...baby why don't we go...

A guy and his fiancée. The guy’s brother with wife and 1 year-old boy. The two guys’ parents and 15-year-old sister. Florence, Alabama to Key Largo, Florida for a post Christmas trip.

15 years ago we took what is, to date, our last family vacation. My mom and dad took all of us to Key Largo over New Year’s weekend. It was, for the most part, an uneventful trip.

Aside from some amazing orange juice, our futile search for a beach, a glass-bottom boat trip, and my brother & sister-in-law’s constant bickering it was altogether forgettable. Well, almost altogether.

The trip from Florence to Key Largo was much more eventful than our actual stay in the Keys. Misty and I drove down separate and left a day earlier than everyone else because we had to stop to drop some of our stuff off in Auburn. We started from Florence the day after Christmas, spent the night in Auburn then headed toward south Florida.

We had some things to take care of in Auburn, so it was mid-afternoon before we left town. We planned to drive about halfway to Key Largo and then finish the trip the following day. I mapped out a route following Highway 280, then on to Albany, down Highway 82 to hit Interstate 75 in Tifton, and on to Florida.

Apart from darkness and rain and traffic, I don’t remember the drive. Which is typically a good thing. The highways in southern Georgia and northern Florida are flat and straight. Long and flat and straight.

I planned to stop to gas up the car in Lake City, Florida. I knew that by the time we arrived in Lake City we would be in desperate need of fuel.

As we neared Lake City, I could barely keep my eyes open. The constant patter of the raindrops. The rhythmic thump-thump of the wipers. The dull glow of the highway reflectors. The sleeping figure in the seat next to me. It all added up to one thing. It was time to stop for the night.

As it turned out we were in desperate need of fuel. We practically rolled into town on fumes. My sleepiness won out over our need for gas. I was tired. I wanted a bed. I decided I would stop for gas in the morning.

We checked into a hotel just off of the interstate and enjoyed a good night’s sleep.

The next morning we were anxious to get on the road. We still had many hours of driving ahead of us. The rest of my family would be there well before we arrived.

As I showered, I thought: “Don’t forget to get gas.” As I threw my dirty clothes into my bag, I thought: “Don’t forget gas.” As we checked out; as we loaded the bags in the trunk; as we climbed into the car; I thought: “Don’t forget to get gas!”

The next few moments have fallen prey to the passing years. I don’t remember if we stopped for breakfast. I don’t remember if Misty and I were fighting. Here’s what I do remember. I remember the distraction that life threw at us.

As we neared the interstate I noticed a restaurant. It was an older building. It looked as if it had been a Shoney’s or maybe a Denny’s in a former life. Now, though, the sign near the road boasted of Chinese cuisine. That was not the distraction.

Perched atop the building was the name of the establishment. Spelled out in large white capital letters. THE FU KING RESTAURANT!

I did a double take. A triple take. I laughed. I showed Misty the sign. She laughed. We wondered where our camera was. In the midst of our reverie I entered the interstate and headed south.

We continued laughing about the sign. “I can’t believe we didn’t take a picture!” “We should turn around.” “Jay Leno would love that. We should send a picture to him.”

We approached the next exit.

“I wonder if they have any idea how the sign looks?” I wonder if anyone has ever explained it to them?” We passed the exit.

“That is probably the funniest sign I’ve ever seen.”

Then I noticed a troubling sign: “Next Exit 23 Miles.” I stopped laughing. I looked down at the gauges. In an instant the memory of the night before hit me. We need gas.

“Uh oh.”

“What”

“We need gas.”

“Bad?”

“Bad”

I thought about turning around. There was no good place to cross the median. I decided we could make it to the next exit.

We rode the next several miles in silence. My eyes flicked from the road to the fuel gauge and back to the road. Over and over again. I watched the gauges. Misty watched me.

“I think we’ll be okay. I think we can make it.” Then the car sputtered. My heart sputtered.

The car sputtered again. Then it lurched and slowed. I pulled to the shoulder of the highway. We drove slowly along the shoulder for a half-mile or so. Then it stopped.

Misty and I sat and looked at each other for a moment. “What do we do?”

Keep in mind this was 1994. In the days before everyone had a cell phone in his or her pocket. We were stranded 10 miles from the nearest exit on a busy highway in Northern Florida. With no means of communication.

I looked up the road and noticed a minivan stopped on the side of the road. I watched the family inhabiting it spill out onto the shoulder. As I watched they noticed they were not alone in their distress. It was as if we were each primitive tribes on neighboring deserted islands. Each group knew the other was there, but neither could offer the other any help.

Then I noticed the head of their tribe move to a small pole. Then I noticed the antenna atop the pole. He picked up a receiver. It was a phone.

I looked at Misty, shrugged, and got out of the car. She exited also. I asked if she wanted to walk with me. “No.” I detected a hint of anger in the short answer. I shrugged again and started walking.

In those days of limited mobile communication the State of Florida had the foresight and ingenuity to know that motorists were stupid. They knew that we drive clunkers that break down every 100 miles. They knew that some of us are easily distracted by sophomoric humor and run out of gas halfway between two exits and 10 miles from either. Thanks to their cleverness I stood at an emergency call station. Thanks to their clairvoyance I walked half a mile for help instead of 10.

I made the call and walked back to the car. I informed Misty that they were sending someone right away. At least that’s what I was told.

We situated ourselves on the hood of her car and waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally a few hours later, a truck arrived with a couple of gallons of gas. And a tab for $50. I happily paid the man and he poured the fuel into the car. We started the car and continued on our journey. We drove past our fellow castaways as the assistance truck pulled behind their vehicle bringing aid and a hefty invoice.

We drove the next several miles in silence. I watched the road. I was embarrassed by the events of the day. The entire fiasco was my fault. I was sure Misty felt the same. Even though we’d spent the last few hours together, baking in the hot January sun and talking, if only sparingly, I could not bring myself to say anything. I couldn’t even look at her.

As we approached the next exit, I decided I needed to apologize. I swallowed hard and cleared my throat. I looked up from the gray asphalt and started to speak. As I turned my head Misty looked up and smiled.

In that smile I saw that we would be married for a long, long time.

At the next exit I pulled into a gas station. I filled the tank and we continued on our way.