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PART THREE
The
Vessel

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The First Hour
It takes a little while for everyone to explain to their parents that 1. We’re all
going to miss graduation, and 2. We’re driving to New York, to 3. See a town
that may or may not technically exist, and hopefully 4. Intercept the
Omnictionary poster, who according to the Randomly capitalized Evidence is 5.
Margo Roth Spiegelman.
Radar is the last to get off the phone, and when he finally does, he says, “I’d
like to make an announcement. My parents are very annoyed that I’m missing
graduation. My girlfriend is also annoyed, because we were scheduled to do
something very special in about eight hours. I don’t want to get into details about
it, but this had better be one fun road trip.”
“Your ability to not lose your virginity is an inspiration to us all,” Ben says
next to me.
I glance at Radar through the rearview mirror. “WOOHOO ROAD TRIP!” I
tell him. In spite of himself, a smile creeps across his face. The pleasure of
leaving.
By now we are on I-4, and traffic is fairly light, which in and of itself is
borderline miraculous. I’m in the far left lane driving eight miles an hour over
the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit, because I heard once that you don’t get
pulled over until you’re going nine miles an hour over the speed limit.
Very quickly, we all settle into our roles.
In the wayback, Lacey is the provisioner. She lists aloud everything we
currently have for the trip: the half of a Snickers that Ben was eating when I
called about Margo; the 212 beers in the back; the directions I printed out; and
the following items from her purse: eight sticks of wintergreen gum, a pencil,
some tissue, three tampons, one pair of sunglasses, some ChapStick, her house
keys, a YMCA membership card, a library card, some receipts, thirty-five
dollars, and a BP card.
From the back, Lacey says, “This is exciting! We’re like under-provisioned
pioneers! I wish we had more money, though.”
“At least we have the BP card,” I say. “We can get gas and food.”
I look up into the rearview mirror and see Radar, wearing his graduation
gown, looking over into Lacey’s purse. The graduation gown has a bit of a low-

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cut neck, so I can see some curled chest hairs. “You got any boxers in there?” he
asks.
“Seriously, we better be stopping at the Gap,” Ben adds.
Radar’s job, which he begins with the calculator on his handheld, is Research
and Calculations. He’s alone in the row of seats behind me, with the directions
and the minivan’s owner’s manual spread out next to him. He’s figuring out how
fast we need to travel in order to make it by noon tomorrow, how many times
we’ll need to stop in order to keep the car from running out of gas, the locations
of BP stations on our route and how long each stop will be, and how much time
we’ll lose in the process of slowing down to exit.
“We gotta stop four times for gas. The stops will have to be very very short.
Six minutes at the most off-highway. We’re looking at three long areas of
construction, plus traffic in Jacksonville, Washington, D.C., and Philadelphia,
although it will help that we’re driving through D.C. around three in the
morning. According to my calculations, our average cruising speed should be
around seventy-two. How fast are you going?”
“Sixty-three,” I say. “The speed limit is fifty-five.”
“Go seventy-two,” he says.
“I can’t; it’s dangerous, and I’ll get a ticket.”
“Go seventy-two,” he says again. I press my foot down hard on the gas. The
difficulty is partly that I am hesitant to go seventy-two and partly that the
minivan itself is hesitant to go seventy-two. It begins to shake in a way that
implies it might fall apart. I stay in the far left lane, even though I’m still not the
fastest car on the road, and I feel bad that people are passing me on the right, but
I need clear road ahead, because unlike everyone else on this road, I can’t slow
down. And this is my role: my role is to drive, and to be nervous. It occurs to me
that I have played this role before.
And Ben? Ben’s role is to need to pee. At first it seems like his main role is
going to be complaining about how we don’t have any CDs and that all the radio
stations in Orlando suck except for the college radio station, which is already out
of range. But soon enough, he abandons that role for his true and faithful calling:
needing to pee.
“I need to pee,” he says at 3:06. We’ve been on the road for forty-three
minutes. We have approximately a day left in our drive.
“Well,” says Radar, “the good news is that we will be stopping. The bad
news is that it won’t be for another four hours and thirty minutes.”
“I think I can hold it,” Ben says. At 3:10, he announces, “Actually, I really

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need to pee. Really.”
The chorus responds, “Hold it.” He says, “But I—” And the chorus responds
again, “Hold it!” It is fun, for now, Ben needing to pee and us needing him to
hold it. He is laughing, and complaining that laughing makes him need to pee
more. Lacey jumps forward and leans in behind him and starts tickling at his
sides. He laughs and whines and I laugh, too, keeping the speedometer on
seventy-two. I wonder if she created this journey for us on purpose or by
accident—regardless, it’s the most fun I’ve had since the last time I spent hours
behind the wheel of a minivan.