Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

“I’m just kidding, pumpkin,” he said, glancing over at me. “Don’t worry.” I nodded and let out a breath. When I looked up, I saw we were pulling into a parking space right in front of 21 Choices. “Why, look at where we are,” he said with mock surprise. “Now, I think it’d be a shame to waste this parking spot. So who wants dessert?”

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home.

—Kentucky State song

“Snacks?” Roger asked, starting the ignition.

“Roger that,” I said, lifting up the bag we’d just bought from MO Mart. I saw Roger roll his eyes at that, but I felt myself smile, realizing the bad pun had just slipped out, before I’d thought it over. It felt like something the Old me would have done.

“Drinks?” he asked.

“Check,” I said, placing the cream soda and root beer in our respective cup holders, then loosening Roger’s root beer bottle top a little for him, as we’d found out this was challenging to do without taking both hands off the wheel.

“Tunes?” he asked.

“Check,” I said, looking at him. “Presumably.”

“Check,” he said, scrolling through his iPod. “But I’m seriously getting sick of my music. I wish you’d take a turn.”

“I like your music,” I said. And I did, to my continued surprise. It turned out that his strangely named bands made hummable, accessible music. I didn’t know how I’d gone this long in life without the Lucksmiths. I was missing my musicals a little, though.

“Sunglasses,” Roger said, slipping his on. He turned to me, raising an eyebrow above the frames. “You know, MO Mart had a lovely selection, for only three dollars plus tax.”

“I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. Roger had taken my refusal to buy sunglasses as some kind of challenge. But I didn’t want to buy any. It just didn’t feel right somehow.

“All right,” he said. “Shall we hit it?”

“Let’s,” I said, and Roger signaled to turn out of the mini-mart parking lot and back onto the interstate on-ramp.

“Is it a man?” I asked an hour later, as Missouri, slightly overcast, flew by the window.

“Nope,” said Roger, picking up his phone from the cup holder and checking it, frowning. “Nineteen.”

“I’m telling you, you can do this,” I said encouragingly. “Just purse your lips and try.”

“And I’m telling you,” he said, smiling at me, “despite what your shirt said, not everyone can whistle. And I am that person.”

“What do you think a Chick-fil-A is?” Roger asked, as we pulled off the interstate and into the parking lot.

“I don’t know,” I said. “So why don’t we go to a nice diner instead?”

“You and your diners,” he said, shaking his head.

I felt the same way about his fast-food restaurants, but kept that to myself. “Is it supposed to be ‘filet,’ and just spelled wrong?” I stared up at the red sign with its curly writing. “I don’t know.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” asked Roger, swinging around into the drive-thru lane. Maybe the routine had been set after our first meal together at In-N-Out, but when Roger won and we ate fast food, we almost always got it to go and then ate it in the car. He pulled the car up to the speaker, which clicked on with a loud, staticky hiss. “Hello,” he said, leaning forward. “This is our first time here. What would you recommend?”

Ten minutes later, back in the parking lot, I took a doubtful bite of my chicken sandwich. “Oh my God,” I murmured around my mouthful. It was seasoned, breaded chicken on a soft roll. And we were sharing an order of spicy fries. I looked up and saw Roger nodding, his sandwich almost all gone. “This is amazing.”

Roger smiled. “I’m not going to say I told you so,” he said. “But …”

“Okay,” I said, once we were back on the road, and I’d taken a sip of my soda. “Let me make sure I’ve gotten this. She’s female, probably dead, famous, and kind of an explorer?”

“Correct,” he said, putting down his visor against the sun, which had started to peek out of the clouds. “The answer is closer than you think. Sixteen.”

While I racked my brain so that I might have a chance of winning this round of Twenty Questions, Roger checked his phone. He’d go a few minutes, leaving it in the console behind the cup holders, but then would seem to lose some internal battle with himself and would flip it open, checking the screen for something that just wasn’t there.

“How do you know if you don’t try?” I asked him as Illinois flew past the window. “You just make an O shape with your lips….” I demonstrated for him, whistling along with Paul Simon.

“I’ve tried,” said Roger. “But not all of us can be as talented as you.”

“Indiana,” I said, pointing out the window, as we crossed another invisible state line. “The Hoosier State,” I read off the sign.

“Hey,” Roger said, putting his phone back in the console and turning to me. “Did you ever see that movie? Hoosiers?”

It started to get hot. The sun was beating down on the car, and I had flipped my visor down as well. I couldn’t help wishing I hadn’t grabbed a black shirt that morning. I stretched my arm out in the sun hitting my side of the car and saw that I was already starting to get a few freckles.

“So it’s 1951,” Roger said. “Gene Hackman is the coach of this Indiana high school basketball team. And they’re the underdogs. And nobody expects them to win the big game, let alone the championship.”

“But they do anyway?” I guessed.

Roger turned to me, surprised. “I thought you said you hadn’t seen it.”

“I just don’t understand,” I said an hour later, slouching down in the seat, putting my feet up on the dashboard and pulling my hair off my neck. It was getting really hot in the car now, and Roger and I had been having a battle as to whether we should have the AC on (his vote) or the windows down (my vote). But I had to admit, it was getting to be a little too hot to keep the windows down. I rolled up my window, and Roger cranked the AC.

“Don’t understand what?” Roger asked. He drove up next to a huge truck, pulling the car into the shadow it cast and cooling us down considerably.