“What’s up you fucking Judas Goat?”
I weave through traffic back to the terminal to pick up Crandall. As on the dozen trips before this, every pick up from luggage is initiated by some meaningless insult towards me.
“How was the flight?” I ask.
“Dude, you’re in the wrong turn lane.”
I’ll spend the next six days travelling up and down the California Coast. Driving in the slow lane, missing turns, heading the wrong direction from spacing out.
This was nothing new to me in my personal, daily struggle with meandering my home commute, in addition to battling general anxiety and the high blood pressure that accompanies it.
But with Crandall as navigator, this ineptitude would drive him crazy.
Driving up US-1 through San Francisco in 5’o’clock traffic entails gridlock, the inching towards each light hoping you don’t get stalled in the intersection. Once finally out beyond the city-scape; the Golden Gate bridge, the weaving through the NorCal hills and into the desert, past the prisons positioned purposefully in solitude.
Here we head to Yuba City, inching closer to that historic fire.
This is just the beginning of our road trip.
And given the circumstances, I begin to think that maybe Steve’s whimsical jab is some sort of roundabout prophecy.
A van wreck, possibly; turning too wide on a mountain pass lacking a railing, running a red light, a blown out tire.
You’re in command of a group of friends, leading the charge to fun.
But my terrible driving is coming into full perspective, and I’m starting to harness the possibility that this road trip, like any, where you command a posse of friends, could lead to our demise.
Maybe you really are the Judas Goat?