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for a few seconds. My dad nodded, thanked the soldier and quietly drove up the ramp. We found ourselves back at the same gas station where we had filled up less than 90 minutes earlier.
Dad told us to wait, and slid out of the car. He talked to a couple by the pumps for a minute, and then marched across the parking lot to a group of people sitting on the hoods of their cars in the shade. They were all shrugging and waving arms in the direction of the highway. Dad nodded a few times and then walked into the store. He talked to the clerk, more shrugging, watched the TV up in the corner for a couple of minutes, and then disappeared behind a rack up against the front window.
Kirk was the first one of us to say anything. “Mom, what is going on? What’s all this stuff? What is Dad doing? Why can’t we get through?”
Mom was in lockdown mode. “Kirk, I can’t tell you much of anything. I’m hoping your father knows what’s happening. We’ll just have to wait and see.” The phrase “wait and see” was always code for “forget it.”
You could hear the exasperated breath from all of us. Those were the words of a parent keeping us in the dark. Lucy said, “Mom,” in that long, whiny, three syllable way that only teenage girls from the South can pronounce. Lucy looked about to continue, but realized that it was hopeless for the moment, and snapped her open mouth shut.
Dad came out of the store with three bags. One was full of convenience store hot dogs and probably 300 packets of ketchup and mustard, another full of little bags of chips, and a third full of cold drinks. We saw dad pull some disposable lighters, some batteries, and a map out of the chip bag before he announced, “Time for a picnic.” He pulled the wagon over to the shady area with the other groups, and got out. He dropped the tailgate on the back of the car, dug Tommy and me out of the pile, and told Kirk and Lucy to sit there. Tommy and I were jealous since they were taking our seat with the cup holders, until Dad lifted us up onto the roof, and we realized that cup holders were not everything. He handed us all a hotdog, chips, and a drink, and then he and mom got back in the front seat. We could hear them murmuring to each other but we were completely distracted by the food, the long line of cars on the interstate, and the weird combination of fear and excitement in the air.
Eventually, Dad got out and brought the rest of the food with him. Kirk and I happily took a second hot dog. We munched while Dad grimly watched the highway. Nobody had the courage to ask any questions. We could hear Mom talking on her cell phone, but could only make out a few words.
I remember looking up when a siren chirped, and I saw a red pickup truck with huge tires drive past the roadblock in the grass median between the two strips of asphalt. I got excited, thinking I was going to see a TV-style police chase. All that happened was a soldier leaned in a Humvee window for a second. The truck was out of sight down the hill in seconds, but soon we heard a loud burst from a machine gun, and a couple of minutes later, the red pickup was back with a gun mounted Humvee following him up the eastbound exit ramp. The truck pulled into our parking lot – it’s great to be a kid; we were there for all of twenty minutes and we already thought of it as ours – and the crowd around us began to cheer. A skinny guy with a wispy beard and no shirt got out and started yelling and flipping the bird at the Humvee. A soldier in full battle gear jumped out and made the guy get on the ground. Two more soldiers joined in and pointed their rifles at the man on the ground.
They checked his ID, and the first soldier told him loudly, “Mr. Jenkins. If you try anything like that again, I have about 80 soldiers who would be happy to fill that pretty truck with 50-caliber bullet holes.” The soldiers got back in the Humvee and they drove back down the ramp in the
Dad told us to wait, and slid out of the car. He talked to a couple by the pumps for a minute, and then marched across the parking lot to a group of people sitting on the hoods of their cars in the shade. They were all shrugging and waving arms in the direction of the highway. Dad nodded a few times and then walked into the store. He talked to the clerk, more shrugging, watched the TV up in the corner for a couple of minutes, and then disappeared behind a rack up against the front window.
Kirk was the first one of us to say anything. “Mom, what is going on? What’s all this stuff? What is Dad doing? Why can’t we get through?”
Mom was in lockdown mode. “Kirk, I can’t tell you much of anything. I’m hoping your father knows what’s happening. We’ll just have to wait and see.” The phrase “wait and see” was always code for “forget it.”
You could hear the exasperated breath from all of us. Those were the words of a parent keeping us in the dark. Lucy said, “Mom,” in that long, whiny, three syllable way that only teenage girls from the South can pronounce. Lucy looked about to continue, but realized that it was hopeless for the moment, and snapped her open mouth shut.
Dad came out of the store with three bags. One was full of convenience store hot dogs and probably 300 packets of ketchup and mustard, another full of little bags of chips, and a third full of cold drinks. We saw dad pull some disposable lighters, some batteries, and a map out of the chip bag before he announced, “Time for a picnic.” He pulled the wagon over to the shady area with the other groups, and got out. He dropped the tailgate on the back of the car, dug Tommy and me out of the pile, and told Kirk and Lucy to sit there. Tommy and I were jealous since they were taking our seat with the cup holders, until Dad lifted us up onto the roof, and we realized that cup holders were not everything. He handed us all a hotdog, chips, and a drink, and then he and mom got back in the front seat. We could hear them murmuring to each other but we were completely distracted by the food, the long line of cars on the interstate, and the weird combination of fear and excitement in the air.
Eventually, Dad got out and brought the rest of the food with him. Kirk and I happily took a second hot dog. We munched while Dad grimly watched the highway. Nobody had the courage to ask any questions. We could hear Mom talking on her cell phone, but could only make out a few words.
I remember looking up when a siren chirped, and I saw a red pickup truck with huge tires drive past the roadblock in the grass median between the two strips of asphalt. I got excited, thinking I was going to see a TV-style police chase. All that happened was a soldier leaned in a Humvee window for a second. The truck was out of sight down the hill in seconds, but soon we heard a loud burst from a machine gun, and a couple of minutes later, the red pickup was back with a gun mounted Humvee following him up the eastbound exit ramp. The truck pulled into our parking lot – it’s great to be a kid; we were there for all of twenty minutes and we already thought of it as ours – and the crowd around us began to cheer. A skinny guy with a wispy beard and no shirt got out and started yelling and flipping the bird at the Humvee. A soldier in full battle gear jumped out and made the guy get on the ground. Two more soldiers joined in and pointed their rifles at the man on the ground.
They checked his ID, and the first soldier told him loudly, “Mr. Jenkins. If you try anything like that again, I have about 80 soldiers who would be happy to fill that pretty truck with 50-caliber bullet holes.” The soldiers got back in the Humvee and they drove back down the ramp in the
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