major city back in the days when everything was shipped via the Mississippi. Now it is a ghost town. He tells me this because I am a nerd and love all things historical. I fall asleep.

Saturday 2pm: Blytheville, Missouri
The car slows to a stop. We are in a Walmart parking lot. We walk halfway to the door and head back to the car because Tucker always leaves his wallet in our unlocked car. Always.

We go in and buy more water, beef jerky and some allergy medicine for my poor Gorilla's delicate sinuses. Tucker is extraordinarily cranky because I fucked till dawn and he didn't any. I go to the bathroom and clog the toilet in the last stall.
"Gorilla, you want me to drive?"
"Yes."

I drive through Arkansas, my favorite state. So brown, and such nice... dirt?

In Little Rock the road narrows to two lanes hugged by concrete barriers. I thank God that I am driving because just one of Tucker's famous swerves would kill us.

Saturday 6pm: Dallas Texas
Tucker yells, "Pull off Bunny. Pull off. There's a Kroger back there."
"A what?"
"A Kroger, you know, a grocery store?"

I pull over and get caught in traffic. It takes a half an hour to maneuver a quarter-mile on the infernal access roads. Tucker is fuming because he is always in a hurry and this takes a half hour off our ETA. But he needs to buy a case of "Fat Tire" because it is apparently the greatest beer ever and not sold in Illinois.

Tucker goes into the Kroger, but comes out empty handed because we are in one of those rare and magical "Dry Counties." He kicks many things and screams obscenities at the crazy Christian people.

We keep driving.
"Gorilla, you want to stop here?"
"No!"
"But there's probably beer in this county."
"No!"
"But there's a Bud Light sign back there, Gorilla."
"I SAID NO!"
"You don't be mean to disin' Bunny."
"You shut dat Bunny hole, or I will bit you on your nose."

Tucker takes over, and I fall asleep. We arrive in Austin, go to KimChi's room and I fall asleep for good to Tucker's bitching about sports scores and telling Maxie "You better watch out dog, Aunt Kim Chi is gonna kill you and cook you up in a wok," and "I'm going to stuff bananas up your butt till you die, dog." He says this because the vets use potassium to put dogs to sleep. Oh that silly Gorilla.

Sunday 9am: Austin Texas, The Omni Hotel
Tucker: "Bunny, wake up."
Bunny: "AAARRRRGGGHHH."
Sunday 10am: Austin Texas, The Omni Hotel
Tucker: "Bunny, wake up."
Bunny: "AAARRRRGGGHHH."
Sunday 11am: Austin Texas, The Omni Hotel
Tucker: "Bunny, wake up or you will get whipped in your face."
Maxie (Speaking through the voice of her father): "Mommy wake up! I will kiss you on your face and wake you up. I will put my paws on your tummy and wake you up." Two ice cold paws on my face startle me from sleep.

I wake up ready for a day of sipping far too many Mojitos (two) by the pool with KimChi. Tucker tells me we have to go straight home because he has to watch football on Sunday. I decide to hate him. No Mojitos? No Kimmy? No calling Drunkasaurusrex eight times to inform him of his crush on Kimmy? WELL THIS FUCKING TRIP IS A BAIT AND SWITCH!!!!!

I begrudgingly get into the car. I think I might have shed a tear or two. Kimmy is the best.

Tucker is an Airhead
No lie. It's a good thing I'm such a type-B personality. Here is an example.

We drive to BrianH's apartment. A small Asian woman opens the door. She is not BrianH.

BrianH has moved and Tucker has not bothered to check where he lives before driving cross-country to his apartment. We stop at a TigerMart and ask the clerk where the nearest Kinkos is so that we may look up BrianH's phone number via the web and then go to a pay phone. We don't have cell phones. Neither of us is responsible enough to maintain cell phone service for more than the time it takes to shut an account down.

The TigerMart attendant doesn't know what Kinkos is. She sends me to a store that sells computers. Tucker fumes. The people at the computer store send us to a library on Grove Street, which we don't find because Tucker is too impatient to drive the three necessary blocks.

Back to TigerMart.

Back to Library. We go into the library and then back out to the car because Tucker always leaves his wallet in our unlocked car.

We look up BrianH's number then call him. He lives very far away.

We drive to BrianH's apartment complex. Tucker has neglected to ask him which apartment he lives in, so Maxie and I wait patiently while Tucker hops the fence, goes to a pay phone and calls BrianH. Again.

We pack Tucker's stuff into my car, and I must admit there is a lot of it. I wonder what could be so important in those tubs that we had to drive thirty-two hours for it. I am such a curious bunny.

