Millions of people have done the road trip gig, going all the way back to the friars and Indians who were crazy enough to plant my half-breed family tree, and I sure wouldn't say ours is up to the griff they must have suffered. Think about Alex's bloodline--people in dinkoid canoes crossing the entire Pacific from Tahiti to Hawaii. Talk about booga-booga.
So even though our trip wasn't some King Tut adventure for the ages like those gigs, we did have one thing they didn't: Alex. And with Alex, adventures--yah, more like nightmares, but don't get me started--pop up in the most unlikely places. Even simple things like taking a bus end up with us being tossed off in the cornfields. Believe me, if Alex had been with the first Hawaiians, his canoe would have sunk before the Tahitians had stopped waving adios. Or more likely, his canoe would have sunk the whole damn fleet.
The idea was just to get a tropo old car and go to see Alex's cousin Tita in New York. Most people could have driven from Hellay to New York in a week, tops, but we ended up with a dead Dodge Lancer in K.C. Not that I'm ungrateful, of course, because we met Leslie in Iowa, and we did make some gitas working for Leon the mechanic. But I got tired of Alex janking the Lancer and blaming me for squeezing it out of Old Man Ching. If that old mac nut hadn't been so stubborn, we might have ended up with a vehicle which actually ran--and then look what we would have missed.
Not only does Alex refuse to catch the jerk for all the griff he creates, he accuses me of attracting it. Yah, as if I almost started the fight with those five cornfed farm boys in Turdkick County, Kansas. Would Tracie have hitched with us from Las Vegas if it had been me and anyone else? Yah. Or what about working with the Odd Squad outside Sacramento? Would Spence have hired us if Alex wasn't with me? Hire my wimpo bod to haul ten tons of stone sheet? Yah.
And that dumb play Benny shoehorned us into in New York. Would we have gotten the parts if it wasn't for Alex's big pearly-white smile? It's him. It's got to be him, because this griff never happens to me when I'm alone. No drag races to the death in old Valiants, no bar fights, no stone sheet. The only thing I can claim credit for was meeting Nikki, and taking the room in Elroy's house just in time for his stunt with the secret roscoe. And I guess you could tag me with our almost-bust in the desert.
But Alex was wrong about the Lancer. It only went four paws to the sky that once. And he's wrong about me creating griff, too. It's him. Believe me, it's him.
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