Benny Jay: Hit The Road, Jack

August 23rd, 2009

The day before we hit the road for our vacation up north, my older daughter comes down with some strange affliction.

She has a fever, a sore throat, and swollen glands. My wife thinks it’s an inflamed wisdom tooth. She takes her to the dentist. But, no, it’s some kind of virus. There’s nothing to do but ride it out.

And so as we take off, she’s in the back of the car, moaning and groaning and downing Ibuprofen to ease the pain.

Somewhere in Indiana, we pull over to a rest stop and I buy her a big bottle of water. “The thing about fighting a virus is you gotta drink a lot of water,” I explain with utmost certainty, as if I’m Jonas Salk. “So take a drink.”

She takes a swig.

“That’s not drinking,” I tell her. “That’s sipping. Drink some more….”

She takes another drink.

“Better,” I say. “Now another….”

“Dad!”

“C’mon — one more….”

My wife, who’s driving, chimes in. “Be careful — she can drown….”

I look at her in disbelief. “Drown?” I say.

“Yes,” she says.

“That’s the dumbest think you’ve ever said — no one has ever drowned from drinking a bottle of water….”

“Yes, they have….”

“Who? Name one….”

“It’s true — ask Robert….”

Robert is my cousin who knows absolutely everything about everything.

“I am not asking Robert — that’s too dumb to ask Robert….”

On we drive. My older daughter falls asleep. My younger daughter takes the wheel and puts on “Hairspray.” Good choice. I love “Hairspray.” It’s one of my favorite Broadway musicals.

We go north, north, north. “Hairspray” runs through fourteen songs and on comes “You Can’t Stop the Beat,” my absolute favorite.

I close my eyes and see myself dancing on stage and singing backup to Queen Latifah.

From the back of the car comes the sound of my older daughter. “Dad, when did I take my last IB?”

“Hold on,” I say. “This is my favorite part….”

“Dad, I need to know if I can take another….”

“Not now — after the song….”

“Are you kidding me?”

I turn up the volume and sing along: “You can’t stop today as it comes spinning around the track….”

“Mom,” my daughter says to my wife. “Can you believe this?”

“`Yesterday is history and it’s never coming back….’”

“Benny,” says my wife.

The song ends. “Damn it,” I say. “I didn’t get the full effect of the song….”

“Oh, my God,” says my daughter. ” I’m in pain. Pain! And you’re worried about a song….”

“Not just any song — my favorite song….”

“I’m not talking to you,” she says.

“Good,” I say. “I’m not talking to you either….”

I hear a clickity-clack sound — probably her tex-messaging a friend about her outrageously insensitive father.

At eleven, we reach our destination — a hotel in northern Michigan. We stumble out of the car and wander up to our room. It’s above the indoor swimming pool that reeks of chlorine.

On a table by the TV is a letter from the management. For reasons unexplained, the local electric company will be shutting off the service for two hours in the morning.

My older daughter falls onto her bed and groans.

I walk over and meekly say: “Sorry….”

“Leave me alone,” she says. “You’re so mean….”

“Will you forgive me?”

She says nothing.

“Who coached you through drinking the water?”

I see her stifle a smile.

“Please,” I repeat.

“Oh, all right,” she says.

We turn off the lights and fall into bed. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but I wake up with an urge to take a leak. I look for the clock by the bed but there’s no clock to see. I remember the letter from management: The power’s off.

I stumble out of bed and grope through the darkness. On the way back, I trip over my daughter’s sneaker — karmic payback for being mean.

I flop on my bed and close my eyes. I can’t sleep. I hear heavy breathing — every one’s asleep. I smell the freaking pool. From out of nowhere, “You Can’t Stop the Beat” returns to my mind. Queen Latifah’s singing loud and clear. I imagine myself as a dancer up on stage.

It soothes me. Next thing I know I’m waking up. It’s the morning and I’m all geared up to get on with the final leg of our drive.