We leave BrianH, and immediately head back for Chicago. On the way, we stop at a liquor store to buy a case of "Fat Tire" apparently the world's greatest beer. The cashier tells us it will "skunk if it gets warm," so Tucker buys two Styrofoam coolers and some ice, packs the beer in the coolers and then rearranges the car so that Maxie has three cubic feet of space to sit, and I have to put my legs on the dash. But at least Tucker has his god damned "Fat Tire."

After a stop at Chick Fil-A, we hit the road, Chicago-bound. Tucker: "You know, if I get a TV deal the first thing I'm going to do is convince Chick Fil-A that they need to have a franchise in LA. I want to eat Chick Fil-A every day for lunch."

Saturday 4pm: Dallas Texas
I ask Tucker loaded questions. He cruelly snaps. We fight for an hour.

Saturday 5pm: Outside Dallas
We make up.

Saturday 6pm: Hope Arkansas
We stop for gas and the pump has run out. Aren't pumps supposed to be infallibly full? Tucker discovers that one of his "Fat Tire" coolers is leaking onto his computer, and this does not please him. He goes into the Wendy's and aggressively asks for garbage bags to wrap his "Fat Tire" in.

We wrap the coolers, and Tucker drives to another gas station while Maxie and I walk around the Arkansas filth and stretch our legs. We understand quickly why Bill Clinton has such low sexual standards.

My skirt blows up and everyone sees my ass. No one cares. I decide I need to start working out more if ugly people don't even like my ass.

Saturday 8pm: Little Rock Arkansas
I volunteer to drive through the concrete barriers. I am not ready to die. I bitch at everyone in the world that comes near me.

Maxie sits on Tucker's lap and he sings to her, Maxie da mutt, you dirty doggy slut, I'll whip you in your butt, Maxie da mutt. It's a work in progress. Baby voice is necessary if you want to cover it with authenticity.

Tucker is Good with Minor Annoyances, Bad with Major Ones
Saturday 10pm: Somewhere in Arkansas
We stop for gas. Inside, it takes thirty minutes to purchase a bag of corn nuts and a diet coke because the semi-illiterate cashier with real "BillyBob" teeth has never seen a traveler's check before, and the guy in front of us can't buy his gas any other way. She is on the phone with someone, "Dee-nom-ination? What in th' sam hell s'spose that means?"

Tucker calmly tells her, "It refers to the amount."

Guy next to the cashier: "So the trade towers, aint they them things in the Sears building down th' road? Th' one in Chee-cago?"

Girl next to the cashier: "Nope. The trade towers are them things in Washington, I thank."

Guy next to the cashier: "They's in Washington?"

I leave. Tucker remains calm. I don't know how he manages this.

I am only driving fifteen miles over the speed limit, so Tucker decides to take over and speed things up. We are about twenty miles down the road when the car starts to shake and we hear a loud THWACK. Tucker pulls to the side of the road. The smell of burnt rubber tells us we probably have a flat tire. We get out and inspect the damage, but it is too dark to tell what has happened. The car still drives, so we head to the nearest exit and pull up to a truck stop, the kind t hat has sleeping cubes and crusty hookers that smell like pine tree air fresheners and will suck your dick for ten bucks.

Tucker: "Shit! What the fuck are we going to do?! I'm going to miss Sunday Football."
"Honey, we're fine. It's not a big deal."
Tucker: "YES IT IS! I HATE THIS SHIT! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?"
"We'll figure it out. We'll get a hotel room somewhere."
Tucker: "THERE ARE NO HOTELS IN THIS FUCKING TOWN."
"So we sleep in the car. No biggie."

The radial is blown, but the tube beneath it is fine. Tucker hands me the jack and I go to work. He cooks. I change the tires.

All of the lugs loosen easily save for one. It is half stripped.

I go into the Truck stop and ask if there is a mechanic, better lug wrench, or any triple A service etc. The woman behind the counter shakes her head "no," and neglects to tell me that there is a Walmart where I could buy a better lug wrench three miles up the road. I have to discover this on my own.

I curse my psychic ability for being utterly useless. Why can't dead people say, "Get your tire changed in Texas because it will blow in Arkansas." Fucking dead people are so selfish.

Sunday 12am: Blytheville, Missouri
I am surrounded by various instruments purchased in a Walmart whose last ladies room stall toilet has an "Out of Order" sign on it. I am covered in sweat and dirt. Tucker's arms are bloodied, and he is nearly black with road soot. All he needs is a milk mustache and some tap shoes, and he is Al Jolson. The lug nut is still screwed in place, but is now shredded into a humble lump of metal because Tucker banged on it like a rabid monkey in the hopes it would come off.

