What's Behind it All:
I've always loved bad, weird, tacky postcards. My friends and I love discovering them and sending them to each other.
Even with e-cards and emails and IMs, nothing beats a hideous postcard. I'm sorry.
Plus it costs less to mail than a letter.
And sometimes the stamps are goofy too, which is a bonus!
There aren't a lot of Flacks in town, so it wasn't something you could pretend was happening to someone else. At all.
Grandpa Flack told me that at his bar, there was a new game invented called “Flackjack,” which was a version of blackjack that involved stealing from the kitty when the other players weren't looking. He didn't find it amusing and never went back to the place where he'd been a regular for twenty years.
Dad did things like this. He ruined things, kind of like when you throw a rock into a lake and it not only sends out ripples, it also lands on a fish and kills it.
That's us. The dead fish.
...
“Our founder, Lee, believes that life is all about seeing the small stuff,” Lenny says.
Life is also about eating the small stuff. I take out a handful of Skittles. If it would be possible for a meteor to hurtle from the sky right now and hit the bus as we head out on the open road? I'd be all for that. As long as it took out the bus, but missed the people.
Jenny then makes us introduce ourselves, and it starts to feel like a new season of The Amazing Race, and everyone will have little captions floating under them like:
GARY & BETTY, MARRIED
KRISTY & ROGER, RETIRED
LENNY & JENNY, MARRIED BUS HOSTS
And
THE FLACK FAMILY, SLIGHTLY INSANE
Or
THE FLACKS, NO OUR DAD ISN'T HERE, DOING JUST FINE, THANKS
There may not be enough Skittles in South Dakota to get me through this trip.
...
“I don't really want to like you. Is that okay?”
I don't know what to say to that, so I sit there waiting for Andre to make sense, to say it three different ways.
“I'm not looking for…you know. A girlfriend. A mate. A—”
“Okay, fine,” I interrupt. “I get it. Neither am I. I'm not looking for a mate or whatever. I'm already seeing someone, anyway.” Sort of. “His name's Dylan.”
“How uncommon,” Andre says dryly.
“Look, are you going to mock everything I say?”
“Probably,” he admits. “So where's the infamous Dylan?”
“He's at camp in Wyoming. Here.” I pull out our impromptu prom photo, the one Sarah took when she saw me and Dylan leaving prom together. I show it to Andre, feeling kind of stupid as I do, as if I have to offer up proof.
Andre narrows his eyes as he stares at the picture. “Isn't he a little old for summer camp?” he asks. |
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We Never Did long car trips when I was a kid or teen, unless you count driving into "town."
But one time when I was 19 I took the bus by myself from Northfield, Minnesota to Boston. One of the more bizarre experiences of my life. They don't make postcards about Greyhound buses, but they should. (I drew a cartoon instead.)
When I lived in Colorado, my husband-to-be and I drove to Black Hills and Rushmore for a long weekend (we like driving), and then when I sold my VW to my friend in Denver, we drove back there from Minnesota. It was Dec. 7, Pearl Harbor Day, 2003.
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