Ah, the road trip—a time-honored tradition. A chance to escape the concrete jungle of New York City, to feel the wind in your hair, to stop at questionable roadside diners and regret it five miles later. In theory, a road trip is the epitome of freedom. In practice? It’s a disaster waiting to happen. And when the gang decided to take a weekend road trip to “get away from it all,” we forgot that we are the “it” that we’re trying to get away from.
“Let’s hit the open road!” Chaz declared, his eyes glistening with the kind of optimism usually reserved for lottery winners and people who think they can get a table at a New York brunch spot without a reservation.
“Great idea,” Sophie replied, always the rational one. “But can we keep it within a four-hour radius? I’ve got court on Monday.” The rest of us nodded in agreement. Even on a road trip, life comes at you fast when you’re a New Yorker.
So we set out early Saturday morning. Mark borrowed his cousin’s minivan, which reeked of old fast food and the distinct scent of regret. Tessa brought enough snacks to survive a nuclear winter, and Chaz had his playlist ready—a blend of ’80s hair metal and motivational speeches.
We were barely an hour into our journey when the first red flag appeared: the gas light.
“Mark, didn’t you fill up before we left?” I asked.
“I thought we’d just stop on the way. You know, like in the movies!” he said with a grin.
“Mark, we’re not in a road trip movie. This is real life. There are consequences,” Tessa replied, her voice tinged with the kind of panic she usually reserved for overcooked pasta.
So we pulled into the first gas station we found—a desolate, rundown place with one pump and a guy sitting on a lawn chair out front who looked like he hadn’t seen civilization, or soap, in years.
“Alright, I’ll pump. You guys go grab some snacks,” Mark said. He walked around to the pump, only to discover it was one of those “cash only” situations. Because of course, it was.
Inside the gas station, we encountered the cashier—a man who clearly took joy in others’ misery. Picture a combination of every DMV employee you’ve ever met, but with less enthusiasm for life.
“Bathroom?” Sophie asked him.
“$1.50. Cash only,” he replied, without breaking eye contact with the small TV playing some outdated soap opera.
“But we’re buying gas,” I pointed out.
“$1.50. Cash only,” he repeated, this time with the finality of a judge issuing a life sentence.
This is where it all went downhill.
Tessa, being the over-prepared person she is, whipped out her fanny pack, which contained a neatly folded bill in every denomination. She pulled out a dollar bill and two quarters and handed it to the cashier.
“No change for the bathroom,” he said.
“Are you kidding me?” Tessa muttered, trying not to spiral into one of her overthinking fits. “Okay, fine.” She handed him another dollar bill.
And this is when it happened.
A guy behind us, carrying a family-size bag of pork rinds, burst out laughing. “City folk,” he muttered under his breath.
We all turned to him in unison, the way deer turn toward an oncoming truck, except we were less innocent and slightly more hostile.
“Problem?” Chaz asked, in a tone that suggested he was ready to start a motivational brawl.
“You people are the reason the rest of us get stuck behind tourists,” Pork Rind Guy continued. “Can’t even pay for gas without turning it into a Broadway production.”
Sophie, always the peacekeeper, decided to intervene. “Hey, we’re just trying to use the restroom. There’s no need to be rude,” she said with a smile that could charm a judge, but unfortunately, not a man with pork rinds.
“Rude? Lady, this isn’t your fancy New York City. We got rules here,” he replied.
“Rules? Like making people pay to use the bathroom?” I shot back, finally losing my patience. “Does that rule book also have guidelines on how to be a condescending jerk, or is that just implied?”
I could feel the tension in the air thickening like bad diner gravy. Tessa’s eye was twitching, Mark was fidgeting with the gas pump, and Chaz looked ready to Instagram the whole thing with the caption: “Life’s a journey, not a destination ✌️🚗.”
Ever notice how a simple pit stop can turn into a stand-off between urbanites and rural America? One minute you’re arguing over bathroom fees, and the next, you’re reenacting a scene from an old Western, complete with a showdown over dignity and pork rinds.
As the mature adults we are, we backed down. Because the truth is, you can’t argue with someone holding a family-size bag of pork rinds and win. It just doesn’t happen. Sophie used the restroom, we paid for gas, and we got back in the van, our spirits crushed but somehow also stronger. Chaz, ever the optimist, tried to lighten the mood.
“Hey, at least we have a story to tell now!” he said with a grin.
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied. “Can’t wait to tell everyone how we barely survived the gas station of doom.”
As we drove off, Mark muttered, “So…is this what people mean when they say they want to get away from the city?”
“Pretty much,” Sophie sighed, leaning her head against the window.
And that was our road trip—an escape from New York that reminded us exactly why we live there in the first place.