No matter how hard we tried, we couldn't get it loose. God was laughing at us for all our transgressions through a tiny piece of metal. Catholic guilt rushed over me. I began to think, "Oh shit, is cunnulingus a big sin or a small sin? Am I being punished?" but then remembered that if there is a God, he's hated me for a long time. There's no need to start fucking with me now.
Tucker: "I can't believe this is happening. This fucking blows. What are we going to do?"
"I dunno. It's not a big deal honey. We'll figure it out, okay?"

Earlier at the Truckstop with the hookers, a good samaritan had given us the number of a 24 hour on-call shop up the road in Missouri called 'David Greer Tire service." We woke up David, and he said "I'll have someone meet you at the shop, here's how to get there."

Tucker white-knuckle drove there at 40 miles per hour in the passing lane with our flashers on because it was the less bumpy side of the road. We weren't popular.
Tucker: "I can't fucking believe this! We'll never make it there. The tire will blow and we'll be stuck in the middle of nowhere and we'll die."
"Stop it. You're being silly."
Tucker: "We'll never make it."
"Look how pretty the stars are, Gorilla."
Tucker: "We'll never make it."
"Don't you want to sing your favorite song? 'The stars at night, are big and bright [clap clap clap clap] deep in the heart of Texas.'"
Tucker: "We're in Missouri."

I tried to think of a song with Missouri in it, but couldn't. I felt like Riti Sped.

Sunday 2am: Somewhere in Missouri
We pulled into "David Greer Tire Service." No one was there, so we called David again, and about ten minutes later a young man pulled in, exorcised the possessed lug-nut right off its bolt, got us a new tire, and only charged us $100. God bless David Greer. I can't say enough wonderful things about his staff.

While waiting for the regular-sized tire, Tucker cracked open a few "Fat Tires" for everyone.
Mechanic: "'Fat Tar,' flat tar, that's purty funny."

Major Emergencies? No Big Whoop for Tucker
Sunday 2:30am: Somewhere in Missouri
We were back on the road with an ETA of 9am, just enough time to refrigerate the "Fat Tire" before "Sunday NFL countdown." I fell asleep.

Sunday 3am: St. Louis Missouri
Violent swerve. I wake up and ask, "You okay, Gorilla? You want to get coffee?"
"No I'm fine."
"You want me to drive?"
"You quiet your Bunny hole."
"I'm not seepy."

We discuss the various places we would go if money were no option. I say I want to do the run to Macchu Pichu. Tucker tells me I am boring. He would rather to go Prague, drink with depressed people and get AIDS. I tell him if I am boring then he is shallow. In a heated debate over whether aggressive, warring cultures like the Mongols left behind more art and culture than peaceful tribes who successfully hid from Conquistadors but were eventually vanquished, Tucker drives fifty miles past our exit. We now have to take the long way home. I fall asleep.

Sunday 4am: Somewhere
Violent swerve. "Gorilla, you okay? You want me to drive?"
"You quiet that face and go seepy."

Sunday 5am: Somewhere Else
Violenter swerve. "Gorilla you okay? You want me to drive?"
"No. You go seepy, Bunny. [yawn] I'm fine."

Sunday 6am: Somewhere Else
Violentest swerve. "Gorilla you okay? You want me to drive? You look awful seepy."
"No Bunny."

Sunday 7am: Outside Chicago
I wake up. We are doing 75 miles per hour backward, staring into the path of a slaloming 4x4. We spin 720 degrees and hop up on two wheels. I am screaming. Maxie looks like that old Saturday Night Live skit, Toonces the Driving Cat. Tucker does a very calm soccer-mom reach, and in an everyday kind of voice you use with the mailman, your neighbor or the guy who gives you your french f ries he says "Bunny everything is fine. Relax."

WHILE WE ARE FUCKING SPINNING IN THE ROAD!

Tucker pulls the wheel into the spin and the car drops down to four wheels again. It comes to a stop, backward, in the middle of the road.

I'm shaking. Maxie has her snout over my shoulder and is licking my neck in fear. Tucker is fine. Just fucking fine. No big whoop.

Me: "OH MY GOD, AAAAAHHHHH! WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!!!!!!!"
Tucker: [totally calm] "I don't know. I guess I fell asleep. It's okay; We're fine."

Sunday 8am: Chicago
Tucker: "Bunny I think it's a certainty that some force somewhere wants us to live on and be great."

If we had been able to get that lug nut off in the Walmart parking lot, we would have put on the donut. If we had put on the donut, we wouldn't have gone to David Greer's tire service. We would have gone straight to Chicago, spun in the road with no traction, flipped our car and died. If we had been able to get that lug nut off we would be two and half lumps of charred carbon in a ditch off route 55.

I have decided to take from this that life is precious, and that at any moment it can be taken away. And also that God does not, in fact, hate me for all the cunnulingus.

Tucker has decided to learn that he is indestructible. Look out world.